I have to admit, I enjoyed reading this book. It's cute, it's quick, it's a little formulaic, but it's a nice read. It's the kind of book you can read while watching tv or at a baseball game and not have to retrace your steps or feel like you need to read the same sentence over 20 times.
Although the end stinks. Caddie spends one page griping about New Years and how much she dislikes it, and then she's saying to Magill how much she likes it, that it's a gift. Please. No one goes from surly to sweet that fast, especially not Caddie.
This book is the definition of "chick-lit." The feminist in me hates me for saying that, but, let's face it, it is.
Every once in a while it's nice to give yourself a literary break. But I had a nightmare image of myself tucked up on a chair with an afghan over my legs, cat curled up in my lap, cup of tea beside me, reading this book. Not yet. Not yet! I haven't come to that yet.
Now it's time to move on to something more substantive.
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