Book Clurb

Two things are happening right now. I am looking for joy in unusual places, because this shitbag of a world is taking its toll on me. And two, I have taken a liking to pronouncing words with an extra “r” in them. Or an “r” where there should not be an “r”. Or maybe a “b” or a not-silent “v”. Jerimiah can attest to this. He has asked me to quit several times, least strangers think I have some sort of mental problem. As irf.

I am a reader of blogs. Others’ blogs not my own (so if there are a gazillion typos, don’t tell me, don’t care). But I can’t figure out for the life of me how to “follow” some of these blogs because I don’t know the platform they are on, or I don’t want to “Sign Up for an Account” or what have you. So from time to time I forget to read the blogs, then I go on a blog-spree, and I get all caught up. I’ve been doing that this week, which in turn makes me want to write more on my blog, which benefits all of you (motions out to the masses of two subscribers).

This blog is not about any of that, except maybe that while I was reading blogs this morning I came across one of my old favorite bloggers and she made me smile. Which means, yes, I can still smile. In this torn-up, shitbag, upside down world the we are currently living in. But that also made me think that maybe I should be smiling more. What would make me smile more would be to be out in the world with like-minded people. Then I had this old, new thought about joining a book club.

People have suggested this to me before. Like, “Oh, Missy. I am in this great book club and I think people would love to meet you.” Then I get a little tipsy on the wine we are drinking, spill a woodsy red all over the hostesses’ linen tablecloth (who the hell invites me to a party with linens?) and she says, “Oh, you know what. I forgot the book club just broke up.” Oh okay, Karen. What was your book club, ABBA? Bitch.

Anyway, so then I was like well I will just start my own book club. So then I started imaging what my book club would look like and this is the perfect scenario:

I invite four people. Five is good because if three people liked the book, one person didn’t like it, and I didn’t read it, then there is still a lively debate. The club meets at my house only. That way I can wear pajamas all the time and no bra. If it is at a pubic place then I feel compelled to wear real clothes, and at my friends’ homes I try to wear a bra as much as possible. The occassion doesn’t always call for one, but mostly.

We read books of my choosing, starting out with young adult vampire fiction, then working our way through Caldecott winners. Basically anything that I can Google the evening of, and steal discussion questions from middle school language art websites. “Island of the Blue Dolphins” might be a good start. Once we get into a groove, we can read some adult novels. As long as they have a little bit of soft-core porn. But no “50 Shades” bullshit. The writing has to be convincing. Someone else is in charge of wine and cheeses.

There will be wine and cheeses.

The club meets on the first Tuesday of the month, unless otherwise posted. Acceptable reasons to skip the meeting:

  • Someone in the group is not feeling “people-ly” that day
  • I went to the dentist
  • No clean pajamas
  • A “kid” or “cat” emergency
  • Wedding Anniversary
  • Death of someone we love, including fictional characters
  • An election

There are others, but the group can decide at the first meeting.

No husbands, no kids, no dogs (I’ll even kick mine out).

Scratch that you can bring your dog, if it’s cute and cuddly. Also newborn babies are acceptable. Absolutely no toddlers or teenagers!

For the first thirty minutes we talk about the book and drink so much wine that I am forced to delve into my “secret” wine stash that I keep in the ottoman in my living room. Then for the next three hours we unleash all of our problems on each other with such veracity that at some point we all have to take a break to individually cry in my bathtub for a few minutes. When we resume, we resolve to solve each others’ problems, as well as all of the problems of the world. Someone asks how we get water to Cape Town and we all excuse ourselves for another moment.

Finally at ten p.m. Jerimiah, Jackson, and Duke show up. Jerimiah has to drive a couple of you home, while you drunk text your husband to warm you up a Hot Pocket and “get the sheets ready”. Whatever that means.

Meanwhile, Duke is humping the one of you that fell asleep on the floor from too much wine (looking at you Beth), and I’m realizing for the first time all week that “Island of the Blue Dolphins” is not the movie, “Blue Lagoon” where Brooke Shields has sex with her… cousin? Brother? Flowers in the Attic? I dunno.

So. Yeah. That’s book clurb.

Welcome to it.


Feel That Burn?!

Listen, y’all. I started Burn Boot Camp today. I am gonna repeat that one more time, for the people in the back. I started Burn Boot Camp today. So if you don’t know what Burn Boot Camp is, just picture this. A group of tired mommies wake up super early in the morning (or get the kids to school, or get the kids to school and go to work, or get the kids to school, go to work, then get the kids home and make them dinner) then they come to this small strip mall right next to a great pizza joint. No. They don’t meet for pizza. They go next door where this crazy man named Billy is all mic’ed up and ready to roll at 5 am.

This crazy man (as far as I can tell he is their leader) this crazy man yells at them through the mic to do things, dirty, on-the-floor-type-things. No, not that kind of stuff, though to be fair a lot of the women there would do those kinds of things with Billy (but you didn’t hear that from me). Anyway, they do push-ups, and sit-ups, burpees, and some things on this bar-like thing. There are ropes and there are weird weights. They run and sprint and plank. They high-five each other and say things like, “Way to go!” and “You can do it!” Then afterwards they sometimes vomit. It is sort of surreal.

I am not 100% sure what I was doing there. You know when you make a snap decision and you feel like you have to sort of go with it or people will hate you. That is sort of the situation I got myself into when my friend Kassie texted me yesterday when I was teaching a room full of kindergartners about cloud formations. She was all, you should come to Burn tomorrow and I was all, anything is better than telling this little shit in front of me to stop touching people with his tongue one more time. So I said sure.

Now, should I have gone from my level of activity straight into Burn Boot Camp? Probably not. In fact, a better choice for me would probably have been the Senior Citizen Water Aerobics class down at the Y or maybe one of those Mommy-and-Me Yoga classes, where I use an American Girl doll as my baby. Not even the “kid” one. The damn Itty-Bitty-Baby one.

But I did it. I set my alarm for five, in the am, and I met Kassie there. Literally squealed into the lot at the exact time the class started. Now already I am feeling bad because poor Kassie is a motivator. She wants to see me succeed. She is the one who got me hooked on Weight Watchers. She is the one who sends me motivational texts and she is the one who works out like seven days a week. Seven. And I love her dearly, so I didn’t want to disappoint her. I wanted to go and do my best, but I knew as soon as I tripped getting up from a sit-up that I was probably gonna embarrass her. She just smiled and helped me up. Oh, Kassie!

About twenty minutes into the workout. Just after the second, first warm-up? I dunno, there seemed to be a lot of warm-ups and then a lot of “sets”, then there was this “Super set” which was the real shit-kicker, but I digress. About twenty minutes into the workout I wanted to die. I thought if I die then it would be easier for me to get out of going to Burn the next day. If I die they will all be like, oh wow. Poor Missy, at least she died doing something that was too strenuous for her heart. She will never get to experience all that Burn has to offer. And I would be cool with that.

But as it sits, I am alive. So I have to go back again tomorrow. Which sort of sucks and I was already wondering what would happen if I were to accidentally break my leg in a freak, driveway basketball accident. I think that might work too.

So I guess I will see y’all tomorrow.

And maybe the next day.

I mean, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I hear working out is something you are supposed to stick with. We will see how that goes. But in the meantime, if you see me around town give me an old high-five and tell me congrats on not being dead. I would appreciate it.