the truth about the truth about diamonds

Amanda, who is awesome, gave me a copy of Nicole Ritchie's "novel" for hanukkah/christmas/whatever this past December. This was a fabulous present. It immediately went in pride of place in my home, which is: the back of the toilet. Because the truth is that no one checks out the books in the bookcase unless they are standing around being bored and feel like developing a crick in their neck, and most people don't make it close enough to my bedside table to read the spines of the titles piled thereupon, but pretty much everyone who comes chez moi has to, at some point, pee. So the back of the toilet has become, unexpectedly but perhaps also unsurprisingly, the place to show off my personality via a carefully edited collection of reading material.

The catch, of course, is that the bathroom reading material really does have to be bathroom reading material. An ex boyfriend of mine who shall remain nameless once made a point, early in our relationship, of bringing the collected works of the B-level British empiricists into the bathroom with him, as if to say "you are so lucky to date me, I am smart and deep even whilst taking a crap." I should have fled, but instead I simply took away this lesson: bathroom reading material is and only is that material on which no one outside of an avant-garde sociology department would ever consider writing a master's thesis.

Nicole Ritchie's book falls into this category. Here's how I know: It's been about 4 months since Amanda gave me this gift (I just had to count off months on my fingers, and I feel the need to admit that fact), and I am still only on page 10. This is in no way meant to reflect on an infrequency of peeing on my part; rather, it reflects on the fact that this book. is. awful. I don't understand how it could actually be this bad. It takes a palpable act of will for me to pick it up and turn the pages. More often than not I just look at the color insert of really weird glamour photos of Nicole, and marvel at the bone structure around her eyes. But i just cannot deal with the actual text. I don't know how else to put it. And I had to share my amazement, which surfaced this evening when my roommate, Mia, said "how much longer is it going to take you to finish that book?" and I realized that it was entirely possible that I would never finish it ever.

For the record, the pile of reading material on the back of my toilet currently contains:
- The Truth About Diamonds
- the Vogue with Keira Knightley on the cover (the wizard of oz editorial shoot is mindblowing, i'm in love with it)
- the latest Design Within Reach catalog
- last month's Food & Wine magazine (I can't deal with this month's, since Bobby Flay is featured in large letters on the covere)

What this all says about me is open to interpretation, but whatever it is it's better than Alasdair MacIntyre.

1 comment:

James said...

So I was hoping that this was about Jared Diamond, or maybe the intractable dilemma facing the conscientious suitor who knows that only a diamond ring will do.

But fine, then I have to deal with the idea of bathroom reading. It just doesn't make sense. Is there some significant period of time during which it's a good idea to sit on the toilet paging through foodie magazines? What if you find a recipe you like? Isn't the reading material forever contaminated? Wouldn't you be more comfortable in a regular chair, or reclining on a couch?

Not that sociology doesn't belong on the back of a toilet - but more as a backup in case the toilet paper runs out, not as a distraction from the business of pooping.