I read Cleaving by Julie Powell . . .

and didn’t like it.

I picked up this book for two reasons: I’d read Julie & Julia and liked it (and the movie) and because I wanted to know what went through the mind of an adulterer. What would make her (or him) decide that marriage vows were pretty much a joke and not morally binding. Having been the cheat-ee, I wanted to experience the cheater.

I wanted something personal. Less clinical, less detached than a book from Barnes & Noble’s relationship section. I wanted emotions, reasons, motivations, no matter how shaky or asinine.

I picked the wrong book.

Julie Powell writes more passionately about carving up a side of beef than she does about carving up her marriage. She seems to fall in bed with the other guy for no reason other than he asks her out to lunch after years of silence. He’s not much to look at, she claims; his one redeeming trait, to her, is that he doesn’t mind getting a little rough in the sack. If all she wanted was biting, she could’ve hooked up with Mike Tyson.

or a zombie.

Hooking up with a zombie would have so improved this story.

Powell just comes across so . . . boring. And self-involved. And whiny. I wanted to buy a plane ticket to New York just so I punch her in the neck.

Eh. Well, that’s it for this review. If you must read this book, borrow it from the library.

Jeez, you know a book’s bad when you can’t even summon up enough energy to review it.

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