May 27, 2013
In these disjointed autobiographical essays, L.A.-based writer, Twitter celebrity, and mom Oxford per-forms a flatfooted exercise in pointlessness. Framed by silly dialog with her three children ("Did you write this book to make dough?" eight-year-old Hen asks), Oxford's erratic chapters relay cherished memories from a not-so-long-ago youth: her early attempts to stage a production of Star Wars at her French Canadian immersion school, a first job washing dishes at the popular Schitzelhaus, pot-smoking teenage shenanigans with her best friend Aimee (such as traveling to Las Vegas to meet the about-to-be-a-big-star Leonardo DiCaprio), finding her future husband while working at a diner, and freaking out after becoming a mother in her early twenties without a "backup" secondary degree. Though pithy moments can be found, these stories often succumb to aimlessness. A trip to Las Vegas to meet magician David Copperfield, who provides a gracious reception after becoming a fan of Ox-ford's on Twitter, and a trip to Disneyland with her family prove feeble fodder for hilarity. The humor is wackily contrived, nearly slapstick, possessing little irony, tension, or subtlety. Instead, exclamation points lead the way like a banal laugh track and scatological references seem like a desperate plot for reaction.