Last night I participated in a book club. The same one I have been going to for about a year now. Nevermind that we spend most of the time chatting about non-book-related things. Last night we spent a whole 35 minutes on the book. At the end of book club there were only three of us left. We are always the last three. We hang on to the bitter end, dreading the cold truth that comes with opening the door into the not so warm and cozy outside of bookclub world. One book clubee told another about something super important, sort of crossing the line, but sort of being a good friend. It may or may not have involved a search of public records of a mutual "friend." Low and behold, at a totally inappropriate time of the night, we were calling a strangers house to ask for a non-stranger. We mapquested directions. We googled. We searched, we google-mapped, we searched again. It was a mystery to be solved. And we did.
If all of these fabulous yet often misinterpreted women decided to write a book, I'm sure we'd talk about it for much longer than a measly 35 minutes.
On another note, we have decided to read a classic. A classic that I have little recollection of reading. Tree will be thrilled that I will be refamiliarizing myself with this piece. And I demand a longer conversation about it... in book club or with my school-mates.