Julie and Julia - Judged

Although the study of literature has heretofore largely been divided either by region (American Literature, English Literature, Tanzanian Literature), and time period (Pre 1900, Pre 1910, Pre 1930, etc.), there is now a new, much more efficient way to categorize what we read. I propose a simple system: books fall either into the realm of ‘Great Books, ‘Ok Books’, ‘Books that everyone says you have to read but really aren’t all that much, plus there is a BBC movie of them which will give you the gist’, and ‘Sharp Object Books’. A Sharp Object Book is defined thusly: I would rather jump into a barrel full of sharp objects naked than read it. Julie and Julia, by Julie Powell, is such a book.

This is the story of how one woman decides that cooking her way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking is an activity that will somehow benefit her. Or something. I don’t know. Honestly, it was hard to pay attention over the sound of me grinding my teeth to pointy spikes in frustration.

I was so excited to read this book. The back cover promised me ‘a feast, a voyage, and a marvel’, all of which are things I am relatively keen on (except for the kind of ‘marvels’ like, ‘It’s a marvel you are alive, but you will now live the rest of your life with your stomach in this plastic bag and the right side of your face buried somewhere in Des Moines’). The front cover showed me Amy Adams and Meryl Streep. However, evidently covers should not form the basis upon which you judge a book. The first few pages indicated further promise. This is the story of a woman who is almost thirty, wants to have a baby but can’t, has a shitty job, and doesn’t feel like she has anything going for her except her acerbic wit. Hey! Me too! I was thrilled. This book was going to solve all my problems.

However, within a few pages, the asshattery of this diatribe was revealed. While at first I was looking forward to commiserate with someone who shared my hilarious bitterness and craptastic lifestyle, I soon realized that Julie Powell was a fake. I will itemize my complaints for easy hatred.

Item the first: Bitch lives in New York. I don’t care if it is rat and actor infested. I don’t care if you have to live in a pigeon nest behind the Times Square Coca Cola sign. You live in New York, you are better than me.

Item the second: Bitch is married. She’s complaining about the pointlessness of her existence, but SHE HAS SOMEONE TO DO IT TO. I have to complain to strangers on the Internet! However useless she may feel, she has someone willing to hang around with her. This husband never does anything wrong. Sometimes, after she throws pots around the kitchen and goes to bed, he cleans the whole apartment up. Sometimes, he travels all around Manhattan and the surrounding area for wacky ingredients. And then sometimes, his shrew of a wife whines that her life isn’t good enough.

Item the third: She eats nothing but cream and butter and organ meats for a year, and never gains weight. I gained eight pounds reading this fuckery.

Item the fourth: She consistently throws dinner parties. This means she possesses the following: a roof, furniture (or at least a modest assortment of sturdy, and various-sized boxes), money with which to buy food, and the instruments to prepare said food, time to do all the preparation and assembling of furniture-shaped boxes, and friends. People with these things don’t have problems and resulting book deals. They have martinis. Martinis and my never-ending wrath.

Item the fifth: Then there are all these pointless diversions into the equally vapid ‘non-problems’ of her friends, which involve finding marital bliss, having great sex, and getting fed duck which you did not have to debone. I have no idea what the point of any of those meandering thought-farts was, other than to flesh out this thing so that some of the movie producer’s prostitute girlfriends could have bit parts and make their entry into legitimate film. Not even her friends have problems. WHY DID I READ THIS?

Item the sixth: She owns items of clothing including but not limited to a Mongolian fur coat, and a Madonna-esque pointy bra corset.

Item the seventh: She, along with so many others, is a hyper-sarcastic, extremely wordy middle class girl who can occasionally make people laugh, and is totally charmed by her own quirkiness. These people should not be allowed to exist. They are all horning in on my racket. Don’t be the butter-loving, Buffy-watching funny girl around me, lady, that’s my bit, and you will lose.

(Additional reason for hatred: I can't blame this on her, but reading this book in public made me one of 'those women'. Because I was holding it in my hands, I immediately labeled myself as pathetic, and alone, because, clearly, only a single woman approaching thirty who loves to eat would spend money on such a thing.)

Wah wah wah, Julie Powell. Is the sun shining too brightly on your delicate, porcelain, blemish free skin? Are the bluebirds that wake you from slumber singing too loudly? Do you need your husband to go buy you another vintage Chanel suit because your boobs are too big for this one? These are not problems. You should not have a book.

I started hating this bitch around page 97, when the big problem was that her Orange Bavarian Cream tuned out in two layers of different (but equally delicious) consistency, and not like how Julia Child said it was supposed to. This problem was solved in about four sentences, and ended with a fabulous dinner party in which everyone at the Bavarian Cream, she realized how much love she had in her life, and adult-contemporary music played in the background under the sounds of their twinkling laughs and clinking glasses. Die in a fire, shitface. But then it became a personal battle. I had to defeat the book: it could not defeat me. However, finishing the thing did not leave me satisfied. It, like so many meals before, left me confused, sweaty, and full of vague anger. It is not enough to have finished the goddamn thing. Now, I must prevent others from following my tragic path.

Don’t read this book. Do not give this woman any money. You will become a person possessed, and for no reason. You will gain nothing. NOTHING! In fact, I almost guarantee that reading this note has provided you with more entertainment than the entire book provided me. However, this is true entertainment: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWmvfUKwBrg

In summary, to recap:
Jessica Moss: Funny, pretty, a real catch, and very interesting and valuable.
Julia Child: No Jessica Moss, but certainly interesting and valuable.
Julie Powell: SHOULD BE EATEN BY FERRETS.

P.S. In the end, the chocolate cake did it.