April 10, 2006

Changes



Happy Opening Day to my friends still working on the Cardinals' new ballpark! I thank everyone for the phone calls, the ticket offers, the pleading for me to come join in the event happenings. If only flights weren't ridiculously priced! Today I'm leaving work early to find a bar that will have the game televised: it's almost like being there. Again, I'd never sacrifice the past year and a half of my life with Craig just to attend today's activities. I say this just as my old friend RL sent me a photograph he must have snapped this morning (or yesterday) of Pujols' jersey hanging in his locker room. I do wish I were there.*Our weekend was quiet, after our busy last weekend in Atlanta. Friday we purchased a stack of video games for Craig, and Saturday he worked in the morning while I started reading the book that my friend AB mentioned to me last week, Julie Powell's memoir (if I may be so bold as to call it that). The book piqued my interest initially because of its relevance to my immediate life, a girl approaching 30 working as a secretary (plus some additional relevance I don't wish to mention just yet) and discovering self-purpose in the kitchen through an old copy of Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking while keeping a blog to chronicle her experience. Not that my kitchen endeavors can hold a candle to what she embarked on (because I have yet to cook any Julia Child recipe much less a French one!), but I at least relate to her experience based on several levels of similarities. Nevertheless, I purchased the book Friday night for $25 (hard back). Saturday morning I began to read it and my instinctive first response is that she is a really terrible writer. Unless some editor hacked her initial manuscript to pieces and basically rewrote it for her, in which case the editor would be to blame, the writing outright sucks. Sorry, Julie. She drops an unwarranted number of the F-word, first of all, which I wholeheartedly disagree with in a piece of writing, unless it is absolutely imperative to express a sentiment. This is a rare occurrence to me, because our language is powerful enough as it is which should lend to the ability to prove, explain, describe or illustrate a point without foul words. Julie's writing also doesn't flow as naturally as I wish it did. I found myself drifting off during her exposition about the crazy New Yorker having a tantrum on the subway platform: first, she didn't even write it well; second, its relevance to the story of searching for herself hardly seems plausible. And what New Yorker doesn't witness a lunatic on or near the subway regularly? Why is that in there?? Other than that the book is teaching me a thing or other two about New York, which is a positive. I'm already wondering if tossing around a litany of French words boosted the author's ego. However attractive the French language may be, and food words, to boot, she can't disguise bad writing with a few bourguignons and parmentiers. And the insertion of half-fictionalized vignettes about Julia and Paul Child throw me off base from the main theme of Julie's project. They don't provide the aspect of transitioning I think the author intended them to. I've only read about 60 pages, so this is quite the preemptive review. Plus, there's the envy factor: she did go from temp secretary to perm secretary to 'writing in her pajamas' practically overnight, and am I envious of that? Sure - I would be less of a person if I didn't admit to that. But do I think she's deserving of her new career because she hatched an interesting project to cook every single recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking? Not quite. Do I wish I had spent $25 on the hard cover copy? Not quite.*Yesterday I broke out the watercolors while Craig and I watched King Kong. It was a good thing I decided to multi-task during Peter Jackson's extended length film - much of the action I felt was gratuitous; even Craig leaned forward on the couch a couple of times and shouted the occasional, That would never happen! But he caught himself each time, too, remembering that the movie is about a giant ape, after all. I don't recollect I've ever seen a previous version, but Peter Jackson's film, while entertaining and visually happening, didn't motivate me to run out and grab an older remake or the original. Anyway, I miss my watercolors and developed a deeper sense of appreciation for them yesterday, despite the trivial nature of the project I'm currently undertaking. I suppose if I were able to draw better than I am able (drawing always stood in the way of painting for me: I'm alright at sketching, but far better at color detail) I would paint more often. But then again heck, if I were able to write more feasible beginnings, middles and endings, maybe I would short story-write more often, too. And here I criticize poor Julie, the accidental author.*Today my mom is announcing her 2-week notice at work. They sold the house in Greenwood. She will be moving to Michigan shortly following her final 2-weeks, and so it goes. Craig and I love change and look forward to our next adventure. It keeps us young. It reveals a brilliant perspective on our country and its wonderous diversity, its communities of different types of people. I posted a photograph of my parents and Craig and I in St. Louis in '04. It's my homage to my parents, to Craig, to the Cardinals and to change. It's also to commemorate my constant evolution, my commitment to continued improvement as I near thirty (29 happens to me now 7 short days from today!) Here's to chances. Here's to change.

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