"Daca te ghidezi dupa aceleasi criterii la alegerea sotului ca la alegerea unei genti, iti garantez ca vei gasi unul pe gustul tau."
Plum Sykes a fost redactor la editia britanica a revistei Vogue, apoi, cand s-a mutat la New York, la cea americana. In 2004 a aparut romanul ei de debut, "Blonde de milioane", ce a devenit bestseller international.
Titlul original, "Blondele Bergdorf" reprezinta o nebunie newyorkeza, fiind invidiate de toate femeile. E o treaba extrem de dificila sa ai nuanta de blond perfecta, sa fii stilata, petrecareata si indeajuns de mofturoasa. Si e foarte greu sa probezi rochii ore in sir, sa vanezi posete si logodnici care apar in coloana de scandal a ziarelor. Si desigur "daddy" finanteaza orice, asa ca trebuie doar sa iti bati capul cum sa cheltuiesti.
Cele mai importante cuvinte din dictionarul unei blonde Bergdorf incep toate cu litera P: plictisitor, poseta, pantofi, paparazzi, pudra, petrecere, pudel si Prada. Si la toate acestea trebuie sa gasesti nuanta potrivita. Este tres dificil. Eroina insa, care se numeste simplu "Moi" si prietena ei Julie Bergdorf isi doresc sa gaseasca dragostea adevarata intr-o lume atat de superficiala. Oare este posibil?
Romanul reprezinta o satira sociala a New York-ului si a paturii de bogati, in special a "printeselor" rasfatate, atrase de o viata plina de glamour, petreceri, legaturi amoroase superficiale, bani cheltuiti aiurea si fara grija si a pastrarii cu orice pret a aparentelor.
Romanul trebuie luat ca atare, fiind o lectura lejera si amuzanta si cred eu ca trebuie evitat sa patrundem prea serios in substraturile sale, pierzandu-si altfel toata efervescenta si umorul. Daca stam sa judecam fiecare dintre personaje si actiunile lor superficiale nu il mai terminam.
Cartea abordeaza si dileme precum "ar trebui sa ne epilam brazilian?", "ar trebui sa facem dragoste cu un barbat la prima intalnire?", "ar trebui sa ne culcam cu iubitul celei mai bune prietene?", "e in regula sa te urci in avionul privat al unui barbat pe care-l cunosti de 20 de ore?", "e ok sa mai vorbesti cu un barbat care te abandoneaza pe aeroport fara nimic?" etc. - subiecte asupra carora probabil ca ne-am lamurit deja.
Am selectat o sumedenie de citate care nu numai ca sunt savuroase dar si tres nepretuite, un cuvant pe care blondele Bergdorf il folosesc adesea cand se gandesc la ele insele. Trebuie sa avem rabdare citindu-le pe toate, insa Doamne-fereste sa le si retinem:
"... daca as vorbi franceza la perfectie, nu m-ar mai placea nimeni. La urma urmei, persoanele perfecte nu sunt agreate, nu-i asa?"
"Sunt toleranta. Daca o tipa poarta pantofii cu toc cui Manolo Blahnik din sezonul trecut, n-o exclud instantaneu de pe lista prietenelor mele. La urma urmei, nu poti stii niciodata ce fata super se inalta din acei pantofi demodati."
"Am bun simt. Trebuie sa ai taria de caracter sa recunosti singura cand ai una dintre zilele acelea cand degeaba te-ai chinuit sa te machezi."
"Atunci cand un barbat arata ca Jude Law si poate avea orice femeie, e foarte important sa nu fii prea disponibila."
"Si, ok, inelul asta a costat in jur de un sfert de milion, dar cand te gandesti ce primeste Tommy in schimb - pe mine -, inelul nu mai e chiar atat de scump, fiindca eu sunt nepretuita."
"In privinta sotilor, singurul lucru care conteaza e sa ai unul."
"Femeile casatorite trebuie sa fie foarte destepte daca una dintre cerintele maritisului este aceea de a sti ce vor barbatii lor fara ca macar sa comunice cu ei."
P.S. As vrea sa amintesc si despre Bellini (nu stiu ce e, probabil sampanie) dar cartea garanteaza despre el ca rezolva orice problema in orice situatie, asa ca apelati cu incredere! :)

I read this book yesterday. I couldn't stop once I started. I haven't read such a funny book in a long time. Bergdorf Blondes reminded me of the first Chick-lit books I ever read, Tiffany Trott and Minty Malone and Come Together and all those other British classics, only it had the all-too-wonderful extra ingredient, New York!

I loved every page! Park Avenue princesses with ridiculous concerns, who plot how to get the best out of a sample sale at Chanel, Front Row Girls, muses, waiting lists for designer handbags, fundraisers to save 'whatever' and such wonderful and extremely quotable quotes that I was laughing out loud almost every page.

The protagonist, known throughout the book as 'Moi' is a British girl who wants to be American, she escapes England, and a very snobbish American mother who is desperate to marry her to the Earl next door (in spite of the Chair Affair, due to which the families are sworn enemies), and comes to New York where she lives the 'Champagne Bubble' life of a Bergdorf Blonde(although she is a brunette who went to Princeton) with her best friend, the quintessential New York Park Avenue Princess Julie Bergdorf. They search for fiances (not husbands), go to parties, lunches, foreign cities, get heartbroken, get wonderful facials, start book clubs, and finally find love.

I thought the book was clever and hilarious..... I read many negative reviews, and they almost put me off reading what is actually the funniest book I've read in a long time. If you're going to go into this book judging fictional characters for being superficial, then this book is probably not for you. Maybe there are girls who fly around on private jets and think the most important thing in life is to be some fashion designer's muse, maybe that's superficial to you, but there's also someone who thinks you're superficial for having a gym membership when you could just maybe run to work. It takes all sorts to make a world.

A finished copy was provided by the agency for review.

I have a huge love for some light fluffy reads and chick lit was one of my favourites to read when I was around 19, so I thought I’d give this a shot. I was sadly taken aback because this one was just too much for me.

The social climbing, sample sale shopping, husband hunting and name dropping was all too reminiscent of the Upper East Side life and I pretty much hated it. I thought our main character “Moi” was going to have a huge character change in where she realizes how selfish and shallow she really was. There was a minor inkling of it when someone tells it to her face, but I didn’t see much change in her. I found her to be wide-eyed and naive, pretty much wanting any guy who was good-looking or even gave her the time of day. I honestly can’t believe the amount of acronyms she uses in the book. They do speak in another language and I felt really annoyed about all the name dropping that was given. Julie, her best friend wasn’t any better. She almost an anxiety attack planning her book club and in the end, they all just wanted the attention of the poor professor Henry. It’s just like Mean Girls, but with money and houses.The only character that had promise was Charlie and I liked him instantly from the start. I just didn’t understand any of his attraction to Moi anyway so I figured in the end, he would be the rock that helped her.

I always wondered how the fabulously wealthy really lived, and I’m safe to say that my judgement was correct. I know this is fiction, and I know this is exaggerated for the book, but I still can’t believe some parts of this could be true. Who wrestles people for a coat?

Overall, I would recommend passing on this chick lit book. It wasn’t for me at all.

tRather than a female narrator called, say, Plum, we have a narrator called “Moi,” which is that much more intimate. Moi is quick to point out that she is not blonde, that she has a career, as a fashion magazine writer no less, and that she happens to be a conduit for the lives of the rich and blonde around her.
tThe tone is curious, more Teen Vogue than proper Vogue. Still, it follows American magazine protocol in being chatty, toothlessly catty and less than fully informed. This suits the narrative which follows a traditional arc of girl meets boy, loses boy, meets boy, meets boy, meets really rich boy and swoons. There is a similarity to the television show Sex in the City, in that all men who wander across the pages are either appalling or unutterably wonderful. As Moi sums up her love life: “I had somehow contrived to date one brute, one congenital liar and a professional lothario.”
tEarly on Moi offers a short list of reasons why it is better to live in New York than in London. After Mummy, Toffs (“ew!”) and Daddy comes the Brazilian, as in the bikini wax favored by thong-wearing women whose nether regions tend to be their most interesting asset. Could the narrator and author be unaware of the fact that such a treatment is available in London? Should Vogue be alerted to the existence of a little place called Bliss?
tThis display of ignorance becomes less startling as Bergdorf Blondes stumbles on, and it allows for a cloying motif. Because of this amazing new waxing thing that has never been heard of outside of New York, sex is referred to throughout as variations on the word Brazil. This is not unlike Jay McInerney referring to cocaine in “Bright Lights Big City” as Bolivian Marching Powder. Moi, then, goes to Brazil, she goes to the Amazon, she goes to Rio (the clitoris), and, most dismayingly to Impanema. For the sake of context, Moi informs “ . . . . you know me, when faced with a choice between another glass of Pimms or a trip to Brazil, I’ll always take the Brazil.” Of course sex is relative in a world where “Michael Kors understands the inside of a womans’ thigh like no other man I know.”
tOh yes, fashion. There is barely a designer’s name that doesn’t happen to be one of the major advertisers in the first zillion pages of Vogue. The careful politics of acceptable product placement are adhered to but when something as safely acceptable as Alexander McQueen isn’t being exalted the author loses her footing. The lovely designs of Marni for instance, which could be described as shabby chic, are here rendered as having the look of a “street urchin” which is spectacularly incorrect. Personal taste is questionable in the extreme, most especially when we come to a $325 pair of Chloe Jeans which apparently “do something amazing for my ass.”
tFor a deep inside look at New York fashionista wit, which is slightly too stupid to be offensive: “The hottest sample sales in New York are so fraught with danger they make the Gaza Strip look peaceful.”
tThroughout advance copies of the book I was honored to see the author’s mind at work in mid-composition -- pen held aloft as she searched for the mot juste, as moi wouldn’t say. At one point it is written “J’ sais pas [sic:] (ck. French),” which is very sweet given that the narrator expresses excitement with liberal use of the word “trés.” Elsewhere comes the need to describe small items inspiring “chahtchkis [sic:] (ck sp/ Jewish word).” Indeed.
tDespite Moi’s objection to England, the whole inside-New York fairy tale grinds to a halt in the English countryside and everyone lives happily ever after, but not before our heroine gets mud on her Jimmy Choos. The ending brings the proceedings firmly into the realm of Barbara Cartland -- the moral of the story is to marry well, which I suppose is the ultimate beauty tip.

This book is a literary equivalent of a shot in the head. It may hurt as hell for a short time, but you get conveniently stupefied right away & can't care about anything afterwards. Read this at your peril.

I'm not against chick lit. In fact, I indulge in them a lot of times --but this book was as stupid as stupid gets. It was predictable and not even funny in the smallest bit. The writing style is less than mediocre and it was a total waste of the 3 hours (that seemed more like an eternity) that i spent reading it.

If I didn't have the obsessive compulsive NEED to finish books I've started, I would never have finished this one. don't waste your time on this book. There are much more books out there that are more worth your while.

How I Came To Own This Book: Gillian bought it due to the hype surrounding the novel.

The Plot: The unnamed character (who goes by Moi) is your typical, irritating, self-obsessed upper East Sider in NYC on the hunt for a husband and all the other trivialities that make up 'that' type of woman's life - shopping, being seen, and looking great while doing it. Basically a very very fluffy slice of life from a woman who has been there...

The Good & The Bad: This is one of my least favourite books (of this genre at least) of all time, to the point of being almost unreadable. The only part I specifically remember is calling a certain sexual act 'getting tiramisu' (I will leave it up to you to discern what that means) and texting a friend that Moi is getting said act, then said act ending abruptly when actor discovered what actee is up to. Ugh. In all the book was completely pointless and irritating - from the characters to the plot - and a definite non-recommendation on my part.

The Bottom Line: A brutal read that I am still mystified on in regards to the level of hype it received.

50-Book Challenge?: No.

I know this is one of those books you're not supposed to like because it's so girly and fashion here shooes there. But I absolutely loved it! While reading it one got a feeling 'Bergdorf Blondes' was a mix of Lauren Weisberger meets Candace Bushnell. I had pretty low expectations on Plum Sykes, after reading some of the more well-known fashion-chick-lit books, but this was probably the best one I've read so far. Not only did I find myself laughing out loud at quite a few times, but this novel was warm, and it didn't feel as serious as 'The Devil Wears Prada' and 'Sex and the City'. I think the word I'm looking for is an equivalent to warm/nice/friendly/happy/funny/charming and romantic. I can't figure a work like that out, and I'm not even sure such a word excists.. But if you only ever want to read one fashion-chick.-lit, go for this one!

I'm not sure why I even read this in the first place. I think it may have been because my sister lent it to me when I asked her if I could borrow a book on my trip to Milwaukee last summer. She specifically warned me in advance that it was really stupid, but secretly a fun read in a guilty pleasure sort of way. Most people would probably say at this point, "What were you expecting, Camus?" I don't know, I don't care, I HATED this book. It was basically like Sex and the City but 10,000 times more vapid and pointless. I know it was meant to be breezy and whimsical and fun but all it succeeded in doing was making me want to puke all over Plum Sykes and her $5000 handbags and all her spoiled NYC trust fund brat friends, and then throw the book across the room in disgust. Instead I finished it. What is wrong with me? I think I still have this book laying around somewhere in my house, sorry Addie, I honestly have no problem returning it to you the next time I see you again.

This book was nearly offensive in its wanton display of greed, vanity and superficiality. It's almost embarrassing to even admit I read it, but as a follower of Sykes' Vogue pieces, I felt I owed her a bit of literary loyalty. Big mistake.
This book, sadly, confirms all those horror stories you hear about "Park Avenue Princesses," and doesn't even have the decency to laugh at itself at any point. Sykes is a clever wordsmith, but the meat of this book leaves much to be desired....like actual content. Waste your time elsewhere.

So I'll start with the negatives of this book since I was so shocked at how much I hated it. Chick lit is a genre I like to indulge in every now and then despite the very fluffy content. However, I have never met a book from this genre that I didn't like; one that was so superficial and lacking in a story that I couldn't stand it. The main character and really every other character is so unlikable that you can't relate to them at all. This book fails to be sweet and charming in the way the author presents the characters and the story unlike other successful chick lit books like the Shopaholic series. Instead, we're forced to endure a story with no obvious plot, since it just seems like we aimlessly follow the main character through a couple of days in her life, and some completely annoying characters that do not seem realistic at all. And then there's the silly use of acronyms that the author uses because she must think it makes her story endearing. But when you're using that many different acronyms to talk about F.R.Gs who enjoy their P.J.s and are constantly searching for a P.H. (confused yet?) it gets to be a bit much. And I don't think I need to waste anymore precious review space on what I think about the narrator's name or how many times she uses the word tres in the book. You can probably figure out how fun that is to read.

The only part I actually enjoyed (barely) was the twist at the end that brings our narrator the happily ever after she's been wishing for in regards to her love life. Frankly, I was surprised after all the disappointments in the rest of the book that the author had this little twist in her back pocket. Still, the ending and this twist are not nearly enough to save this book.

If name dropping a few fashion designers was all a chick lit author had to do to write award-winning literature, Plum Sykes would've nabbed that honor with this book. But in reality, that's not enough to make a good chick lit book. They might not be the most respected genre, but the stories still require the same creativity and effort in storytelling as any other. Don't let the playful cover and spunky title fool you. This is one chick lit book you don't want to pick up.

One of my faves back in the day when I was all about chick lit. :))