Bye-Bye Book Club

The idea formed over a glass of wine and a plate of cheese. I was sitting with Kari at Shutters on the Beach, a hotel that would host Kari’s wedding reception in a few short months. My own wedding was that same summer, and I'm pretty sure the purpose of the meeting was to talk about invitations, or flowers, or menu items. Instead, Kari said, “We should start a book club.”

“Hey, I’ve always wanted to be in a book club,” I said. “I love books.”

Kari had been in a book club before. A formal one. “There were all these rules,” Kari said. “Nobody could pick a hardcover book – we had to wait until the paperback edition came out, everyone was supposed to come with a list of questions, and they spent the entire time discussing the actual book.”

“Ugh,” I said, picturing a group of cerebral looking women wearing round spectacles and holding fat paperback copies of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina.

Our book club, we decided, was going to be fun. Casual. If there was a book we wanted to read and it was still in hardcover, well we’d just go ahead buy it anyway.

It’s been three years, and we’ve stuck to plan, especially the “casual” part. For the first ten minutes we’ll greet each other. Then, for the next hour, we’ll catch up. Somewhere around 8:30 someone will say, “Should we talk about the book?”

Yes, we should.

We’ll whip out our $24.95 hard cover copies, of which almost no one has read.

“Don’t tell me how it ends,” Robin will say. “I swear I’m gonna finish it.”

“Yeah, don’t tell me what happens after page 6,” Kari will say. “That’s how far I got.”

Amy is always the lone person who has finished the book, cover to cover. Always. Not that this hinders the group discussion, it’s just that we’ll revert to personal matters again. At this point the wine’s been flowing, so the sharing becomes quite interesting.

Towards the end of the night someone will say, “Should we pick a book for next time?”

Yes, we should.

We’ll launch into a 40 minute debate that involves brainstorming, looking at past lists, logging onto Amazon.com, pulling out the NYT bestseller list, the works. Don’t ask me why. No one except Amy will read it. But what can I say? I love our book club. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Over the years we’ve seen each other through weddings, births, career changes, housing purchases, and construction. Because we take turns hosting, we’ve tasted each other’s cooking. (I have to say, Amy wins on this front too. Her meals are complete with an appetizer, entrée, and the kind of dessert that involves sprinkling mini-chocolate chips and drizzling sauces.) Best of all we’ve become close friends.

But one night I have an announcement.

So does Amy.

“I’m moving to Maryland,” I say.

“I’m moving to Charlotte,” Amy says.

The last book club was at my place. Miraculously, almost everyone read the book, not that we spent any time discussing it. Instead, we dealt with the impending bust up.

The big question was whether or not the current book club would continue minus two members.

“I think we should still meet,” Kari said.

The other members nodded.

“Let’s pick a book for next time,” someone said.

In that moment, a separation occurred. Suddenly, it was “us” and “them.” Amy and I were not a part of the next phase of book club. In less than 30 seconds the new book club picked Prep.

“That was easy!” Kari said.

The night was over and the book club girls filed down the stairs. I stood at the door of my apartment, watching. “Bye-bye!” I called. “Thanks for the best book club ever!”

There were shouts and murmurs from the stairs: “Aw” and “it was the best” and more “bye-byes.”

Even though I was smiling and filled with gratitude, I had to take in a deep breath and stuff back tears. Bye-bye book club. Bye-bye.

Got Milky?

Technically I’m in Portland for a writers’ workshop, but because I’m staying with my friend Kit, her husband, and their two boys, I end up with an incredible bargain: $275 for a peek into my future. If I do end up giving birth to a munchkin or two, here are snippets of my upcoming life:

Morning

5:30 a.m. I lift my head from the pillow of the guest room bed where I’m sleeping. Will, 3 years old, is standing in the doorframe. He’s not supposed to wake me before 6:30. His tiny hand is stuck on the doorknob and I can hear him breathe, “Heh, heh, heh.” When I say, “Hey there, Will,” he steps backwards and shuts the door.

6:29. It’s a party. Will and his 5-year-old brother Jack are in my bed, one on each side. I’m not a hug-y, kiss-y, let’s snuggle sort-of-gal, especially when runny noses are involved, so I suggest breakfast. On the way out, Will spots a trashcan in my room. He peels off his diaper and drops it inside.

6:31. Milky – milk poured into a sippy cup – is in hot demand. The rule: Will is allowed four Milkys per day; he can drink his Milkys whenever he wants, but once they’re gone, they’re gone. He’s usually chugged three before the clock hits 7:00am, but so far this morning he’s only had one. Kit hasn’t made the others yet, so I pour him two more – “just two please” – and Will tells me exactly which shelf to place them in the fridge.

6:35. Will and I are playing Caribou for the sixty-seventh time. Kit, bleary-eyed, makes the fourth Milky.

6:45. Will opens the fridge. He sees the remaining Milkys lined up in a row. Boom, boom, boom. Out of nowhere there is screaming – Will’s screaming – and there are tears and “Nooooooos” and a flying Milky. I duck as the Milky hurtles past my head. It lands on the counter with a thud. “He didn’t want a fourth Milky today,” I tell Kit. “I can see that,” she says.

Mid-Morning

At the park, Will holds an aluminum bat. He’s given me his mitt – it fits over three of my fingers – and a baseball. Even when I explain that my aim stinks and I’ll probably knock him over like a bowling pin, he insists that I toss the ball from the pitcher’s mound. He keeps whiffing, but he’s not discouraged. Out of the blue he’ll declare “I hit it!” even though he didn’t, and he’ll drop the bat and run.

Bedtime

The parents are at a school auction, so after my writers’ workshop I join the Babysitter. She puts Jack to bed while I put Will to bed. But the bedtime instructions, written on a piece of sturdy green paper and left on the kitchen counter, are complicated. Bedtime involves diapers, and medication, and teeth-brushing, and fluoride pills, and books, and certain lights on, and other lights off, and certain doors closed, and other doors open, and blankets named Blankie, and Teddys named Frankie, and hugs, and more books, and singing.

Singing? I don’t do singing.
Not fa-la-la-la.
Not Happy Birthday.
Nothing.
I sound like a dying cow when I sing.

But first there’s another party. This time it’s in the bathroom where all four of us – Jack, Will, the Babysitter, and I – are crammed inside. Jack is recovering from Scarlet fever, so he’s begging for Tylenol. He took a Benadryl this morning, a vitamin for lunch, and a shot of antibiotics after dinner. “Your Mom didn’t say anything about Tylenol,” the Babysitter says. Jack fiddles with the childproof top, obsessing over his drugs. The Babysitter looks at me. “This is a bad sign for his teenage years.” Meanwhile, Will swallows his toothpaste instead of spitting it in the sink.

It’s diaper time and I’m confused. “Hey,” I call across the hall to the Babysitter. “Do these sticky thingies go in front or back?” I’m holding the contraption by one corner.

“They start in the back and end in front,” she says.

I flip it around. Will stands in the middle of the rug, pants off, watching. There’s no changing table.

“Then what?” I say. “Does Will lie down on the floor?”

“He just stands,” she says.

I must look panicked because Will walks over and climbs into bed. With patience, he lies on his back and rolls his feet in the air. Then he pulls the diaper underneath his butt and smiles.

Sweet boy.

I flip the top of the diaper towards his bellybutton.

“Wait,” Will says softly, “my penis isn’t straight.” He plunges one hand inside and arranges everything just so.

Okay then.

We put on his pajamas, we read, we sip water.

“Now sing,” Will says. “The ABCs.”

I’m relieved. I can talk my way through that song. Still, I glance around to make sure no one is listening. The Babysitter and Jack are in another room.

Spotlight on.

At the speed of lightening I spill out the first half: “abcdefghijklmnop.” But then I have second thoughts. Finish too soon and he might want an encore. Thankfully, Will claps without requesting more. I bow. Actually, I bow three times. I bow in my half-sitting position on Will’s bed, then I bow again at his doorway, and finally, the next day, I bow good-bye to the crystal ball and its visions of my future life.

Back in LA

“I don’t think I can do this,” I say to my husband when he picks me up at the airport. By “this” I mean raise kids. He says: “It’ll be tough, but it’s selfish to not have kids.” I feel bad – the poor guy just wants to be a father.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I say to my Mom over the phone. She says: “Oh, it’s fun. Don’t worry.” I feel bad – the poor woman just wants to be a grandma.

I don’t know. I just don’t know. So I decide to ask Google, Should I have kids? Google pulls up a quiz, and I answer 21 questions honestly. The test spits out two conclusions: (1) you appear unsure, think it over; and (2) why not buy a puppy? I already have a puppy, so instead I sit down with a tall, cold glass of Milky. And I think.

Time Crunch

All three of us forgot to spring forward – me, my husband, the dog.

Ron woke up first. “Holy crap. It’s 9:40,” he said.

I rolled onto my back and stretched into a yawn.

“The dog hasn’t been out in eleven hours,” he said.

The dog could’ve cared less. She was passed out on her lumpy green dog bed, a pile of drool under her snout, as if she’d spent the previous night knocking back tequila shots.

Ron roused her and dragged her outside. Then the three of us dilly-dallied around the apartment, finally migrating to the kitchen for French toast.

“Yay, yay, yay,” I sang, slipping around the tile floor in my socks. “We never sleep in and eat French toast. This is fun.”

The dog licked powered sugar off my fingers with her scratchy tongue.

“Holy crap,” Ron said. “It’s almost noon. Can that be right? We’re just now finishing breakfast.”

And so went the rest of the day, narrated by Ron. The man is obsessed with time, always has been.

“Holy crap, look at the time, I never went to the gym.”

“Holy crap, look at the time, I never bought milk.”

“Holy crap, look at the time, we’re running late for church.”

This last statement grabbed my attention, only because I was still in my pajamas. We attend a 5:30 late afternoon service (in my defense, I’d been writing most of the day).

“Well I’d better get-a-movin’ and jump in the shower,” I said.

Among the steam, shaving my leg, Ron poked his head around the curtain.

“Guess what?” he said.

“What?” I said.

“We forgot to spring forward.”

That explained a lot.

Actually, it wasn’t that we forgot to spring forward, it was that we didn’t realize we had already been sprung. Our computers and cell phones and cable boxes are all programmed to automatically propel us from standard time to daylight saving time.

“So that’s why today felt so screwy,” Ron said, relieved that the numbers on our clocks made sense again.

The dog didn’t care. And frankly, I didn’t either. I’m tired of being ruled by time. I remember saying to my therapist last year: “You know what I’d love? I’d love to throw away my alarm clock and stop wearing my watch. Instead of living by a schedule, I’d love to sleep when my body tells me she’s tired and eat when she tells me she’s hungry and take a walk when she tells me she needs some fresh air.”

Based on how much I enjoyed my sleeping-late, French-toast-munching, write-to-my-heart’s-content day on Sunday, I think I was onto something.