My book club in San Diego had three rules: Try to have your book selections two months in advance, make sure it's a book that you enjoyed or comes highly recommended by a trusted friend, and no sleeping with anyone’s husband. When they were first told to me, I laughed out loud.
“You girls are such a hoot!”
“No, Lisa, we’re serious. It happened last year. She’s not in the club anymore.”
No offense, but it’s not like anyone is married to Clive Owen.
“Got it. You can count on me!”
I am a long way from California. Even though I am pretty sure none of the ladies in the Monday night Cornell Campus Club Book Club swing, our rules are much stricter. The reading list is voted on and set a year in advance.
We spent last Monday reviewing options for the upcoming year and it was a knock-down drag-out. Since I didn’t have an infant glued to my breast or an oxygen tank to wheel around, I put on some boxing gloves and got busy. I noticed most of the women in the room were ignoring me and deferring to Jane on almost every book and I couldn’t understand why. I did my homework and had good book suggestions. I brought a nice bottle of wine and vegan dish-to-pass and didn’t take too many meatless balls from the buffet.
My friend and sometimes partner-in-crime saw I was getting flustered. She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Jane has a P.h.D in literature from Harvard.”
Why is it that in California you are warned about your potential naughty behavior and in Ithaca you are warned about your so-not-great-intelligence?
All I know is that if my choices are to eat meatless balls with a Harvard Ph.D. or drink wine with a Gal who got through UCSB on the P/NP (party/no party) grading system, the decision is clear! And I would expect we could skip back and forth between the tips in July's Cosmo and the character development in Olive Kitteridge.
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