Lori Gottleib’s book, Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough, has ignited a firestorm of controversy.  In it, Gottleib—a 41-year-old single mother who conceived her son via artificial insemination—argues that women should stop waiting around for Mr. Right and take a chance on guys who may not tick every box on their checklist.  Many commentators have taken issue with Gottleib’s anti-feminist message and her presumption that women should marry whoever comes along before their “market value” (her words, not mine) declines too much.

And I was prepared to hate it right along with them.  After all, I am a fiercely independent woman who has been proudly waving her feminist flag since college.  I grew up with a mother who, after a disastrous first marriage in her early 20s, didn’t meet and marry my father until she was in her mid-30s—a much less common practice in the early 1980s than it is now.  She spent most of my childhood telling me to go out and have as many life (and dating) experiences as possible before I settle down, that I should learn to live life on my own before I share it with anyone else.  Gottleib’s book argues the opposite: that a woman should snag themselves a good guy before they’re all off the market.

But I didn’t hate it.  Although I take issue with some of the assertions in the book, Gottleib also got a lot of things right.

Our culture loves a good player. From Casanova to Bruce Wayne, Cherie to Carrie Bradshaw, we’ve all spent our lives admiring those who love getting laid. And there’s one particular man of the British boudoir that we just can’t get rid of: Henry VIII.

Where he was once known as a fat guy with high blood pressure and enough testosterone fit for an elephant—as recently as 2003 he was played by not-so-hot Ray Winstone in a UK miniseries—today King Henry VIII is hunky and multilayered, a misunderstood, yet hot, piece of man-meat. Look no further than Jonathan Rhys Meyers in Showtime’s The Tudors and Eric Bana in 2008’s The Other Boleyn Girl.  In the 16th century, Hollywood-style, all the girls have perfect skin and bursting bosoms; the men tight abs and cheekbones you could shave a ham on.

After our mediocre review of the film adaptation of the Nicholas Sparks book Dear John, CC2K contributor Beth Fred takes a look at the book and considers whether it's any better.

 “'Dear John,' the letter read. And with those two words, a heart was broken and two lives changed forever. When Savannah Lynn Curtis comes into his life, John Tyree knows he is ready to turn over a new leaf.  An angry rebel, he had enlisted in the army after high school, not knowing what else to do.  Then, during a furlough, he meets Savannah, the girl of his dreams.  The attraction is mutual and quickly grows into the kind of love that leaves Savannah vowing to wait for John while he finishes his tour of duty.  But neither can foresee that 9/11 is about to change the world.  Like so many proud men and women, John must choose between love and country.  Now, when he finally returns to North Carolina, John will discover how love can transform us in many ways we never imagined.”

...or so the back of the book says.  It's a good blurb.  It enticed me to read it.  Unfortunately the preceding three hundred thirty-five pages are somewhat of a let down.  Though I must say, it had a powerful ending.