"Book" Club: Giddy women, Gossip and Gin.

Everybody talks. Including my mother. Right now, at this very moment, I attempt to experience a moment of solitude away from the howls of 50-year old women. Tonight, my mother hosts their monthly Book Club meeting: three hours of chatter, crab cake platters, and debates over poinsettias versus begonias.  Wether or not they actually discuss literature still remains a mystery. When I dare to descend from the safety of my bedroom, however, I can always count on hearing the latest gossip mixed with one or four glasses of pinot grigio. I secretly chuckle at their blemished gossip, trying to piece together the Police Blotter puzzle. I know all the juicy details, yet spare them my knowledge just so I can continue shaking my head. Upon my arrival in the living room, they frantically reach for their novels and assemble their reading glasses with shaking hands - desperately hoping to fool me. But behind those barely-turned pages and tortoise shell frames, lay the masterminds behind Chagrin Falls' very own Town Tattle. Their pathetic, middle-aged whispers remind me of the many New York tattlers in The Great Gatsby. Like Myrtle, Tom, and all the socialites in between, the members of my mother's Book Club tend to thrive on floating rumors. I grimace at their flawed information and unreliable sources. Just when I thought a discussion on 50 Shades of Grey amongst a group of empty-nesters could get any worse, their inner-middle schooler comes out to play. I find it quite cute, actually; the sparks of youth that surface from their laughter and gossip. I do not blame them and their hushed versions of "he said, she said," for I regularly partake in this talk as well. We, the Book Club members and myself, do not stray far from the shallow characters within Fitzgerald's novel. We can not control the scandalous information that comes our way, and naturally lack the sufficient discretion to prevent us from spreading it. Like those that attend Gatsby's parties, I observe the pepper-haired mothers exchange hearsay with eager eyes. Mouth's stuffed with olive tapenade and bleu cheese still have room to share hidden secrets.  I sympathize with their deficiency of willpower to withhold confidential information. When I look at this room of gossip-hungry individuals, I see myself and my friends. We, too, experience the consequences surrounding pre-conceived notions and conclusions. Even the trusting words, "do not tell anybody" can not compete to impulsive spilling of secrets. Wether you are a mother in the midst of a mid-life crisis, or a high schooler drowning in drama, rumors will always spread - no question about it. To gossip, or not to gossip? That presents the real question.