The book, which will hit shelves again this summer as a special anniversary edition, is full of 'success principle' chestnuts for the entrepreneur like, "Make people feel important. They are." and "Sandwich every bit of criticism between two heavy layers of praise." Like any kind of self-help, most of it's pretty common-sensical, and yet suddenly looks creepy and calculating when framed as didactic, capitalistic axioms. That said, Mary Kay herself is obviously completely badass — and clearly has confidence in her own products — an amazing success story at a time when that wasn't easy for a woman. Even if, yes, she did it with makeup, pink cars and "The Golden Rule." But hell, there must have been some serious steel there: if niceness bought Caddys, we wouldn't be riding a bike.
Life Lessons From Mary Kay [US News And World Report]

Tormented? Driven witless? 99 problems but therapy bills ain't one? Welcome to "Save Your Life, Cheap!" in which we write about the dumb things that get America's uninsured through hard times. AA meetings, James Joyce, Ani di Franco, suicide hotlines…anything nonalcoholic can apply, the more embarrassing the better. Which brings me to: self-help. In our first installment, Sephora Spy's Loren Hunt reviews the $1 book that got her through the worst breakup ever.

So, it's probably safe to make the baseline assumption that self-help books are not the kind of thing that anyone reads because they think it's cool. For some reason, self-loathing became more inherently cool than trying to fix problems, which would explain the aura of lameness surrounding self-help books: the corny covers, the corny catchphrases, the corny jacket photos, and the corny titles, which are invariably presented in a corny (and really large, readable) font. There are no cool self-help books. Cool people do not write self-help books. Happy people write them. And they could give a fuck who thinks they're cool. And you know who else doesn't give a fuck who thinks they're cool? A 23-year-old stripper who just used up every last shred of self-regard finally "breaking up" with the three-timing strip club DJ she had been fucking for the past year. And that, friends, is how I came to appreciate It's Called A Breakup Because It's Broken, the second offering from Greg Berendt of He's Just Not That Into You fame.

Have you ever played yourself so badly in a relationship that even years after the fact the salient details are still enough to embarrass you? The kind of situation so inherently unfortunate that, upon its demise, you don't even want to tell your friends it has ended because they'll just snort, "good," and assume that it is so obvious that you are better off without it that there is nothing left to say on the topic? I met him because we worked together. At the strip club. He was living with his girlfriend when we first started hooking up, while sorting out the details of a divorce to a third woman. Our "relationship" only ever seemed to happen on the weekends, after work, where sometimes we engaged in what he liked to call "non-sex." Non-sex was when we did it, but then he denied doing it. I felt sleazy and dissolute, which, at the time, was novel and exciting. He was so nice when it was just us. And passionate. And caring. And secretly really awesome! I encouraged him to get secretly awesome all over me on and off and on and off for almost a year before I was ready to cut off my drama supply at the source and move on to something possibly healthier. But by then, I'd become attenuated to the bombast and obvious chord progressions of his Bon Jovi song style of lovin' and everything else just seemed... too quiet. Or subtle. Or something. Which was finally enough to scare me... strip clubs and nocturnal relationships with strip club DJs were supposed to be more of an interesting digression for me than a permanent lifestyle plan, and I felt in danger of falling through one of my own cracks. So I cut him off and stopped going to work lest he use his DJ microphone to manipulate me back into his good graces (this is the beauty of strip club jobs. You can take a week or a month or a year off and no one even notices). It was around then that I found a typo-ridden galley copy of something called It's Called a Breakup Because it's Broken: The Smart Girl's Breakup Buddy. This would have been almost five years ago. It was only a dollar and I thought maybe it would at least entertain me while I prostrated my unwashed body in front of my window unit air conditioner and flipped wildly back and forth between hating him and hating myself, murderous rage and spontaneous crying jags, fantasies in which his head exploded a la Scanners and tender reconciliation scenes that featured me in a trashy white bridal bikini.

It's Called a Breakup Because it's Broken brings the added component of Berendt's wife, Amiira Ruotola-Behrendt, to the wisdom offered up in He's Just Not That Into You, which is the guide to figuring out what's really going on with all that non-sex. (Namely, break up. Or, more commonly, wait for him to break up with you, which leads to that kind of horrible soul-crushing life-wrecking freshly-dumped angst most of us are relatively familiar with.) (I was proud not to have figured out the He's Just Not That Into You part on my own over the course of a year.) Anyway, the basic premise of this book is that the Behrendts were able to fall in love and build a happy relationship purely because both parties lived through a lot of bullshit before they met each other, namely of the breakup variety. Their co-authorship serves as sort of a built-in source of hope to people who are presumably reading the book because they have just had their heart masticated, digested, and flushed down someone else's toilet. They are, thankfully, not particularly obnoxious about this, choosing instead to stick to practical coping methods that you can use to put your breakup in the past and get on with your life.

Part 1: The Breakup

The first thing I couldn't figure out about my breakup was why it hurt so much. I mean, it had been a bad time for which I had for whatever reason repeatedly shown up of my own volition. I should have known better than to get involved in the first place, I knew the whole time nothing good would come of it, and it seemed to me that ending it would be a relief, like walking away from a car crash with only a few scrapes. And sometimes it did feel like that. But more often, it was the usual, "Whyyyy don't youuuu LOVE meee?" shit. Which would in turn make me really angry with myself, like I was so dumb that I had deserved the whole thing. The first section of this book does a good job of talking you down from taking full responsibility for anything other than making sure the broken relationship stays over and consequently taking care of yourself. They're always asking you what you'd want with a broken relationship. Which is the kind of simple logic I needed after spending the past year twisted into a veritable pretzel of denial and convoluted thinking. Then, just to make sure, after asking, the book repeatedly tells you that you don't want a broken relationship so many times that by the second section, it starts to stick.

Part 2: The "Breakover"
Commandment 1 — Don't See Him or Talk to Him for Sixty Days: Actually, it is that simple, it's just not that easy. If you were quitting smoking, you wouldn't buy cigarettes, hang out with people who smoked cigarettes, go to places where people were smoking cigarettes, or get drunk and call cigarettes at 4 A.M. begging them to come over for one last smoke.

I was all set to argue with this like, "this is exactly what I would do if I were quitting smoking!" Then I remembered that I was still a smoker! They, um, refer to this as "he-tox." I picked up a few phone calls I shouldn't have during this period of time, but for the most part, I stayed away. The thing about my ex was that he was super-charming and looked like an underwear model. I did not stand a chance in the same room as him and I knew it; hence the entire non-relationship. I stayed away like my life depended on it, which, looking back, it kind of did. Not that he was ever abusive or dangerous. It had more to do with the kind of life I wanted to live, a life in which my boyfriend would publicly admit he was my boyfriend and hang out with me during daylight hours. Bare minimum.

Commandment 2 — Get Yourself A Breakup Buddy 'But he was my best friend.' So was that girl who smelled like egg salad in the third grade, but you don't still need her around, do you?

The breakup buddy is like the Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor of broken hearts, dedicated to raising your morale and being on call for commiseration, all the while keeping you committed to your sixty day he-tox. Personally, I was so embarrassed by the fact that I'd allowed myself to be in a relationship so royally screwed up that my non-boyfriend habitually disappeared when the sun came up that I didn't really want to talk about it anymore by the time the breakup happened. A big part of making the break, for me, was to finally admit that the relationship had even happened, since he'd been extremely adamant about keeping it hidden at work. I cried on my friend Tiffany, a fellow stripper who knew him, a few times, and that was pretty much that.

Commandment 3 — Get Rid of His Stuff and the Things That Remind You of Him Be strict about it, but reasonable as well. Let's not pack up all the glasses because he loved orange juice, but the framed pictures of the two of you, his toothbrush and toiletries, and his CDs have to go.

The Behrendts also recommend recruiting your breakup buddy to deliver your stuff back to your ex so that you don't have to break your he-tox period and risk backsliding by doing it yourself. This was probably the most effective chapter for me, because it required absolutely no hard labor: I didn't have any of his stuff. Even after a year. This spoke volumes I was finally ready to listen to.

Commandment 4 — Get Your Ass in Motion Every Day Besides, you've got to have a life, because when you do meet the next guy and he asks you what you're into, you don't want to say, 'My ex-boyfriend.'

That is some real talk. The book predictably advocates exercise as a good way to fill your newly empty days, but it takes into account the fact that when you're truly devastated, getting out of bed counts as an achievement. Then it discusses hobbies, as well as making a list of all the things you didn't do because you were with whoever and doing them all by yourself. When I was ready to get off the couch, I walked into another, better strip club and got another job. It was so easy I suddenly understood why he'd been so clingy even while totally unwilling to behave the way a real boyfriend should: he'd known that this day would come. He'd been wondering what was taking me so long. And the bonus of working at a club that he did not also work at was turned out to be that he wasn't there to distract me. I rearranged my whole work strategy and finally started making the kind of money they tell you strippers make.

Commandment 5—Don't Wear Your Breakup Out Into the World Indulging in messy public breakup behavior only makes those around you uncomfortable and makes you seem unstable. So keep it to yourself and your dearest friends after business hours, and make a pact with yourself to try to live the vision of what you want your life to look like. Every time you step outside, you should make an effort to reflect the person you are on your way to becoming, not the shell of the shattered woman he dumped. Turn that husk into a tamale!

Tamale status begins with dressing cute at all times and refraining from crying at work. Earlier in the book, they reference the Lili Taylor character from Say Anything, the one accompanying herself on guitar to a song called "Joe Lies" in the middle of a party. And here is the thing about that character: what is awesome and hilarious at a party in a a romantic comedy is pathetic and uncomfortable at an actual party, for everyone, except at the time perhaps the one too grief-stricken and wounded to care much about superficial shit like "pride" and "dignity" in the moment, but oh my god that will change. The book recommends that you abstain from this kind of behavior, and I was good at this. Few people who knew both of us even really knew we were dating, and would have been surprised at the level of involvement and how hard I was taking it if they did know. I kept doing like I'd been doing and eventually started believing that it hadn't been such a big deal. In a lot of ways, it began to seem mutually convenient that we hadn't had a "real" relationship. I realized this a few months later when I attempted to be a breakup buddy to Moe and had the distinct pleasure of watching her send a text to her ex that read "I want to shit in your eye." I laughed hysterically. I probably wasn't cut out to be a breakup buddy.

Commandment 6 — No Backsliding! Once you give in to it, you find yourself caught in the worst kind of relationship purgatory—the demotion—because you are in effect telling your ex that he can still have access to you WITHOUT the emotional responsibilities. Backsliding doesn't mean you're getting back together, it just means you've lowered your standards and accepted a demotion from ex-girlfriend with self-esteem to ex-girlfriend whom he can still get busy with if he wants to.

Ouch. The fact that my entire non-relationship was a demotion out of the gate was ample reason for me to avoid backsliding. That didn't mean I didn't want to hear his voice or turn the lights on to inspect his perfect hip ridges up close one more time. But I didn't. Okay, I did, but years later, and when I was totally over him. They really are perfect! But by then, I felt like Jennifer Connelly at the end of Labyrinth, surprising herself by realizing that it's actually true when she says to David Bowie, "you have no power over me." This day will come. You know it will come. So think of it this way; the faster you stop having unsatisfying, emotionally fraught post-breakup sex with your ex, the quicker you'll be able to have hot unattached meaningless sex with him!

Commandment 7 — It Won't Work Unless You Are Number One! You are the prize, the sun, the moon, and the stars. Not him or anyone else. You can love your friends, you can love your family, and you can love every stray dog or stray drummer that crosses your path. HOWEVER, you have to learn how to love yourself, like yourself, and put yourself first before you will ever find the healthy, loving, and lasting relationship you're looking for.

Yeah, this is the hard one. Do I love myself yet? I'm getting closer all the time! I haven't begged anyone to use me as a convenient repository for all of their bullshit quite as flagrantly as I did while dating the DJ, and my boyfriends have become increasingly realer and realer as time has passed, with none of them counting as completely brutally gnarly Bad Ideas. I'd call it progress. While I have not yet found the healthy, loving, and lasting relationship I'd like to have yet, it is also true that I've gotten infinitely better at coping with the resultant breakups and in the process, wasted a lot less of my own time. I'm still not sure that rules are necessarily as ruthlessly applicable to the human heart in the way that the Behrendts suggest they might be, but I do have faith that I will now be able to recognize which rules are made to be broken in a way that I didn't before.

It's Called A Breakup Because It's Broken [Amazon]

Deny.
So it doesn't take Frederic Jameson to recognize in John Prescott some maaaayjor class issues. He talks on and on about his problems with "grammar" which the writer suggests he is actually mistaking for "syntax." The son of a Welsh railway worker and child of divorce, the "defining experience in his life" was failing a test sixty years ago and he only got to Oxford through some deal set up with his union. "I didn't feel adequate. I felt inferior and guilty, and I've always had a chip on my shoulder," he admits to the writer, who helpfully calls him "conspicuously working class." But did any of this secret shame/unease within his context/impostor complex play into his compulsion to consume barbaric amounts of Peking Duck and Digestives cookies only to — essentially the dietary equivalent of cheating on a test — puke them all into a Parliament latrine later on? Nah. Says Prescott of his first visit to the eating disorder clinic:

They ask you about your parents. I wasn't too convinced about all that, and walking into a room full of women was a bit embarrassing, but I did it.

A better idea: maybe get more sleep..
This is a good if obvious point. People always eat more when they're tired because the extra energy/indigestion keeps them awake. But when it's time to sleep, the indigestion is less helpful:

I get so tired. The only thing that stops me working is eating. Remember my box [his red ministerial box] comes at 11 at night, and I'm up at seven. I work my box [until] one o'clock. If you want to relax, you eat. Then you begin to find you've eaten too much and actually get a relief from expelling it, and then you're into that.

Focus bile on the haters. (Who are probably just as fat as you.)
Prescott points out that a lot of the shame of admitting one has an eating disorder is the fact that a lot of eating disorders, for all the psychic havoc they wreak, do not have the desired effect of making you thin, rendering the act of keeping them up absurd. But like, yeah, motherfucker, of course eating disorders are absurd; that's why he wrote the book!

They say I'd failed because I was still fat. Notice how fat they are, the ones who are writing it. You can gain weight. The mistake to make is you assume you expel the food immediately. You don't. You wait. If you look at the letters that have arrived, you're staggered: 'I'm so glad that you've said it. My daughter, who's 19, she's been doing that and now she's come to me and said: if John Prescott did it, it's not so abnormal is it?"

Chop vegetables like Penelope Cruz in Volver.
Onions, peppers, garlic cloves and olive oil: are there truer friends in times of economic woe? (Besides Top Ramen duh.) Is there any other aspect of women's work so fundamental to the survival of the species? I dunno, I'm just making excuses, I just think it's sexy.

Choose a perfume.
Floral scents, what can I say: I hate them. Yes, toilet water is an overpriced luxury good, but considering all the cash we blow on overpriced luxury goods dedicated to appealing to one's sense of sight and touch, you'd think we wouldn't be so thoughtless when it comes to the ritual of coughing up a hundred bucks to have that whole other sense covered for the next half year. So go: I may never encourage you to spend money again; spend some quality time at Sephora and come out smelling like something more interesting than a boutique hotel.

Tell the truth.
I can't make it tonight. I have a date. I'm interested in your ex-boyfriend. When you cheated on your husband it really disturbed me. You should maybe look into taking responsibility for your actions. "I would like to put a hit out on your therapist." I know, it's not easy. But isn't that kind of sad?

Withhold information.
Gossip is analogous to bacteria; humankind could not survive without it, but it can be deleterious in an unhealthy context. Get into the habit of withholding a certain amount of pointless amusing information just to keep your immune system in shape.

Take nothing personally.
He didn't do it to hurt you, and if he did, that's fucking weird. Humans are self-obsessed, that's the only reason you think this is about you, when it's really about something that has left people much smarter than us befuddled for millennia now, so you might as well focus on what you can control, which leads me to...

Take yourself personally.
Your persistent low self-esteem: how did it get that way? Were you awkward growing up? Not quick or witty enough? Just ugly? Once you gained a shred of confidence, did you blow your wad seeking out companions you knew would make you feel inadequate? Why? Think you're a narcissist? Or just a weak person? Guess what? We're all different. We're all completely individual assemblages of genetic traits and collected experiences. We're all special, which is precisely what makes us so un-special. If you harbor lingering dissatisfaction with yourself, figuring out what it is is a pretty good way to start coming to terms with that.

Apply makeup without a mirror.
You do this every day, right? Have a little faith in your abilities. Be that girl who is capable of leaving the house on three minutes' notice.

Assemble furniture.
Ikea would not sell $20 billion worth of furniture every year if putting it together was really that hard. It's a pain in the ass, sure. Your ancestors got their water from wells.

Get off.
It has never been easier. There are vibrators at CVS. Porn is an ill-advised Google Image Search away. And really, we all need sex. If you masturbate enough, you'll only seek out casual sex for self-affirmation. And knowing you are doing that will make it a lot easier to handle rejection!

Get hit on politely.
Go ahead and smile, make eye contact; he's probably not trying to rape you. The sexual charge will defuse over time and in the interim you can maybe make a friend. Dudes bear an unfair percentage of the responsibility for flirting in this society, just as we bear an unfair percentage of the responsibility for looking pretty. Let's be sympathetic to one another, how about?

Cry.
There's an unlimited number of reasons you should. To do anything about any of that you have to stop crying eventually. You'll know when.

On second thought, laugh!
God, don't we feel lame after all that crying? So lame we actually laughed at that Dane Cook bit on the lameness of crying. Anything will make you laugh when you've finally gotten sick of crying, but hey, that's cool, dudes love it when you laugh at your jokes and that heady mix of "no pride" and "no standards" is the essence of funny jokes and good drunken one-night stands. Try to laugh as much as possible.

Know when you truly cannot do something.
And fuck no I am not talking about living heavy objects or figuring out how to use Excel. I'm talking about making as much money as your sorority friends, or having a child by 35, or marrying your boyfriend, or being anything better than mediocre at something you think is important.

Taxes.
I know, I know; I don't do them either. But someday we should all learn for ourselves how to abuse the loopholes in the tax code, right? It's our patriotic duty.

Talk about astrology.
Geminis and Libras get along; Virgos are neurotic; stay away from Scorpio men. It's what passes for Universal Truths these days, and you know what? It's not starting any wars. Maybe because astrology understands that people are fundamentally different, and in order to coexist with them peacefully you've got to not only try to apply the Golden Rule but try to figure out what motivates them, and how they would like to be treated.

Know why talking about astrology is bullshit.
Duh.

Eat.
Praying and loving are good skills to have, too, but if you can't nourish yourself without experiencing a complex range of guilts and fears and anxieties, you need help.

Be alone.
If you're bored, you may be on some level boring. Of course, we all are. Why do you want to hang out with your boring friends anyway? There are a lot of unboring people who have dedicated their lives to making books and movies and videogames to keep you happy.

Break up with someone before you cheat on them.

Tell someone you're mad before you find yourself getting passive-aggressive.
This was the suggestion of my roommate. Ha.

Better yet, ignore the anger.
It will find more useful targets.

Repress.
It's not denial if you are aware you're doing it!

Invest in the stock market.
The ready access to money represented in the constant trading of the global stock markets is the foundation of our economy. So it's not, you know, like fucking football. Much evidence of late points to the idea that women's relative lack of testosterone give us an advantage, especially in markets as jittery as these, when it comes to making money there. And who among us couldn't think of better things to do with a little chunk of Goldman's $21 billion bonus pool?

Have a sincere intellectual conversation with a fellow female.
Talk about post-structuralism, not in the context of The Hills. Talk about the war with someone you aren't trying to fuck. It's kind of thrilling what happens when two people who are biologically predisposed to listen to one another exchange ideas.

Call your mom.
And if you don't have one, or if you're estranged from her; if it's complicated or she's in a mental institution or dead in a car accident, please feel free to call me and remind me what an asshole I am to have the most awesome mom in the universe that I fucking never remember to call.

Okay, that's all. 25. All we need is 50 more and we'll totally reach parity with those highly-skilled Esquire readers! I know you have ideas.

Okay. So...back to quarterlife crises. Somehow, it passed. Do they exist? I'm inclined to think: "no."

But then it happened again: I was 28, single following a long bout of monogamy, unemployed, broke...depressed beyond comprehension, depressed beyond my worst depressions in the past; at once rationally, because I was so much older this time, and irrationally, because I was actually wiser, too. And that's when the wacky flight attendant roommate came through the door from her latest trip to Bishkek. (True story!) "It's Saturn returning," she explained, and gave me some book about astrology. That night I went to a party and saw a friend from high school. "How have you been?" he asked, and I gave some face.

"Oh man, your Saturn's returning, that's the worst," he said. (Trend story alert: straight men who openly reference astrology; WTF.) But seriously, "Saturn Returning" was exponentially more ridiculous and melodramatic than "Quarterlife Crisis" — had we done no growing up in the intervening years? Had we actually been devolving? I began to think we were all just devolving, which was probably true. And then I thought, maybe confronting the sense of vulnerability that sends us into the arms of ridiculous concepts like "Saturn Returning" (and also, religion and the book Eat Pray Love) is just another part of the process. Maybe it's evolutionary biology, forcing us to manufacture these little existential crises every few years to confront the true nature of our hackneyed human condition to substitute for the kids we would otherwise be having.

And then I got a job and stopped thinking about any of this shit. Maybe these "crises" are just ...unemployment! I asked the Jezebels. They hadn't really had Quarterlife Crises, except for Dodai, when she was 25. How did she get past it? "I thought about moving to Hawaii and writing poetry," she said. "And then I got a job.

Screwing the pastor, of course. This is back in the eighties, when Evangelical ministers were straight.

The very first time she had gone to the pastor's office for help, six months after Angela's death, she recounted, "he seduced me. I was a grieving 26-year-old mother who had just lost her child, with no reason to believe I couldn't trust a pastor, and I felt like I had lost my husband, too, because we couldn't connect anymore. That first day as I left his office, he told me, 'Jonas cannot meet your needs, but I know I can.' "

"Jonas and I call him 'The Beast,' " she says. "I would threaten to tell, but he would always say no one's going to believe you, that I couldn't live without him, that I needed him. I was clean for six months before I was able to tell Jonas."

The look in Jonas's eyes was unbearable, she recalls. "I'm really sorry, and I'm a very sorry person," she remembers telling him. And she hurried off to work after confessing. Jonas wasn't there when she got home, but eventually, she heard his little truck in the driveway. He came into the kitchen.

"We just stood there, side by side, not touching, and he said, 'Honey, I don't have a whole lot I want to talk about. I just want you to promise me one thing. . . . I want you to be happy. So promise me you won't leave me in the middle of the night with a note on the dresser. If you need to leave, we'll plan it together. I'll help you pack your bags, help you find a place to live, but you have to take the girls."

It was the last bit that broke through to her, Anne remembers, penetrating her own wall of self-loathing.

"I felt overcome by the fact that he thought I was a good enough mom to take the kids with me," she says, crying hard at the memory.

Auntie's Awakening [Washington Post]