OK, so she’s not my BFF IRL. But she could be if she ever moves to Chicago.
“American Housewife” by Helen Ellis was my much-needed respite from my streak of truly dark and disturbing reading of late — a selection from my TBR list, and knowing how much I loved “Southern Lady Code” last year, I suspected this would come through when looking for a read that would have me laughing instead of crying.
Ellis delivered.
Now, if you were to ask me of the two books which one I favor, it would be Southern Lady Code. But don’t mistake this for being a compliment of one or a criticism of another. It’s just that often times, I find that my favorite book from an author is the first one I read. “Me Talk Pretty One Day” will always be my favorite David Sedaris compilation, but his work in total is a slice of genius. “American Housewife” is no different.
Ellis’ gift for satire is evident and her take on being a grown ass adult is simpatico with my point of view. From her fictional waging of a war on a condo neighbor (Wainscoting!) to her defense against the exploitation of a Playboy Bunny on a dumpster diving reality show, to the proper way to dispatch with a leering doorman, or how to really do a book club, Ellis’ characters vacillate between the Id and the superego, sometimes saying and doing what we often only think to ourselves.
Ah, such good fun after reading some really heavy stuff over quarantine. And seriously, I am pretttttty sure Helen and I would be as thick as thieves if she lived next door. Nothing but painting toenails, wine Wednesdays and Mallomars while watching Top Chef and The Amazing Race together, trading off between living rooms. Ring me.
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