Clubbing

Okay, I lied. I said I would take you with me to my glucose test and I didn’t. The office didn’t have wi-fi, well at least not wi-fi they would give to a jacked up pregnant woman.  So I live tweeted it. It was finally summed up with this:

 

And then I went to work, and slept under my desk for about 30 minutes.

I passed it. It’s bullshit. I’m convinced it’s bullshit. Glucose tests have the same intrinsic value as the PSAT.  But, for what it is worth, I passed it.

So suck it sugar. Suck it hard.

Since then I’ve had a little side project that I’m enjoying quite a lot. Turns out there is something in the water here in Tampa because the whole damn world is getting themselves all Knocked Up. This realization brought out a characteristic in me that is worth explaining/exploring:

I have a fascination with clubs. Not the sandwich with an extra slice of bread in the middle. Not the kind you kill baby seals with and not the kind you go with your girlfriends to so you can hook up with a guy that has the same name as a state and then find yourself at 5 a.m. sneaking out of his apartment and realizing, “Oh shit, I’m wearing his skinny jeans, not mine…” and you swear to stop hooking up with guys that have slimmer hips than you so that this can stop happening and how does this keep happening? I mean…

Oh wait. I’m sorry, I went back to my “unhappy time” for a little bit. Let me take a moment to thank Mr. Forty again for saving me from myself and not having slim hips. I love you.

Okay, so… clubs.

I like the clubs that have a specific membership. I don’t mean “no girl’s allowed” exclusive, or  “the elite aliens that protect the President” secretive. I just mean I like groups of people who have similar interests or lifestyles or hobbies. When I was young I was forever creating clubs that I would force my poor childhood friend, Dena, to join. I would make her a membership card, and explain to her the complex dues structure, and my ideas for building a  2-story clubhouse out of refrigerator boxes in the backyard. (“But what happens when it rains?” she would ask. That Dena, no vision. I hear she makes six figures as an auditor for one of the big accounting firms. That’s… impressive. Perhaps I should have listened to her more).

I wrote manifestos for my clubs, I priced out die casting decoder rings (very pricey on a 7-year-old’s allowance), I joined other clubs I found in the back of comic books (I still have my membership card to Cracked, back when they were a Mad rip off and had a papery thingy called a magazine). I appreciated the ideas of secret handshakes and passwords and clubhouses.

In high school I excelled at clubs. I joined ALL THE CLUBS. When I graduated, I was an officer in no less than five clubs (Thespians, Youth In Government, Omega Service Organization, Latin Club, and National Honor Society – and yes, that made me super popular and really cool just as you might imagine).  Then I went to college and it kind of fell apart.  I tried. But it turned out I was kind of a shit sorority girl (I still maintain that Birkenstocks can be “dressed up” if matched and accessorized properly) and after awhile, I found myself going to a lot of club meetings for a lot of organizations that would be good on my resume and thinking, “Jesus, these people are so fucking boring… and Republican… and boring.”

Then I went off to L.A. and joined the biggest club of them all – the starving actor’s club. That’s a fun club. You get to do fun things like spend money you don’t have on acting classes that won’t help where they assign you a scene partner who keeps wanting to perform excerpts from “Wild Orchid” and asks you personal questions about your daily feminine hygiene rituals and says it’s for “character research.”

Holy shit, there is nothing about this post that has anything to do with what I set out to write about. I have no idea where this is coming from. Let’s see if I can turn this apple cart around and get to the point.

Anyway, things have come full circle in my life and I’m a part of lots of clubs now. Of course they have grown up names like the “The ________ Chamber of Commerce” or the “__________ Supper Club” or “___________ Society for Women” etc.  Plus I sit on boards for non-profits and I sit on the board and work with my theater company, which has been it’s own club of freaks and fools for the past 15 years.  I’m actually quite a decent member of society who gives back to her community quite a bit. My love of clubs has endured.

I’ve even gone back to my old ways and started a really lovely women’s networking group (Club) that does fantastic work (I’m actually not even part of it much anymore), and I started an improv group (Club) at the University where I teach that is doing gangbusters (again, with no real input from me anymore). In some ways, when it comes to clubs, I have a start-up entrepreneur mindset. I see the need, I start the group, I ramp it up, I walk away.

When I noticed just how many women were announcing on Facebook that they were pregnant, I started getting an idea… Start. A. Club.  And so, the Knocked-Up Mommy’s Club was born.  Currently we have about 15 members and we meet about every two weeks. Whoever is closest to their due date gets to pick location. (It’s one of the last times she’ll be in control after all).  We have a closed group on Facebook and we share everything from helpful tips (“The Babies R Us is going out of business in Brandon – Go!”) to questions (“OMG what is a ‘nipple shield?!!?'”).  At our first dinner it took a group of relative strangers (actually I was the only common thread, so they were all strangers to each other) about ten minutes before the words “vagina,” “yeast infection,” and “overblown sex hormones” were introduced to the conversation with various opinions, thoughts, and laughter.

It was awesome.

The night ended with what I hope will become a tradition – a photo of all the ladies in birth order. We have our second meeting on Sunday and I really can’t wait. And I just had a very dear friend tell me she’ll be joining soon enough.  I couldn’t be happier for her and honored to be “in the know.”

I’m telling you – don’t drink the water in Tampa right now… it’s potent.