chapter one: a pair and a snare.

Wow. After reading the first couple of pages of our assigned reading from Stephanie Klein's Straight Up and Dirty, all I could think was "wow." That and "how can I start writing a book like this?"

Not in the content, mind you. I don't really live a "straight up and dirty" kind of life right now, mind you. But the style. Goodness. She writes in the style that my mind wishes it functioned in. Witty. Blunt. Brilliant. Eloquence in the simplicity of just describing a metrosexual man's closet. The Wasband. I swear, maybe I can be Stephanie in another life. Whoever terms the word "wasband" ranks as an idol in my book. But there's more to her than snarky remarks, that much is clear. The book itself is a riotous adventure, unfolding at a dizzying pace, as if to warn you that if you can't keep up, you weren't meant to read it in the first place. That is how life moves, after all. Dizzying. Catch up or move aside, move along. Stephanie happens to be one of those people who looks life in the face and stands her ground, saying, "That's all you've got?"

It's written like an anthem. It's empowering without being feminist, brutally honest without being (too) rude. It's a blog-follower's dream. Why? Because essentially, it's real. It's a diary. Every friend, alcoholic drink, or occurence actually happened within the hustle and bustle of a city many people live and thrive in right now. It's not a fairy tale. Her story is raw, passionate, chalked with emotion and anger and sadness and disappointment, but scattered with hope. It's an anthem to any woman who has ever been angry or sad or disappointed - toss the fact that she is a divorcee aside. You don't need to have a failed marriage to be able to relate to what she's trying to tell. Who hasn't felt those things before? Finally, in an age where so many modern female writings revolve around the "healing after the pain," there is a story about the "fun during the healing."

It's real life. The beauty of it is that it's not a fairytale. Because, come on, do we really need to hear about how the prince scored a perfect bride at the ball one more time? Not really. Give me the newly single and awkward sex stories anyday. Because it happens. It's real. It's happening to you, to me, to everyone we walk past on the street and everyone we wait with at line in Starbucks. They're the kind of stories that you hear from your girlfriend while you inhale Mediterranean takeout on Thursday nights and wait for Grey's Anatomy. They're the kind of stories that men recall while knocking back (root) beer and complaining about women, or their lack thereof. They're the kind of stories that you would share with your friends. This is life. It's a shitshow, for lack of a better term. Unpredictable, whirring, and a complete pain in the ass. The modern fairytale books publishers try to sell? I'll pass.

I said something terribly blunt on Monday to one of my best friends. He's a dude, for the record. He looked at me, completely surprised that I had said something bordering on rude. "What?" I asked him, making one of my trademark faces, "I'm no fairy princess." And he did that sort of grunt laugh things that boys do when they pretend like they're incapable of laughing out loud. "I know," he said, shaking his head, "But I forget that sometimes." Thank you, Stephanie Klein. Thank you for not sugar-coating your memoirs and conforming to becoming a princess locked away in a tower searching for her perfect prince. Thank you for recognizing that those kind of stories aren't real. They're not life. Bad dates, weird hook-ups, disappointment, and a whole lot of hope. That's life. And until I can score some kind of six-figure publishing deal where I can write a book like this, I'm completely content reading hers.