Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner. I wanted to write a nasty letter to her when I finished it, but it left me so demoralized and small that I didn�t have the energy to search out writing paper.

Reb leant me the book when I asked for a few mindless vacation books. The same Reb who wrote in to Wendy to rage against Jemima J., saying she would never think of lending that one to a friend. (Plus she left town, so I couldn�t then call her and talk it out.) As Kate reminded me later, if I�d had my wits about me, I would�ve remembered the effect it had on her:

Why why why did I start reading this book?! Am I completely fucking stupid? Do I not feel bad enough about being fat, about having job insecurities, about romantic difficulties? Do I need it all pressed onto a page and in front of my plump nose? And yet I read on. I do occasionally take a kind of sick pleasure from eating, oh, say, ice cream while reading it. But mostly I put it down and then put my face down on my hands and cry and think about how I ought to be exercising instead of crying. Ah, dammit. There had damned well better be a pay-off in the end, or this zaftig femme (yes, it did teach me a new vocabulary word for myself, tho I'm not so sure about the "pleasing" connotation therein...) is going to be pissed.

Let me ruin the book for you. There is no pay-off. Fat girl breaks up with boy. He writes a high-profile magazine column about what it was like to be with her, which just might have included the phrase �chubby chaser.� She is horrified. Decides that she wants him, though he�s now moved on. Thus decides that though she actually rejected him for sensible reasons, that the reason he can no longer love her because she is fat. And so she makes a fool of herself over him, has sympathy sex with him, and gets pregnant.

Now, okay. Let me just say I was under the impression that this was a positive, funny book about being a normal-sized single woman. I have no objection to foolish obsessions and freakouts, but I did not jump on board for a book about babies and weight obsession. And don�t even try to tell me she�s okay about her weight, because I happen to believe that being okay about your weight means you don�t think and talk about it all the fucking time.

So of course she decides to have the baby, and though there are some complications, she becomes friends with a movie star, gets rich, lands the hot doctor who loves her fat and her baby. And they all live happily ever after.

What the hell? So I just wanted a mindless diversion to keep my mind from stewing about my problems, and in the end, I wanted to slit my wrists. Instead of a mindless release, it gave me an intense fit of paranoia that�s compounded my worries.

Was X not just in a bad mood and feeling unwell when I came back Friday? Has he suddenly decided I�m too fat and must be avoided at all costs? Of course I don�t believe that. Really. Or do I? Damn her for the suggestion.

Stupid, wretched book. Unrealistic fairy tale ending. Underdeveloped supporting characters. Cliches everywhere. Stereotype perpetuation. (Hey, guess what? The fat girl is really funny! Wow! I wonder if Jennifer Weiner watches �Ed,� too? I�m just sure we�d be friends.)

That�s it. Nothing but the back of the cereal box from now on.