Recently, while Husband was on a business trip, I re-watched “Julie & Julia.” I still like the book way better than the movie. But this time Julie Powell’s experience really spoke to me. Here’s why:
My family and friends know that I’m a little . . . um . . . different, and that one of the more irritating characteristics of this difference is my obsession with the past. Apparently I started working on this obsession at an early age because, from seventh grade through twelfth grade, I saved close to 600 notes my girlfriends and I passed to each other during those years. These notes have moved cross-country with me multiple times, biding their time in a large plastic storage bin with other assorted detritus from the 1970s and 1980s. I’ve transcribed more than 400 of them since December, and they’re going in my book My True North: Finding My Way Back To Me.
I’m not going to commit to releasing one note every day for the next year, like Julie Powell cooked her way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. But I am going to dive in and hope you enjoy this as much as I know I will. I figure if so many others can morph from bloggers to book writers, so can I.
Well here I am babysitting again. My mom found out that we broke-up. She said D’s mom told her that she didn’t think that we were getting along or something. My mom kept asking me why he didn’t come over or call, all I said was “don’t know.” Then she kept asking me if there was another girl. I said “I don’t know” (as usual.) This dumb dog is jumping all over the house (she’s about as big as a wild boar & acts like one) I didn’t exactly tell her that we broke up cause she thinks that “going together” is what you do when you’re about 18 or 17 maybe 16 or 15. So if I tell her that, she’ll tell a long stupid story or sompin’. My mom says that I shouldn’t like just one boy. So I told her “Well, T.’s nice & P. plays tennis. And then there’s T. but he’s taken.” So then she says, well just be sure that there nice. Then I told her what a butt & a jerk S. is. She tells me to be nice to him. Like hell! (‘scuse my Portugese) She says that . . . . Better just tell ya. Re-mind me to.
We were in seventh grade when this was written. As you can see, things haven’t changed much in more than 30 years–except maybe the means of communication. We’ve gone from pen and paper to texting and tweeting. One of the things I hope to get across in the coming months is how blessed I feel for having access to this window into the past through the pages of these notes. Most other people may not care about reliving times like these (or even want to), but I enjoy it immensely. It’s both entertaining and humbling.