|Let's get this party started!|
from The New Yorker
A pop of the wine cork brought the meeting to order, as Kay banged on the garage door to assure the resident possum stayed out for the night. Members generously filled their plates and topped off their glasses as they sat down for their monthly gathering.
Kay presented the agenda for the evening, and welcomed everyone into her home as their host. "Here, here! It's time to get started. We have a book to talk about, but first there are jokes to tell and unfamiliar sexual euphemisms to learn." Kay's strong demeanor demanded the attention of the group, and the members didn't dare speak over her witticisms.
The women inevitably strayed off topic, not only at the misdirection of their hostess, but with the rhythm of their cross-over discussions as it was usually wan to do. Conversation wrapped its way around the usual circuitous route, glossing over work weirdness, crotch picking, stranded boats, wanton cleavage exposure, and haunted nurses in crisp uniforms creeping through the darkness. Somehow redirecting the commentary back to the purpose of this discourse, Kay regained control of the scattered interaction and insisted someone say something about the book. Otherwise the night will have been lost in a diatribe of fun and frivolity.
If nothing else, they had to at least pick a book for next month regardless of whether they'd actually discuss it when the time came. Alexis suggested Shelli be kept from nominating the upcoming read (hers hadn't gone over so well this time). Rhonda insisted that Alexis was only flexing her non-threatening muscle. She didn't work at TLC so who was she trying to convince she had the power of influence here?
After all mental notes were stored inside of that big bean called Kay's brain, they'd be recapitulated via email later. Bottles of beer were left to drink -- there was a hidden stash out in the garage the possum hadn't gotten to yet, and it was all hers. She'd have it gone by the time she and her mom made the next Arkansas horse race. Those ponies weren't waiting to bet on themselves.
Kim giggled so hard she cried through squinted eyelids, and Shelli got so tickled she peed herself. Kim had lasted through a long day of policing the bathrooms at B-wood, and now Shelli had leaked all over Kay's nice clean floor. She would not be held responsible for someone else's leak and made a motion that Shelli try bladder training methods before they meet again. Alexis seconded the motion, and the vote was five for and one opposed. Sorry, Shelli, mandatory kegels.
Rhonda brought a sense of stability back to their clacht -- she was the meanie of the bunch, scared of snakes or not, who insisted they stick with the agenda. The rules must be followed. Katy just sat back and laughed at them all, having infiltrated the funniest bunch of bookish broads she'd ever met.
Kay relinquished any semblance of group unity and wished the women well on their way. She promised to distribute notes to the feeble-minded few who missed any details or definitions. The last "kwish" of a beer can pop tab resonated with their departure. 'Til next time -- meeting adjourned.
The glue holding the evening together was Kay. She was the one who leaves everyone in stitches with her self-deprecating yet completely confident humor. As the group's beloved scribe, she keeps the official record of their one night per 30 when everything else recedes to concentrate on biblio-biofeedback among friends.
Kay is a wonderful attribute to the Book Sluts, and I've never enjoyed anyone else's sharp commentary on life more than hers. For that and much more, I want to say, "Thanks, my friend!"