I like Jen Lancaster. There, I said it. She’s not Dostoyevsky, we don’t see eye to eye politically and there’s no way I’d willingly move to the Chicago suburbs. But she’s neurotic and owns her quirks without being all “tee hee! I’m quirky, y’all!” Also, we shared a magical evening back when her second book was released. (And by “magical evening” I mean “I got drunk with her and her husband Fletch while they gave me life advice and bought me a prime rib sandwich.” Magical.)
This year, I wrote to Penguin and begged for Jeneration X. And on a stressful Friday, I came home and found my wish granted.