Your likelihood of enjoying this book seems fully predicated on whether it happens to be the right book at the right time for you. A good test is to skip to a seminal moment of crisis in the novel, about 200pp. in: the main character has had a truly awful day, and then comes home to find that she's run out of toothpaste, shampoo, toilet paper, and coffee -- all at once. It's not the life changes that break her but that sudden, stupid, annoying coincidence that leads her to faceplant in her bed and decide the terrors of the day will be faced at another time. How does that make you feel? If you (A) throw the book across the room in complete and total sympathy, you should put your wine glass down, pick the book back up, and read on. If you (B) throw the book across the room in complete and total fatigue regarding this preposterously immature girl, leave the book where it is and go balance your checkbook.
I think it's obvious that I chose option (A). Yes, I'm a once bright-eyed and bushy-tailed New Yorker currently at a bit of a romantic, financial, professional, and real estate low point, whose tools of choice for sanding down the rough edges are booze, solitude, and awkward afterhours encounters. As such, I raised up Claudia Steiner as something of a godsend/patron martyr, letting her show me that I'm not alone in my overeducated and overanalyzed anxiety but also letting her show, at her most extreme moments, that maybe I need to chill the fuck out a little bit. To me, the novel's resoundingly clear point is that Claudia (read: I) may have her own issues, yes, but what's really grinding her into dust is the relentlessly cruel rat race of cutthroat life in New York (or really any urban setting), a place whose rickety scaffolding of success is built strictly out of luck, coincidence, and your family's net worth and on which the tattered rags of a desicatted corporate-driven culture are hung out to dry.
Phew. That said, I can also see just as easily how, to a reader with a less existentially contorted outlook on city living, Claudia could come off as a whiny brat. She pushes away her friends, the support system she surrounds herself with is toxic, she seems physiologically incapable of making even the most trivial decisions, she's actually quite bad at her job, she's clearly much too entitled, etc. etc. etc. And perhaps that's what makes this book worth 4 stars: The reader's love/hate relationship with the troubled protagonist is really, writ small, a reflection of the entire book's constant, adroitly dissected sense of ambivalence about life -- its highs and lows regarding character, plot, ambition, motivation, tone, and beyond. This is an ambivalence that is thoroughly maddening, yes, but also thoroughly engrossing. You want to hate it, be above it, walk away, dismiss that whole worldview as entitled and immature, but you realize there is just enough truth in all this chaos that you can't discard it outright. Like the character William's hidden bottle of "expensive yuppie vodka" cut with just enough water and poured into one of the cherished crystal tumblers that become a central symbol of the book, it's bracing and harsh, but just diluted enough that you can't help but swallow it down, again and again, wincing at the taste but unable to stop.