Taking Bitches to the Shelf

In most traditional publishing offices there is something called a "take shelf," filled with extra galleys(bound advanced reader copies for the non-industry of you) from different departments. It's a neat concept - waste not, want not. Have extra books? Toss 'em on the take shelf, someone will want it(except for the Idiot's Guide to Fibromyalgia. It's just not happening, Portfolio. I'm sorry.)

Every time I pass by, I always take a quick look. An avid bookworm, I can't help but hope that there might be a freebie there for me.

And one day, there was.

The title was "The Seven Year Bitch". For those of you who know me and are giggling right now, yes of course the title jumped to my attention. I snatched it up like shoes at a sample sale and tore into it as soon as I had a break. The first few pages tricked me into thinking this novel would be a cozy, sardonic real-life-fic that would merit the occasional distractive chuckle amidst the silent commute home.

The book absolutely terrified me.

For those of you who are unaware of the reference, the "seven year itch" is based on the notion that after seven years' of marriage, everything suddenly sucks and the participating parties want to jump ship( It also debuts Marilyn's famous steamy grate white dress!)

Manhattan, money, matrimony. The expected trifecta of most graduates; the assurance of a happy, healthy future.

In the novel, those pillars of success devolve into a successful career taken under, a husband found insipid, a potential affair dangling in front of face, a child to obsess over, and an immigrant nanny to lord over.

But that's not what did it. How did this cleverly titled chick lit get under my skin?

The Nag.

Possibly my favorite insult when having a "difference of opinion" with my mother. I know that word has teeth. It nibbles because underneath the easily-rhymed monosyllable lies the fear that the demands one is making are unreasonable, or worse, that one does not have the power to effectively delegate the task. Either way, a lack of power.

Oh, and it means you're pretty annoying too.

Nag also rhymes with hag, and as much I'd like to picture myself feline-friendly and wart covered, I'd rather steer clear of that association as well.

Old(er). And miserable. I could not resign myself to such a fate. Ok, maybe I could handle becomingthe supercool grandma(nicknamed "gammy", of course) who lathers on wisdom and inspiration and bakes cakes filled with love. But not a hag.

Gammy would not be a hag.

The nit-picker, the never satisfied. It left me with a troubling thought: are all cynics doomed to such a fate?!

Apparently not. Though the book cruelly strapped me into a goddamn emotional roller coaster and forced me to plunge face-first into the problems of the future mundane, it was still just chick-lit.

AND as with all successful chick-lit, by the last few pages the main character enjoys having sex with husband(again), her nanny takes to the fertilization program she finances, and her son gets into the very exclusive nursery school(among other real-life successes).

All is well, all is well.

post script: my mom just picked up the book and asked to borrow it. I died.