This Will Be Unsurprising

For now, but maybe permanently. I’ve been missing Peace Corps, thinking about mediocrity, trying to think big and write thoughtfully, two things which I don’t do very well on this blog. More saliently, I’m applying to grad school, and spending half the week luxuriously writing fiction from morning till midnight–it’s so nice and awful–and the other half the week writing corporate press releases and nonfiction about Uganda, because you know what they say about bitches and eating and all that. I’m reading more than ever, but my wheelhouse is being systematically raided by this routine, and I don’t think it’s a bad thing that this blog is the first lamb to be slaughtered.

Best Little Bookshelf in Texas came out of twinned ideas–one, that popular literature is inspiring but sometimes awful, and two, that reading critically allows you to separate the inspiring/awful in literature but also in everything. Right now, I’m bidding both to write something on the inspiring side of the divide and to restock that old wheelhouse so that if I ever return to book reviews they’ll be sharper and better.

So thanks for reading, this last two years! I still can’t believe that so many people have kept coming to this blog when there are so many Youtube videos of corgi puppies running legitimate publications that you could all be looking at instead. I wish I still had the free time and writing stamina to keep doing this, but unfortunately my stamina is used up by trying to keep myself from day-drinking and watching the video for Rihanna’s “Cheers”–and my free time by doing exactly that. I have felt continually honored and grateful to have your attention–so thanks for every visit, again.

A final weigh-in on the things that have occupied my bookshelf of late, rereads and not:

The Leftovers by Tom Perrotta: awful. How did this get such good reviews?
The Tiger’s Wife by Tea Obreht: great. Heartfelt, striking, mature but told with a wistful child’s imagination.
1000 Years of Good Prayers by Yiyun Li: best short story collection I’ve read in a long time. She’s amazing.
The Emperor’s Children by Claire Messud: one of my favorite books, and one of the best I’ve read about ambition/NYC/head-up-your-assery.
Saturday by Ian McEwan: kind of incredible, with the reveries that sustain the one-day plot a masterpiece of craft rather than a gimmick.
The Possessed by Elif Batuman: good, unlikely, a little draggy despite subject matter that I thought I’d take to instantly.
Fun Home by Alison Bechdel: great! Super sad. There should be more graphic novels about lesbians with gay dads growing up in funeral homes.
Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder: inspiring, well-written, what I am trying to rip off  for my current book.
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace: my second attempt to finish the book and probably my last.

French Women Don’t Get Fat, by Mireille Guiliano

The recent “discovery” that French people are, sacrebleu, actually capable of getting fat if they happen to eat tons of fast food–combined with the hangover that crippled me for 24 hours after my brilliant and beautiful friend May’s wedding–prompted me to buy and read this book, which was lying out on a table in a used book store in Charleston. French Women Don’t Get Fat is still atop the bestseller lists (apparently #3 on the Times list of “hardcover advice books”) and the “French paradox” (in which French women eat cheese, wine and pastries and yet are not disgusting fat people) still crops up in the news with decent frequency. This book, says Guiliano and the rest of the world, has a secret that might as well be made of gold: “the secret of eating for pleasure.”

The secret of eating for pleasure. 

What they really mean is: the secret of eating for the kind of pleasure that is slow, intelligent, psychologically healthy, and well-earned by compensatory sacrifices. Which, as far as food goes, is the kind of pleasure that I do personally prefer–but let’s be precise about these words. Pleasure is not only homemade yogurt and halibut en papillote. Pleasure involves lots of things, like finishing an entire block of cheese. When I bury my face in airport Chinese or go to the taco truck at 10:45 AM or cram my mouth with a post-wedding brisket sandwich while my blacked-out boyfriend repeatedly tells me that “that sandwich smells exactly like poop,” that’s pleasure if I’ve ever tasted it.

As far as the actual advice? Like all sensible diet and lifestyle advice, it’s easy and obvious. Don’t binge. If you binge, compensate. Try not to ever be starving or stuffed. Walk more. Eat more fruit and vegetables. Cook more. Guiliano adds a few more-French tidbits that reminded me of how my belle amie Lola did things during Peace Corps: set your table, enjoy the sensory aspects of preparing and eating a meal, serve things in courses, go to the market, talk about your food (but never feel guilty).

Sound advice, all of it, and as such this isn’t really a diet book. But I tire of the fatness thing. There are some reasons for fatness that evoke my sympathy (being extremely poor is at the root of all of the reasons) but the female binge/purge/guilt cycle that this book is aimed at is not one of them. So yeah, are you getting a muffin top? Is your bikini body not on par to be one of Star magazine’s top 100? Move to Houston, where there’s a functioning economy, and walk my dog in the heat at noon. The pounds will melt off. And I will thank you.

People are Unappealing (Even Me), by Sara Barron

I read this right after reading Sloane Crosley’s newest book, How Did You Get This Number, and it blew Crosley so far out of the water that I’m now in Barron-camp for good. This was unexpected, because I’m a big fan of Sloane Crosley, loved I Was Told There’d Be Cake, and maintain a vast store of jealous admiration for Crosley and her career and her intriguing conventionality–but How Did You Get This Number is full of mundane travel essays and one too many un-clever phrases like “the taking of the drugs,” and despite a heart-tugging final chapter, it lost me.

Sara Barron, on the other hand, had me in out-loud giggles all the way through. She seems almost ego-less, which is remarkable for a young female memoirist, and she immediately goes plunging through her life for amazing snippets of personal folly and humiliation. She’s assigned to play an Asian character in a school play: “As someone pinkish and pale and covered in moles, I do not look Asian. My associations to the continent are limited to the facts that I eat a lot of sashimi and that in the early ’00s I got a case of HPV from a Vietnamese sculptor named Quong.” She writes about how her entire elementary school witnesses her first-lady-cycle pad bulge and starts chanting “Chick with a dick! Chick with a dick!” She finds a diary from elementary school filled not with heartfelt musings on the everyday, but with sentences like this:

I swichted myself around so my head was right on his pienus and I made my legs go into a squatting position and made so he exactly saw up my viginia. So I am lying on top of him and he is humping me so hard I’m nearly flying off him. Then I take his pienus and rub my face and in it.”

Barron had premature misconceptions about sex: that “pienuses” were shaped like hooks, that coitus was always followed by champagne, and that an erection prevented sex–however, “enough experience with enough alcoholics, and you cultivate a fine appreciation of the item/event.”

Other topics: trichitillomania, dating a gay guy, asking a black guy to “lay his chocolate skin beside her white vagina” (the guy just pees on her), bartending at Coyote Ugly, going on an online date with a midget, finding an ex-boyfriend who has made it a life calling to be a clown, hanging out with Paris Hilton. It’s all so funny. It’s exhaustingly funny, by the end. But Sloane Crosley fans, if you’re the type of person that knows you’re weird, this is the book for you.

The Paris Wife, by Paula McLain

Paula McLain, the author of The Paris Wife, is a poet with an MFA degree. I don’t like to say that this explains a lot about the way her novel is written, because what do I know? But such are my suspicions when I read her long sentences–run-ons are so emotional, like Ulysses, yes I said yes I said “and” and “and” and “and” until the text has absorbed all my narrator’s feelings! I can hear the MFA in her vaguely-angled, off-to-infinity endings, all soaked in the type of imagery that comes straight from a writer’s learned subconscious once they’ve absorbed 10000 short stories that all end in some lessened version of The Great Gatsby‘s “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Take this, for example, which is in the introduction: “And the tea will boil in the teapot, and I’ll tell a story about a girl she and I both knew a hundred years ago in the Louis, and we’ll feel like quick and natural friends while across the yard, in the sawmill, a dog will start barking and keep barking and he won’t stop for anything.”

But I should stop. The Paris Wife is a great summer read. It’s narrated by Ernest Hemingway’s dowdy and square first wife Hadley, a woman who goes to Paris with her brooding alcoholic squire and is instantly forced into the “wife’s corner” at all those famous Gertrude Stein salons where literature’s most famous people drank absinthe and hacked through the beginnings of modernism and cheated on each other with each other. It’s shamelessly romantic and sensory and gossipy. And if it gets a little precious at times (actually, it’s precious most of the time, with phrases like “bourbon and soap, tobacco and damp cotton,” “sharp and lovely” heaped onto one another like in descriptions at a second-rate Etsy store) it’s fine.

The last 75 pages or so of this book revolve around Hemingway taking a mistress, Pauline (who was Hadley’s friend first–naturally) and Hadley dwindling into this sad-sack, numb lady who lets the two of them walk all over her. It’s pretty depressing, particularly when Pauline goes on vacation with the two of them and acts like Hadley’s best friend while getting a secret knock and a sex hour every day at 2 PM. It’s really depressing when Pauline slips into bed with them and Hadley writes “I knew what was happening, and I also didn’t want to come awake enough to feel it. The bed was sand, the sheets were sand. I was still in the dream.”

GIRL. Get out of there. Leave your man, smack that hooker and take your child (“Bumby”) to a nice daycare or something. Which she does, eventually, much to this reader’s relief.

The Philippines: Inverse Peace Corps

So this is what I’ve been doing for the last three weeks, traveling around the Philippines and looking at things like those tremendous rice terraces. Doesn’t that look like a backdrop, or like we’ve been green-screened in? I’ve been startled at how often I get thoughts like that, so disappointingly referential: This feels just like an adventure ride in an amusement park, I said to myself as we paused in the mountain jungle for the heavy machinery lifting dirt and rocks out of our way. Like when I was little and saw a sailor and asked myself why he was wearing a teddy bear suit.

But there’s no complaining, because the disconnection of this vacation has been the best kind. No smart phones! And although I wonder whether anyone has ever had a perfect tropical beach day without at least a millisecond of a Corona (or in this case, San Miguel) advertisement flickering through your head, really, there’s no point thinking about the intrusion of commercial postmodernism when you have a bar crawl to get to. Also: those two fingers I’m holding up are not because I’m Asian and in front of a camera, but because it’s the second stop on the crawl.

I have, however, had the more real and less shakeable feeling the whole time here that I am experiencing an inverse Peace Corps. The similarities between the poor parts of the Philippines and (frankly, all of) Kyrgyzstan are peculiar but pervasive: the people look the same, are wearing the same flip-flops and texting on the same cell phones, setting up shop in the same rusted storefronts, selling street snacks and spitting. The beauty of the country, the shitty minibus rides to get to the remote areas: very reminiscent, although the people wear color and the jeepneys in the Philippines are like New Orleans parade floats sometimes–a long way from the black tracksuits and neutral cars of Kyrgyzstan. Take this tricycle for example, which my boyfriend gamely curled up into a fetal position to ride in (everything is sized for scrappy, tiny Filipino people and he, like my statuesque girl friend in KGZ, can’t buy shoes here): it could be of either country.

But there are differences, big ones. For one, the level of privilege we are mired in is a trip in itself. We wake up every day and have breakfast made for us, our clothes washed and ironed, our sneakers scrubbed; we get taken everywhere by hired drivers in the backseat of cars. Thanks to the boundless generosity and hospitality of my mom’s high school friends, we’ve been swept off to polo clubs and rooftop bars on a daily basis, and today we’re going yachting on Manila Bay.

Second, I am in a lot of ways more out of touch here than I was in Kyrgyzstan, despite this being my “motherland”–the country where my parents were born. Just like in Kyrgyzstan, I’m being frequently mistaken for a local. Unlike in Kyrgyzstan, I can’t speak the local language, and don’t even try to, although twenty years of overhearing my parents speak on the phone in Tagalog means that I probably could get some sentences out if I wanted. And although the situations are different–pretty much everyone in the Philippines speaks English anyway, and the country is very, very Westernized–it’s still strange.

Also, where I spent 40% of every given day in Kyrgyzstan trying to wrap my head around the impossibly complicated process by which the people in my town might better their lives, here I’m living (and so quickly, thinking) like someone who’s never left the upper class. We passed through provincial towns and I, like every oblivious tourist, felt like I was doing my part by buying a thing or two, thus “putting money in the local economy.”

But if PC taught me anything, it was that you can adjust to anything, and faster than you thought–and this state, like most things, is temporary and circumstantial and best if just consumed in the present tense. So I’m off to enjoy the last two days here: have read The Tiger’s Wife, The Paris Wife, How Did You Get This Number by Sloane Crosley, The Blue Sweater, Between Parentheses, A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, Fun Home, and James and the Giant Peach, and will review on the plane!

The White Man’s Burden, by William Easterly

I’m reading The Blue Sweater (thanks for the recommendation, Liz!) by Jacqueline Novogratz right now and am slightly stymied by the force of her ambition as a young person, and the UVA-at-its-best-and-worst rhetoric with which she talks about it (“I wanted to be a bridge, an instrument of peace wrapped in a love of financial statements, of telling stories through numbers, of trying to build companies through strategic financing and management support”). But it’s very compelling (although a little overwhelming for someone trying to write a book about aid!) and much in line with the message of William Easterly in The White Man’s Burden, subtitled Why the West’s Efforts to Aid the Rest Have Done So Much Ill and So Little Good.

The dour yet wonderful message itself runs opposite of the End of Poverty view, that doubling the amount of aid under a strict plan of distribution will put an end to global poverty. Easterly’s book states the only solution to the “tragedy in which the West spent 2.3 trillion on foreign aid over the last five decades and still had not managed to get twelve-cent medicines to children to prevent half of malaria deaths” is to infuse aid with more accountability, smaller ambitions and micro-scale plans, and communication with the actual poor people they are trying to help. The long book is full of extremely disheartening charts and studies stating things like “They found aid’s effect on democracy to be worse than the effect of oil on democracy” and showing exactly how highly IMF intervention is correlated with government failure.

In Kyrgyzstan, in my very limited personal experience with aid distribution, things were a huge shitshow. After the revolution, hundreds of millions of dollars of aid poured in. Relative to other developing countries, there were not too many agencies active in this little country, population Houston (5 million), and the agency outposts were small. It is not too hard to keep track of where your stuff is in Kyrgyzstan, unless it gets stolen unexpectedly, which is what happened: all the USAID money disappeared. They poured absurdly large amounts of money into schools near the military base, bought a few generators, and then the other $135 million, the prospect of which had brought an absurd amount of elation to communities with grant-writing PCVs, just kind of went away.

Like many returned Peace Corps volunteers, I emerged from the experience with a frustrating, engaged cynicism. While I hated the way people in Kyrgyzstan couldn’t write up a budget or plan, the way they spend their year’s income on one wedding and then can’t feed their kids well–I understood that all of that was due to the accident that I was born in the rich, educated West and they were not–and who am I, an American, to talk about either reasonable wedding spending or sensible childhood nutrition?

I obviously have no idea what the answer is, but my personal bottom line is this: aid still matters. The Divine Hand that gave us Michele Bachmann could have easily made us all worm-ridden Cambodians rather than blog-reading members of the bourgeoisie. There are tons of poor people in the developing world who are willing to work frontier American-style to get their families out of poverty, and although a criminal amount of aid has been wasted in a failed attempt to reach them, there is definitely a solution. This solution probably involves aid agencies getting their heads out of their asses and giving poor people the real, small opportunities they need without the weird, donor-centered rules that create serious problems for people who grew up in fields and not classrooms. As Easterly says, you can’t go five miles on a road in Tanzania, but you can book a nonstop flight from New York to LA in about five minutes without having to create a strategy, an action plan, and have a bureaucrat “assess your needs for air travel over the next year.” And as Novogratz says in The Blue Sweater, “philanthropy can appeal to people who want to be loved more than they want to make a difference.”

And, which I find even more disheartening, these are the people who’ve already made the significant jump to understanding that one should do more than dress up for a few charity dinners and clock an evening at a homeless shelter. Inefficient aid bureaucrats, despite their failings, are light-years past the upper-class high school senior I talked to yesterday that said that “white people face more obstacles and discrimination in today’s world than any other group“–an opinion that is not at all uncommon, among complete idiots.

Anyway. Here are the 5 most killer points from The White Man’s Burden.

1. Too big of goals equals no results. “If the aid business were not so beguiled by utopian visions, it could address a more realistic set of problems for which it had evidence of a workable solution.”

2. We are idiots to think input equals output: “the pathology that, in aid, the rich people who pay for the tickets are not the ones who see the movie.” As in, agencies advertise how much money they are putting into a project, but not anything about what comes out of it.

3. Donors should stop insisting on anything except for results: “The political incentives to do token amounts of everything are too strong.”

4. A nice alternate tactic is remarkably easy to conceive: “Just respond to each local situation according to what people in that situation need and want.”

5. The larger the intervention, the more danger it poses: “Artificially straight borders [those drawn by colonial bureaucrats] were statistically associated with less democracy, higher infant mortality, more illiteracy, less childhood immunization, less access to clean water…”

I will forget the fact that my school’s director once conducted a needs assessment of my village and decided that our greatest need was a “relaxation club” or “disco.” Aid, done correctly, still works.

Last Night at Chateau Marmont, by Lauren Weisberger

Did I ever admit that I liked The Devil Wears Prada? Because that is a fact about me that I no longer find embarrassing. There’s something about the state in which I have suddenly found myself (telling my puppy to “poop for Mama,” listening to my boyfriend be like “Oh, I’m Jia, I’m anti-establishment, look how much I’m over my sorority“) and the recent slew of head-in-ass articles like the GQ “Middlebrow” piece that has just been sapping my energy for any type of snarky judgment about likes and dislikes.

Clearly, if you have read this blog, I am no stranger to judging people by their tastes, but it’s a flawed science. Lately I’ve been reading Lauren Weisberger, watching Workaholics and eating two-thirds of my meals from the $1.50 taco truck parked next to the biker bar. Am I, at my core, just a ditzy ex-frat boy turned Mexican construction worker? The answer is simply no. I’m inching towards the conclusion that the soft idiocy of America’s tastes is determined by the simple fact that everyone works too hard. Sometimes you just want to buy a taco with your pocket change, take off your pants, and watch dumb stuff.

I will say that I hated Lauren Weisberger’s next two books after Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing and (especially) Chasing Harry Winston. Similarly, I am going to hate the chick flicks they turn into (they’ve been optioned by Universal already), and the “comic” actresses cast for how well their oversize facial features mask collagen implants, actresses who will have to fall down in heels approximately 7x over the course of the movie so that audiences will find them approachable.

But Weisberger’s latest, Last Night at Chateau Marmont, is quite entertaining and here’s why. The heroine, Brooke, is a nutritionist who works two jobs to support her sexy undiscovered rockstar husband (who is “artsy” and, naturally, forsaking a massive old-money fortune except for the house in the Hamptons). Julian gets discovered, the tabloid rumors start flying (he’s fucking everyone! she’s jealous like a shrew!), and Brooke is delightfully normal and predictable about it. Normal unfortunately meaning that she spends the whole book fighting insecurity and jealousy, but to be fair Julian turns into an asshole, both telling her to lose weight for the paparazzi and also screwing around with someone fatter than her. Can you imagine? Bottom line, it’s really enjoyable to read a book with a narrator who is openly like:

“Would it kill Julian to give her a little attention? ‘I think I might be pregnant,’ she announced.

‘You are not,’ he replied automatically.

‘How do you know? I could be. Then what would you do?’ She managed a faux sniffle.

He smiled and finally–finally!–put down the magazine. ‘Oh, sweetheart, come here. I’m sorry, I should have realized earlier. You want to cuddle.’

This Post Doesn’t Deserve a Title

When I don’t update this blog, I don’t check in on it because it absolutely ruins me to think of hundreds of visitors coming here every day (PS, who are you? I love you, thanks for coming, tell me what to read) and getting nothing except the same old links to my hack writing about how I like children’s books because they are the most appropriate to my attention span so pure. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that my blog still exists and functions when I don’t pay attention to it, but I feel so bad about not improving it and so undeserving of my traffic that sometimes I pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s a similar situation to Peace Corps, when I had no way of exercising, no way to bathe, and no mirror, which led to a convenient mental illusion that my body was a metaphysical object rather than something devolving into a spinal column surrounded by sheep fat.

But that’s a terrible analogy, because the reasons I haven’t updated my blog are much more surmountable and can be summed up as follows.

1) This puppy.

Her name is Luna! Two Saturdays ago, my boyfriend and I got up at 3 AM, drove to a suburb of Dallas, picked up this nugget of fluffy rescue joy, and took her back home so she could sleep in front of a different air conditioner. I’m an anxious, doting mama and every time I consider writing something asinine about how the main character in Ian McEwan’s Saturday clearly wants to fuck his daughter–”Despite my fantasies, this is no child” is the line that really set that theory in stone for me–I look at Luna and decide, incorrectly, that she needs something.

2. The series.

I mean, what a time-suck. A worthy one. But a time-suck nonetheless. I’m not going to say that I’m glad that it’s over, because I was really enjoying a) watching basketball all the time, which I haven’t really done since the Space Jam days, and b) switching my loyalty to first the Bulls and then the Mavs, which–since I moved to Houston in ’94 and naturally used to loathe those teams–gave me a certain transgressive pleasure. It was like having an angry threesome in the room where I used to hook up with my middle school boyfriend. Actually, I was in third grade in ’94, so that analogy is not just bad but also totally foul, please excuse me.

3) I’m writing a book. Not about me or related to me, don’t worry. It’s about a health care company running an amazing clinic in Africa. Turns out this is a lot of work! Turns out when I take tons of notes all day about business practices and international development (which is what this fascinating tome will be about–but actually I swear it’ll be good!) I have a hard time switching to the part of me that wants to sit around reading and kvetching all day. Which, in the long run, is probably a good thing.

4) I spend 75% of my free time just drinking water. This is a fact. It is like 100 degrees in Houston every single day, and one of my major hobbies is–yes this is stupid–hot yoga. (Not Bikram! Bikram is for people who make better to-do lists than I). So literally I drink out of a vase from Ikea and consider setting me and Luna up with an in-home salt lick.

5) I don’t have a good reading list. Again, if you’re reading this, I love you and I need your help! I just finished The Possessed, which I liked a lot, but I’ve been reading so much business nonfiction that I need something seriously good to get me going again. An Atlas of Impossible Longing is on my list, so is A Visit from the Goon Squad (I really hate the cover of this book and it’s keeping me from buying it), but other than that I’ve got nothing except David Foster Wallace titles that I am afraid will depress me. All the titles I see on the best-seller lists look sappy. I just want to read something by a fiction writer who has something new. Help me help me.

Baby I Was Born This Way

Let’s say that all famous literary characters were born in 1985. What would they be doing today? Let’s imagine.

Anne Shirley (of Green Gables) is always cold. She has her own Etsy shop, where she sells flower headpieces and an assortment of wedding “tablescape” items, including her most popular piece, a wooden bluebird with a musical note in its beak. She is still a virgin, but gets aroused when watching The Tudors or reading historical fiction of any kind. During college, she studied abroad in Ireland and it totally changed her life.

Sherlock Holmes was diagnosed with ADD at age seven, but dislikes taking medication and has been trading pills for BJs since middle school. He was recruited by Bain & Company halfway through his freshman year at Columbia. He travels between Sao Paolo and Shanghai for work, and is gender-indiscriminate when seeking the company of an escort.

Humbert Humbert is that pale, greasy guy who always wears inappropriate hats, like a fedora or a tweed newsboy. He clears his web history every day.

Alice in Wonderland is a Phish head who likes to take her shoes off. A quiet girl, she nevertheless possesses remarkable party stamina and quietly orders five drinks minimum every time she goes to brunch.

Rhett Butler de-pledged his fraternity in the middle of hell week and, after pretending to be Rhett Butler the poker player a couple of times, became addicted to playing the game online. He amassed $20,000 that he intended to use to start a jalapeno vodka craft distillery, but the girl he was hooking up with lost the money when she was playing on his computer and didn’t think it was a real game. He has vowed to stay away from girls he meets at Bikram from now on.

Atticus Finch won the “RA of the Year” award for four years in a row. Halfway through 2L at Duke, he took a hiatus and flew to India, where he took residence in an ashram. His blog, http://insearchofpeaceandrighteousness.blogspot.com, has not been updated since January.

Daisy Buchanan lives in her parent’s pied-à-terre in Manhattan and, thanks to her trust fund, has been successfully crawling up the ladder of unpaid art internships for the last three years. Although her stainless steel fridge is plastered with printouts of Gwyneth Paltrow, she has developed an appropriately cynical sense of humor about her lifestyle and is the secret author of “White Girl Problems.”

Nick Adams actually exists. I am sure there’s a guy out there named Nick Adams who acts exactly like Hemingway’s character would. Nick Adams, the real one, works at a family friend’s wind energy company and just broke up with his sweet, laid-back girlfriend because she kept asking him “What are you thinking, right now?”

The Little Prince is a tweaked-out Grindr addict who lives in San Francisco and conducts “space Pilates” classes, where all the equipment is shaped like planetary objects, and each session takes place in a dark room lit only with glowsticks. He is dating Peter Pan.

Nancy Drew just got her real estate license and is worried that her friend Georgia is fooling around with Ned. She goes to the gym every day but totally hates her ankles and has hired a physical trainer just to slim them down. When she’s drunk, she has a tendency to take off running and return with shoplifted candy that she calls “clues.”

Romeo and Juliet were taken straight to the ER after their tragic teenage double suicide attempt. The pair recuperated fully in the UCLA teaching hospital. Saddled with two children, the couple’s most recent fight was over whether to watch American Idol or the Mavs-Thunder game. They stalk their elementary school crushes on Facebook and wonder why they rushed into things so fast.

Lord Voldemort received a Fulbright scholarship in 2007 to study the intersection of voodoo, microfinance, and modern medicine in Haiti. He raped the dog guarding his hostel and hasn’t been seen since.

Never Have I Ever Seen Oprah

Generally, I’m willing to try anything once, stopping short at injectables, carb-free living, and anything that could result in more than five years of jail time. I’m also generally willing to read anything, even things I don’t like, the latter being part of my quest to fully understand Republicans.

But there are some things I can’t bring myself to do and some books I can’t bring myself to read. Here they are, in correspondence.

I have never watched Oprah. Thus I’ve never read Tuesdays with Morrie. One peek in that book at Starbucks was enough to make me feel like I could make fun of it forever.

I have never worn Spanx. Thus I’ve never read Skinny Bitch or He’s Just Not That Into You. Life’s too short for things that make you disappointed in your natural self, which is the one that carefully assesses whether that’s Manchego or Gruyere on the cheese tray.

I have never used an ear candle or a Neti Pot. Thus I’ve never read The Secret.

I have never owned a Burberry scarf. Thus I have never read The Jewish American Princess Handbook.

I have never visited an author’s grave. Thus I’ve never read Ulysses or Remembrance of Things Past.

I have never bought a country music CD. Just kidding, I’m from Texas. I bought a Faith Hill CD in fifth grade and listened to it every day. But I will never read Heaven Is for Real.

I have never used a Blackberry. Thus I’ve never read either The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People or I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell. 

I have never worked or considered work outside of the “creative class.” Thus I’ve never read anything by James Patterson, Danielle Steele, or Nora Roberts.

I have never shopped at Lululemon. Thus I have never read If You Think He’s Cheating… He Probably Is.