We gather once a month at Lolo’s place, the cubby bar table filled with wine and sparkling water, cheese and crackers by the time I get there. Linus the dog, whom we all believe is actually a furry human in disguise, greets and nestles us with ferocious delight. I’m so glad you’re here, I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming to play with me! Thank you thank you thank you, I love you, I love you, I love you! I love you, too, Linus-boy.
We pop peanut butter chocolate chip cookie dough into the oven, mouths salivating in anticipation while we talk about our weeks, our days, our babies (be it whatever form “baby” takes: human, canine, or urban vegetable garden). Eventually we grab our glasses and our plates and we make our way to Lolo’s covetous living room; really, we’re all waiting for her invitation to move in to the 800-square foot apartment, so we can live here forever and ever, amen. We too yearn for coziness ensconced within azure walls, for a just-as-cool thrifted wall motif to call our own. But for now Monday nights shall suffice.
And then the discussion begins: what did you like, what did you appreciate? What induced a wee bit of mouth vomit? We call each other by name, our questions getting more specific, one to the other, as each month passes. We feel the feels, and we recall passages; we talk about our own cultures and upbringings, our hearts intersecting with syntax and grammar, plot and climax, characters and setting. We bind to each other. We agree and we disagree, our inner sass growing sassier with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the cheese. Maybe it’s the warm-from-oven peanut butter cookies. One rates the book a 2, while the other, with tears in her eyes, gives it a 5. It just got me. And that’s okay, we say. That’s okay.
After awhile conversation wanes, so we move on to decide the next book on our list. Sometimes we cast our votes aloud, and sometimes we just unanimously decide that the Most Pregnant Lady [actually, not me] wins and gets to choose July’s book. We haven’t had a brawl thus far, nor have we closed our eyes, Head’s Up, Seven-Up style, although both might do a vote well. But as of yet, the votes keep coming and the books keep getting read; we keep showing up to Lolo’s house, and our hearts keep uniting together. And I kind of like it.
So cheers. Cheers to the Sassy Ladies Book Club, and cheers to friendships birthed via the pages of a novel, a memoir, a thinking piece of literature. Because, I tell you, there’s nothing like finding a group of nerdy book people to call your own.
January: Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children (Riggs), 3/5. Creepy kids in predictable form.
February: The Invention of Wings (Kidd), 4/5. I must say, Kidd’s brilliant.
March: Into the Tangle of Friendship (Kephart), 5/5. The memoir of my heart.
April: The Lowland (Lahiri), 4/5. Life is not this depressing.
May: The Rosie Project (Simsion), 5/5. Sometimes you just need funny.
June: The Death of Bees (O’Donnell) – currently reading.
PS: Do you not have a book club to call your own? Ask around at your local library, or hit up the neighborhood book store. Or, do as I did and send an email to a few bookish friends because you never know what might happen (and I dare say it worked).
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