April 11th issue of People:

"Glib and funny, Frankel's always wickedly entertaining." (no byline)

April issue of Cosmo:

"Cosmo Says: You'll go gaga for this kooky romantic comedy about finding The One is the most unlikely of places."—Sara Bodnar

The March 4th issue of Entertainment Weekly gives the book a B+ (I think it deserves an A+, but let's not quibble).

"Lowdown: The city-mouse-in-the-country setup draws laughs."—Jennifer Armstrong and Clarissa Cruz

Four stars from the Romantic Times Book Club Magazine. Here's the highlight:
"Frankel's prose shines with wit and warmth as Peg journeys to hard-earned wisdom. Her relationship insights are right on target."—Cindy Harrison

1. What about Peg made her the Last Girlfriend?
2. The idea of romanticizing solitude: Does that ring any bells?
3. Is the city a better place to meet men, or the country?
4. Can you change your bad patterns by changing your environment?
5. Does Inward Bounds seem like a productive way to learn about yourself?
6. Which of the techniques could you apply beneficially to your own
7. Of the five personality domains, which do you favor?



Kindle Single!
"Engrossing!"—Publishers Weekly.
Nominated for a Quills Award! Now in its fourth printing! "Wickedly entertaining."—People "Draws laughs."—EW
Now in its fourth printing!
Now in it's tenth printing!
Now in its eleventh printing!
"Refreshing! Entertaining! Funny! Warm!"—PW "Hilarious! Helpful, hard-won insight!"—Kirkus
"Funny! Satisfying!"—People "Witty! Candid!"—Kirkus
Nominated for a Cyril Award!
Nominated for a Cyril Award!
Book #3 in the Fringe Girl series
Book #4 in the Fringe Girl series

The Girlfriend Curse (2005)

Peg Silver, 32, could make a man come, but she couldn’t make him stay. She’d just spent two hours bemoaning this problem to her friend Nina at dinner, parsing to the syllable what she’d like to say to her most recent ex-boyfriend, if such an unlikely opportunity presented itself.
The night’s chosen scenario: Bumping Into Each Other by Chance. Peg would be in a glorious gown, on her way to the Oscars, a nominee for best set design in a major motion picture. As she stepped out of her limousine onto the red carpet, she’d spot Paul in the crowd, looking like he’d just been attacked by dogs. He’d congratulate her, beg her to take him back. She’d be gracious. Briefly pitying. But she had to rush, since her date, Johnny Depp, was waiting, and he was a very possessive man. Besides which, having just won the lottery (“the same day I got the nomination!”), she was flying to the Bahamas for a year as soon as the awards ceremony was over.
Peg smiled to herself as she unlocked her apartment door. She knew, rationally, that spending hours refining tone and nuance for a conversation that would never take place was a waste of time. But, she thought, a girl can dream, can’t she? Peg dropped her purse on her bed. The phone rang. She grabbed the receiver.
She recognized his voice instantly. It was Paul. He’d Called Out of the Blue. Panicking, Peg clicked the off button, giving herself three seconds to scramble for a good opening line before he called back. Something breezy. Casual. All she could come up with was, “You bastard, you ruined my life.”
The first time in three months she’d mindlessly answered the phone, the one time the ring hadn’t unleashed the flood of Pavlovian pre-traumatic stress syndrome symptoms—tight chest, shaky hands, constricted breathing, skin flush to a capillary-popping red. She felt eerily calm, actually, now that the wait was over. The phone rang again. She took a deep breath.
“Hello?” she said, exhaling sexily.
“Peg, it’s Paul. Something’s wrong with your phone. I got cut off. And you sound nasal.”
“Paul! What a surprise. How long has it been? A month?” she asked.
“Over three, actually,” he said.
“That long?” she asked, as if marveling at the flight of time.
The morning of the breakup, he’d promised to call her that night. She never called him, not once, which was a show of strength that would fill her with dignity until the day she died. She had buckled a few times, sending him artfully terse and transparently neutral Just Checking In emails. Paul would respond a day later, a week later, with a few sentences—no caps or punctuation—if at all. Lazy, lying dog. Peg should tell him to go fuck himself. She should make herself proud.
Paul said, “I need to see you. Tonight.”
It was eight on a Thursday in April, unseasonably hot for springtime in New York City. “Where’s the fire?” she asked, having a pretty good idea where.
“I’ve been thinking about you constantly,” he said. “I have things to say, face-to-face. I can’t go another night without seeing you.”
This was where she was supposed to say, “Johnny Depp is a very possessive man.” Instead, she said, “Can’t.”
“You have plans?”
“Early day tomorrow?”
“Making a show of strength that will fill you with dignity until the day you die?” he asked. He paused, and then said shortly, “I hope you and your dignity will be very happy together. I’ll let you go . . .”
That was it? No more pleading, spilling blood while screaming her name and tearing his shirt? She said, “Giving up so easy? You’ve got a lot to learn about groveling.”
He said, “Please see me. I’m begging. I’m supplicating—wait, I need to find the thesaurus.”
“Meet me at Chez Chas in twenty minutes,” she said. “And don’t be late.” She’d waited long enough for him already.