I Think I Need to Spend Some More Time Thinking About Why Strangers Always Think I Drink Too Much

I’m in this book club, you see.

We meet about once a month, and although it started off all-inclusive and kind-hearted, we soon recognized that we’re a group of catty bitches who doesn’t necessarily want our reprieve from the drudgery of parenting and housework to consist of making small talk with new people while trying to suck in our stomachs as we surreptitiously wash down six brownies with a glass of wine.

As a result of our self-imposed exclusivity, our book club consists only of six women.  I’d introduce all of them to you, but in the interest of my BPP (blog protection program), I really need to assign them fake names first so I can talk about them without compromising their reputations.

And I take fake names seriously; I’m not just going to assign them willy-nilly and then feel regretful every time I use them.

Anyway.

Our book club is like therapy.  But instead of talking about our feelings, we talk about our feelings, eat a sinful amount of junk food, and share an inappropriate amount of detail about nearly every aspect in our lives.

(Oh, and just to make us sound more legitimate, I’m going to stop here and tell you that this month we’re reading Cutting for Stone, by Abraham Verghese.)

Well, our meetings typically rotate from house to house each month.  I’d like to confess that in my quest to read each book in its entirely, I have on occasion prioritized reading over my motherly duties.  For example, Declan recently defaced a rocking chair with a permanent marker while I was attempting to figure out at what point the main character in The Double Bind (by Chris Bohjalian) went insane.  Plus, I had to spend a lot of extra time evaluating my risk factors for doing the exact same thing, which may have contributed to an incident involving Savannah, a full bag of jelly beans, and a stomach ache).

Whomever hosts the meeting typically kicks out the husband, puts the kids to bed about 5 minutes after dinner, and un-hides all the food that had been prepared earlier in the day.  By the time the other book club members arrive, big bites have already been taken out of the pie and the first glass of wine has been topped off.

And because I now have the dubious honor of not having a husband-in-residence to banish, I’ve had the pleasure of hosting book club for the past couple of months.

Having no husband waiting to come home results in some very late nights.  These are my favorite kinds of nights, as typically the later it gets, the fewer the inhibitions and the more the laughter.

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Anyway, this past Sunday was book club.

After gathering in the kitchen in front of the trough that other people refer to as a “kitchen island”, we wandered out to the back patio.  Someone volunteered to build a fire, and we all settled in for a lengthy discussion about the book.

We totally discussed the book, mind you.  Plus someone’s new job.  And other’s annoying sister-in-law.  And some upcoming summer plans.  I mean, sure, I had to tell someone to lower their voice when I realized that the word “vibrator” was most likely audible from the kitchen window of my very kind, religious, somewhat-elderly neighbors.  But by most people’s standards, it was a pretty tame night.  I mean, despite the fact that none of us wear mom jeans, we can all be classified as upstanding citizens and fine examples of motherhood.

It was nearly midnight when we all stumbled back into the kitchen, making sure to place our empty plates in the dishwasher and wrap up the remainder of the food.

I fell asleep smelling pleasantly of fire smoke and fruit dip, feeling purged of about 90% of the angst that I’ve carried around all week.

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The next day, after rising at 5:30 am and going to work, I came home, fully intending to bring my computer on the back patio while I supervised the children as they played on the play set.

Immediately prior to walking outside, the doorbell rang.  It was stranger who had spied our awesome patio from the road, and wanted a closer look.  Because I always love to pass any business along to the fantastic team who created our patio, I escorted her around the side of the house to give her a little tour.

Um, it totally looked like a fraternity party had held their post-final exams bash in my backyard.  Maybe one that had been hastily fled after the police were called.

There were shards of glass all over the flagstone.

The wooden chairs were haphazardly strewn around the patio.

Some newspapers were scattered across the yard.

A melted chocolate egg was congealed on the arm of a chair.

Ashes were sprinkled everywhere.

The plastic cover from the fire pit was pierced with holes and had blown into a nearby bush.

I looked around, agast, completely embarrassed by the state of my patio.  I could feel the stranger assessing me for signs of a hangover.

I said wryly, “Wow.  Who would have thought an evening with my bookclub could result in my backyard looking like the aftermath of a rock concert?”

She’s like, “Yeah . . . did you see the glass on the ground?  I hope your kids don’t step on it.”

I’m all, “Savannah!  Declan!  Don’t come over here until I sweep up this glass!”

They both run over with flip-flops dangling off their bare feet and exclaim, “What is all this here for?  What happened to our patio?”

I’m like, “I don’t know.  I think we were robbed.”

The stranger gasps, horrified that I would tell my children this untruth.

I remember that she doesn’t know me well enough to understand that my humor always tends to be inappropriate, not only after I appear to have gone on a bender.  “Just kidding.  Book club was here last night, remember?”

Savannah sees the ashes littering the ground and asks, “Did you make a fire?  Did you make s’mores?  Why didn’t you tell us?”

I said, “No, we just ate some pretzels and strawberries and sat around talking about our book”.

Stranger lady was emanating disapproval, “I always get nervous drinking when my kids are around.”

She had mom jeans on, I noted.

I was like, “Actually, we didn’t drink.  Really, it was a pretty quiet night.  And I totally remember knocking over that glass.  I just didn’t pick it up because it was too dark to see.”

“Uh-huh”, she answers.

Unspoken were the words, “And you were too drunk. Admit it.”

Savannah spied the melted chocolate egg and said, “No fair!  You ate chocolate!”

Me, “Yeah, I know.  There was just one little piece.  I got too full and set the other half of it on my chair.  I guess the sun melted it today.”

Stranger, “Wow, why are all the chairs pushed over to this side?”

Declan, “Were you dancing, Mommy?”

Me, “No, that was where the clowns were juggling.”

Savannah, “Really? Clowns?”

Me, “No, it was just a book club meeting.  The smoke from the fire was blowing this way so all of us moved our chairs over.”

I was starting to feel a little defensive. I mean, I had never thrown a wild party in my life.  And I despite what this woman believed, I still haven’t.

I then changed the subject from my apparent night of debauchery to the fine men who had built the patio.

I don’t think the stranger lady felt my judgment was sound enough to give a trustworthy recommendation.  She’s probably going to blackball this company.

After a short time she left, giving my children pitying looks and glaring at me in a “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing” kind of way.

I’m pretty sure she’s planning an intervention.

Are there interventions for being clumsy while holding glasses and making fires with excessive smoke?

I kinda feel like I should throw a wild party so that woman’s disapproval will be justified.

But I hate clowns, y’all.  So please don’t come if you’re a clown.

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