This book fits into the "too close for comfort" shelf so well I had to create one just for it. Now, I may not have a gay best friend that I'm in love with, or do a ridiculously poor job of selling houses, but the baby-craving to absurd levels (as in "maybe you should stop staring at other people's children before someone calls the cops on you" levels)? Hell yeah: I'm right there. And Berg is one of my favorite authors, and she tackles the subject maybe a little bit too well, because the book made me uncomfortable. I did not want to find out how Patty solved her problems, mostly because I knew it would not be a solution applicable to my problems. Also, Patty's ability to shield herself from things she doesn't want to recognize (they are too long and spoiler-ish to list here, but trust me, as a reader you see them coming from miles away & a few of those plot points were also uncomfortably close to my own experiences dealing with family and friends) was, perhaps, also a little bit too close to the bone for me. Usually, seeing characters I can relate to is what reading is all about for me, but, as much as I enjoy Berg's writing style and her ability to describe things in concise and apt ways - "I always thought I'd have five or six children, and I have imagined so many lovely domestic scenes featuring me and my offspring. Here we are outside on a hot summer day, running through the sprinkler, The children wear bright fluorescent bathing suits in pink and green and yellow; I wear cutoffs and a T-shirt. There is fruit salad in the refrigerator. Later, I will let the older ones squirt whipped cream for the younger ones; then, if they pester me enough in the right way, I'll let them squirt it into their mouths - and mine." - I almost couldn't finish the book, it was that bad. Melancholy mood to begin with, add a dose of (much too realistic) fiction, and even one of my favorite authors gets a bad rating, unfortunately.