Lately.

Two Saturdays ago, I spent كل يوم in my favorite grey armchair at Barnes and Noble immersed in one memoir and one novel. I've been hearing increasing amounts of buzz about Miss Memoirre (no, that word is NOT French, it's Mine), so I thought I'd better review her book before someone beats me to the punch (and claims they found it first. After all, I am nothing if not competitive).

Presenting:


Baker's an under-the-radar comedian who's done work for This American Life and BBC, and she's worth your attention. You'll snort out loud at her ridiculous exploits as a young, single Mormon woman in New York City, especially if you're familiar with the cultural context for her subtle inside jokes. Baker's unfailing naivete never fails to provide a healthy basis for comedy, whether she's being romantically pursued by a famous actor, selling an ugly doll to a bratty child, or joking about losing eighty pounds (in her words, "pooping out a fourth grader"). As irreverent as it is compelling, this full-blown memoir written by a woman not yet thirty is sure to raise some eyebrows, but Baker does an admirable job of keeping her writing accessible without falling into the premature grandiosity characteristic of so many virgin authors (no pun intended)--or, for that matter, the mediocrity typical of the same.

Next up:


After Hosseini's epically emotional '03 tale ("The Kite Runner"), I felt I had every reason to expect great things from his critically lauded sophomore effort. Maybe I set my expectations too high. I enjoyed Miriam and Laila's heartwrenching, bloody escape from a relationship of government-sanctioned domestic violence, but for some reason, this text just couldn't induce the same binding emotional attachment I have to Hosseini's first novel--and it tried. I was interested, but not captivated, and therein lies the difference.