Superb Blurb: I Was Told There’d Be Cake

I Was Told There’d Be Cake by Sloane Crosley

This book didn’t get the best reviews on Goodreads but I enjoyed it. Relateable:

Yes, my name is my cross and my copilot. “Sloane,” a vowel- heavy name inscrutable to people of all nationalities, became my  Sydney in place of an actual Sydney. Like a lunatic in the psych ward with only smocks and slippers for clothes, my name is the one definite thing I own. It is the one thing that stepped up to define me when my kangaroo dreams hopped lamely into oblivion. And, like all things unique, it came at a price:

1. Number of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off jokes (included here are those specific to the dialogue when Ferris disguises himself as Sloane’s father and picks her up from school): 3,567

2. …

3. Number of times I have been referred to as a man: 890

4. number of times i have almost been referred to as a man (see: “I thought you’d be a man.”): 123

5. … 6. … 7. …

8. Names I am most commonly called by telemarketers: Simone, Slain, Siobhan, Flo, Stacey, Susan, Slater, Leanne, and Slow (Yes, my parents named me “Slow.” That’s because they hate me and made me sleep in the linen closet subsisting only on bath salts and Scope.)

9. Number of times I say I’ve never met another female Sloane and people become inexplicably defensive about their worldliness and say, “Well, I’ve met a Sloane.”: 116

10. Number of times I have received an e-mail with my name spelled incorrectly in response to an e-mail originating from me and therefore making use of the correct spelling of my name and thus have passive-aggressively retaliated by leaving off the last letter of the sender’s name in all future correspondence: 32. “Thanks for getting back to me, Rebecc.”

I have had this conversation with other odd-named people – Xantheses and Joaquins – and there’s something about having an especially different name that makes it difficult to imagine what you’d be like as a Jennifer.


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