Yes, yes. I know I am way behind the times on this one. But I picked up Confessions of a Shopaholic at my personal library (otherwise known as the local Goodwill) about a month ago and finally gave in to reading it.
I wanted to like it. Really, I did. I'm one of those people who argues regularly for the value of mind candy, fun reading that has no purpose other than for one's own personal enjoyment.
I didn't like it at all. I did like The Devil Wears Prada. The Nanny Diaries. But the main character in this one, Becca, was so frustratingly silly that I found it hard to take her seriously when the time finally came to do so. I could barely bear to read all of the long-winded descriptions about giving in to conspicuous consumption (and I LOVE clothes!!), but I'm also one of those people who believes that we should finish what we start.
I thought the film could not possibly be any worse, but it was. The movie starring Isla Fisher, an obvious rip-off of Sex and the City, complete with jumpy camera work, effervescent pop soundtrack, and whacky Patricia Field wardrobe, took what was already a book that pandered to the worst of female stereotypes and made the protagonist even more ridiculous, because she is left with very little agency. At least in Kinsella's book, Becca toughens up, supposedly wakes up to her bad habits (I hear she actually doesn't in the sequels), and lands herself a pretty sweet job ... all by her own doing. In the movie, things just happen to her. God forbid that the main female character in a rom-com actually make her own way in the world, without a man's help. Actually, by bringing a smug man to task (come to think of it, I kind of liked that part).
And that's my feminist two-cents for the day. Oh, and I'm currently wearing sweatpants. I love the first real taste of Fall. A/J