Tracey Spadolini is one of the least likeable characters ever to grace the pages of chick lit. She's fat and unhappy and has a job she hates and has no interests other than brooding about the fact that her boyfriend is leaving her to act in summer stock for the summer. She has nothing good to say about anyone, nor should any of her friends or family expect her to be interested in their lives in any way, except as it pertains to Tracey herself. Not only is she incredibly annoyingly obsessed with her weight (Bridget Jones would tell her to get the hell over it), she's completely clueless about her failing relationship with her attractive actor boyfriend, she's horribly condescending to her entire family, and to top it all off, she's a big old bigot.
And not only is Tracey a bigot (and not in one of those imperfect anti-heroine kind of ways), but the overall attitude towards gay people in this book is worrying. Tracey has a gay best friend named Raphael (whose defining personality characteristics include wearing tight cutoffs to brunch and having one night stands with sailors) and yet she constantly uses the term "faggy" (and this book was written in 2002!). Every single gay man she comes in contact with is "flamboyant and effeminate" (her words, not mine). Here's Tracey meeting one of Will's housemates at summer stock: "Oh, shut up, Will," says Theodore with such a flouncing flourish that I'm immediately aware that he isn't competing with Will for the fair Esme's attentions . . . as if his name, gold earring and Barbara Streisand concert T-shirt weren't evidence enough." And then he offers her a "limp-wristed handshake." Nice.
Then, when she meets a guy at Raphael's birthday party who seems "low-key and well—normal", she assumes that he's gay, even though he gives her no indication of such, for "would a straight, reasonably adorable guy be at a party like this? In New York? No way." What city, no—what century does this author live in where gay and straight people do not freely commingle? The weird thing is that both Tracey's boyfriend Will and her new love interest Buckley (!) seem way more gay than any of her stereotypical acquaintances. Will is a good-looking actor, who works out constantly, lives platonically with a gorgeous model or something and is dating schlumpy Tracey. Buckley, who uses casually uses words like "minx", "hottie", and "saucy" is prone to the following type of behavior: "He launches into a hilarious description of fellow beach-goers, doing accents and dialogue. He's got me laughing so hard, I'm straining my newly developing abs." When she responds with "I haven't laughed this hard since the first Austin Powers", you know Hepburn and Tracy better watch out.
And just when you think maybe this stereotypical characterization is limited to gay people, along come Tracey's coworkers, including Latisha, who has poor grammar, begins and ends every sentence with "girl" and "wags a finger at [Tracey] in her sassy, don't-give-me-any-crap way." Oh, and five seconds later Tracey remarks that "my troubles pale next to Latisha's. She's a single mother trying to raise an adolescent daughter in a rundown neighborhood where her teenaged sister was shot in a drug-related drive-by shooting a few years ago." That's quite a lot on anyone's plate.
Long story short, this is a chick lit book with a headache-inducingly dreary (and underwritten) main character. Not only that, but it shows a worrying tendency towards bigotry. Eek. Not a fun read at all.