Book Club Bitches I’m mad as hell and am not going to take it anymore. When I moved to New Jersey in 1998, I was starry-eyed about my new lifestyle and joined a local social club's book group with high hopes. A baby boomer from Manhattan with a checkered writing past, I differed from the average Generation X member, but still hoped love of literature and motherhood ran thicker than demographics. The books were deep. The women were not. They devoted an hour to critiquing, followed by two hours of jabbering about their real agenda: kinder, kuche, kirche. I had joined a book group to escape the mind-numbing minutiae of everyday life. My brain craved intellectual stimulation, deadened by the domestic routine and isolation of being a suburban hausfrau. But I was in the minority and zipped my lips until they dissed my prosciutto and melon in favor of white bread sandwiches with cucumber and mayo. Then I ran howling. Two years later, I hooked up with Diane and Shirley, two cosmopolitan, wise-cracking, book-loving Boomers who reminded me of me. They both worked in the city and ran an evening book club at the Jewish center. We read everything from Widow for One Year and The Blind Assassin to Middlemarch and Mansfield Park. Sometimes it was just the three of us and we kicked back, moving effortlessly from analysis to gossip to personal confidences. It was how I always dreamed a book club could be. For the first time, I felt like I really belonged. But then one of the founding members returned and reclaimed her position as alpha female. On her first night back, she announced: “I think our next book should be John Addams.” Elaine had just left a middle-management position in the corporate world. She was like E.F. Hutton. When she spoke, everyone shut up and listened. I scrutinized her. Early forties. Buster Brown haircut. Button-down shirt and khakis from Talbots or LL Bean. No makeup. Fanny pack. “Yes, let’s.” The others agreed. Now don’t get me wrong. I admire David McCullough’s work. But I couldn’t read 700+ pages of biography in a month. “No.” I firmly crossed my spangle-hosed legs. “This is a fiction book club.” “Don’t read it.” Elaine eyed me coolly, giving my hot pink sweater, denim mini skirt and Coach bag a look that said: Get over yourself, cream puff. I glared back. I may have been a fashionista, but I was no bimbo. The next book we read was I Don’t Know How She Does It, a poignant novel about a contemporary woman juggling a high-level job and motherhood. It was my pick. “She’s a bitch.” Elaine said shrilly. Huh? Loved the heroine, loved the book. Elaine was projecting. I was the bitch she hated. Hostilities ebbed as several new members joined. Diane recruited Laura, a brilliant and controversial Generation Xer, who brought real spark to the group. Problem was, Elaine recruited her own people. I held my breath and waited for fireworks. Laura's first selection was about a writer who taught creative writing at a jail. After that, it was Wasserstein’s “Shiksa Goddess.” Elaine and her cronies rolled their eyes and aimed their pointy tongues. I was relieved to be off the firing line and let someone else take the flak for a change. As long as Laura stayed, I sensed I was safe. But Laura reached the point of no return. When she left, I resumed the role of troublemaker and once again watched my playground become a battleground. We almost came to blows over “Prep,” my pick, of course. “Lee (the protagonist) is a loser,” said Elaine. Folding her arms, she turned to me and said: “Whatever made you pick this book?” I flushed. Okay, so Lee is whiney, fights with her loved ones, and falls for the wrong guy. But she is also witty and perceptive. “Prep is beautifully written, honest,” I said, feeling every muscle tense. “Didn’t you experience angst in high school?” “No.” Diane turned to me. “You’re taking this too personal. Elaine wasn’t attacking you.” “It is personal,” I muttered. Diane had just helped me celebrate my big 50. I visited her daughter in the hospital. We bonded over thwarted romances and domestic squabbles. Elaine continued. “My daughter Jenna is in college. I wouldn’t encourage her to take birth control.” “I'm not advocating casual sex, but young women should have choices,” I said. “Especially if they're involved in a serious relationship. Do you expect Jenna to remain a virgin until marriage?” “Yes.” I visualized the great big clock in the sky winding back to the days before Roe v. Wade when abortions were performed by quacks in darkness and dirt. Before women had control over their bodies. “The graphic scenes were disgusting.” She added. “I thought they were hot.” What was next? Censoring Judy Blume and J.K. Rowling? “We better close the door,” Elaine lowered her voice. “I don’t want anyone to overhear us.” “Yea,” I said. “We wouldn’t want them thinking we discuss S-E-X in here.” Diane couldn't meet my eyes. What happened to the fun-loving chick who had made even me blush with some of her four-letter words? When had she become, gulp, a Stepford wife? My other friend and confidante Shirley, also remained silent. Et tu Brute. I called Diane the next day to confront her. We both felt betrayed. Our three-year friendship was over. I never returned to the book group. She never asked. At first, I was intoxicated by my sense of freedom. I could read whatever I pleased, whenever. But every now and then, I felt a dull ache, like the throbbing sensation after a tooth has been pulled, and found myself longing for the lost sisterhood.	After twenty-five years of marriage, Ma finally accompanied father to his yearly physical. Breathless, chronically tired and bone-thin, he could no longer deny the ravaging effects of his damaged heart. Ma blamed father’s deteriorating health on his business and synagogue presidency. She suggested moving to Florida. But father refused to give up work or the temple so they compromised on a vacation. She booked a flight to Miami Beach over Christmas 1969. Oh, God, no. I’d never been in an airplane and was convinced we’d crash. I had phobias coming out of my ears, my response to growing up in a post-Holocaust climate. I feared escalators, high places, icy arenas… When I was eleven, Ma forced me to take an ice skating lesson at a hotel in Atlantic City. Inhaling the scent of fresh roasted peanuts and buttery toffee wafting from the shops on the boardwalk was a treat, even in winter. I was perfectly content to curl up with a good book and a box of toffees or talk to the black elevator operator. But Ma wanted to make an athlete out of me. “Why?” I moaned. “I’d rather talk to the elevator lady.” “Ach, that’s why we came to Atlantic City, so you could talk to a colored woman? When I was a little girl, my mother didn’t have the time or money for ice-skating. You don’t know how lucky you are!” I bit my lips. We rented a pair of ice skates. They stunk of a million other people’s feet. Ma helped me pull them on. They pinched. I rose to my feet, ankles wobbling. The young instructor spun around the rink, gliding and twirling. I squeezed my mother’s arm. When she let go, I clutched the rail for dear life. “Come on, give me your hand,” the instructor said, skating over towards me. I shook my head and began to shiver. Five minutes turned into fifteen. I wouldn’t budge. “Ma’am, I don’t have all day. She has to let go.” He sounded bored. “Come on, try.” Ma cajoled. People were beginning to stare. “I can’t.” And that was that. Now I stood by my guns and refused to fly. “I won’t go.” My knee started knocking under the kitchen table. “What’s that noise?” Ma frowned. She was stirring a savory lamb stew on the stovetop. “I don’t hear anything.” I started biting my cuticles. She turned away from the oven and stood over me. “Feh! Take your fingers out of your mouth. ‘There’s nothing to fear but fear itself.’” She was so close to me, I could feel her spit. I hid my fingers so I could pick my cuticles in peace. “You don’t know what real fear is,” she continued. My fears, my feelings, were never as real as hers. “It was a nightmare to live in Vienna after the Anschluss. Every time the doorbell rang, you thought the SS was coming to get you. The fear stays with you all your life.” “Oh, Ma, not again!” She was getting weepy, remembering her dead parents. “You have it too good. That’s your generation’s trouble. You look for problems.” “Okay, so I’m spoiled,” I said. “But whose fault is that? Didn’t you come here so I could have a better life?” “Don’t be fresh.” “I’m just expressing how I feel.” “Feelings? Selfish. I didn’t have the time for feelings. I had to worry about staying alive.” “If I’m so selfish, maybe you should go to Florida without me.” “We can’t do that. You’re only sixteen. Ach, what am I going to do with you?” She shrugged. The telephone rang. It was my married sister Joan. Almost ten years older, she was like a second mother, only a sleeker American version. Definitely not a “Ma.” Ma cradled the receiver under her double chin as she snatched a head of Iceberg lettuce, tomato and onion from the refrigerator. "Can you believe it?” Ma started chopping. “Debbie won’t fly to Florida. She’s not normal." I stared at her thick freckled fingers. They were coarse as a peasant’s, nothing like Joan’s slim, manicured fingers. “We never had problems like this with you.” Ma rattled on. “True, I didn’t want you getting married so young, but you were always sure of yourself. Debbie’s afraid of her own shadow.” “You think we should go to a psychiatrist? I don’t believe in them. They’re the most meshugah.” She returned the leftovers to the fridge, leaving them uncovered. I rolled my eyes. “Waste not, want not,” she raised her brows and then began to shriek into the phone. “I’m always telling her you can do anything you set your mind to. If you believe in yourself, you can go as far as you want. To the stars.” I didn’t believe in myself and she never showed me how to reach those damn stars. Yawning, I went to my room, pulling the French doors tight. I picked up the phone to tell my friend Laura about the trip, but Ma was still yakking. I sprawled across the bed and sighed. My parents couldn’t force me to fly. For the first time ever, I had voiced my opinion and stood my ground. I had lived too long with this sense of powerlessness which made my chest feel paralyzed and my stomach knotted up. I smiled even as I looked around me at the world’s ugliest furniture. My room was a hodge-podge of styles: second-hand mahogany piano, gilt-framed mirror, mission style desk, chair and dresser of unknown period and wood. I longed for a pink, ruffled bed and matching furniture. To make my surroundings more bearable, I hung posters of movie stars like gorgeous Warren Beatty in a wife-beater and talked Ma into getting me a cherry red rotary telephone. After fifteen minutes, I lifted the receiver again and heard a dial tone. I dialed Laura and she answered right away. Phew. I hated talking to parents. “My parents are making me go to Florida for Christmas.” I whined. “What a drag! But at least your parents are taking you somewhere. We never go anywhere.” “I don’t want to be with them. It’s a lifetime.” “Maybe you’ll meet a Jonathan,” She sighed. “How romantic.” Jonathan was the name of our make-believe dream guy. “What are you going to wear?” “I need new clothes, but my father won’t buy them. He made me pay for my winter coat. He thinks it’s character-building. I think he’s cheap.” Suddenly a Florida trip didn’t look so bad. I closed my eyes and imagined various vague but juicy scenarios in which I met Jonathan on vacation and we shared a soulful kiss on the beach. The possibility of romance sustained me for three whole days of scratchy cane seats, stale air, and crying babies on a crowded Amtrak train. I read, daydreamed, played games. We ate our meals in the dining car. In those days, Amtrak draped fine white cloths on the tables and used silverware, china, and glass stemware. All the waiters were black. As soon as we were ushered to a table, I slid over to the seat by the window and watched the reflection of the candles dance in the darkness. Then I turned to admire the dining room, it was soft and subdued, just the way I liked it. My parents ordered broiled filet of sole and baked potatoes. “What will the lovely young lady have?” The waiter winked at me. I blushed and looked down at the menu. “Speak up!” Ma jabbed me in the shoulder, turning to the waiter. “She’s shy.” “Ma!” I shrieked, slumping in my chair, dying to disappear. My mother had the sensitivity of a cactus. “I’ll have the fish and chips.” I gazed out the window, feeling my eyes well up. He fled. Ma glanced at me. “Ach, look at her, Joe. She’s insulted.” “Enough!” Father barked. She recoiled. k I shot him a grateful glance. In that moment, I remembered how father used to rub his cheeks with salt before I kissed him goodnight. He changed the topic. “I’m reading a biography of Thomas Jefferson. Remarkable man. Did you know…” Poor father, he meant well, but he didn’t have a clue how to be around kids. Never did. I probably scared him as much as he scared me. When we arrived at the hotel in Miami Beach, Ma unpacked and I ran down to the beach. I loved walking on sand, the sensation of waves lapping at my toes. After lunch, we changed into swimsuits. My parents fell back on lounge chairs at one end of the lima-shaped pool. I grabbed one far away from them, pretending to be alone. I scrutinized them. Father’s wasted body was cruelly exposed in loose swim trunks. He had always been a hefty man, an advertisement for Ma’s delicious German cooking, but now his face was hollowed out, his ribs protruded, his legs like matchsticks. Ma’s fiery red bob and smooth, freckled face only served to punctuate father’s illness. When people asked: “Is that your grandfather?” it embarrassed and frightened me. It hit me then, he was dying. I seemed to be the only one who knew. Ma was in denial, my siblings lived away from home. It was too much of a burden. I felt flooded by sadness, relief, guilt for feeling relief, and anger. If we had a better relationship, I might have been more sympathetic. But I couldn’t forget the sting of every slap, the plates he smashed, the tables he pounded, the doors he slammed. I could have forgiven all for a little sugar. But father couldn’t give me what he had never gotten from his parents. Ma found someone to snap our picture. Helpless to see us estranged, she forced the intimacy and positioned Father in the middle. “Put your arm around him,” she hissed. “I don’t want to!” I snapped, placing a defiant hand on my waist. She also badgered him: “Move in closer. What’s the matter with you, can’t you think of anything to say? She’s your daughter.” Father perched his arm on my shoulder. Both my fists were clenched, eyes squinting in the sun, mouth twisted in a grimace. The tension seemed at odds with the endless blue sky and ocean, the swaying palm trees. I spent most of that vacation in the lobby with the other teenagers. Ma was outraged. “We’re paying so much money so you can sit inside? Get some sun. You’re pale as a ghost.” “Leave me alone,” I said, steering her away from the crowd. “I’m having fun.” “Meshuggenah!” Ma stalked off. I needed this escape. It helped me survive ten days in one room with two of the angriest people on the planet. God knows they had their reasons. But that didn’t make living with them easier. In the daytime, they bickered. At night, they snored like wild beasts. I thought of suffocating them with my pillow. Although I never met Jonathan, I became friendly with a girl from Great Neck who was staying with her grandmother. Every evening, we strolled up Collins Avenue in t-shirts and chinos, sneaking into classy hotels or mingling with thousands of other students on winter break. But clean-cut kids like myself didn’t make my heart beat faster. It was the long-haired hippies who blasted Get Together and other Woodstock rock that took my breath away. They pranced around barefooted with Make Love Not War buttons on their fringed vests, tie-dyed shirts and faded blue jeans. They seemed so free. When one of the hippies, gifted with the sexy swagger of Jim Morrison, flashed me the peace sign, smiling as though he loved me, I tingled. Ma could rant all she wanted. Our generation had soul. Rebellion was in the air and infected me like a fever. A single voice counted. I wanted to break away from my family and be free. This year I was turning seventeen and the times they were a-changin’.