Here's a conversation I had with a friend regarding the first 30% of this book: 
 "Andy, you're overreacting--" 
 NO SHIT YOU'RE OVERREACTING. 
 It is one thing to read about a self-absorbed rhymes-with-itch when it comes to YA fiction, it is another thing entirely to encounter such a pitiful, sorry excuse of a human being in an adult contemporary. I cannot recall ever having such hatred for an adult main character within a book. 
 This is one of the instances when I was sorry that I have a digital copy of this book because half the way through this book, I wanted to pick up my poor abused Nook and fling it halfway across the room. I was that angry at the main character. My friend recently introduced me to a new vulgar expression; I would like to use that expression in a sentence. There has nary been a book character more deserving of being cunt-punched than Andy Sachs. 
 I have absolutely nothing but the utmost loathing and contempt for our main character. Andy is immature, she is self-indulgent, she is insufferably righteous, she is a drama queen; if she were a British citizen, she would have received the Order of the British Empire for her brilliant fucking ability to turn a molehill into a mountain. 
 It has been 10 years since The Devil Wears Prada. You wouldn't fucking know it from Andy's personality. In 10 years, people change, mostly for the better. They mature, they grow wiser, they ability to make sound judgment increases. Not so with our little treasure, Andy. I know that success in life doesn't always equal security within yourself, but it is completely unbelievable to me how Andy has managed to become so successful in her career while having the mental thought process of an overdramatic 13-year old girl. 
 Her fiance doesn't tell her about a chance encounter with an ex? Oh nooooooo he must be cheating. It's his fault. His fault. His fault. It takes two to fucking tango in a relationship, and if you can't be fucked to tell your fiance/husband what's bothering you, then you might as well just throw in the towel now and save yourself the cost of the fucking wedding. 
 And that she does. Andy puts in no effort towards her relationship. It is one thing to read about the disintegration of a marriage due to differences, due to a couple slowly growing apart, to the heartbreak of each, it is another entirely to read about a marriage that suddenly fails because of the pure selfishness of one of the people involved. You can guess to whom I am referring. 
 Andy is now wealthy. She has a wonderful husband. She's got a gorgeous fucking home. 
 She looked around their apartment, a south-facing, three-thousand-square-foot split two-bedroom with home office on the fourteenth floor, with a terrace off the master and a newly renovated kitchen that opened up into a sprawling living and dining room space. 
 To be honest, I don't have a whole lot of sympathy for the newly poor-little-rich-girl that Andy has become. She is utterly vile and juvenile. 
 Her fear of Miranda is laughable. I understand that working under a bad boss can be traumatic, believe me, we've all fucking been there. To have such an overwhelming fear, to break into a cold sweat at the thought of her. To avoid her at all cost is just stupid. You're a fucking adult, act like it. Her husband is awesome, he gives Andy his practical opinion that she completely fucking ignores. 
 "You know how to stand up for yourself against bullies, Andy. And when push comes to shove, that's all Miranda really is. Your standard-fare, run-of-the-mill schoolyard bully." 
 I loved Max, he is a sweetheart. He is the ideal gentleman, and I am on Team Max until the very end. What I hate is this book's abrupt attempt to villify Max when all along, he has been built up to be an incredible husband and father. 
 Max had long ago announced he was certain they would only ever have girl babies. He claimed he couldn't wait to teach their daughters all about tennis and football and golf, to dress them in miniature uniforms and coach their T-ball team. He predicted blond babies, despite the fact that neither of them was blond, and that they'd love their daddy more than any man in the whole world. 
 Seriously, there is no way that I could ever hate a man like this unless he becomes a serial rapist/killer, and I'm a hater, not a lover. 
 Skip this book. It is such an aggravating reading experience because there is almost no plot in it. The involvement of Miranda, the Devil herself, is minimal, and frankly, I wanted to fucking cheer whenever she appeared, because she has more personality than all of the idiotic, juvenile characters in this book combined.