If all you know about New Yorkers comes from "Seinfeld", "Sex and the City", and books like this one, you probably think Manhattanites are a selfish, immature group. Take Crosley's first essay in this collection in which she complains about being lonely in Lisbon, Portugal. Nevermind that she knows no one there, doesn't speak the language, and that she picked the destination by spinning a globe and sticking a finger out. Why did she go there? Because she was turning thirty and responsibility was on the horizon. Huh? She's 29 and has no responsibilities? You know, spouse, children, job, etc. that prevented her from picking up and going across the Atlantic? And she is complaining (and using crude language)? Okay, what about the next essay in her collection? Here she talks about having a spatial learning disability that prevents her from being able to read analogue clocks and means that she gets lost a lot. So she avoids her sister's barbecue because it would involve reading a bus schedule. Instead, she goes to Canada for the weekend. Again, huh? She couldn't get a friend or family member to give her a ride to her sister's or, I don't know, ride the bus with her? No, she chooses to go to Canada. I stopped reading there. I don't care about this woman and her non-problems. Next book, please.