I love Jane Austen. I love petticoats and tea and sweet sisters and snarky sisters-in-law and meddling mamas and surly men with hearts of gold. So, when I saw Joanna Trollope’s modern adaptation of Sense and Sensibility, I knew I had to have it. I opened it, started reading, and threw in the hand-embroidered handkerchief after two chapters. Then a few weeks ago, the book came across my path yet again, and I thought I’d give it another try. Maybe I’d like it more now. Maybe I was older, wiser, more patient. Maybe those few months in between tries had made me a better person, one more capable of understanding that rich people have needs and feelings, too.
I’m not. I’m not a better person. I still have a hard time coddling the wealthy. I still think millionaires are money hoarders who should have their own TLC show. And so, without further ado, here is my open letter to the 21st century version of Elinor Dashwood and the rest of her useless family (I apologize for the caps and the profanity): continue reading >>