Is it bad that I joined a book club to weasel my way into the fancy homes on the other side of my cul-de-sac? With no intention of reading the books?
Let me explain.
When we moved into our house in Golden Gate Heights two years ago, I immediately joined "Nextdoor," which if you aren't familiar, is a private social network that groups you with "your neighbors" into local community networks where you can connect and share information about everything from lost cats, found dogs, recommendations on plumbers, prams and Prius repairs. Petty crime. The minutiae of everyday life. It's oddly addicting.
Twenty yards from our front door lurks one of the most beautiful and exclusive neighborhoods of all of San Francisco, Forest Hill (photo above). I skulk through it every day on my way to Muni, peering through windows, dreaming of what goes on behind those fancy and fabulous facades.
And yet. Due to Nextdoor mapping, we're part of the "Forest Hill" Nextdoor group. On paper I live in Forest Hill! This stupidly makes me swell with pride.
A few months ago, this:
Nextdoor Forest Hill.
New posts:
"Book Club"
And there it was. A way in! A digital crowbar! I didn't care about being over-eager. I pounced with an enthusiastic, "Yes please!"
I hadn't been in a book club since the early '90s, when "book club" meant drinking, gossiping, and bitching about our jobs and boyfriends between fistfuls of Pringles and M&Ms. No books were read. We didn't care. Pass the Absolut.
Nowadays, the idea of having to read a book chosen by a group of strangers, let alone engage in thoughtful discussion about said book, sounds entirely un-fun. And really, who has the time?
But still. This was Forest Hill. Time to suck it up.
I bought the book. It was fat and heavy, and sat under a pile of other blue books (yes, I color code my books as part of the decor). As the book club date drew near, I started to ask friends who do a fair amount of reading if they'd read the book.
"Couldn't put it down."
"You know, it won a Pulitzer Prize."
"OMG Loved it."
And on and on.
I reluctantly pulled it from the cobalt stack and cracked it open.
Finished it in five days. With one day to spare before Book Club.
With bottle of wine in hand, I nervously rang the bell on a Dwell-worthy mid-century modern masterpiece a first-down over the cul-de-sac, yet miles out of reach.
As introductions were made, I trained one eye on my new book club friends, while the other furiously scanned the living room and kitchen and ceiling beams and teak furniture and whatever else it could take in before resting on a platter of pastry puffs shaped into swans as the host abruptly asked, "Why do you think Marie-Laure give Werner the key?"
1. Baby Got Book Tote, ModCloth. 2. Olympia Le-Tan book clutch, Luisaviaroma. 3. Burberry Prorsum book-cover print leather tote, Harpers Bazaar.com. 4. "My book club only reads wine labels" tote, Etsy. 5. Olympia Le-Tan "Lord of the Flies" felt clutch, Browns. 6. NovelCreations Jane Eyre recycled book purse, Etsy.
PS: The book club book was "All the Light We Cannot See".