I shook my own head, swiping at my sweaty brow with the clean (I think) end of the dustcloth. “Notice?” I hissed. “Adam, this is a BOOK club. These people read BOOKS. They know about mouldings.” I paused for breath. “THEY ARE READERS.” Then I brought him the stepstool and instructed him to dust the blades of the ceiling fan.

The cleanest moulding ever.

Truth be told, this was my first time hosting the group and it had to Go Well, lest I somehow be kicked out of what I have decided is the best book club ever. When it was formed last year, the founding members declared that we would read only enjoyable books, not the depressing tomes of social woe so beloved by previous book clubs. Besides one ill-fated misstep involving a Liberian memoir, we have remained true to the mission, indulging in the fluffier New York Times bestsellers and the random hey-the-cover-just-LOOKED-good selection. We shrink from pretension. We avoid any plots revolving around inherited disease or rapid descents into poverty. We positively shudder at book reviews that mention “literary irony.” Or ”heartbreakingly devastating.” That one’s the worst.

Truth be told again, we don’t actually talk about books all that much. Those of us with husbands complain about them. Those of us with children then complain about them. And then the single women in the group regale us with dating stories and we all wish we were single again. Well, except for the single women. But you get my drift.

The best meeting ever took place this past fall. In October, lubricated with wine and fresh off a rousing conversation about eyebrow waxing, we discovered we all shared a common if completely age-inappropriate love of the Twilight series. Then someone suggested that we forgo a book in November and instead meet at the movie theater for a viewing of New Moon. There was a moment of silence while we considered if this was too lighthearted a move to make, even for the World’s Most Lightheartedest Book Club.

“Well, New Moon was a book,” one member said.

“Yes! With complete sentences and everything,” someone else chimed in.

“Don’t forget the plot,” another cried. “It had one!”

Another moment of silence. Then someone whipped out the big guns.

“Yes, it definitely had an interesting plot,” she said softly. “In fact, some might call it devastating.”

That pretty much sealed the deal. We met, we bought popcorn, we catcalled. When Jacob/Taylor Lautner took off his shirt, we made comments so unsuitable that my ears burn to recall them.

IT WAS GREAT.

And so, in the spirit of book clubs and the books they may or may not read, I offer this giveaway: Leave a comment by next Tuesday night (4/6) and automatically be in the running for a $20 Amazon gift card. You could buy a book! A movie! A VAMPIRE!

Actually, I just learned vampires cost $29.99. Eh, you can scrape up that extra $10 on your own. I have werewolves to save for, myself.

I wish I had someone to blame for my blatant dullness and the fact that my life is beginning to toe the line of downright insipid. I suppose I could nod suggestively in Aura’s direction, since this parenting thing doesn’t leave a lot of room for leisure. Or I could point a subtle finger at Adam, whose life is rich with hobbies, all of which consume massive amounts of space and bank balances and therefore might suffocate my own creative impulses. But no. Though it pains me to admit it, I am fully responsible.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I do have interests. I like to bake. I love to read. I take great pleasure from long walks.  And these are all perfectly acceptable activities, particularly if you are 75 years old. I can’t help thinking that at 32, I could ratchet things up a notch or twenty. 

It’s not as if I haven’t tried. For instance! During a good chunk of our childless years, Adam and I would try a new restaurant at least once a week, spending piles of money to earn the title of “foodies.”  But then Aura came along and there were no babysitters and it dawned on me that I hate the word foodie almost as much as I despise the word playdate. Also, in retrospect, I am not sure that eating is a hobby.

Oh! There was also the knitting class. A few years ago, this adorable little crafting studio/store opened a few blocks down from our apartment. I dropped in for a quick look-see, breathing in the scent of overpriced scrapbooking paper and imported yarn and make-it-yourself chandelier-earring kits with something like hope. Flushed with the possibilities, I rushed home to tell Adam that I was going to take up knitting, detailing labyrinthine plans for scarves and sweaters and perhaps even tea cozies.

So he signed me up for a beginner’s knitting class. And it was awful. It was like the ballet lessons, but about a MILLION BILLION TIMES WORSE.  I will say that I managed to get the hang of casting. But then…nothing. I don’t know if it was the fact that the teacher was too far down the table or if it’s just that I lacked the ability to conceptualize what was supposed to be taking place on my needles.  All I know is that by the end of the two-hour class, the other women were knitting and purling like they were fresh off 10 years in some kind of wooly, yarn-heavy sweatshop, while I had to be taken aside by the teacher no less than five times for extra help. 

After that, baking and reading seemed better. Nice and safe and private. And rarely humiliating, with the exception of one Boston Cream Pie gone very awry.

But it’s time.  The clock is ticking for New Year’s resolutions and all that crap, so I’m game. In 2010, I will research, identify, and develop a hobby. Indoor rock climbing? (Might hurt.) Organic gardening? (Might be dirty.) Playing acoustic guitar? (Might produce calluses.)  I’m just not sure. 

Please: I’m all for suggestions.