In spite of the author's perpetual moaning, this is as addictive as a box of Valentine chocolates. Ganahl sets a brisk pace, describing her first year with the column and the avalanche of responses she reads compulsively, answering some, deleting many. Old boyfriends write to her, recognizing themselves. Friends alternately sympathize and beg
her to get it together. Ganahl's daughter is her touchstone, the friend she calls most dear and a remarkable young woman. Throughout the book, Ganahl is consumed with the idea of having a date for her 50th and finally makes plans with her unreliable, rock star paramour.
They meet, but once again he is absorbed in his own life and barely remembers it's her birthday. But this time sometiling clicks. The knight has fallen off his horse one too many times. In an ironic twist, Ganahl leaves him to sleep off his satiated state (of course they have sex first) and goes to the ball by herself. Well, not really by herself. She's surrounded by the people who really love her.
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