How do you take in a book whose author claims she was tutored by a famous architect as a child; was paid to interview Squeaky Fromme at 19; is capable of telekinesis? The elitist references to a life full of caviar and Cristal and the name dropping are jarring juxtaposed with her observations that our pieces of jewelry are part of our identity - which is as true for a woman wearing $20 silver cross as the author's antique diamond and emerald ring (which she "earned" for 39 hours of labor). The subject matter was fantastical but not in a way that invited the reader to imagine a F. Scott Fitgerald lifestyle; rather it inspired this reader to Google the author for verisimilitude. The writing sparkled in some places while in others it sparked and flared out. Perhaps because it's a gallery proof - the overall effect was of impressions bubbling up sweet and almost satisfying like chocolate fudge just before the "ball" stage.