“You read this and you want her to be your friend,” Andrea marvels.
“Can she join the New Yorker Group?” Nanci asks.
“She doesn’t have time,” says Kelli. She and Andrea have already moved past their argument, it seems, and soon they’re cheerfully helping each other do dishes in the kitchen.
How would Tina Fey get into the New Yorker Group? Figuring out whom to invite can be tricky; you need someone with the right attitude. “I told a friend of mine about the New Yorker Group and she said, ‘Oh, that sounds obnoxious,’” Linn says. “And it does sound obnoxious! That’s why we should invite her in!”
Nanci has someone she likes, “so smart and really lovely,” from Portugal.
“Is she petite and beautiful?” Linn cracks. “Then, no.”
“Oh, you would love her,” Nanci says. “She’s just like us.”
“But do we want people who are like us?” Linn asks.
“What is this ‘like us’?” demands Kelly. “We’re all different people.”
Shar laughs. “We might be different people,” she says, “but we’re still a demographic.”
Three of the seven women are married; two have kids; two are writers. Most live in the District. Five of the women subscribe to the print edition of New Yorker. One subscribes on her iPad. One subscribes to both. Would they ever welcome a guy into the group? “No way,” say some. “Why not?” ask others. “If he’s hot and single and good,” Kelly says, “then, yes, we would welcome a guy.” Everyone laughs.
The women wipe spills, wrap up leftovers, needle each other enjoyably. Someone complains about her husband, and everyone groans. “Night’s over,” Andrea laughs.
Soon the New Yorker Group will head off into the night. Andrea has 74 listings to sell, including a $3 million seven-bedroom in Chevy Chase. Kathryn is building an entire communications structure for a think tank from scratch. Linn has to travel to Albuquerque to work with a master printmaker on a commission for the Phillips Collection.
And 50,000 more New Yorkers will arrive in the Washington area next week — just a drop in the flood of information we cope with every day; just one of the intellectual pleasures we deny ourselves in the name of momentum.
With the New Yorker Club, these women have found a way, even briefly, to keep their heads above water. To breathe, and talk, and drink wine, just for a night — and avoid subjecting their treasured magazines to the fate so many have suffered before them.
“There’s a particular feeling of defeat when you throw a pile of unread New Yorkers away,” says Kathryn.
Andrea nods, ruefully. “Time never moves so fast as when you subscribe to the New Yorker.”
Kois is a freelance writer.
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