Late to the party

In recent years, I have come to admire that expression: late to the party. As in, "I know I'm late to this party, but I really love the new Adele song." I actually haven't even heard the new Adele song yet, but when I do, I know that I WILL love it and I'll be able to sing right along and still take as much joy as everyone else in its apparent wonderfulness. That's the party; you can be late but still jump right in and have an amazing, memorable experience.

I often feel late to the party with books and authors. I think it's because I rarely buy books, or even choose them for myself, but just sort of stumble upon them on library shelves, or have them pressed on me by family who likes the same authors and styles. I also blame my children. I can find a way to blame them for most things, in this case for not letting me read as much as I want (all the time). Either way, those bestsellers at Costco take a while to find their way into my hands, sometimes a decade. Here are two not-so-new books (both published in 2010) that I crossed paths with recently.

How Did You Get This Number

Essays by Sloane Crosley

I didn't understand the bear on this cover and thought I was too late to the party, until A) I read the essay about Alaska and B) I understood that Crosley practices a level of satire and irreverence that makes her the spirit animal of 30 something women everywhere. If you are not a 30 something woman, maybe don't read this book. If you are, read it soon, if only for the essay featuring the board games Girl Talk and Mall Madness, to which I was mouthing "Yes" because Crosley nails on the head our mid 90's adolescent girl culture. It was as if she had been in the rec room of my family's home, sitting on a leaking bean bag chair and applying zit stickers to her forehead with my own friends. There's also her take on living in New York City, which I don't relate to at all but enjoyed hearing about from her bright, acidic, self-deprecating view. I look forward to discussing this with my irreverent friends everywhere. Message me.

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand
Novel by Helen Simonson

I feel like everyone read this book before me. Yes? Did you? So did you like the Major at first? I did, and then I didn't, and then I really did again.

Major Pettigrew is a very classic Englishman living in a rapidly  modernizing England. His wife is dead, his son is a greedy corporate yuppy, his village is changing all around him, and he's sometimes stiff as a board about it all. But he also is falling in love with the local shopkeeper, a Pakistani widow. He seems simple, but as you get to know him, you learn the depth of his humorous side and his good heart. He's what English teachers would call an unreliable narrator, because you realize part way through that he's lying to himself about something. I think I fell in love with him at the same time Mrs. Ali does. I also relate very much to his frequent crises of indecision and decorum. He is often "in horror" because he thinks he has offended someone. Me too, Major, me too. It's amazing, really, that I should relate to this man as much as to Sloane Crosley, since she is so much more like me in reality. But I think the traces of Jane Austen, James Herriot, and Maeve Binchy that appear in this novel point to how much my reading has made me who I am.

By the way, if anyone is wondering, there ARE a few books I have my eye on and would consider buying IF no one gives them to me for Christmas. I mean, I don't completely rely on the vagaries of the library book club choices to determine my own reading list. People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks still sounds promising, and I always love books by Kate Morton, even if her newest is boringly titled The Lake House. Just in case you were wondering (wink, nod, knowwhatimean).