Perfect Is Overrated: A Novel

By Karen Bergreen

Think you want to be the perfect mom? Think again…..

Kate Alger has finally found the cure for her post-partum depression. After years of suffering, all it takes to bring this mommy back to life were a few gruesome homicides! When someone starts offing the alpha-moms from Kate's daughter's preschool, Kate—who worked as an Assistant District Attorney before she had Molly—realizes it's time to get out of bed, dust off the skills and find out who is killing all the mommies she loves to hate.

Wickedly funny and slightly twisted, Perfect Is Overrated is a romp through the life of one very needy mom, her cockeyed family, gorgeous ex-husband, and the entire insane, entitled, over-dressed , over-zealous, eternally jealous parent body at The Hawthorne Preschool.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jul 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466801912

Karen Bergreen

KAREN BERGREEN's first career was as an attorney who clerked for a federal judge. Her second career as a stand-up comic has led to appearances not in front of the bench, but on Comedy Central, the Oxygen network, Court TV and Law & Order. She is the author of Following Polly and Perfect Is Overrated. She lives in New York City

Book preview

I emerge from my depression the moment I learn of Beverly Hastings’s death. She’s not just dead. She’s been murdered. Someone, apparently, liked her even less than I did.

I get out of bed, where I have been spending way too much time. And alone, at that. I turn the volume up on the television. A reporter is standing outside Beverly’s East Side town house, and cops are everywhere.

Very little is known about the murder of Beverly Hastings. Police are withholding what appear to be gruesome details.

Gruesome details. I perk up even more.

I just feel sorry for the child. An older woman identified as Sarah, Beverly’s neighbor, is speaking.

I, too, feel sorry for the child, but on the bright side, Bitsy will never again have to wear bloomers.

I unravel my Disney princess comforter—Molly’s actually, as mine has been in the laundry for two months—and start looking for the telephone. I haven’t used it in days, a lingering by-product of my acute, protracted depression. It’s not in the cradle. My apartment, once a masterwork of cleanliness and organization, is now a prime example of college-dorm-style disarray. I straighten Paul’s old NYPD sweatshirt and pick up the jeans that I left on the floor after returning to bed this morning. Then I shuffle from my lightless bedroom into the kitchen, which owes its brightness to the building’s architect rather than to any feat of mine. I realize I’m wearing one sneaker.

After I had returned home from dropping my daughter at school, I’d cleared off the counters, pleased that I had chosen a dark marble to hide the stains and grime. The dishes, Molly’s octopus bowl and cup, to be specific, are still in the sink, and so, apparently, is the phone. Please, battery, don’t be out. I promise to recharge you every day from now on. It works. I dial a number that is more familiar than my home phone.

Voice mail. I could have predicted that. You’ve reached Detective Paul Alger. Leave a message.

Paul, it’s me. I do my best to sound conversational. Although frankly, mere murder is nothing next to the rage I feel every time I hear the dulcet tones of my ex-husband. Could you call me when you have a sec? Thanks.

I put the phone back in its cradle as promised, and it starts to ring.

Katie, is everything okay?

"Oh, yeah. Molly’s fine, I’m fine. I should have said it wasn’t an emergency, but do you know anything about this Beverly Hastings murder?"

Nothing.

I don’t believe you.

Then why did you ask?

I did it for Molly.

Slightly energized, I scrub my daughter’s octopus bowl as I talk.

Molly doesn’t even know Beverly.

Not true, they have met a few times. And she does know Bitsy.

But they’re not friends.

They’re four. At this age, they’re all friends.

You know I can’t say anything, Katie.

I know.

You’re sure you’re okay? He’s convinced that I’ll never be okay.

Truly, I am. Truly I am. In fact, I’m sweeping. I’ll drop Molly off later.

’Kay.

He’s trying to be familiar, but I hang up in lieu of partaking in our old routine.

I will never forgive him. He makes my skin crawl. But we share a daughter.

And, he’s gotta know something.

*   *   *

I met Paul Alger in the Eleventh Precinct when I was an assistant district attorney and he was a homicide detective, first grade. It was Christmastime. I was picking up a file from a junior officer, and I grabbed a chocolate Santa from a bowl on his desk.

Committing petit larceny in a police station?

I heard a rich, low voice behind me and turned around. Standing there was the most handsome man I had ever seen—excluding television and movies. He had dark, wavy hair, olive skin, light brown eyes, and a large but lean build. Like in a scene in a Greek tragedy, I heard what sounded like a Delphic voice say, You are going to marry this man.

Excuse me? I said to both the man and the crazy voice in my head.

You are stealing items from that individual’s desk. Technically, that’s a petit larceny.

Technically, it’s the holiday season and a dish of candy is everyone’s property. It didn’t sound convincing, so I added, There’s legal precedent.

Legal precedent, huh? He winked at me. I’m giving you a verbal warning now, but if I catch you stealing any more sweets, I’m not going to let you off so easily.

I smiled. I also perused the room for another bowl of candy before leaving the building.

A few days later, I attended the precinct Christmas party, the kind of social event I typically dreaded. Everybody was either on call and downing Diet Coke, or overdoing it on soured beer and ecru cheese cubes. Inevitably, the holiday colloquy transformed into tales of career conquests. I often ate these up, but that night I found myself looking for something else—namely, the handsome, aggressive cop. Strictly a pantsuit lawyer, I had dusted off a dress that morning, a formfitting, black Tahari number that, along with an impressively high-heeled pair of jet suede sling-backs, gave me the slice of femininity called for under the circumstances.

I had gotten to the party early, careful to stake out a piece of cheddar, a place to stand, and a glass of wine. Detective Ken Sawicki, a stocky, balding cop with big blue eyes and pale, pale skin, offered to get me another drink, but then held it hostage in his drying, fleshy hands until he finished this year’s telling of arresting the mayor’s kid for shoplifting a pack of watermelon Bubblicious. Don’t get me wrong. I love hearing a good war story, especially from a cop, but he could do better than gum.

I nodded politely to Sawicki, attempting telepathically to make him hand over the Sauvignon Blanc.

And then he walked in.

Alger, Sawicki screamed to him, lifting his glass as if to toast while mine lay limply in his other hand, merry, merry. What can I get you?

I’ll have what she’s having, Paul said, taking my glass out of Sawicki’s fingers and handing it to me.

Minus the story, I whispered under my breath.

Paul Alger. He stuck out his hand.

He was even more alluring than I had remembered, and he clearly hadn’t dolled himself up for the occasion. In a fraying white oxford shirt and khaki pants, he was the best-looking man in the room. I studied him more carefully. Chocolate hair and striking, if asymmetric, cheekbones offset his amber eyes. He wore an expression that suggested an imminent wealth of emotion, which upgraded him from merely attractive to mesmerizing.

Kate Hagen.

"Kate? As in Kiss Me, Kate? He paused for a second. I bet you never heard that before."

It’s a first from a cop.

He’s no ordinary cop, Sawicki said. He’s a crime fighter.

Do you wear a leotard? I couldn’t resist.

Only when I’m working undercover. Paul Alger was still holding my hand.

Gotta love Paul, Sawicki declared.

I already did.

It would be fun to work together. I sounded, I’m not proud to admit, like a fourth-grader looking for a school-project buddy.

My thoughts exactly, Paul agreed. Let’s get out of here.

*   *   *

I’m switching the channels desperate for some Hastings coverage. News trucks with satellite dishes are parked outside the East Sixty-fourth Street town house. Cops are weaving in and around the slew of reporters. I look for a familiar face.

Neighbors are weighing in on the murder.

We’re just baffled, remarks a bespectacled man in a bow tie.

It just goes to show you, another explains.

I notice that the news crew haven’t produced anybody to publicly mourn Beverly.

*   *   *

I first met Beverly Hastings about two years ago, when we were trying to get Molly into the Hawthorne Preschool. I had long since heard the lore about applying early. Some Manhattan parents believed that the firm deadline for applications to New York’s top three preschools, Hawthorne being number one, was the second trimester of pregnancy. Others emphasized the dual imperative of a huge cash donation and a recommendation from a Nobel laureate. Rejection meant a life of homeschooling and a college degree from the Internet.

Ignore the nonsense and apply, Peg, my former boss, mentor, and best friend, chided. How many people know a Nobel laureate? Not only do I not know a Nobel laureate, but I don’t think I know anybody who knows one.

Peg, in her mid-fifties, looks forty-two. To be fair, she looked forty-two when she was twenty-seven, and she’ll look forty-two at ninety-five. She has long, undyed brown hair, which she habitually wears in a low ponytail folded into a bun, and she almost always wears a clingy wrap dress that emphasizes her thinness rather than stirring up prurient desires.

I actually do know one, I confessed. Albert Brettschneider, my college chemistry professor, won it three years ago.

Okay, Ms. Smarty-Pants. Get the chemistry teacher to call the preschool.

It did sound ridiculous. Peg had a way of putting things in perspective for me. She was sitting, as she always did during these biweekly visits, in the kitchen nook, making full use of our banquette. In return for her company, I’m expected to whip out the cappuccino maker she got me for my wedding and give her as many cups of foamy coffee as she desires. Just as former heroin addicts become doughnut devotees when they go cold turkey, Peg developed her caffeine dependence in 1991, when she finally stopped smoking two packs a day.

And if Molly doesn’t get in, what’s the worst that could happen?

Peg and I had had this discussion before. Paul and I wanted Molly to go to Hawthorne so that she could get into one of the top private schools in New York. Peg thought it was all nonsense.

My kids went to public school their whole lives and it didn’t hurt them at all. Peg, the daughter of two relentless union organizers, had shown remarkable restraint in this discussion.

Boy, was she right. Her older son, David, was enjoying his Fulbright in Ghana, and her younger son, Matthew, was about to enter Yale Law School. Both of them were products of New York City public schools.

Secretly I agreed with Peg, but Paul’s parents are consumed with Molly’s getting the best education possible and are willing to pay for it. Not what people would expect from a cop’s parents, but Paul’s life hasn’t followed a predictable path.

Peg, you are aware, are you not, that your kids have inherited your superhero genes?

True, but your gene pool isn’t so bad either. Apply. Ignore the talk. Molly will be fine. She has you as a mother.

That’s what I’m worried about.

On Peg’s urgings, I sent Molly’s applications to three of New York’s top-rated preschools.

And the Emily Dickinson look may not work with these people, so before you go for your school interview, you might want to take a walk or a run or something. Gray may be in this year, but not in skin tone. Buy a dress or some shoes.

I get it, Peg.

Some of these schools are in a church. You don’t want them redirecting you to the food bank.

I get it.

Peg was the only person who understood my mental state. Despite her anti-elitist leanings, she knew that my applying for schools was a sign that I had graduated from the ocean-floor depths of my noxious depression to my current state of somewhat functional dysthymia.

But I had lost a husband in the process.

*   *   *

Beverly Hastings had been sitting across from me on a wooden bench in the austere waiting area outside Hawthorne’s office of admissions. The walls, which needed another coat of wintergreen paint, were bare, except for a portrait of Ledyard Webster Wheeling Hawthorne. He could have been the twin of Rutherford B. Hayes, Molly’s current commander in chief of choice from her Meet-the-Presidents place mat. The portrait of Hawthorne had been painted in 1879, the year he commissioned the preschool. It was well-known that Ledyard himself had nothing to do with the school. His wife, Katherine, was concerned that her five children, living in an urban and privileged environment, would grow lazy by age four. She developed a detailed curriculum integrating the social urban experience of young people with physical activity. Within ten years, she had hired several tutors to teach her progeny, extended family members, and acquaintances with similar social credentials.

Considered by many to be the supreme preschool in all of New York, the school boasts the highest percentage of admissions to New York City’s most prestigious private schools. They also claim to have the most impressive college admissions in the country. One would be hard-pressed to find many institutions with the financial resources to embark on a research project tracking the long-term education of their five-year-olds.

Here, Bitsy.

I thought Beverly Hastings, as I later learned her name to be, had brought the family dog on an interview. Then she pulled out an iPod and headphones and planted them on the little girl’s head.

Bitsy loves Rachmaninoff, Beverly informed me as she tucked a handful of her freshly cut-and-colored vanilla bob behind her ear only to reveal a gold shell earring.

She probably likes wearing the headphones so she doesn’t have to listen to Mommy, I could almost hear Paul quipping. Thankfully, though, he had called me just as I was entering the building to say that an emergency had arisen and he wouldn’t make the interview, yet another thing he had failed to make. His presence would have been nerve-racking, since we had just separated. I didn’t know if I could hide my post-betrayal indignation and Paul’s permanent state of stunned despair from Miss Margaret Talbott, Hawthorne’s director of admissions and fund-raising. Admissions people can sense strife.

You must be so proud, I said as I straightened my dress.

I had pulled out the old Tahari winner for the occasion. Upon Peg’s urging, I had applied a coat of berry lipstick she pretended to accidentally leave on my kitchen table. I even found a five-year-old working mascara, which I’m sure was breeding high amounts of contagious bacteria, in the old black leather purse I brought with me to the interview. Beverly wasn’t listening to me.

Bitsy, Bitsy, Bitsy, she trilled, do you want some hummus?

Bitsy shook her large head no.

Molly, who had been intrigued by the both of them from the moment we had arrived, was inspired by the sight of food. She ambled right over to Bitsy’s mother, hopeful that she might be offered a little taste.

She’s not sick, is she? Bitsy’s mother accused. Bitsy doesn’t like germs.

Before I could answer, Beverly addressed Molly. The hummus is for Bitsy, dear. She straightened out her plaid Burberry tunic, which matched the one worn by her little girl.

I distracted my daughter with some old saltines that had been sitting in my purse since her days as an embryo.

Bitsy’s mother stared at me. "Ooh, you do salt? Then she turned to her charge. Bitsy, sweetie. Mommy is going to help Bitsy out of her stroller. And then Bitsy can give Mommy a kiss. Mommy loves Bitsy."

Bitsy threw up all over her mother.

Molly took the second saltine out of its plastic wrap and handed it to the little girl.

*   *   *

Once Paul and I were out of the precinct, he put his arm around me and drew me in. Neither of us said anything.

As we walked up Sixty-seventh Street toward Park Avenue, I was determined to speak. It got even colder outsi—

Before I could finish my sentence, Paul was pulling me even closer. I wanted to tell him that maybe we should take a walk or share a conversation before we exchanged saliva, but I was the person doing most of the kissing. There we were, yards away from our colleagues, making out like teenagers. A voice in my head was demanding that I stop. I was about to assert myself when Paul started kissing my neck.

Maybe we should have a conversation first. For the record, Paul made the suggestion.

Do you have a preferred topic?

I’m fairly certain we will be getting married.

I was relieved that he’d had that eerie feeling as well and replied, To each other? Otherwise you are just relying on statistical probabilities.

I’m not relying on statistical probabilities.

We were still planted outside the Park Avenue Armory, an ambitious nineteenth-century urban fortress. Paul waved down a cab. Any objections to going downtown?

That’s what you cops say when you are arresting someone.

My precinct is here.

Downtown it is.

Once in the cab, Paul and I continued not to talk, but we didn’t make out either. We just sat there, his large, warm hands holding mine, both of us feeling that something important was happening. The cabdriver stayed on Park Avenue. On one side, the islands of Christmas trees sparkled in the cold, still night. On the other, an endless row of office buildings remained partially lit to support the smattering of after-hours workers.

Paul kissed me as we rolled through the MetLife Building underpass in the mid-Forties. Right after we emerged, he pulled away and squeezed my hand more tightly. Park Avenue was uncharacteristically empty: a response to the arctic chill that was hampering everyone’s holiday plans. But after we passed Union Square and started heading east, the streets were filled with intrepid revelers.

At the corner of Second Avenue and Ninth Street, Paul instructed the driver to stop. He jumped out and handed him some cash. He led me into a compact Italian restaurant, the kind with red-checkered tablecloths and single carnations in the water glasses in the middle of each table. The New York Times would never deign to review this kind of restaurant, but it would always be filled with customers keen for a hearty Bolognese or anything Parmesan.

They seemed to know Paul. A few of them were hugging and kissing him, while others shifted the wobbly wooden tables around so that we could sit in the corner and eat our dinner.

Despite the comforting smell and bubbling tomatoes, we didn’t do much eating. My stomach had climbed into my throat, making it impossible for me to ingest any food. Also, Paul wouldn’t let go of my hands. Or was it I who wouldn’t let go of his? We pretended to eat minestrone and then pretended to eat fettuccine and then pretended to eat monkfish with capers. We skipped pretending to eat the tartufo.

We didn’t exchange our life stories right away. Paul preferred to ask specific questions rather than general ones, as did I. Too much time in interrogation training.

What was your favorite day as a kid?

That one is easy. September thirteenth, 1987, my tenth birthday. My mom took me to Bryce Canyon as a present. My mom is a nature lady.

You don’t seem that crunchy granola to me. He was gazing at my formfitting dress.

No, I’m not. I mean, I’m not anti-nature, but I take in energy from the city. My mother would be happy to sit in a wheat field. But, anyway…

I had lost my train of thought. I was focused on his lips, remembering our kiss from minutes before and longing to continue right then, regardless of the venue.

Paul read my mind, gently kissed me on the lips as if promising more, and coaxed me to talk more about my favorite day.

Even though I’m not Miss Nature, I am a little obsessed with astronomy. When I was three, I learned the names of all the planets in our galaxy. By five, I had memorized a random array of facts about them. A year later, I knew all eighty-eight constellations. And then I discovered Greek mythology. I loved the stories behind the stars. They made sense to me.

Were you some kind of child prodigy? He sounded more interested than intimidated.

No, Mom read me all the Greek myths when I was little. The ancients devised these legends as a way to make sense of star formations. I was a kid. I liked the stories, and the stars were pretty.

He didn’t say anything, so I kept talking.

"When I was ten, she took me on this trip to Bryce Canyon. She wanted to spend all day looking at rock formations, and I wanted to spend all night looking at star formations. It was about fifty degrees, but I stayed outside the whole night, wearing long johns and my mom’s treasured Big Sur sweatshirt over my Moonlighting sweatshirt and under my orange L.L. Bean Windbreaker. Around eleven, with only a crappy pair of binoculars, I saw the Andromeda Galaxy. I have chills thinking about it."

Paul was smiling.

What, you think I’m a dork?

No, I am focused on you and your long johns.

I was ten, Officer.

"That’s Detective. And no, I don’t think you’re a dork. I like it when kids have passions like that. Keeps them out of trouble."

Now you.

Now me, what?

Tell me your happiest day as a kid.

Oh, it will pale.

I’m sure it won’t.

I meant it. He could have told me he loved burning bugs with a magnifying glass on the sidewalk and it would have endeared him to me, so intense was my attraction.

By far the best day of my youth happened the summer my brother made me vice president of his club.

Good for you, I said at my most maternal. What was the club?

The Invention Club.

See, I wasn’t the only geeky kid. What did you invent?

Glop.

What’s glop?

It was a combination of mayonnaise, dirt, and broken crayons.

What did you do with glop?

Oh, nothing. We just invented it.

That’s it? You just invented it? It had no purpose?

Excuse me, Copernicus, I was five and my brother was seven. The bringing together of mayonnaise, dirt, and color was inspired. Besides, being elected by my brother to be VP was like getting made in the mob. It was an honor.

You’re right. That is an honor.

I’m an only child, but I had witnessed similar ceremonies among my friends and their siblings throughout my youth. How many people were in the club?

Two.

You and your brother, and only two other people?

No, just me and my brother.

I paused to envision my beautiful date as a lovely boy with a domineering older brother, playing in the mud and breaking crayons.

Hold on to that memory, I said.

I do every day, he replied solemnly.

The rest of our dinner conversation had more to do with the present than the past. Neither of us was in a relationship. We were both overly connected to our jobs: he captured criminals; I did my best to punish them. We agreed that these were the perfect careers for us as we shared a fondness for rules and structure.

Paul believed that people were either good or evil. Being the daughter of a therapist, I was much more inclined to use terms such as destructive or productive.

We agreed most strongly on our good fortune at having met. Paul professed his profound attraction over coffee. Once it became clear that our philosophies and interests were congruous, we both used words such as fate and soul mate on our way back to his apartment.

Needless to say, the lovemaking was spectacular.

*   *   *

Beverly has been dead for two days, and scant information has come out about her murder. She lived in a town house on Sixty-fourth Street off Lexington Avenue, and as of yet, no one has claimed to have seen any odd individuals entering or leaving her front door. A garden was out back, but it was pouring rain the night she was killed, so there was no evidence of any footprints or human

Reviews for Perfect Is Overrated

[krystalsbooks · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Weird no chapters. Decent read but the writing style was a bit off putting

[gittel_7 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Someone is killing the affluent, unbearably snobby mothers of private school preschoolers. One mom, still battling post-postpartum depression determines to solve the case. A fun tour through the maddening world of upper crust private nursery schools.
Karen Bergreen's second book is as much fun as her first. I look forward to her next release!

[lilacwolf · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

From Lilac Wolf and StuffKaren's writing is conversational, her characters are charming and deep. You get to know Kate really well, and through her all the people in her life. As a person who battles depression, I can say that Karen did a great job capturing the feelings and the actions. While she gets it together to take care of her daughter, she doesn't get it together for much else.So as she starts coming out of her deep depression, it's funny how Karen throws in a detail here or there about something that was left undone for too long.And this is a mystery, so you follow Kate as she collects evidence and tries to find out who the murderer is. I will say, you won't see it coming. I had a hard time putting it down, but the last 20 pages had me so griped I ended up letting my children stay up too late just so I could finish it!You never know if the 2nd book will be just as good as the first, or if a person just had the one good story. I will now say that Karen Bergreen is a favorite author, and this was even BETTER than Following Polly.

[ennie_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book wasn't perfect or overrated (groan). I loved the author's Following Polly, and this wasn't as good, but still OK (I gave it 3.5 out of 5 stars, which for me is decent). Kate is a former prosecutor now raising a child. Her marriage to an NYC cop has fallen apart, but he still lives in the same building. This comes in handy when moms in her daughter's posh preschool start dropping like flies.

[infectiousoptimist · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Last year, I had the opportunity to read Karen Bergreen's "Following Polly". I instantly connected to Bergreen's quirky main character and fell in love with her subtly sassy writing style. This is why I was ecstatic when I learned that I'd be getting the chance to read another one of Karen Bergreen's new novels. Unfortunately though, I was a tad disappointed when "Perfect is Overrated" finally landed in my hands and I cracked it open to meet its main character and delve into the story. I couldn't quite connect to Kate, and didn't find her nearly as endearing as Alice. The story also didn't engage me, and I found parts to be very dull. I wouldn't dub it a "page turner" like I would Following Polly. But I still love you, Karen Bergreen! I've actually got my fingers (and toes) crossed for a Following Polly sequel. Bring back Alice Teakle!

[lucky11_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

"Perfect is Overreated," and a little bit slow. ADA, wife and mom, Kate Alger's life is thrown into disarray when she develops postpartum depression. No longer a ADA, no longer a wife, but the best mother she can be after several years Kate slowly starts to pull herself out of her depression. What this former ADA needed was to sink her teeth into an investigation, but maybe one not so close to home. A string of mothers being murdered of kids who go to her daughter private pre-school has everyone on high alert, but Kate can't help but want to figure out whats going on. I found "Perfect is Overrated," to be a good story, but a bit slow, and I didn't like how the story kept going back and forth from present to past to present so much. Trying to figure out who was the murder was, was the only thing really that kept me reading, and I will say I would never of guessed who the culprit was. Now, they say not to judge a book by its cover, but this one I did. It has a dog all dressed up on the cover and there was no a dog in the story and i kept waiting for her to get one, and was slightly disappointed that there wasn't one.

[jendoyle2000 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It is odd to write "humor" and then "postpartum depression" one right after another (in the tags), but this book pulled it off. It's hard to pin down in some ways -- on the surface it's a mystery, but the mystery was entirely besides the point. This was really about a woman who is trying to fight her way back into a world she recognizes. There are people who care about her, people who are trying to help her back up, and she knows it, but she just can't get there. And then these things begin happening and they give her something else to think about for the first time since the birth of her daughter. About the mystery plot: In some ways, this was one of the more realistic amateur mysteries I think I've read. The heroine actually had a background that made her 'detecting' make sense in a way, say, the owner of a crochet shop doesn't at all. And she kind of stumbled into things but wasn't the lynchpin in a way that I think is actually the way that might play out. So I liked that, too. The ending kind of came out of nowhere for me, and although it made sense when I thought about it, it was definitely a kind of ... "Huh?" But, honestly, I didn't care. By that point, I couldn't have cared less who the killer was; I just wanted to find out what happened with her ex, with her life. Along those lines, however, the author entirely delivered. I loved this character and I loved the people around her. I loved how she loved her daughter so very much -- and how much humor there was about how debilitating that was. It was an illuminating look into the world of postpartum depression, but Karen Bergreen presented it in such a way that it wasn't threatening or, oddly, even depressing in any way. I think anyone who knows someone struggling with this issue -- yes, even though their child might be four or five years old -- should read this for a little bit of insight into the darkness even amidst the joy of loving a child. I'll certainly be looking out for other books from this author. I'm excited to see what she does next.

[suefernandez · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I received an ARC of this book, and I was up into the night reading it. It's not a book that will "stay" with you forever, but it is a page turner that will keep you guessing and laughing.I liked certain characters and couldn't stand others...they were well done and you rooted for certain people.The book touched on post partum depression while being humorous and a cozy type mystery...I know it doesn't seem like these can all go together, but the author manages to do it.Very enjoyable read.

[jdy_26 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I liked the book, I really did. But, I felt it was predictable the entire time. I found myself a little annoyed with the relationship between husband (ex-husband) and wife and how there was really nothing wrong in the first place. The plot had some fun twists and turns, and there was quite a bit of fun even though there were murders within the book. I'd definitely recommend, but I can't say I absolutely LOVED the book.

[nashnordin_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I love Karen Bergreen’s Following Polly. I love her writing style in the first book and I was excited when I found out about her new book, Perfect is Overrated. But the first thing that irked me is the cover. I didn’t like it. If I haven’t read the first book, there’s a huge chance that I wouldn’t read the second one (I still couldn’t understand what that dog on the cover got to do with the story).Perfect is Overated is something that I would recommend if you’re looking to a light/cozy mystery. I have to say that Karen Bergreen is really good in plotting her mystery. I think that she had successfully thrown me off in guessing who the murder is. Karen Bregreen’s writing style is highly entertaining and funny. (Although, I do think that the first book is funnier than this one). There were a few parts which are a bit confusing. Especially when Kate revisited her past and talked about how she and Paul met. I thought it would be great if the book is divided into chapters to separate some scene. Which reminds me... why isn’t the book divided into chapters!!?

[seasonsoflove_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

91. Perfect is Overrated by Karen BergreenA single mom, living in the apartment below her ex-husband, finds that working to solve the murders of moms( at the prestigious private school her three year old daughter attends) is helping to lift her out of her postpartum depression and find herself again.I really enjoyed this book-the author clearly understood mothers and children (the three year old's voice is spot-on), as well as depression. The mystery was excellent as well-I didn't guess the ending until about a paragraph before it happened.

[dd196406 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Excellent book! It's all about a single mom who has an ex who lives in the apartment above her. She is a former DA suffering from post-partem depression. it takes a good juicy murder mystery to help her overcome her depression and realize her life is still worth living. Enjoyable book with interesting characters and a mystery that will keep you guessing.

[kphillips12_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was a great beach read. It did flash back and forth between the present and the past often. The ending was not one that I had expected. I really like the characters and the authors descriptive touches for many of the details.

[drebbles · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

After the birth of her daughter Molly Kate Alger not only suffered from postpartum depression but the collapse of her marriage. Kate is slowly recovering and getting her life back together when her world is rocked by the murder of the mother of one of Molly's classmates. Kate used to be an Assistant District Attorney and can't help but become interested in the case. Soon she thinks she knows who the killer is but she's been wrong all too often in the recent past.“Perfect is Overrated” is a wonderful novel that pulled me into the story right from the beginning. In many ways the novel shouldn't have worked. It is a combination of many different things that seemingly don't mesh well together – murder, romance, depression, friendship, culture clashes, betrayal, mistakes - yet they blend together beautifully. Another thing that could have been disastrous yet works well is the tremendous amount of flashbacks - they could have been annoying but somehow blend seamlessly into the story. Author Karen Bergreen does a wonderful job with the character of Kate - her recovery from postpartum depression is handled delicately and sensitively. This novel is really Kate’s story as she begins to make her way back into the real world, stumbling a few times on the way – she is a very real character. Some of the other characters, particularly Miriam, border cartoonish at times - but Bergreen never quite makes them unbelievable enough to be annoying. The mystery itself at times becomes secondary to Kate’s story but there are enough surprises in the story to keep it interesting (one character does seem to appear late in the book as a convenient plot device). Finally, the end of the book is guaranteed to make readers smile as they read it.“Perfect is Overrated” may not be perfect but it comes pretty darn close.

[dotland101 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What's it like to be one of the alpha-women, the high-power career women, among the elite women in NYC? The competition for perfection is fierce and it started as early as in kindergarten. How does one maintain that "perfect image"? Well, if you don't have one, then make one, and hide the flaw and ugly past at all cost. And what would someone like Kate do after she got married, pregnant, then suffered postpartum depression which led to divorce-that-should-never-be? It's been four years since her daughter was born and the onset of this depression, Kate's gone through the usual steps that most clinically depressed person would go through, in denial, in therapy, medicated, coping and dealing with it. But not quite cured. In Kate's case, what would cure her depression or got her out of it most effectively, (who would have guess) that it would take three serial murders of the mum in her daughter's kindergarten to pull her out of this dark cloud and dusted her skills as assistant DA, put on her suit and started do some investigating of her own, nosing and snooping around to find "who-done-it". This is a twisted, dark but funny contemporary suspense/romance novel all blended into the insane world of the rich women in NYC who're obsessed with perfection, image, reputation, compete to get there and get it at all cost, and then some. All in all, a good read, though the main character suffers depression, but I still feel it's a light reading and funny enough to make you chuckle at idiotic things people do or think important in their lives.One note here is that I found the motive of the murderer a bit weak, especially of the cases of victim number 2 and 3. I can only assume (by a small hint in the story) that after the murderer got a taste of killing, found out that it's got talent for it, started liking it, and decided to hone the skill after the first victim? It just seems unnecessary and (literally) "overkill" to expend with those victims just to get to and find what the murderer wanted. Hence, my theory.

[voracious_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Kate is an ex-Assistant DA and a mom to a pre-schooler at a highly affluent and competitive New York City Preschool. She is also just climbing out of an extended and devastating post-partum depression, which led to her divorce from her very sexy detective husband, who now lives in the apartment above hers and co-raises their daughter, Molly. Kate isn't sure she is really getting better, however, until one of the moms of her daughter's classmates is murdered in her home, and Kate can't help but start to investigate the murder on the sly. Though her husband and ex-boss Peg are both involved in investigating the case, they are staunch in leaving her out of the details and Kate can't help snooping around to try to get the scoop. As more of the mommies start to meet their untimely demise, Kate has several possible suspects she is considering, while she also starts to explore the idea of dating again and getting her life back together. The ending seemed a little farfetched but I will say getting there was pretty entertaining, as Kate's character is witty and snarky with her unsaid commentary when in conversation with others. I would recommend this book to anyone who likes a smart chick-lit thriller. The only parts of the book I didn't enjoy were the confusing asides in the first half, where Kate would suddenly reflect back to another scene while in the middle of an ongoing interaction. It was very confusing! I didn't like this style of writing, though it appeared to abate in the second half of the novel. I was also disappointed that the novel ended abruptly with the conclusion of the murder, as I would have preferred to see more of a resolution with the sexy ex. I hope that the author plans to continue this as a series, as I would really enjoy seeing where these characters go in the future!

[cats57_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Perfect Is Overratedby Karen BergreenEdition: PaperbackPrice: $10.19Availability: In Stock42 used & new from $6.20 3.5 - Stars Not Quite Perfect, July 29, 2012This review is from: Perfect Is Overrated (Paperback)Perfect is Overrated- Karen Bergreen*ARC SUPPLIED BY PUBLISHER*So, here we have yet another book about the somewhat over-privileged, self-absorbed, over-indulgent mommies of New York City. Mommies who feel that they just have to get their perfect kids into the perfect pre-school. Or do we?What at first glance looks like that is what this book is going to be about, we quickly come to learn that it is not...it is about post-partum depression and murder. It is about misunderstandings, half-truths, and subterfuges.This book had me going for quite a while. I never did figure out who-dun-it until they actually showed their hand. This was an entertaining book, but not the funny romp that it is touted to be.Although the characters are well written and the narrative is adequate, this book was written in a way that just rubbed me wrong. There were so many side stories, that I started wondering if they had been added just to fill in for something the book was lacking. Too many side stories that left too much unsaid. And one side-story in particular really does seem to have been thrown in there just to have a convenient person around to help during the climax.This is by no means a horrible book, it was entertaining and I never once thought to not finish it, I just think that this author could have done so much better.

[emily1ann · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The cover really doesn't give you a clue towards what is inside this book. It appears that it would be very light-hearted and pretty, but there is so much more to it. While there are certainly fun and funny moments in which the mood lifts, the book is ultimately about a climb out of depression and a series of murders that leave motherless children. I appreciated the mix of home-life and personal problems with the draw of the narrator's investigative and curious spirit. This didn't feel strictly like a murder mystery book, nor was is solely about a family. They were blended well.Towards the beginning of the book, it was a little difficult sometimes to figure out what was a flashback and what was in real-time, but it got easier as the book went on. Also, I was occasionally worried about too much darkness/depression, but I never felt that it was actually too much. As soon as it got close, it moved away from that and went to something lighter.I enjoyed reading it and you should too!

[booksofliztoye · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Karen Bergreen's "Perfect is Overrated" is a thoroughly enjoyable read. It's a murder mystery, a romance, a story about a woman getting her life back together after a serious bout of postpartum depression, and a comedy all rolled into one. I love Kate Alger. Within minutes of finishing the book I was searching the internet hoping for a glimpse of info stating that Karen Bergreen might be writing a sequel (or, even better, a series!) about Kate and her family. "Perfect is Overrated" is chick lit on it's "A" game.Note: I received this book for free in exchange for a review. This in no way affected the contents of my review.