Just when you’d think memoirs couldn’t get more self-parodying, a first-time author spills all about her obsession with psychics.
Lassez, a sometimes-employed actress in L.A., turns to psychics to determine if she’ll ever land a big role, or a man. Though these seers are only occasionally accurate, and then only about the most obvious things, she gets hooked. Her self-styled “addiction” is really just a conceit that allows her to ramble on about life as a broke, 30-year-old singleton in Hollywood. She could have transformed the one-dimensional palaver into something a bit more substantial had she been willing to offer even a little self-scrutiny. In passing, Lassez mentions an Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder diagnosis and scoring some free Zoloft from the wife of a doctor, but the closest she ever comes to examining her fixation with tarot is wondering, “When would I land the role of ‘Sarah Lassez,’ a woman with a life?” Fortunately, the silly subject matter is redeemed by the author’s self-deprecating sensibility and deadpan humor. Lassez’s ruminations about an engagement ring that is never offered, her description of a week spent rehabbing at her parents’ ranch and her transcription of the one lone therapy session she attends are hilarious. She manages never to take herself too seriously—an important quality in a narrator who is constantly kvetching about being dumped. When told by her shrink to join a 12-step group, Lassez admits that she’s looked into it already, but there is no Psychics Anonymous: “If I was lucky enough to be addicted to heroin I’d be at a meeting right now.” Further bolstering the book’s oddball charm is a likable cast of supporting characters. Readers may turn the last page wishing they could hang out with Lassez’s best friend Gina, who deserves an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in Creative Nonfiction.