Don't judge a book by its cover.

Now, I thought I would NEVER go to the “30-something fun chicks book club” again. But, never say NEVER (especially in all-caps…that’s just tacky).

So, how on earth did I end up there on a Friday night?

It starts with a little lady named Seema. She wrote to me after I missed two other “30-something-scary” events. She asked if I ever planned to show up again, to which I replied, no. Then she asked me for coffee. This was the most touching gesture imaginable for me. Touching and sweet, I would equate it to someone voting for you for prom queen. One single, beautiful vote, and only one vote, because even you didn’t waste your miniscule power on a hopeless pipe-dream. I felt appreciated and very honored that she cared to see me with or without the group.

I let her know that I was a taken aback by all the “salty talk” being the fragile, sensitive flower I am. (Yes, this is where you laugh and the milk comes out your nose.). And this book club just might not be right for me. After many assurances that it was the only time she ever witnessed such mayhem, I agreed to make an appearance at Bunko. (Oh, yeah…and let’s not forget that I love games, especially games for money, almost as much as I love puns—so I was aching to play.)

I showed up late, very late, and lost, very lost. So immediately, I let the crowd know I was a problem child. But my problems paled in comparison to Madame X, who had just signed her divorce papers that day. Wait, put a cork back in that champagne, there was sob stories and dating confusion and money issues to share with the “party”.

I say “party” because it didn’t take long to deduce that we were a cheap alternative to marriage counseling or group therapy. Only the general vibe I got from the group was that they were equally disinterested in her self-inflicted saga. And even in therapy, more than one person gets the f—k’n floor, now and again.

We listened and attempted to empathize.

She talked about men looking at her in grocery stores. And she talked about dating being the last thing on her mind.
She talked about walking out on her family and taking/having nothing. And she talked about signing for 50/50 and taking the television, sofa set, and bed.
She talked about not making the rent or having any more Coach purses. And she talked about buying new shoes to turn on men.

It was a nauseating display of “woe is me” and “won’t you do me” in a stinky, overdone stew. Yes, it is clearly a mid-life crisis. All I ask is for a bit of truthiness to the whole ugly catastrophy. Misery and poor decision-making are a rich part of my past, and likely my future, but please be semi-honest about your intentions and your short-comings. We all have ‘em. And if you are leaving your husband to bang the bagboy at Von’s—then spill it, because I don’t see a room lined up at the convent for you and your freshly procured knockers.

All in all, it was a lot of bullshit and drama. And every time she opened her mouth and took the floor, the crowd was silenced and depressed. It was like watching a car accident, the first time you slow down, even though you know better. But for christ’s sake, you don’t take the next exit and turn around and want to look again. You are done and satisfied with a single gruesome peek, no more details are required. Anyone with half an imagination can fill in the blanks.

Plus, you get the sneaking suspicion that every least detail will be graphically depicted in the upcoming weeks. So, we prefer to be in suspense. Thanks, Madame X—we get it!


…Alright, bunko anyone?


The pot was a delicious $130 bucks, oh the joy! Did I win? Hell no! I was being much too nasty in my thoughts to be rewarded with cash. I was handsomely paid in laughs and comradery. Because, what I was blessed to witness, was an almost universal disgust with our host and founder. She was being sidelined by anyone with a stitch of sense.

It was a humorous evening, and I was amused to watch a witty group of women careful try to control the volatile member. She had numerous outbursts. Each one was met with a caring indifference and/or a measured response. I grew to like these gals and hate our leader, who created us for her selfish purposes.

After the party, I received three wonderful emails with invitations to go for a drink. One of the solicitors was Madame X. I declined. The other two are on the calendar in ink.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Seema.

She thrust me back into a group of women, who are better than their leader. They are not on par. They are like a strong and tiny troop of Patriots, taking on the fight for the good of the whole. This mini-militia made me proud to be an American or book lover, as is the case. An American gal, who can tolerate insanity for a good cause and the short haul, as long as serious actions are being taken to usurp the maniac at the helm. I will stand by them, at least until I win some cash or find another country.

It all feels so familiar…