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Ask
Me Anything by Francesca Delbanco Rating: •• (Mildly Recommended) |
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Dear Francesca
Delbanco’s debut novel, Ask Me
Anything, introduces Rosalie Preston who writes an advice column for
teenage girls, and includes the phrase, “Trust me. I’ve lived through it,” with
each response. Rose is coming of age herself in Dear Annie, I’ve been going out with my
boyfriend for two and a half months, and he still won’t tell me he loves me.
I can tell he’s really into me: I have six different CDs he’s burned for me
and he has pictures of me all over his locker and everything. But when I tell
him I love him, he gets all squirrelly and mute and robotic. What’s his
problem? Is he just Playing me? How long do you think I shoudl put up with this
crap? —Sick of It in Dear
Sick of It, I can see how it might be frustrating to declare your undying
love and get a nice, friendly pat on the head in return. But here’s my take:
I think the Boy Universe divides into two categories, the talkers and the
doers. The talkers take you out for one slice of pizza and call you the next
day to say they’ve never met anyone half as beautiful, smart, talented,
funny, and exciting as you are. Sounds great, at first. But can you really
trust a guy who claims to be able to tell that much about you from the way
you chew your food? Then there are the doers. The doers
burn CDs for you, and bother paying attention when you mention
your favorite songs and bands. They post every snapshot of your gorgeous face
they can get their hands on, so that all the poor suckers who walk down the
hall can see how fine their girlfriend is. They remember to ask how your
geometry test went at the end of the day, remember to bring your favorite
candy bar to your soccer game, remember to wear the
shirt you once said looked cute. And sometimes, when you ask them how they
feel about you, they clam up. But that’s usually because it’s so, so real. I say, be patient. It’s usually a good
sign when it takes a guy (anybody, for that matter) a while to pour his heart
out. As long as his actions are saying love, love, love, try to relax and let
yourself enjoy them. And when you get to feeling nervous or insecure, just
remember how much time and thought it takes to burn a good CD. Time and
thought count for a lot, in my book. Maybe that’s because they’re finite and
hard to come b. And if we measure love by what’s hard, instead of by what’s
easy, you’re one lucky girl. Trust
me. I’ve lived through it. Annie Though I am part of a generation known
for its technological wizardry, I have no gift for computers and am in fact
rather phobic about them, have seen too many
futuristic movies in which whole societies are obliterated by the impetuous
click of a mouse. Most of my peers seem to have emerged from the womb with
Internet cables for umbilical cords, but in the Massachusetts backwater
where I grew up, children played with retro toys
such as blocks and coloring books, and I have never quite caught on to the
craze for the World Wide Web, which seems mostly to be a dehumanizing way to
go shopping. But every so often even the most pigheaded Luddite
must resort to these research tools, or she must sweet-talk a friend into
helping her, and it was on the Internet that Grace located a purveyor of
Steuben on the “There’s
one on Fifty-sixth and Fifth, and the flagship looks like it’s on Sixty-first
and I
swiveled my office desk chair away from the hall, where a group of editorial
assistants were hanging up an Ortho-Cyclen poster.
“How much do you think that frog could have cost? Does it say?” “The
website doesn’t have a price list. But some of these things seem to have
gemstones for eyes. If the diamond barons in “I
can just buy something cheap and say they were out of frogs, don’t you
think?” “The
place doesn’t look very sale-rack-y, Rose. But you already know what I
think—I think you should take Bella’s advice and just send her dad a note and
forget about buying anything. The guy’s not going to notice one fewer reptile
on his mantelpiece.” “Frogs
are amphibians. I looked it up.” “Whatever,
Bella said to send a note.” Grace
had a point—Bella’s proposed solution let me off the hook, in an economic
sense. But on the drive home from the Adirondacks her retroactive attachment
to the Steuben toad had grown exponentially, so that by the time we hit the
West Side Highway her mood was so reproachful an outsider would have guessed
I’d shot her brother. I didn’t like the idea of something so replaceable
(and, frankly, so ugly) being held over my head. Anyway my mother raised me
to be a good houseguest, and though she probably never imagined I would be weekending
in places where a small accident could result in thousands of dollars of
credit card debt, I could not so easily undo years of her training. I took
down the name and address of the shop. “Sometimes you can try to bargain at
these boutique-y places,” Grace said, in the whisper she used whenever her
boss was nearby. “But don’t go crazy and offer them an organ or anything.
Call me when you get back.” Because the idea of becoming a
permanent fixture at Girl Talk gives me the creeps, I keep my office
spare and impersonal: easy in, easy out. A company phone list, a guide to
performing the Heimlich maneuver that was tacked to the bulletin board when I
moved in, some generic props from the supply closet to fill up my desk
drawers and convey industriousness—nothing I’d miss, if I walked out the door
and never came back. I enjoy hanging out with the girls while we’re all in
the office (“girls” being a holdover from the Mademoiselle days of
Mary Cantwell, connoting flair, not subjugation). But I usually skip the
daily pilgrimage to the salad bar across the street, am not well enough
versed in the nutritional content of roughage to run with the lunch crowd. So
no one noticed when noon rolled around and I grabbed my umbrella and headed
for La Maison, clutching my billfold with the
nostalgia one feels before long goodbyes. Outside it was raining, that sticky
summer rain that steams the cockroaches out of their holes and onto the
pavement, so I walked over to Madison Avenue and rode the bus uptown past
bridal boutiques, day spas, baby couture stores. La Maison
was on a block of antique shops and galleries. On display in its velvetlined window were a decanter and a group of
cut-crystal glasses that looked heavy and old, like chalices, though I doubt
chalices are sold in sets of six. A couple of men with Secret Service—type
wires in their ears opened the doors for me, and I shook off my umbrella and
left it in the brass stand. Somewhere I’ve read that the first rule
of the great auction houses is to treat everyone who walks in off the street
like an heir to the throne of “Can I help you find something?” she
asked, taking in my wrinkled linen dress and my straw-heeled sandals, which
were squishy with water. “I’m looking for a present, actually a
replacement present, from your Steuben line. Something on the order of a frog
is what I had in mind, though any kind of animal would do, really.” “Mm, the hand cooler collection,” she
said, leading me to a display of carved figurines, not unlike the glass
trolls my grandparents keep on the shelves of their powder room. “In the
eighteenth century young women used these to chill their hands before being
led onto the dance floor. The American eagle is the traditional design, but
we also carry a limited edition Forest Floor series.” I picked up an eagle from the bottom
row. It had the same heft as the thing I had broken, and a kind of stuffy
Federalist look that would fit nicely in the newly appointed Fort. The price
tag read one hundred and ninety-five dollars. “A classic,” the salesgirl said,
pursing her lips. “Of course, we usually sell them in pairs, but one is a
charming little way to say ‘thank you.” “I’d like it in a box, if you have
one.” “Wrapped and mailed?” “Wrapped, please.” I had legs, and
could therefore do the dropping off myself. We struggling actresses must take
our small economies wherever we can find them. While
there are moments when Delbanco’s writing is terrific,
especially in some of the advice column letters and responses, most of Ask Me Anything
leaves a lot of poor impressions. Rose is not a very sympathetic character, and
after a while I found myself not caring much about what happened to her. If chick
lit is a must-read for you, Ask Me Anything
will fit the bill. Perhaps Delbanco’s next novel will
have more consistent writing and more compelling characters. Steve
Hopkins, May 25, 2004 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the June 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Ask
Me Anything.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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