In: From life
Talk about Creepy Cat Lady
I work with a woman whom I refer to as the Creepy Cat Lady. She often wears a baseball cap and an oversized tee shirt to the office, and has a loud, buzzing voice, like that of a hyena. She seems like a nice lady, despite her eccentricities.
Normally, I don’t find cat ladies to be any more threatening than, say, Ron Paul, but this lady is weird: she brings framed pictures of, by my estimate, seven or eight different cats, and places them strategically around her computer. And when I’d once made the mistake of asking her for something, she noticed me looking at the pictures (I probably looked horrified–people always say they can read my mind through my facial expressions), and informed me which of the cats were still living. The sad thing is, aside from the fact that two or three of the pictured cats are dead, no one knows her name. Co-workers refer to her as the Cat Lady, usually with an uncomfortable laugh and a slight shudder.
Yet, when I think of the Creepy Cat Lady and what she does on her downtime, I imagine her participating in a book club, sitting with other Creepy Cat Ladies, in a house that smells like cat piss, and perusing ratty Jan Karon novels. (Disclaimer: I have nothing against Karon’s novels, as I’ve never read one. [Disclaimer the second: nor have I ever wanted to.])
I’ve never read a Gabriel García Márquez book, either, and though I own One Hundred Years of Solitude, it’s unlikely that I’ll get around to it any time soon. I know I should. It just hasn’t quite tickled my fancy quite yet. But Rachel is starting a book discussion (Ryan: "Book club! Book club!") on García Márquez’s Living to Tell the Tale, so I thought, I might as well start now.
In any case, this book club is way fucking cooler than the Creepy Cat Lady’s book club (there, Ryan–happy now?). Sure, she haunts my ideas of what a book club must be like. But we can pull this off. We’re young, hip, and modern, and so can you! The discussion starts some time in July. You’re on board, right?