For Windsor, this is no laughing matter. Determined to get to the source of it, she embarks on a journey into her own rich past. As she moves ever closer to the secret that has cast a shadow over her life, she discovers that the half-lies she has fed her son don't add up to the beauty of the truth.
Argh. By the second half the book is pretty much unbearable. The main character isn’t likeable. I wish it was written from the son’s point of view, or the stripper; at least they seem nice. The narrator incessantly launches into irate tirades, intellectual pretentiousness, and overly sentimental self pity. There is no development or context to make most of the events in the book believable, you’re just supposed to believe them. The book reads with maybe a couple sentences of someone doing or saying something, and then these ponderous, overdramatized remarks purporting some great meaning and gravity—to every little thing, over and over. If the author is trying to evoke an insanely annoying woman who really needs to get over her brooding about her childhood and tremendous sense of being full of herself, then she did a good job. But is it something you want to spend hours listening to? My gosh, no.