The Apples Sure Don't Fall Far From the Tree

A million years ago, like, back in May, I agreed to join a book group here in Moscow, largely because my friend was part of the group.

We all nominated titles we'd like to read during the 2009-2010 year. The Spouse had recently handed me a copy of The Death of Achilles by Boris Akunin. It takes place in 1882 Moscow, and I wanted to read it, so I nominated it. The group approved it at a meeting I did not attend.

Someone kindly created a schedule with a hostess, a book, and a presenter for each month. When they read your book, you are the presenter.

I have been in book groups before, but we never actually discussed the book.

These people seem to really talk about the book.

I mean, in my previous experiences we read the book, but no one ever discussed the book.

Book group usually went like this:

Someone: Didja read the book?
Someone Else: Yeah. I liked/didn't like it.
Someone: What do you wanna read for next time?
Someone Else: How about this? [holds up a book]
Someone: Okay. Is the waiter ever going to bring my glass of wine?
Someone Else: Gawd, I am so angry with my husband! This morning he had the nerve to . . .

So September rolls around, the group begins anew, and Friend gets a job and politely excuses herself from the group.

I skip the October meeting because they were reading The History of Love, which I read and adored, but I apparently gave away my copy and didn't feel like buying/hunting down another one.

Plus, it made me cry. I don't need to go there again.

Plus, with Friend gone, I'm not sure I will know anyone in this group.

Plus, THEY ACTUALLY TALK ABOUT THE BOOKS!

This week I plowed through the rest of An Echo in the Bone, telling myself that I can then read The Death of Achilles over the weekend.

AEITB was 814 pages.  

TDOA is only 320.

Piece. Of. Cake.

Except on Tuesday the Anglo Russian Theatre guy sends me an email with a script for a hysterical version of Lysistrata attached and asks, "Fancy making a comeback?"

Now I am playing Lysistrata on Sunday.

Oh, and I got a pitiful SMS a few minutes ago asking if I would please, oh, please play "The Host" in another sketch.

And I'm probably "Third Bruce" in still another sketch.

So I should be cranking through The Death of Achilles now so I can get it out of the way before Friday.

Instead I am watching YouTube videos of the sketch in which I play "The Host," memorizing the lyrics to "The Philosopher's Song," trying to remember how to do an Australian accent (I did live there for two months once. . .  in 1977), and writing this blog entry.

Guess I shouldn't be so surprised when my kids do the same thing.

Oh, and did I mention that the Barefoot Contessa is on? She's making chicken bouillabaisse.