This is one of those slow, meandering books from an overly-emotional woman where nothing really happens and I can't figure out how it got to be published. There's so little to it, and most of the subjects are things that don't deserve such shallow essays, that I'm baffled that it made it past the editors. But I guess since Leary had previously written bestsellers and is married to someone famous that content doesn't make any difference.
This is like an Ali Wentworth book without the over-the-top attempts at humor or pushing a political agenda. It's like a Seinfeld script about nothing, only told from Elaine's perspective lying alone in bed with none of the other interesting characters around.
It's hard to be married to notoriously obnoxious Denis Leary and write a dull book about your family life. The only good chapters are the ones where the two of them are struggling and have to fight through everyday life. "Love Means Nothing," which was previously published, is an outstanding piece parallelling tennis with her marriage falling apart. Applying what she learned in tennis lessons, it's not about where the ball or the marriage or the job or the family starts, it's where it ends up that's important.
Among the worst chapters are most of the others that were already published elsewhere on the exciting subjects of knitting (yawn), a virtual friend group (seriously?), her crying over her kids going off to college (did she think she'd be happy about it?) and her alcoholism (preachy and repetitive). She writes, "I won't bore you with how I stopped drinking and returned to the (AA) Program again." Why not? It couldn't be worse than how you're boring us with a vague description of how you handled your addiction!
Other intense chapters are about selling their house, buying plants for her new house, and, believe it or not, packing tips for long distance trips. Does Ann Leary think none of us have access to the internet or that we've never lived a normal life?
There is a whole lot of padding to this already thin volume, and I swear some chapters were added simply to increase the word count for her publisher. Once she gets to the dog chapter near the end, I know it has gone haywire (devoting so much space to pets is a sure sign of a writer that is withholding many of the juiciest personal stories from her memoir). At least her giving birth story (the other sure sign of wasted autobiography space) was kept to a minimum here, but that's only because she devoted 300 pages to it in her other memoir!
Why is she intentionally putting a wall up? This is all so simplistic and at times condescending, while at the same time she constantly puts herself down for being "too nice."
In the end the real issue is the author's low self-esteem, compounded by having a celebrity husband, that leads to her need to convince everyone (and herself) that she's "normal." But normality and nothingness rarely make for an entertaining read unless something significant happens, which rarely does on these pages.
I've tried being nice in this review but ultimately have to admit that it's a waste of time.