Binging on Sophie Kinsella

I know a LOT of people look down on chick lit because of its brainless, pink-fluffiness quality, but hey, those qualities are what make it PURE GOLD.

And after spending four months reading and revising text-heavy materials while trying -- and failing -- to make it more fun via colourful mindmaps, reading chick lit is like... sinking your teeth into a chocolate brownie after eating cabbage soup all your life. (Forgive me for the uninspired simile; it's just that, 10 minutes ago, Kak Asma ate the last piece of brownie merely seconds before I went into the kitchen to claim it. I am now officially Brownie-Depraved Deprived :(. )

What I love most about chick lits is that they work on a formula. You always know what you're getting yourself into when you march up to the MPH counter with that fat chick lit in one hand, your thin wallet in the other. It's like buying Fererro Rocher and knowing you'll be rewarded with yummy-licious chocolate with the crispy filling inside and the final, irresistible hazelnut in the centre. You'll also know that you'll want more of it, that you'll gain weight from it, and that it burns a hole in your pocket. Chick lit is predictable in that sense. You know that the protagonist is in her twenties, gets way over her head into trouble, falls in love with a male character (who may lack personality, but definitely not looks) and solves everything neatly by the final pages. You know that the book will be funny, exasperating, eventful and full of feel-good vibes. You also feel grateful because you know there will be no lengthy paragraphs regarding the scenery, or thought-provoking contemplations, or scenes with triple meanings that have to be reread several times for you to spot and understand the political/religious/economical/societal references/parodies/critiscm/insight. And once you become a hardened chick lit reader, you come to expect the same pattern to repeat itself in every book of its genre. And they always deliver.

Or maybe not. Maybe, one day, you buy a Ferrero Rocher, expecting your taste buds to be tantalised by the pure chocolatey-ness of it all, only to find that the chocolate *shudder* tastes more like palm oil. It happens.

I confess, even though my blog title was unashamedly ripped-off from inspired by one of Sophie Kinsella's books, I never DID like her Shopaholic series. In fact, I hated it. *Ducks as indignant fans throw popcorn, cotton candy and overpriced Gucci boots this way*


When it comes to Chick Lit Heroines, their personalities can be placed into either one of these three categories; Endearingly Stupid, Stupidly Endearing, or just Stupidly Stupid. Becky Bloomwood, credit card owner extraordinaire with a bank account more deprived of money than George W Bush is deprived of common sense, easily falls into the third category thanks to her binge-shopping for stuff she can't afford, and doesn't even use later onwards.

It's just so... dumb. Every choice she makes is Pure Dumb. You'd think the book was about a sixteen-year-old with a significant drop in IQ, not a 25-year-old financial journalist. She agonises and hems and haws over how her credit card has maxed out and she's in debt and the bank is sending her warning letters... and she deals with it by purchasing more things she doesn't need. Readers have to suffer pages and pages of her justifying her actions and lying to people and.... arsd!fds&kfj$wer. In the end, you just don't care.

Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, this book is a hit with the masses. Sure, there are funny sequences (though I can't remember any right now), but in this book, Sophie Kinsella seems to think that her character has to be funny to be dumb. Ever heard of witty humour? You won't find it here. Kak Aisya and I have speculated and wandered about the success of the series we can barely finish. Considering that, according to my Sociology textbook, more Americans go to shopping malls than church, and there is a dramatic increase in bankruptcy filings among people under the age of 25, we have come to the theory that people like this book because they can relate to it. And because I've never bought any article of clothing that costs more than RM70, Becky Bloomwod's binge behaviour boggles me beyond comprehension.

And by the way, for avid fans, have you lot seen the trailer of the movie based on this book? Even I, as a non-fan, was horrified at how much they bastardised the book. For one thing, Becky in the movie is American instead of British!!! How could they?! And she's in New York, instead of London! WTF?! So, will the second movie be called Shopaholic Takes London?! And I barely recognised half the scenes in the movie!

Thank God for Hugh Dancy and his wholesome cuteness. *smiles dreamily*

However, during these holidays, I was able to prove to myself and to my chick-lit-reading siblings (Kak Aisya and Kak Asma) that not all Sophie Kinsella's books are downright awful. With so much spare time on my hands and money newly arriving into my account (thanks to late pay cheques that had me saving and scrimping throughout the semester), I decided to buy a book. That book was Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella, just released in paperback.



It's a miracle. Sophie Kinsella has created a character who is actually nice, funny, smart, sweet, Endearing, and only a little Stupid. Unlike Becky, the heroine Lexi Smart barely lies, does not ramble pointlessly across several pages about how she has to buy a pair of shoes, and is focused on a reasonable, sensible goal; to find out what happened to the past three years of her life.

The book starts off as the ultimate wish-fulfillment fantasy every person has dreamed of at least a thousand times in their lives; to wake up one morning and find out that your life is perfect. I won't spoil it for you, but the part that got me hooked was when she looked into the mirror and found out that her crooked teeth were all white and shiny. Considering I've been wearing braces since I was 17, and prior to that, I had a horrible overbite and my lower teeth resembled a fence trampled on by cows, oh boy could I sympathise with her.

The reason Lexi goes through such an amazing transformation is simple; she actually has amnesia and has no idea how she turned from a broke, no-bonus, strictly flats-wearing, snaggle-toothed, chubby girl dating a guy everyone calls Loser Dave to a successful, beautiful, wealthy, career-oriented woman who owns Louis Vuitton bags, lives in high heels, did a stint on a reality programme much like The Apprentice, does splits and is married to a man who resembles a Greek God, all in the span of three years.

Sure, the premise may sound cliched, especially to those who have watched 13 Going on 13 (who hasn't?), but this book delivers where that movie left gaping holes. Every question the reader may have is answered, to the point where you, as the reader, and Lexi, as the person who is going through this, can actually accept what has happened as not being too far-fetched. In fact, I was nodding in understanding as the mystery unfolded with regards to Lexi's identity change. Everything just falls into place with a satisfying click.

Read it, and watch out for the Mont Blanc ;-)

I confess: I've been in hiding!

I temporarily changed my phone number in lieu for the holidays. I told only 5 people; one of them is my sister, three of them are my high school besties, and the other one is.... err you can guess who it is.

I'M SORRY TO ALL THOSE PEOPLE WHOSE SMSES AND CALLS I HAVEN'T REPLIED FOR THE PAST 3 WEEKS!!! It was unplanned, I swear! The thing is, I bought the Celcom sim card ages ago during Ramadhan from this really nice saleslady. I didn't even want to buy it -- especially if it meant going through the hassle of informing everyone that I changed my phone number again (when it was only last year that I had changed from Celcom to Maxis because the burden of spending RM10 a day on credit was getting too much to bear), and paying bills after using prepaid credit all my life.

But you know what? I'm a sucker for salespeople's sob stories about how they barely got any customers, and how tired they are and how they spent so much time explaining the very complicated phone plan (and I mean SERIOUSLY complicated. My head hadn't spun that much from listening to her explanation since... The Dreaded Form Five Add Maths). I didn't want to have made the sweet saleslady waste all her time for nothing. The guilt was killing me. So I bought it. Even though it wasn't something I needed. Or even remotely wanted.

Okay, I'm not a COMPLETE sucker. There was a sweet deal involved in it, which I shall keep private, thank you very much. As well as my phone number.

But anyways, even though I bought the sim card two months go, I only actually changed my number during the first week of the holidays, when I was walking to the office and realised that I had RM0.00 sen of credit left. I was all 'Crap, dah habis credit? Malas aah nak top up' and instead just activated my Celcom sim card and carried on with my SMS-ing. (note; this is the part when the bus almost crashed into me because I was busy with my phone while listening to the MP3 player while crossing the road. Let this be a lesson to gadget-obsessed people everywhere!)

I really didn't want to bother anyone with SMSes that I changed my number, because I know how annoying it can be, so I only informed the people I had immediate plans to go out with. That totalled up to four people.

And then, as the days passed by, I just... didn't tell anyone else that I had changed my number! It was nice, actually, this quiet solititude. I enjoyed the time-out so much that I stopped logging into Facebook and updating my blog. In other words, I cut myself off from everyone.

Now that's what you call a break.

That said, while I have been spending a substantial amount of time indoors, doing the usual stuff like insulting my siblings, devouring old and new books, squeezing my pimples, and playing The Sims all day, it doesn't mean I haven't stepped foot outdoors all holidays.

Some of my adventures during the holidays have taught me a great deal. Like how Daniel Crag looks a lot like a cromagnon. That there are a LOT of rempits (or, as Syazana calls them; "Indies") to ogle at along Bintang Walk. How it's way easier to sing Kris Dayanti than Katherine McPhee in a karaoke booth. That you needn't bother searching for fresh condoms in Central Park after a downpour. And, while wearing wedges, your little brother's sort-of-girlfriend will still tower over you, so you might as well have just worn trainers. And most importantly, I learned that people don't really change.

I can meow like a horny male cat on steroids

Seriously. Next time you see me, ask for a demonstration. I can meow like a male cat during mating season, a newborn kitten starving for some luuurve and milk, or a cat that sounds like a bird.

I am also an amatuer masseuse, and have been massaging members of my family since I was in primary school. I also used to step on their backs, but now, at 45 kg (I gained 3 kg a month after Ramadhan ended), I don't think it's safe to do that anymore.

I burp a lot. Like, A LOT.

Every month, for the past three months, a mountain-ish pimple forms on my chin. During those first two months, I would squeeze them and grow a badge of honour scar on my chin. After Kak Aisya advised me to squeeze only volcanoes, and let the mountains grow out, I let it be on the third month. It disappeared on its own.

After writing all this pointless stuff about me, I am now going to eat doughnuts, a bar of TimeOut, slurp down fresh apple juice and study till midnight at Kyros for tomorrow morning's Mass Comm exam. Bye everyone and wish me luck!