By Gina Angostura
Columnist

I finished a novel this weekend. Reading one, not writing one. Writing one is on my fantasy to-do list. See, I have an everyday to-do list (wake up, wash hair), an if-I-have-enough-energy to-do list (stand up, wash dishes), a good day to-do list (go to the store, watch a movie) and a fantasy to-do list (write a novel, marry Alan Rickman).

The everyday list sometimes gets accomplished on the weekend, though I have to admit, sometimes I don’t wash my hair. If I and my kitchen are lucky, I get to the enough-energy one. Notice there’s a big gap between my good-day and my fantasy list. I believe in taking baby steps toward big goals; I fear Mr. Rickman will never father my children.

So I was quite proud that I finished reading a novel. Squarely in the good day category.

But I’m also ashamed. Because it wasn’t “Anna Karenina” or “Tale of Two Cities” I was reading.

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It was chick lit. There, I said it. I admit that I spent the whole of Saturday reading one of those novels. You know the kind.

You can pick them out at Barnes and Noble without even reading their titles. They’re the books with the beige and antique rose-colored jackets with a title in a font straight out of the ‘60s, and graphics of purses and/or shoes emblazoned on the front. Sometimes there’s a little Scottie dog with a bow.

So the cover tells you right away: This book is written by a woman for women. It’ll make you laugh. It’ll make you cry. It’ll change your life.

Or it’ll make you hurl. I know I did.

Not that it wasn’t well-written and charming. It was. But I still wanted to throw it across the room.

These books are all the same. Wikipedia says chick lit describes books about women in their 20s, working in a major city ­ mainly New York ­ in a career like publishing, who are dealing with the problems of life and love.

The one I read was different. The woman was in her 30s, lived in San Francisco, and worked in advertising. Way to break out of the mold, girlfriend!

In this novel, we follow the neurotic heroine from engagement to wedding. See her pick out her ring! Feel her stress out over the invitation list! Watch as she fights with her boyfriend while cooking impossibly delicious homemade spaghetti sauce in her perfect Victorian apartment!

The books usually include some sort of tragic undertone to garner sympathy for the main character and make the book seem more important than it really is, like an absent father or a friend who dies of AIDS. This book, believe it or not, had both.

I guess these books are a combination of clever escapism and a sort of semi-reality. They tell us that, hey, even women who make six figures and live in one of most beautiful cities in the world and are skinny and engaged to really cute Jewish men have problems.

Cry me a freakin’ river.

Read enough of these books, and they all blend together. Chick lit novels invariably star a woman who is not like me and whom I will never be. I’m not sure I even want to be them.

They spend their days off shopping, arranging flowers, practicing the cello, visting galleries, discussing with their girlfriends over lunch their fears about getting older and whether to give up their independence to a man. All the lovely things I would do if I weren’t spending my days unclogging my sink and just trying to make it through the day.

Chick lit women go to therapy twice a week. Their boyfriends say really neat things like, “The best thing about the ocean is it makes your fingers taste like pumpkin seeds.” Who talks like that?

The worst example of this, in my opinion, was “Bridges of Madison County.” I know this was written by a guy, but do you know any men who have read it? Stay with me here. In that book, the hero, as he makes love for the first time to the married farm wife (I know there’s a joke in there somewhere) whispers to her, “I am the wind and the peregrine.”

Ooooooookay.

Picture that for a second. In real life, do I want someone saying that to me in bed? I think not. I think I would be laughing so hard milk would be coming out of my nose. Even if I wasn’t drinking milk at the time.

Go hawk your hawk talk somewhere else, buddy, I’d say.

I think I need to stop reading this stuff and make Chekov the next book I check off my list, just to redeem myself.

I feel so dirty.

Gina welcomes your comments and questions. Have a dating dilemma you’re struggling with? What, you think Gina isn’t struggling? But feel free to share anyway. We’re in this together. E-mail me at singlecynic@manchestermirror.com.

The Single Cynic alternates weeks with the Married Cynic.