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Confessions of a Nervous Shiksa, by Tracy McArdle
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Lights! Camera! Ultimatum!
When movie studio publicity V.P. Alexis Manning's fiancé -- Jewish bartender/actor David a.k.a. Deke -- goes home with her for a holly jolly Christmas in Vermont with her family, there's a chill in the air and it ain't just the weather. Overwhelmed by the Christianity of it all, David confesses that he can't marry Alexis unless she converts to Judaism. Alexis might not know exactly what she wants to do with her life...but she knows she doesn't want to spend it pretending to be something she's not. Alexis believes in only one religion -- movies. So with her well-scripted romance on the cutting-room floor, she begins replaying favorite film scenes in her head and breaking down her own life into dramatic clips, searching for the right ending. If only she were Julia, or Demi, or Meryl, things would be different.
Get me rewrite!
Is Kirk, the hot new director of her latest project, meant to be Alexis's leading man? Or are she and David headed for a dramatic act-three reunion? And what of Andrew Sullivan -- the proverbial One That Got Away? Between film festival dramas, uncontrollable actors, egotistical directors, a heartbroken sister, an ailing, peculiar cat named Little (and her accompanying astronomical vet bills), and fantasies about simpler times back in New England, it's all Alexis can do to keep production on schedule. But surely there's a happily ever after for her -- and hopefully for Little, too -- before credits roll.
- Sales Rank: #4610265 in Books
- Published on: 2005-08-02
- Released on: 2005-08-02
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.25" h x 1.00" w x 5.31" l, .68 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 368 pages
- ISBN13: 9781416503217
- Condition: USED - Very Good
- Notes: 100% Satisfaction Guarantee. Tracking provided on most orders. Buy with Confidence! Millions of books sold!
About the Author
Tracy McArdle works in marketing and is also the author of Confessions of a Nervous Shiksa, available from Downtown Press. She graduated from Fordham University and the Sorbonne in Paris, and spent twelve years working in the entertainment industry in New York and Los Angeles before moving home to New England in 2003. Her writing has appeared in The Boston Globe and Premiere magazine. She lives with her husband, two horses, a dog, and her cat, Little, in Carlisle, Massachusetts, the home of Fern's Country Store.
For more about Tracy, check out www.tracymcardle.net.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:02 A.M.
CONTACT: Viv
NUMBER: Home
MESSAGE: She'll be back in the office tomorrow -- Call when you get in -- how was your Xmas?
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:05 A.M.
CONTACT: Donna/Accounting
NUMBER: x145
MESSAGE: Why did we pay director's friend Roberta (can't read last name) $10k on Late Nights -- we can pay her; just need to know what she did on film?
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:09 A.M.
CONTACT: Billy
NUMBER: 323-555-7639
MESSAGE: What is David's cell #? Needs to talk to him about music for the play -- how was Xmas in Vermont?
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:15 A.M.
CONTACT: Gail M./MPAA Ratings Board
NUMBER: 310-238-0039
MESSAGE: Late Nights clip of D.H. is disapproved -- cannot say "fag" or "candy-ass" on broadcast; re-edit and re-submit. Call if ??'s
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:23 A.M.
CONTACT: Your sister Molly
NUMBER: Home
MESSAGE: Checking on you...Misses you and hopes you're ok after what happened at Xmas.
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:37 A.M.
CONTACT: Gary/Good Fun Promotions
NUMBER: You have # He's in St. Bart's til Jan. 3
MESSAGE: How many Late Nights hats do you want for Sundance? Late Nights condoms or thongs for cocktail party?
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:40 A.M.
CONTACT: Sara-Anne
NUMBER: Home
MESSAGE: How was Xmas? Call me! Has a Littorai Pinot Noir-Theriot vineyard.
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:49 A.M.
CONTACT: Babette (D.H.'s agent)
NUMBER: Cell: 323-399-3947
MESSAGE: Needs 6 tickets to opening night parties at Sundance & schedule of what/where they are/who'll be there; plse fax to her home; 310-299-3987; will studio provide a car?
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:50 A.M.
CONTACT: Dr. Niblack
NUMBER: VCA Animal Clinic
MESSAGE: "Little" is due for her shots.
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:55 A.M.
CONTACT: Eugene R. (think it was Eugene, director of Shades of Gray, but he wouldn't say)
NUMBER: No # (called from pay phone in Central Park?)
MESSAGE: Why aren't we listed in N.Y. Times "Movies to See in 2000"? "Porky's 5 in 3D" is listed and we're not? "What the F*@!" (left on voice mail)
DATE/TIME: 12/28/99, 9:59 A.M.
CONTACT: Tracie Mansfield
NUMBER: The Tonight Show
MESSAGE: Has a hole in sched. this week for 2nd guest -- who do you have in town (No to Eugene R; she already knows he's available -- he called her). P.S. how was your Xmas?
And this was all before ten.
Returning to your call sheet after Christmas is never fun, but this particular year was profoundly un-fun. Adriane, my turbo-charged assistant, was a machine. Like any seasoned Hollywood assistant, she knew how to get to the point of each call quickly and efficiently. Normally she'd e-mail or fax me the call sheet each day I was out of town, but not during the Christmas break. How was Christmas 1999? The worst in thirty years (the title previously held by 1970, when, to my horror, my older brother gobbled up the prearranged cookies and milk before my eyes while wickedly proclaiming there was no Santa Claus and, adding insult to injury, refusing to share the cookies).
Christmas 1999 was markedly worse, because from its start, from the cheek-kissed drop off at LAX by the trusty Adriane, I knew, I knew something was not right between David and me, even before I saw him lolling impatiently at the Delta Skycab podium wearing the same tolerant expression he developed whenever we flew back East. I knew it was going to be a bad Christmas. But I pretended I didn't know, because pretending is fun, even if you're not an actress. Besides, the capacity for make-believe is an elementary survival tool. It's the very essence of an alternative reality, which later will be achieved through drugs and alcohol, and later, by work and television, then still later, by therapy of course, and when that doesn't work, meditation or yoga, and then finally at the end of life, through religion or bingo -- depending on what kind of person you are. Pretending is as essential to human beings as food, water and credit. That is why, while driving my parents' car on Vermont's windy, frozen road, Rural Route 114, on Christmas Eve of 1999, in the face of the new millennium, I was pretending that nothing was really wrong.
David, my fiancé, was sullen, silent, uncomfortable. He had repeatedly deflected my questions, my attempts to root out the truth, with the deftness of a skilled goalie slapping a determined puck out of net territory.
"What's wrong?" I asked again.
"Nothing."
"Come on, what's eating you? Tell me." He was as far away from me as the front seat of the Cadillac allowed.
"Nothing. I'm tired."
"David, you haven't said a word, you're tense, you're totally somewhere else, you didn't touch dinner, you couldn't leave my brother's house fast enough...please, tell me what is going on." I flicked on the wipers. It was snowing again.
"Alexis, I don't want to talk about it -- okay?" Ah-ha. Always a determined girl, I gripped my crowbar and pried away until the top finally creaked open the slightest bit. A waft of foul air escaped, ugly, gaseous truths begging for release: "Do you really want me to tell you? Do you really want to know?" His face looked at once defensive and angry, like I'd walked in on him smelling his own underwear. I took my foot off the gas and let the car coast into the turn, a long, unpaved driveway flanked by huge evergreens heaving with snow, a scene that, at any other moment in my life, would be soothing and picturesque, like Maria's approach to the Von Trapps' household in winter.
"I didn't want to bring this up over Christmas...but if you want me to get into it, I'll get into it."
The pine trees may as well have sprouted fangs and ripped themselves out of the ground. What could have been more terrifyingly tempting? We were at the bed and breakfast now, the charming, snow-covered, quintessential New England Christmas bed and breakfast, with its quilts and doilies, hearty fireplaces and old brandy, new gay proprietors and organic bran muffins. We had the smallest room. It was ten below and snowing as we exited the car and headed for the wreath-covered front door in silence. I loved it here. David had been the picture of vomit-ready misery since we'd left L.A. three days earlier. We trudged up the tiny, ancient stairs to our room.
He took off his coat and hung it on a wooden peg. I waited. He looked briefly at the snow outside and spoke. "Alexis, I didn't want to ruin your Christmas..."
I closed the latch on the 200-year-old door to our room and tried to hold in the tears while blocking out the truth that was headed my way. "You're already ruining my Christmas. Everyone in my family has asked me what's wrong. You've brought everyone down, you're obviously not having fun, it's making me tense and unhappy, David, I wish you'd just be honest..." But he said nothing.
"What the hell's going on?" I demanded halfheartedly, because being a woman, of course I already knew. I started crying. Sometimes, this helps. David sat down hard in the Yankee-backed chair with the happy couple in the sleigh painted on the seat, brushed aside the antique rag doll and looked directly at me.
"I can't...I can't marry you." He looked at the ceiling, then back to me with icy eyes. "Unless you convert."
Had this been a movie and not number two on the top ten list of horrible moments in my life, the music would have swelled, I would have backed slowly toward the door, then fled the inn wearing only a white cotton nightie as I ran wailing through the snow outside, and he would have followed, shouting my name desperately, and we would have collapsed together into a marshmallowy snowdrift, angry wrestling giving way to passionate lovemaking.
...Lex, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, he'd say. I love you just the way you are.
But it was not a movie, so David quietly removed his socks, and I stared at my engagement ring wondering if it would be the last one I ever wore.
This was the beginning of the end. The end was long, months really. Extracting myself intact from three years with the wrong man whom I'd wanted to be right required careful, structured planning, like removing that frozen woolly mammoth from its Siberian ice tomb. It took equipment, specialists, commitment, knowledge and dedication, but mostly the thing none of us have enough of and aren't willing to give: time.
The couples therapist we saw when we returned from Vermont was a waste of time, but at the beginning of the end you still have to try. When you're already engaged, you have to believe there's something worth saving. Otherwise what kind of person are you? It was odd meeting there in the middle of the day, in the Century City office building. We fell into each other's arms in Dr. Kreezak's waiting room, beside the watercooler and potted fronds, both sobbing frantically by the time she came to collect us.
"Well, I see you two have gotten a start," she said with a careful sense of humor. She looked like Talia Shire after her Rocky II makeover. Black hair, wide dark eyes, plum lips always half open, expensive skin. As we explained our situation (he was from an Orthodox Jewish family, I was a fallen Catholic now sampling agnosticism; he was an actor, I wasn't; his parents were wealthy, mine weren't; I had a job in an office, he had one in a bar; he had a dog, I had a cat), I got the odd feeling that she didn't know what to say to us and possibly felt guilty for taking our money.
"I love Alexis, and I want to spend my life with her," began David. "But my heritage is bigger than me." He settled into his chair and crossed his arms. His tanned, strong, muscular arms that had held me so many times, in so many places...
Dr. Kreezak looked puzzled. "I have to have Jewish children," David explained patiently.
"Alexis -- ?" she'd probed.
I had prepared my statement, knowing I would unravel the minute I got here, and I did. "I don't see why I have to c...
Most helpful customer reviews
6 of 8 people found the following review helpful.
Not bad
By Bearette24
The title of this book was misleading; I thought it would be about a Catholic woman's relationship with a Jewish man and the humorous or bittersweet culture clash.
Instead, Alexis Manning, our protagonist, breaks up with her Jewish boyfriend pretty early into the story. The novel is about how she moves forward from the breakup. The breakup is depicted as a long, gradual process. The author writes, "That was the beginning of the end," "That was the middle of the end," and "That was the end of the end" at different
points in the story.
The book suffered from lack of a plot. Nothing much happens, aside from the day-to-day business of Alexis' job as a Hollywood publicist. This seems to consist mostly of reading lists of phone messages and doing damage control when a celebrity does something unsavory. The other plot thread involves Alexis' cat, who is highly susceptible to infections and is always developing boils that need to be lanced. The author makes a clumsy analogy
between Alexis healing from the breakup and the cat healing from all its ailments.
If you're thinking this doesn't sound like a great book, you're right. However, it has its moments. The author clearly knows her movies, and Hollywood PR. And she has a gift for describing characters in a quick, memorable fashion: "Sara-Anne said 'Y'all' and 'I'm fixin' to' and had an IQ of 163. She inhaled chitterlings, fudge and foie gras and weighed 105
pounds. When she needed a shower, she said, 'Damn, I am gamey.'"
In short, if you want to read about the life of a Hollywood publicist, or you're going through a breakup, this may be the book for you.
6 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
life imitates art
By Wendy Wilson
In this case, the movies help Alexis understand her life -- and eventually get on with it. Confessions of a Nervous Shiksa is an impressive first novel from a very talented new author. Ms. McArdle has an knack for creating memorable characters and recalling poignant movies scenes that help the reader understand her protagonist's (Alexis's) process of "disengagement." Each chapter begins with a brief description from a modern movie classic, including Beaches, Annie Hall, and others. Although I rarely read chic lit, I found Shiksa to be a funny and fascinating glimpse of an insider's experience behind the scenes in Hollywood.
7 of 9 people found the following review helpful.
fine chick lit tale
By A Customer
In Hollywood, publicity vice president Alexis "Lexy" Manning works 24/7 promoting her studio's movies and its stars. Lexy could not have a more suited job for herself as she loves the movies adulating footnotes from her favorite pictures in discussions with her friends.
Lexy is almost engaged to Jewish bartender David Rothstein who uses the name of Deke Rothrock as a wannabe actor. She takes him home to spend a Yankee Christmas with her family in Vermont that shakes him to his circumcised core because he feels so out of place. Afterward, David makes religious demands on Lexy to convert to Judaism so they can raise their children Jewish. She refuses and they break up. It helps that she is attracted to a director she just met, but it hurts as it gives her time to worry about her ailing cat and sick sister. Lexy sees no happy ending as the reels of her life play out.
Though readers might question Lexy's choices and there is the inevitable lists (though some like the schedules fit her job), she seems like a genuine person living a stressed out lifestyle turned even more nerve-racking by David's demands after three years together. Simply put Lexy makes this chick lit tale worth reading as she spends money on herself, uses help when she needs to, and euphorically drops cinema references that this movie buff (don't ask how I squeeze time in for a flick) and her even greater movie buffed spouse enjoyed. Junk food junkie Lexy struggles at work and at home while seeking the next popular hit, which readers will hope is CONFESSIONS OF A NERVOUS SHIKSA.
Harriet Klausner
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