Sweet Valley High Ten Years Later: Like Eating a Bolonga Sandwich When You're 25

I’ve decided that occasionally, I am going to review ridiculous things. Like products that I buy off late night television and direct-to-video horror films. First up: Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.



I’d love to say that, as a child, I lost myself in the likes of Wuthering Heights and Pride & Prejudice. But that would be a big, fat lie. Instead, I got swept away in gossipy, vastly inappropriate junk food books; namely, the Sweet Valley High series.

I don’t know how it started. I was on my way with Judy Blume classics, like Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, Blubber and Deenie. And then, one day, I picked up a copy of Sweet Valley High and fell in love with it. It’s easy to understand why. These books are, on average, 150 pages, which meant you could read one in an afternoon. They were about nothing important; just filled with schlocka that allowed you to escape your crappy Midwestern life and indulge in the antics of the Wakefield sisters.

Give me a break. I was a fat nerdy kid in Minnesota. Why wouldn’t I be impressed with the likes of Sweet Valley, a magical place in Southern California filled with Fiat convertibles, boyfriends with motorcycles and parents who were seemingly never there to stop their children from being giant assholes. Who wouldn’t want to live there, if only for an afternoon?

Just in case you’re a terrorist and therefore unfamiliar with the Sweet Valley High series, let me give you a high-level overview: Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield are 16 year old twin sisters. Each twin is vastly different: Elizabeth is sweet, studious, responsible and ambitious; Jessica is scheming, petty, gossipy and hot-to-trot. They have friends named Enid, Lila, Winston and Bruce. Elizabeth has a boyfriend named Todd and Jessica dates everyone. The original series was written in the 80s, so things like wild parties, drinking, drugs and sex were off limits. If they wrote the series now, Jessica would likely be at the free clinic on a weekly basis and Elizabeth would be vying for an anchor position at Fox News.

Francine Pascal is always listed as the author of all Sweet Valley High books, as well as all the books in all the spin-off series: Sweet Valley Twins, Sweet Valley University and The Unicorn Club. Yes, The Unicorn Club. I have no idea what this was about. I should mention that I have never read any of the spin-off series.

In truth, Francine Pascal is the head writer of a team of ghost writers, all of whom stick to a certain predetermined Sweet Valley formula for each book. In my mind, I picture an older, glamorous woman, a la Lauren Bacall, wearing a Chanel suit, sitting at the head of a giant table, barking commands at weary, defeated young writers who are happy to have a job but less-than-thrilled to be writing about the high school shenanigans of a couple of Aryan Nation look-alikes. I also imagine she has a little dog in her lap and always wears pearls.

I digress. The topic at hand is my review of Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later, a book released in early 2011 that catches up with Elizabeth, Jessica and the gang at age 28. You may be wondering, “Why in God’s name did you read that?” Well, technically, I didn’t. I listened to it. I’m a sucker for free trials and Audibles.com offered me two free book downloads to try their service. Digital books are fantastic on long road trips. I don’t plan on taking any long road trips any time soon but…it could happen. SVC is so far the only book I’ve downloaded.

I knew it would be bad. No…horrendously bad. Like deciding to have a bologna and cheese sandwich in your 20s because you loved them when you were 8. You take a bite and immediately ask yourself why you aren’t eating a nice maple ham or smoked turkey from Lunds. What did you ever find appealing about creepy suspect parts of a pig smushed together into a log and then sliced into floppy, moist pink circles? And then you throw the sandwich away and go out for sushi.

Truthfully, I have been intrigued by this book since I read a review of it in Entertainment Weekly. The reviewer warned me that it was baaaaad…but my curiosity was still there. So one Audibles download later, I was in the car, listening to Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.

The nice thing about listening to books is the warm, soothing sound of the professional voice reading them to you. January LaVoy, who is apparently on One Life to Live or All My Children or something, did an excellent job of voicing each character uniquely, including the men. She should also be commended for not stopping in the middle of taping and saying, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Or maybe she did; that’s the power of sound editing.

It is present day and Elizabeth Wakefield is living in New York City, writing for a publication called Stage Survey, which she constantly describes as “a Zagat-type guide to off-Broadway shows.” Immediately, we see that our normally gentle, loving Liz is troubled. Why is she troubled? Where is Todd, her basketball player boyfriend from high school? Where is Jessica?! How could she have left the marshmallow filled streets of sunny Sweet Valley for the cold, bleak hardness of Manhattan?

Because Todd left her for Jessica. What? Daaaaaaamn. That’s right; Todd Wilkins and Jessica Wakfield live together a town house in Sweet Valley, agonizing over how they’ve destroyed poor Elizabeth’s life. There is lots of crying and moaning and writhing about what they’ve done. So much so that I have no idea why they’re still together.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, seems to have a pretty amazing life: she’s a working journalist in New York City, which is what she always wanted to be. She has a one-bedroom apartment. One bedroom. In Manhattan. Considering that Show Survey is a freebie that homeless people wipe their bums with, I’d say Ned and Alice are footing the bill for their daughter’s high-falootin’ one bedroom Upper East Side digs. She even has a doorman and an elevator. Who needs Todd?!

The book centers around Jessica and Todd’s impending wedding and whether or not Elizabeth will forgive them and be Jessica’s maid of honor. I’m going to guess NO because who in the hell would do that? “Ok, I forgive you.” “Oh good! Will you be in the wedding when I marry your former boyfriend, who I started sleeping with five years ago behind your back?” “Go fuck yourself.”

The book provides us with flashbacks that uncover how Jessica and Todd’s betrayal came to fruition. Apparently, during their time at Sweet Valley University, Elizabeth was sick one evening and begged Jessica to go with Todd to a college party, which he refused to attend alone. I’m sorry, but what is this guy’s problem? Are you 5? Can you not go to a party without your girlfriend? Anyway, Jessica begrudgingly agrees, even though she and Todd cannot stand each other. For no reason I can determine, they end up sleeping together. Sure, there’s some sexual tension in the air and they’ve had a few dozen cocktails. So logic would step in here and say, “Ok, they had a drunken fling one night. It happens. Moving on.” But no; they begin a secret affair that mostly takes place in Todd’s car. Gross.

Then, while on vacation in Paris, Jessica meets and marries a dude named Reagan. Reagan is loaded and hot. He showers Jessica with jewelry, handbags, clothing, glamorous trips and a yacht, and all she has to do is look pretty and provide the occasional blow job. This is not enough for her, so she leaves Reagan and moves in with Elizabeth and Todd. She could have moved in with her parents down the street, but because Jessica Wakefield is apparently an antisocial sociopath, she moves in with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend, who she was buggering not long ago.

Reagan shows up in Sweet Valley and picks up on the fact that there is sexual tension between Todd and Jessica that has its own zip code, a fact Elizabeth seems to miss entirely. Perhaps it was all the grief surrounding the death of Winston Eggbert, who, in his 20s made a billion dollars in the “dot com boom” and became a super asshole who died alone in his McMansion. Reagan blows the lid off Toddgate and Elizabeth flees to New York.

8 months later, she is convinced to return to Sweet Valley for the 80th birthday of her “grandmommy.” Because she is a planner, Elizabeth brings a hot Irish bartender named Liam with her in an attempt to show Todd that Jessica is still the whore she was in high school. Liam is all over Jessica and Todd gets mad and a big old fight breaks out at Grandmommy’s birthday celebration at The Sweet Valley Golf Club. Liz returns to New York but not before blaming Liam for the whole mess, which makes zero sense.

Todd accuses Jessica of flirting and won’t speak to her, so she does what anyone in this situation would do: she leaves him. One fight and she’s gone. She shows up at Elizabeth’s in New York, thoroughly confusing the doorman, who has apparently never heard of identical twins. There is sobbing and embracing and all is forgiven. The end.

The fringe characters make an appearance throughout the book. Lila Fowler, Jessica’s snotty, rich bestie in high school, has married Ken Matthews, SVH’s star quarterback who is now a professional football player. They are separated due to Lila’s need to share her snatch with the neighborhood. Everyone thinks Lila and Steven Wakefield, the twins’ older brother, are doin’ it but surprise! Steven Wakefield is secretly GAY, which his wife, Cara Walker, is not aware of. Jessica busts Steven and his boyfriend Aaron and decides to tell Cara that Steven is a fan of the skin flute, further proving that she is a complete and total psycho. No redeeming qualities. None whatsoever.

Enid Rollins, Elizabeth’s former best friend, is a gynecologist who is dating a younger, hot guy who works at the mall. This causes people to mock her behind her back but I think it sounds awesome. I’d say that, out of everyone, she’s got the best deal. Caroline Pierce, Sweet Valley’s resident gossip, is up to her old tricks, despite being nearly bald after a battle with cancer. In one fantastic moment, Jessica snaps at Caroline, “You’re sick!” and then realizes that she really is sick. Seriously, I’m expecting Jessica to start murdering and dissecting small animals any time now.

And finally, Bruce Patman, the swanky “It” boy who drove a Porche all through high school with a license plate that read “1BRUCE1” has become Elizabeth’s best friend. She sat with him at the hospital while his father clung to life after an accident that killed his mother. And now, he realizes he loves her. Bruce ends up slipping her the hot beef injection and then accompanies her to Jessica and Todd’s wedding. Call me crazy but I always thought Bruce was gay. His name is Bruce and he drives a Porche. Missed opportunity, Francine.

So here’s why it sucks:

1. Jessica is so unlikable, you’re practically praying that her ex-husband Reagan murders her and tosses her over the side of his yacht, Dexter-style. She was always despicable but she seems to have reached new, ultraviolet levels of awful. She does things like outing her brother and his boyfriend, stealing her sister’s one true love, and being a total bitch to a woman with cancer and we’re supposed to feel sorry for her because Elizabeth won’t take her phone calls. She’s lucky Elizabeth and Steven don’t perform Nazi-era medical experiments on her without anesthesia.

2. Todd is sooooooooo lame. Why any two women would fight over this guy is totally beyond me. He’s closed off, super jealous, has no personality and there isn’t even a passage about his amazing sexual prowess or anything that would explain to me WHY he’s still a part of this story. He’s like a piece of furniture through most of the book. He does nothing except fulfill a perverted fantasy of fucking two chicks that look exactly alike.

3. Steven Wakefield’s Journey to Gaytown doesn’t even have a bisexual pit-stop. He’s married to Cara Walker and then runs into Aaron Dallas one day and BAM. They go back to Aaron’s place and Steven plays pitcher to his catcher. Whichever ghost writer did Steven’s storyline has apparently never even sat next to a gay man on a bus. It goes something like this: “Steven always had a lot of male friends. He also had several girlfriends and currently has a wife. The idea that he might be attracted to men has never, for one nano second, crossed his mind. Once, he looked at a fellow basketball player’s balls and sack in the locker room but felt nothing remarkable. Then he plowed Aaron Dallas. Aaron Dallas is an interior designer, which is a really popular job amongst gay men, I heard.” Yep, that’s about all we get regarding Steven’s sudden affinity for buttholes.

4. Elizabeth is clearly an alcoholic. Every move she makes that has any amount of balls only happens when she’s had 4 or 5 drinks. The rest of the time, she moves through her life like a zombie, completely gutted over her sister’s betrayal. She leaves old food on the kitchen table, eats chicken that’s been in her fridge for a week and blames everyone else for her misery. Also, she sleeps with randoms and cries after every orgasm. She cries after every orgasm. I’m not making this up. Someone else did.

5. All old rich people are completely insane and Francine Pascal is no exception. Apparently, in a fit of unleashed crazy, she commanded her team of writers to use the word “additionally” as many times and they could. I imagine she was proofing pages of copy and let loose howls of rage, ripping the pages to shreds, screaming, “MORE ‘ADDITIONALLY' GODDAMMIT! WHEN I SAY TO USE THE WORD ADDITIONALLY TO EXCESS, I FUCKING MEAN IT! YOU SONS OF BITCHES! BUY COPPER! BUY COPPER!”

In conclusion, this book is terrible. You should read something meaningful instead of reading this book. However, it is sort of fun, in the same way ding-dong-ditch is sort of fun. Additionally, I imagine in a few weeks time it’ll be found on the bargain table for about 50 cents. Then you should buy it.

We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day

When I was a kid, I was a burgeoning alcoholic, desperate for attention. I could never have enough. I used to throw myself down the stairs so my mother would rush to my side and lavish me with concern, love and unconditional devotion.

And that is why I am nearly blind at age 35.

Not the stairs. Please; I was a kid, which means I was practically made of rubber and other bouncy material. An ass-over-tea kettle tumble down the stairs was a Saturday afternoon. No, my blindness came from my insatiable need for attention.

Here's how it works.

Remember all the tests you had to do when you were in elementary school? Blood pressure, hearing and vision. We all filed into the multipurpose room (which was used for a multitude of purposes) and made our way through the stations. You'd put the headphones on and raise the hand that corresponded with the ear in which you heard the beep. You'd have your blood pressure taken by a sadistic school nurse you were pretty sure was trying to cut off your arm using only her blood pressure cuff. You'd cover one eye and read the smallest line on the chart.

Incidentally, do they still do this? What was this all about, anyway? Were we a generation of children whose parents didn't take us to the doctor? My parents used to drop volumes of the encyclopedia on the kitchen floor to see if I was deaf because I talked so fucking loud. They also probably figured I would tell them if I couldn't see.

One year on We'll  Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day, I decided that my parents needed to show me a little bit more concern, dammit. I covered one eye and read the top line on the eye chart. The teacher manning this particular station looked at me with concern.

"Is that the smallest line you can read, Dresden?"

"Yes," I replied, with wide brown eyed innocence. She wrote something in my chart.

A few weeks later, I left school early with my mother for a real vision test with a doctor. My little legs swung off the edge of the creepy chair they make you sit in and the doctor talked to me like you'd talk to any 8 year old...who was an idiot.

"Ok, now, Dresden. What we're going to do is cover up your left eye with this little thingamajig here. When your left eye is covered, I want you to look at the chart out there--you see that chart on the wall? The one with all the letters. Ok, I want you to look at that chart and read the smallest letters you can see. Are you ready? Ok, now, I'm going to cover your eye. I want you to read the smallest letters you can see."

"K H O R."

It was the top line, the line with the biggest letters. Even in the darkened room, I could see the concerned look that passed between my mother and the doctor. He did the same thing with my right eye and this time, I read the line directly under the top line. You know, so they didn't think I was blind. Then the doctor put some drops in my eyes and gave me a pair of disposable sunglasses because those are eye exploding drops and if you look directly at the sun after they give them to you, you'll turn to dust in an eyesplosion.

Then one day, it happened. I went to get glasses. This was a big fucking deal. I couldn't see, so my parents were very concerned, which meant I got glasses. Naturally, like any good 8 year old girl, I picked out the pink plastic frames. As anyone who has gotten glasses for the first time knows, a new prescription is like putting two random round bottoms of drinking glasses over each eye. It's what I imagined dropping acid would be like: circusy and unbalanced.

Eventually, Dresden Getting Glasses wasn't a big deal and I was just another fat nerd. Then my sister--the bitch--had the nerve to have seriously crooked teeth and got braces. I begged my parents for braces but they said I didn't need them. Braces were even better than glasses; every time my sister got her braces tightened, she'd lay on the couch moaning and my mother would let her eat ice cream and NO ONE PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEE.

Now, AT 35, I'm fucking blind. I can't see shit. Without my glasses or contacts, anyone could easily take me prisoner. Justin Beiber could be standing right in front of my face telling me he's George Clinton and The Parliament Funkadelic and I'd be like, "Well...if you say so." Sometimes I wake up in the morning and don't put my glasses on right away and try to do something. I usually just end up knocking over everything in the room before I think, "Shit, where are my glasses?" I've taken my contacts out at night before knowing the exact location of my glasses and then flown into a full-blown panic because it's really hard to look for something when you can't see.

And all because I needed some attention. I should have stuck to throwing myself down the stairs.

For the next two weeks, I have to wear my glasses because I'm going into see Dr. Skywalker, who will determine if he can shave some layers off my eyeballs with his light saber and restore my sight. Even though I'm terrified of the process, I know I'll be happy when I can see. Or I'll be totally blind because he burned my retinas and drilled a laser hole in my iris. But then maybe they can do an eye transplant and I'll get the eyes of a serial killer and spend the rest of my life helping the police find the bodies of his victims. That would be cool.