Stalking Julie Powell Part Deux

by Steven Doyle

On slower days such as this we like to turn to Facebook for amusement. Nothing charms us more than a look-see through Julie Powell’s Facebook wall where she offers daily quips and anarchy. You may recall Powell from the book Julie and Julia, with the subsequent film of the same title.

She describes herself on Facebook as such: “I may be a narcissistic whore, a libidinous shrew, and a defiler of the institution of marriage, but other than that I’m really a very nice person.”

Stalk on with us as we filter through some of her updates. 

Am sitting a cafe watching a mother share a cafe au lait with her 4-year-old. Can’t tell if it’s charmingly European or utterly irresponsible.

It’s too bad that the least appealing thing about the new Zooey Deschanel show is Zooey Deschanel.

Little Olivia got into the oxtails and is feeling poorly. Hell, I got into the oxtails and am feeling poorly.

Okay, I just got teary at a California tourism ad. There is something seriously wrong.

Planning on making the drive from NYC to Texas for the first time in almost a decade, and in double-quick time. I think I may need speed of some variety, and will gladly take donations.

Beatrice’s farts smell like a barbecue pit.

I am 38 years old, and have never yet figured out how to smile without turning myself chinless.

So this Kraft Mac-n-Cheese commercial that’s everywhere recently, where the kid claims his dad’s stealing from him? Well, his plate consists of a pallid sad piece of fish, about five green beans, and a tiny scoop of Mac-n-Cheese. I suppose I should applaud the representation of healthy portions, but I just want to feed him half a pizza.

Less fun than the live frogs in my basement? The dead mallard in my pool.

I just biked past a 70-year-old woman, sitting on a bench at the top of the Pulaski bridge, smoking a cigarette, topless. I’m just assuming she’s Polish.

There’s a mystery person at our dog run who picks up after their dog with plastic bags, and then ties the bags to the trees and fence. It’s inexplicable and gross and creepy, like a Blair Witch of poop.

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Filed under Bake Sale, Ballet, Cakeballs, Knork, Noodles, Road Trip, Steven Doyle, therapy, Yoga

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