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Summary
Summary
A sharp, funny, delightfully unhinged collection of stories set in the dark world of domesticity, American Housewife features murderous ladies who lunch, celebrity treasure hunters, and the best bra fitter south of the Mason Dixon line.
Meet the women of American Housewife: they wear lipstick, pearls, and sunscreen, even when it's cloudy. They casserole. They pinwheel. They pump the salad spinner like it's a CPR dummy. And then they kill a party crasher, carefully stepping around the body to pull cookies out of the oven. These twelve irresistible stories take us from a haunted prewar Manhattan apartment building to the set of a rigged reality television show, from the unique initiation ritual of a book club to the getaway car of a pageant princess on the lam, from the gallery opening of a tinfoil artist to the fitting room of a legendary lingerie shop. Vicious, fresh, and nutty as a poisoned Goo Goo Cluster, American Housewife is an uproarious, pointed commentary on womanhood.
Author Notes
HELEN ELLIS is the acclaimed author of "Eating the Cheshire Cat." She is a poker player who competes on the national tournament circuit. Raised in Alabama, she lives with her husband in New York City.
"From the Hardcover edition."
Reviews (6)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Ellis, a professional poker player and author (Eating the Cheshire Cat), turns domesticity on its head in her darkly funny 12-story collection, featuring hausfraus in various stages of unraveling. These wives are not like the perfect 1970s-mom Carol Brady, the blue-collar Roseanne Conner, or even the tightly wound Claire Dunphy. Ellis immediately sets the tone in "What I Do All Day," about a modern Stepford Wife-she is "lucky enough to have a drawer just for glitter"-with bite. In the rest of the collection, women become involved in increasingly hostile epistolary e-fights over wainscoting in a shared hallway ("The Wainscoting War"), speak in codes that require translation ("Southern Lady Code"), and take their book club to a whole new level ("Hello! Welcome to Book Club"). One wife finds a fiendish way to contend with a domineering mother-in-law and the son she raised ("Dead Doormen"); another finds that having a significant following on social media doesn't save her from her book sponsor's ruthlessness in actually getting the thing written ("My Book Is Brought to You by the Good People at Tampax"). Ellis hits the satirical bull's-eye with a deliciously dry, smart voice that will have readers flipping the pages in delight. Agent: Susanna Einstein, Einstein Literary Management. (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* Ellis' 12 short stories about women under pressure are archly, acerbically, even surreally hilarious. By extracting elements from the southern gothic tradition, Shirley Jackson, and Margaret Atwood, Ellis has forged her own molten, mind-twisting storytelling mode. Her pacing is swift and eviscerating, and her characters' rage and hunger for revenge are off the charts. In The Wainscoting War, two furious women in facing condos do diabolical battle via a barrage of increasingly alarming e-mails over the decor of their shared hallway. Ellis takes on reality TV in the perfectly crafted Dumpster Diving with the Stars, a breath-halting balance of slashing absurdist humor and rich and authentic emotional sensitivity. The same tricky strategy works powerfully in The Fitter, an ambushing fable of comedic invention and sneaky heartbreak. After reading Ellis, readers will never approach book club benignly again: think Fight Club (1996), instead. With monstrous children and cats, hopeless husbands, and covertly dangerous women, Ellis takes down the entire housewife concept with a sniper's precision. These are delectably revved up, marauding, sometimes macabre tales of ruined marriages, illness, infertility, crass commercialism (literary product placement), desperation, ghosts, even murder, featuring women of shrewd calculation, secret sorrows, and deep sympathy.--Seaman, Donna Copyright 2015 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
These stories of American ê housewives begin benignly enough: They grocery shop. They host co-op board soirees. They invite rule-breaking doormen to lunch and dismember them. They bid on estate sale jewelry that could be filled with teaspoons of cyanide. They dabble in taxidermy. Macabre does not even begin to describe this collection steeped in the Southern Gothic tradition. Flannery O'Connor would turn green with equal parts sick and envy. "Southern Lady Code" and "How to Be a Patron of the Arts" are conduct manuals parceling twisted bits of advice like "When a guest says your meatloaf looks like a football, don't tell the woman that her husband is obviously gay." Despite an outlandish premise, "Dumpster Diving With the Stars," the book's highlight, has real heart: A struggling novelist retreats into housewifery until she decides to compete on a reality television show against John Lithgow, a Playboy Playmate and Mario Batali. The book is riddled with pop culture allusions - from Beyoncé to Miley Cyrus to Lululemon. But these topical references might date the book and risk alienating readers unfamiliar with what's trending on TMZ. It is a critique raised only because this dark, deadpan and truly inventive collection is one you'll wish to relish long after its sell-by date.
Guardian Review
Hysterical wit and worry in short stories that blow up the cliches we use about women The first story in Helen Ellis's hysterically funny collection, American Housewife, feels like a bit of a sputtering start. "What I Do All Day" is a brief, wacky compendium of daily actions and thoughts that seem to stack up to a stereotype of what we think of housewives, if we think of housewives at all. "Inspired by Beyonce, I stallion-walk to the toaster ... I weep because I am lucky enough to have a drawer just for glitter. I shred cheese. I berate a pickle jar. I pump the salad spinner like a CPR dummy." It's funny enough, but meatier (and funnier) stories are still pages away, and I wondered why the author would lead with it. After reading the rest of the stories, however, the older meaning of the word hysterical came to the fore and I began to see the introductory story as the anxious thesis of the book. These privileged women have made a career of the domestic arts, and their virulent pride over their daily reality frays and distorts their prim facades. They flare up and blaze, punching out from behind their perfect veneers to ruthlessly protect what is theirs, and they do it with withering wit. They want to matter, regardless of what they do or what they can offer the world; for their domestic salad spinning to be as valuable as CPR. The women of American Housewife are hysterical in both senses of the word, often at the same time. In "Hello! Welcome to Book Club" a razor-sharp narrator outlines the many highly particular rules of the group. She is the ringleader of a macabre coven of type-A women defined by their money and, we'll eventually learn, their fertility shortcomings. The story showcases Ellis's comic sense. When the narrator mentions another character, Bethany's, ticking biological clock, most writers would leave it there -- that's the joke and the joke's on Bethany. But instead, Ellis puts the joke on us, by blowing up tired old cliches we use about women, in this case a biological clock people can actually hear. The result is hilarious and satisfying in its strange specificity: "Sometimes I walk past the Fifth Avenue Synagogue and am frightened a bomb is about to go off. I imagine my upper torso landing in a gyro cart and the contents of my purse laid out for all to see. Then, I realise it's not anxiety hounding me: it's Bethany's biological clock. It ticks so loud, I'm amazed Mount Sinai isn't evacuated on a daily basis. Oh Bethany, don't make that face! You know it's true!" Other stories, such as "How to Be a Patron of the Arts", star more identifiable women. The narrator, a writer, is self-doubting, though not quite self-loathing, and has come to the conclusion that she is a failure. The story isn't interested in parsing whether that is true. Rather, it takes on a bigger question: Will she ever forgive herself? Stories like this one give the book its heart. But they are shoulder to shoulder with pieces where women will, as in "Dead Doormen", commit murder to keep an Upper East Side co-op running smoothly. All that murderous housewife wants is to cherish her husband's interests. In this collection, there is a noticeable absence of children. The loyalty we usually attribute to mothers for their children is just as fierce in these wives for their husbands. There is a hint of melancholy in this. They are wives who have weathered the moment when the term "child-free" evolved into "childless". They are devoted to their husbands, and their acts of love feel more like gratitude than passion. Love that has survived big disappointments is better love, less frivolous, but can be needier. It is also a more interesting love and deeply moving to read about. One woman will kill for her husband while another will simply bring him coffee. Both gestures come from the same place. These seemingly irreverent stories of housewifery are intensely reverent of what it can mean to be a wife. Unfortunately, there are only a few thorough, flushed-out, true-to-form stories. The book is padded with several short pieces of writing that are not much more than listcicles. They are funny and speak to the title, but not to the deeper and more satisfying ideas that Ellis pursues elsewhere. I would gladly trade in some of these shorter pieces for the richer stories she is clearly capable of. The exception is "Take It from Cats", a list of life lessons we can learn from felines, which turns a throwaway idea into something wonderfully weird and honest. "If someone brings a bag into your home, look inside it. If you don't want someone to leave, sit on his suitcase ... If you're not interested, don't look interested." In all, Ellis (pictured) is a sharp humorist and writer. American Housewife is delightful and biting, just as the book jacket promises. You'll laugh or roll your eyes at some of the women, but you may recognise yourself in others. Eventually, an observation you snorted at will be turned against you. That's part of the fun: there is enough egg for everyone's face, even the reader's. But this book isn't quite as light as the jacket would have you believe. It left a residue its more satiric narrators hadn't prepared me for. Not of glee, but of something darker, haunting, revelatory. * Diane Cook's Man v Nature (Oneworld) was shortlisted for the Guardian first book award. To order American Housewife for [pound]10.39 (RRP [pound]12.99) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over [pound]10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of [pound]1.99. - Diane Cook.
Kirkus Review
The wives in these guffaw-out-loud short stories by novelist Ellis (The Turning Book: What Curiosity Kills, 2010, etc.) are a wonderfully wacky crew. At first glance, the women in this pointedly peculiar collection may seem like familiar charactersjealous wives, inconsiderate neighbors, procrastinating writersyet, often, it's not long before they and their stories build from a chug to a mad hurtle, take a sharp turn in an unexpected direction, and careen completely and crazily off the rails. In "The Wainscoting War," two neighbors correspond about their shared vestibule, and over the course of a handful of emails, build from "Thank you for the welcome gift basket you left outside our apartment door" to a high-stakes face-off in a common hallway at high noon. In "The Fitter," one of the book's sweeter, gentler stories, the wife of a small-town Georgia man with a "pilgrimage-worthy" gift for fitting women with the perfect bra"part good old boy, part miracle worker"reluctantly releases him to the woman she suspects will replace her after she succumbs to the illness that has rid her of her own "body meant for tight sweaters." In "Dead Doormen," a woman who initially appears to be a perfectly devoted housewife, catering to her husband's needs in the vast Manhattan prewar penthouse apartment left to him by his mother, slowly comes into focus as something significantly more sinister. The 12 stories here cheekily tackle subjects ranging from neighborhood book clubs to reality TV shows, and while a few of them feel, sadly, like filler, breaking up the madcap momentum, on the whole, they are deliciously dark and deliriously deranged. This amusingly offbeat collection treats us to an unusual array of characters as if it were offering up a plate of clever canapes. Maybe just don't try to devour them all at once. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
Ellis's (What Curiosity Kills) darkly funny collection is a box of bonbons laced with absinthe. Many of the stories feature books to some degree-deep knowledge of commercial fiction helps a character succeed on the reality show Dumpster Diving with the Stars; corporations sponsor novels (and those authors who lightly skim their contracts may be unpleasantly surprised by the consequences for missed deadlines); and a very intense book club has unusual expectations for new members-while others skewer such topics as bra fitting, escalating disputes with neighbors, and parsing the difference between what Southern ladies say and what they mean. Kathleen McInerney, Rebecca Lowman, Lisa Cordileone, and Dorothy Dillingham Blue provide appropriately sweet readings with real bite underneath. VERDICT Recommended for fans of quirky humor. ["The hilarity of each premise will pull in readers, and the twists will keep them glued to the pages": LJ 12/15 starred review of the Doubleday hc.]-Stephanie Klose, Library Journal © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
WHAT I DO ALL DAY Inspired by Beyoncé, I stallion-walk to the toaster. I show my husband a burnt spot that looks like the island where we honeymooned, kiss him good-bye, and tell him what time to be home for our party. I go to the grocery store and find that everyone else has gone to the grocery store and, as I maneuver my cart through Chips and Nuts traffic, I get grocery aisle rage. I see a lost child and assume it's an angry ghost. Fearing cold and flu season, I fist-bump the credit card signature pad. Back home, I get a sickening feeling and am relieved to find out it's just my husband's coat hung the wrong way in a closet. I break into a sweat when I find a Sharpie cap, but not the pen. I answer my phone and scream obscenities at an automated call. I worry the Butterball hotline ladies are lonely. I follow a cat on Twitter and click "view photo" when a caption reads: "#YUCK." I regret clicking that photo. I weep because I am lucky enough to have a drawer just for glitter. I shred cheese. I berate a pickle jar. I pump the salad spinner like a CPR dummy. I strangle defrosted spinach and soak things in brandy. I casserole. I pinwheel. I toothpick. I bacon. I iron a tablecloth and think about eating lint from the dryer, but then think better of that because I am sane. I rearrange furniture like a Neanderthal. I mayonnaise water rings. I level picture frames. I take a break and drink Dr Pepper through a Twizzler. I watch ten minutes of my favorite movie on TV and lip-synch Molly Ringwald: "I loathe the bus." I know every word. Sixteen Candles is my Star Wars. I hop in the shower and assure myself that behind every good woman is a little back fat. I cry because I don't have the upper-arm strength to flatiron my hair. I mascara my gray roots. I smoke my eyes. I paint my lips. I drown my sorrows with Chanel No. 5. At the party, I kiss my husband hello. I loathe guests who sneeze into the crooks of their elbows. I can't be convinced winter white is a thing. I study long-married couples and decide that wives are like bras: sometimes the most matronly are the most supportive. I feign interest in skiing, golf, politics, religion, owl collections, shell collections, charity benefits, school fund-raisers, green juice, the return of eighties step classes, the return of nineties grunge, a resurgence of bridge clubs, and Ping-Pong mania. I say, "My breath is the Pinot Grigio-est." I say, "I am perfectly happy not being a Kennedy." I say, "I'd watch a show called Ghost Hoarders . Why is that not a show?" I say, "You can take your want of a chocolate fountain and go straight to hell." I see everyone out and face the cold hard truth that no one will ever load my dishwasher right. I scroll through iPhone photos and see that if I delete pictures of myself with a double chin, I will erase all proof of my glorious life. I fix myself a hot chocolate because it is a gateway drug to reading. I think I couldn't love my husband more, and then he vacuums all the glitter. Excerpted from American Housewife: Stories by Helen Ellis All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.