Last night I attended another Book Club meeting, where my friends kindly and pitifully chose my book for their respective clubs to read. As a member of various book clubs over many years, I fully realize that this is an act of mercy and novelty on my behalf. I accept this no less graciously than if I were James Frey incarnate.
So last night, I was treated to dinner out at a restaurant (with a full bar) and a friendly crowd who were very complimentary and complete liars, but I appreciate these evenings more than anyone can know. What has stricken me particularly is that people love to share their stories, and if the only thing that comes from this endeavor is someone feeling a little more comfortable sharing theirs, well, and then it was all worth while.
In a not-so ingratiating task, I have begun to select summer camp activities for the boys. Don’t give me that look! Not sleep away camp or anything so creepy—just little day trips to Busch Gardens and make your own pottery studios for a couple of hours. So I have some information materials spread out on the table and I am reading the titles of fun aloud.
Stevie: Oooh!! I want that one! “Eskimo Camp!”
Me: Not Eskimo camp, Basketball camp. (I have a cold. A very bad one, apparently.)
Stevie: Obviously disappointed he won’t be building igloos and clubbing baby seals in June in Florida. Oh, well then how about Volleyball Camp?
Me: Sorry, that the same week as you will be going to the camp at a country club.
Stevie:He’s rolling his eyes just like you are now… Oh great! What am I supposed to do there all day?
Me: Well, I think that’s ascot-tying lessons day. Maybe we can sign you up for the deluxe extended session to include “Paper-Mache with 100 dollar bills” and “Servant Trashing Talking 101!”
Whose kid is he?
P.S. Amy’s next scheduled hearing test isn’t until April 25, so I am taking the time off from worrying until then. (It’s exhausting, I tell you.)