Cleaving (Should Be Simply Re-Titled As "Cheating") by Julie Powell

So I finished reading Cleaving, Julie Powell's second book after the first, Julie & Julia, skyrocketed her from obscurity to blog-worthy-movie-screen fame.  Yes, after much head shaking, gasps of disbelief, anger, and swearing at ... um ... Julie, I threw down the book at glared at John.  "I just finished this book, finally," I said to him.  He turned from his place at the couch to look at me, with some relief and nervously laughed, "Good.  Heh heh.  Heh heh."  "Yeah, I hate her so much," I said.  I stared at the peaceful serenity of the garden outside our windows.  "If I ever met her, I'd punch her in the face."  I glared at John as if he were Julie.  He turned back to the safety of the football soccer game he was watching.  The game wouldn't punch him in the face.

Why?  I hear you ask.  Why read a book when the first one aggravated you so much, caused you to bitch about Julie at work and to anyone who was willing to hear?  Well, I don't know, curiosity, perhaps?  I wanted to know how a woman could single-handly hurt the man who loved her so much, so often and so intensely.  I wanted to hear the gruesome details of her lying, cheating, and self-righteousness.  In short, I was asking for self abuse.  Not to mention, I'm slightly conflicted because I sometimes do enjoy Julie's bitchy, witty tone and smarty-pants remarks.  It's only when her arrogance and inflated sense of self-worth threaten to make me vomit that I have to literally, throw the book across the room (thankfully I only own it in paperback - otherwise, our walls would have some damage). 

Worse yet, in the middle of reading it, I found her blog and read the readers' comments (fascinated), some 314 on one post, filled with effusive praise for Cleaving, calling the book "brave" and even ... "liberating."  Oh my God.  If this is what feminism has become, then I hang my hat up in shame.  Repeatedly cheating on your husband with some college fling you're obsessed (read: OBSESSED) with, then flirting with every man walking into your path and exposing all to make a profit in some mediocre, guise of a metaphor (she constantly links her apprenticeship at a butcher's to her marriage) is BRAVE?  LIBERATING?  (I mean, it's not just as if she cheats on the poor guy, feels bad about it, attempts to fix things, and writes a novel.  No, she cheats on him, rubs it in, becomes infatuated with her lover, rubs it in, then has the audacity to take on the 'poor me I'm soooooo alone' attitude).

Then, after all of THAT, I decided to go on the Guardian website and watch her debone a chicken so I could hear her voice.  I wanted to hear what she sounded like (talk about obsessed) and was left smug and satisfied when I read the derisive comments below about how she was going about the chicken all wrong and what a horrible person she is for cheating on Eric then writing about it.  Then I felt a little better.

So, please.  Go out and borrow - not buy - this book from your local library.  And read it.  Cover to cover.  Then we can sit down and have that conversation that goes something like, "Can you believe it?  No, me neither.  Don't you hate her?  Yeah, me too."  Then hit yourself over the head with a stick a few times.  Both have the same effect.

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