sandrinepal's reviews
1227 reviews

 This was heavy on the facts and a little haphazard on the feminism. I can't really speak to the worries about intersectionality that have been raised by other reviewers: to my mind, Dr. Gunter does acknowledge in the intro to the book that much work and research is needed to meet the needs of trans men and non-binary people when it comes to menopause. I honestly don't know what she could say beyond that. More than that, I was a little put off by how strident the tone grew at times. Don't get me wrong: there's every reason for females (of various ages) to be pissed off, on any number of counts. It seems to me, though, that the constant, low-grade seething is bad for your health.

Personally, I have yet to develop symptoms (of menopause, not feminism: I'm terminal, there) and since I'm the oldest of my siblings, I have few points of reference. It did feel good to read this in a middle-school-sex-ed kind of way: forewarned is forearmed, etc. Her writing style is commendably clear and informative, with the possible exception of the sex hormone binding globulin (SHBG) mnemonic, which eventually drove me up a tree. I also did not realize just how recent the hormone controversy really was, or what its roots were. I sure as heck am not team Dr.Phil's-wife (or Oprah, for that matter, when it comes to making decisions about my health). However, I do recognize that it can be so hard to fully determine where you get data on which to base your choices. I mean, if it can be challenging for OB/GYNs to make those calls, what chance do we mere peons stand?

Long story short: this book gave me a lot to chew on. Mostly, it alerted me to the fact that, as I get longer in the teeth, information-gathering should really become a bigger part of my routine. 

 Perplexed as I was by the ending of this book, I went looking through Goodreads reviews for kindred spirits who might have a take on that atmospheric stumper. Imagine my dismay when I found a number of reviewers (many of them women, alas) lamenting the fall of Western civilization as foretold by the narrative POV of a 22-year old sex worker.

Sex. Worker. "There's sex in this!" Why, yes. Yes, there is. In fact, for Alex, sex is a primary currency. And if sex (or sex work) were an indication of the impending demise of literature, things would have gone to the dogs a long time ago. Émile Zola, Victor Hugo, Maupassant, La Traviata via Alexandre Dumas, and others all bear witness to the fact that sex work has never detracted from the quality of a work of fiction.

So what is the difference? What is raising hackles for people? The crude language? The fact of Alex's agency (misguided and/or harmful as it may turn out to be)? Truly, I would contend that people who are appalled at this character should give the portrayal of "good" people in the book a much closer read.

 Oops, I read all the Enola Holmes... again. This one had *celebrities*, y'all! Rudyard Kipling, his future wife, and Joseph Lister (father of antiseptic surgeries, not Listerine). It didn't do much for the plot, but it was fun to conduct parallel Google investigations as I read along. Anyway. A nefarious *working class* [horrors] organization kidnaps the genteel, if American [shudder], victim of a rabid dog's bite. Enola saves the day-yawn-, but in the course of this book, it feels as though Sherlock is turning into her low-key sidekick, which I am all for. There are some shenanigans and physical violence in this latest opus that I did not find truly in character. For instance, the real Enola is well above kicking groins, be it unintentionally. Of the three new ones, I would rank this one second to the Black Barouche, ahead of the Elegant Escapade. Alas, no actual mongoose, which is a real letdown, if we're being honest. 

 Knowing that there are new(-to-me) Enola Holmes books out there is like having Girl Scout cookies in the house: how am I supposed to think of, let alone read/eat, anything else? In this installment, there's a friend in trouble, a tyrant-cum-criminal father, and the ever-crushing weight of the Victorian patriarchy. Really, developing a dual personality is the only way to survive. That, or dress up like a spunky, master-of-disguise detective and save the day! In all honesty, not quite as good as the earlier Enola books, but I'll take my fix where I can get it.
P.S. I'd like to lodge a formal complaint about the cover art. Enola has a too-large nose and an aristocratic horse face (her words). That Teen Vogue girl with the over-the-shoulder, come-hither look is not my ̶p̶r̶e̶s̶i̶d̶e̶n̶t̶ Enola. 

 Forget messiahs, the real resurrection for me this Easter is Enola Holmes! After reading book 6 way back in 2017, I thought (with much dismay) that her story ended at the discovery of her mother's fate and her reconciliation with Mycroft and Sherlock. Imagine my delight when I discovered through idle Goodreads browsing that there were now not one, but *THREE* more books in the series! I believe the only adequate word is "Squeeeeeeeee". I'm not an imbecile and I can see that Nancy Springer has started putting pen to paper again because of the success of the Netflix movies. Whatever. No shade to Millie Bobby Brown or Henry Cavill, but I'm only here for the real, book-version Enola. If the movies mean we get more books, I am 100% here for it (with only the one sad fact that the titles now begin with "Enola Holmes and" instead of "The Case of", but beggars can't be choosers). Anyway, a missing twin, a runaway mare, a nefarious hot aristocrat, Bedlam, and of course a plethora of disguises on all sides. She's baaaaaack! 

 Disclaimers: I am a fan of Maria Bamford's comedy, so there's that. Also, there is a history of "the mentals" in my family and I have my own struggles with that (though not to the extent that she has experienced), so empathy comes easy in that department.

Ostensibly, this is a catalog of the many twelve-step programs she has joined over the years, but it's also a thoughtful and caring look at her own mental health journey. Although there's a fair amount of self-deprecation (to put it mildly), Bamford's writing also shines a beacon of self-love and acceptance for people experiencing their own trials and tribulations. She does not claim to have answers for anyone (in fact, she doesn't have much love for people who do), but she peppers the book with firsthand observations and very concrete resources, which, even though they did not apply to my personal diagnosis, made me feel included in a warm and fuzzy way... with maybe a dash of hot sauce. 

 Oh, Sam Wyndham series, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I read this one out of the series order, and it did not detract *AT ALL* from my enjoyment. The tiny caveat would be that there is a marked evolution in the character of Surendranath between this book and book 4, but it's been in the works since the beginning, really, plus historical hindsight being 20/20, it was hard not to see it coming. Only very mildly amused by the Annie Grant plot, at this point, but she does not feature prominently in this book, so that was not a huge deal. On the plus side, Congress Party leaders, opium addiction, British intelligence shenanigans, biological weapons, what's not to love? (Note: one of these things is not like the others.) Bottom line: can't wait for my library to hurry up and get a new copy of The Shadows of Men already! 

 As a work of fiction, this is a little bit 'meh', but if you read it between the lines as an insider tell-all about the film industry, it is very educational. The backstory of the WWII veteran and his comic-book artist nephew was the Tom Hanksiest thing you'll ever read, but the other plot points were highly entertaining. I felt the parallel pay-it-forward of Al and Ynez was a little too in-your-face for comfort, but hey, it's Hollywood: whaddya expect? (The actual comics in there are a hard pass, though. Yikes.) 

 A quick read, but it's a 2.5 for me. I think reading this immediately after finishing the new Percival Everett didn't do this book any favors. The satire in the main conceit is effective, but it gets diluted by being flung in too many directions. Some of it feels as though the author had some personal scores to settle. The narrator's episodic self-awareness also makes it hard to full-on hate her. Or maybe I'm a Karen in the making, I don't know. 

 To call this thorough would be a gross injustice. It's meticulous to a fault, at least for the novice that I am. Reading other (shorter) books on the subject and going over course material from grad school helped me navigate the latter parts of the book a little better. I highly recommend it to anyone who would like a very in-depth look at puritanism and its ramifications in early New England, but you do need to have a solid background in European, and especially English, history and theology to digest all the information.