Good Witch vs. Bad Bitch: Order on the Tennis Court

I don't have an athletic bone in my body, and I hate competitive sports.  So I was wary about reading a novel starring a tennis pro.  But Lauren Weisberger's The Singles Game won me over from the first serve.  That's because The Devil Wears Prada phenom is unparalleled in telling tales of fame and fortune.  She drills down through the glamor and games to give us very human heroines torn between glory and the truth of their hearts.  And The Singles Game's Charlotte Silver slams some of the toughest truths yet.

Charlie's story starts when a career-threatening injury at Wimbledon forces her to make a choice: retire early or double down to become the champion she's always known she could be.  So she ditches her compassionate coach for a viper and embarks on a rebrand that transforms her from goody-two-shoes to "warrior princess."  She's immediately thrust into the celebrity sphere of parties, hookups, and a near-sadistic training regimen.  It's a cocktail of glitz and grit (even if she's only allowed Pellegrino), all part of the persona that her new coach plots to portray.  But winning the warrior way means more than swapping her tennis whites for bedazzled black.  It means playing dirty, which is the opposite of what Charlie's old coach and her tennis pro dad taught her.

I didn't always like Charlie or the choices she made, but I think that's what Weisberger wants.  We're supposed to question her dubious path and wonder what we'd do in her Nikes.  Yet her never-say-die spirit, girl-next-door origins, and inner moral compass, however thwarted, make her sympathetic even when she's wrong.  She's the everywoman we want to root for because at her root, she's all of us.

Game, set, match, Weisberger.

The Fame Game: Rock Star Edition

Imagine that your husband is a talented yet struggling musician.  You hold down two jobs to support him and go to all of his gigs.  Both of you hope, pray, and plan for the day when he finally makes it big.  And then, after years of sweat and heartache, he does.  

And all hell breaks loose.  

That's the story of Brooke and Julian Alter in Lauren Weisberger's Last Night at Chateau Marmont.  No sooner has Julian finished his showcase performance than he's whisked away to LA.  There are interviews, parties, and photoshoots, and at first, Brooke wants to be part of them all.  But as Julian's life begins to resemble Nickleback's "Rock Star," complete with regular appearances in the gossip rag Last Night at Chateau Marmont, Brooke remains rooted in NYC.  Living on separate coasts is painful -- and seems to seal their fate as a couple.

Or does it?  Because as bigheaded as Julian can sometimes be (there were times when I wanted to strangle him!), deep down he's still the sensitive songwriter that Brooke fell in love with.  He still pukes before playing for a huge crowd and calls her by his pet nickname, Rook.  This isn't just a story about marriage -- it's a story about marriage and skyrocketing into the celebrity stratosphere.  After all, Weisberger wrote The Devil Wears Prada; her wheelhouse is exposing the ugly insides of glamorous industries.  And why not?  It's fascinating to witness what stardom can do -- and if it's possible to remain true to yourself while trending.  

Rife with early aughts references, Last Night at Chateau Marmont (which was published in 2010) takes on the eponymous Hollywood hotel, along with its legendary notoriety, and turns it on its head.  Because back in the day, rock stars' wives were seen and not heard, but modern love may be more balanced.

Sounds like a hit song to me.

Rock n' Roll Toll: The Grass is Never Cleaner

Once I started reading Lauren Weisberger's latest, Where The Grass Is Green And The Girls Are Pretty, I couldn't put it down.  The writing is smart, the plot is engrossing, and the characters are sympathetic.  Even when they've done something awful.  For this is one of those novels about privileged people behaving badly.  And the privileged people on, ahem, trial here are superstar anchorwoman Peyton Marcus and, to a lesser degree, her sister, stay-at-home mom Skye Alter.    

Despite their different lifestyles, the fortyish sisters are close, enjoying the kind of tongue-in-cheek repartee exclusive to those who've come from the same womb.  Indeed, the title's Guns N' Roses reference is about a concert the sisters snuck off to (they told their mom they were going to see James Taylor), reminding us that they're partners in crime.  And now Peyton lives in The Big Apple, whereas Skye's in a suburb called Paradise -- even though it's anything but.  Peyton and Skye may poke fun at each other and harbor their little jealousies.  Yet when it comes to the outside world, they remain a united front.  But that bond is brutally tested when Peyton and her husband are accused of breaking the law.

Now, as I mentioned, these sisters are pampered, making them targets.  Especially in terms of the following detour, which I've charmingly named, not target, but "tangent time."  

Where The Grass Is Green And The Girls Are Pretty perpetuates my least-favorite trope about feminine beauty, i.e., the Madonna/whore-like mindset dictating that all women are either 1) so pure that they don't care how they look or 2) so consumed by their appearance that it ruins their lives.  In this case, it's bohemian Skye who never wears makeup (but still looks gorgeous!) and ratings queen Peyton who subjects herself to Botox and chemical peels.  Surely, most women fall somewhere in the middle of this polarizing cosmetic spectrum (Lipstick?  Yes, please!  Needles?  Not if you paid me!).  Nevertheless, Weisberger is so skilled in her development of Peyton and Skye that they never come off as stereotypes.  Spoiled?  Sometimes.  One-dimensional?  Never.  I could tell because I cared what happened to them.

Still with me?  Good. Tangent time over!

Where The Grass Is Green And The Girls Are Pretty isn't as much about right and wrong as it is about relationships.  Sister-sister, husband-wife, and mother-daughter.  Peyton is the common denominator in all three, and as such is forced to reframe how she relates to her nearest and dearest.  And things get pretty ugly before she understands that it's not Emmys, country clubs, or prestigious schools, but authenticity with her loved ones that matters.

So.  If you like scandal and satire wrapped up in heart, then Where The Grass Is Green And The Girls Are Pretty is the sharp but fetching flamingo on your library's green -- but not too green -- front lawn.

Rind Finds and a Sweet and Tart Read: Summer, Start Your Engine

 Rainbow Confetti Necklace

Top: POPSUGAR, Kohl's

Skirt: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Shoes: Worthington, JCPenney

Bag: Circus by Sam Edelman, Kohl's

Sunglasses: Michaels

 Fabulous Felt Lemons Barrette

Top: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Skirt: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Shoes: Payless

Bag: Sleepyville Critters, Zulily

Sunglasses: Michaels

 Cherry Ice Cream Necklace

Top: Fifth Sun, JCPenney

Skirt: Amazon

Shoes: Worthington, JCPenney

Bag: Gifted

Sunglasses: Brigantine beach shop

Memorial Day.  The sun on your face, something hot off the grill, and a tall glass of cold lemonade.  Does it get any better than this?  

It does if you score some new citrus-themed clothes and/or lose yourself in a good book.  Full disclosure: I bought these tangy togs more than a month ago and finished reading When Life Gives You Lululemons on Friday.  Which means that today I'm not doing any of that and am headed to a BBQ.  But the promise of this post is what kicked off my weekend.  Not unlike this pair of Katy Perry flip flops that I'm currently, ahem, rocking. :)

But I digress.  

Time for the book club portion of our program.

No one wants workout gear.  Especially the designer, Stepford wife kind that takes the place of bona fide clothes.  So it was mighty clever of Lauren Weisberger to use it in the tile of her third Devil Wears Prada novel.  Remember Emily (also Emily, Blunt that is, in the movie version), Miranda Priestly's (Meryl Streep's) other assistant?  The mean queen bee fashionista to leading lady Andy's (Anne Hathaway's) fish-out-of-Figi ingenue?  Well, Lululemons is all about her.  She relocated to Los Angeles to start a fabulous life as a stylist to the stars and is now a PR goddess fixer.  But lately no one is in need of her signature brand of spin doctor sorcery.  Because she's in her mid-thirties and doesn't know how to use Snapchat.  Which seems silly to anyone outside of Tinseltown's rarefied and fragile bubble.  But it's enough to make Young Hollywood shun Emily in favor of a fellow millennial.         

Now, Emily is not at all the kind of character I identify with or even usually admire.  Slick and savvy, she's a master manipulator who gets whatever she wants.  But I think that's what makes her so interesting, even if only as a lesson on how to deal with -- and perhaps even understand -- people like her IRL.  Right or wrong, her moxie serves her in righting her career as well as in saving two friends from personal ruin.  Old camp pal Miriam is a high-powered lawyer-turned stay-at-home-mom who feels overwhelmed.  And Karolina is an ex-supermodel married to a senator with an agenda.  Yet despite their accomplishments, these women lack Emily's nerve.  Emerging as more than a wardrobe warrior princess, it's Emily who reminds them to put themselves first.  Rudely and in an in-your-face way, yes, but that's what they need.  Then, as always in fiction land, just as Emily puts their lives back together, her own does a wild 180.      

When Life Gives You Lululemons is a page-turner for sure, zinging with all of Weisberger's wit, humor, and glimpses into the glitterati.  Funny and fierce, it -- wait for it -- puts the devil in diva.  I know, I know.  Simply awful.  And not something that Miranda Priestly would find the least bit amusing.   

Now for something that no one in this book (except for maybe Miriam, bless her heart) would find amusing or ever hang on her mansion door: my new lemon wreath!  I love that it's kind of unruly, as if at any moment the lemons might launch a revolt.  Also, I dig the red and yellow combo.  Because, Ronald McDonald forever.

So, this Memorial Day (and every day), when life gives you lemons, just spit out the seeds.  And grill your own cheeseburger and avoid Ronald McDonald.

He may be stylish, but he seems like a creep.