Marbles and Baseball

I heard a great expression the other night. As so often happens, it came out during a rousing evening of bunco. You remember my bunco crowd? –Twelve women of a certain age who gather to roll dice, keep score, nosh a little and laugh a lot. That’s us, the Boisterous Bunco Babes.

Anyway, as usual, we caught ourselves confusing who should move, who was keeping the score, whose partner was whose, and the ever-popular “What number are we on?”

When we finally had laughed ourselves into oblivion, one member exclaimed, “I’m losing my marbles!” In response, another uttered, “I’m on my last marble.”

They both overlooked that bunco is a game of dice, and marbles have nothing to do with it, but that’s not important right now.

I love the concept of being on one’s last marble. I wish I had thought of it myself. It’s just so perfectly apt.

Not too long ago I was getting ready to go to an early morning meeting, and just about to put my makeup on. My husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) came into the room to ask me about something just as I was about to begin my simple ritual. [By the way, I am not blaming him for this at all, just illustrating that I was distracted and not paying enough attention to what I was doing.]

I hit the pump on my moisturizer and smoothed a dollop onto my face. I sort of noticed that it felt funny and smelled different, but I was multi-tasking, and until I turned away from CoTU and looked in the mirror, I thought I was imagining things. Then I looked on the vanity, and realized that I had ‘smoothed on’ a glob of liquid hand soap in lieu of moisturizer. Not a good sign. Yes, it smelled good (my moisturizer is hypoallergenic and thus unscented) but now I had to stop what I was doing and wash the soap off my face, towel off, and start again. This time I made sure I hit the moisturizer pump, not the soap.

Recently I met up with some friends in a parking lot to carpool to a relatively distant theatre to see “Sunday in the Park with George”. I spent an embarrassing amount of time looking for my other glove as we switched cars, just to make sure I hadn’t dropped it on the ground outside the car. Yes, I eventually noticed that I was wearing one and holding the other, so OF COURSE I couldn’t find it on the seat or in my purse. Strike two. Getting scary.

Sounds to me as if I have one strike left, or as my friend put it, I’m on my last marble.

I will hope for another ‘at bat’, just to mix the metaphor, and I’m planning to keep a close eye on the ball.  This one’s for all the marbles.

The Wild Kingdom

You remember my bunco club, the Dicey Housewives of West County, don’t you? Yes, the ten of us have been getting together for years on the second Monday of the month to play bunco. There used to be twelve of us, but the other two let sanity overtake them, and they dropped out. We ten survivors probably laugh too much to be tolerated on a regular basis. It’s better this way.


Anyway, over the years we have come to realize that in July and August we are too scattered (geographically, not mentally—that’s permanent) to gather enough members for our usually rousing evening of throwing dice and rotating among the tables. (If you don’t play bunco, just visualize a game of musical chairs punctuated by a gaggle of giggling grandmas asking each other what number we’re on.) So we do what otherwise normal women do—we go out to dinner instead.

Here I will pause to point out that alcohol is not, and has never been involved in our get-togethers. We’re all pretty sure we could be dangerous with a glass or two of chardonnay in us.

But back to our story…

At our August dinner, everyone was laughing, talking and sharing stories. We try to keep each other apprised of the comings and goings in our families, the travels, the remodeling, the moving, the medical issues, the not-to-be-missed recipes, and the ways in which our husbands drive us batty.

Suddenly Jan says, “Oh, Leah—I was thinking about you! The other night I was getting ready for bed, and last thing, I’m about to go to the bathroom. I lift the lid on the toilet and see that there’s something in there! I think, ‘Oh, the grandkids were over earlier, and one of them forgot to flush.’ Then, as I’m about to reach for the handle, I see this thing BLINK at me! Then I realize it’s a frog! I close the lid as fast as I can, and start yelling for Stu (her husband) to come in. My voice got so high-pitched, he thinks I’ve hurt myself or something.”

No, Jan did not take a picture.
Consider this a facsimile.

Jan went on to tell us how long it took for the two of them to get the frog flushed away. The next day, she called the Metropolitan Sewer District to report this, and to see what could be done to keep it from recurring. She was redirected to the water company. Jan thought she had a “you won’t believe this” tale to tell, but the customer service representative at Missouri American Water Company was unfazed. “You wouldn’t believe how common this is,” she said.

She also said that there was virtually nothing that could be done to prevent it from happening again.

Ruh-roh.

This led us all to speculating about what might have happened if it had been a snake or a rat. Yes, we all spoiled our appetites ‘going there’. But we all vowed to keep our toilet lids down at all times, just in case. Not that it would help much if a snake wanted to slither out.

But as the laughter died down and we were all grimacing at the possibilities, I had a thought.

“Jan,” I began. “I’ve never had a frog in my toilet before, so what made you start this story by saying that you thought of me the other night?”

“Well,” she began, “You did have squirrels in the attic, a chipmunk in the ceiling, and mice in the garage. You’ve had more in-house wildlife than anyone I know.”

“So I’m like a cross between Martha Stewart and Steve Irwin?” I asked.

She agreed. I went home and polished my squirrel traps.

What Game Are We Here to Play?

Monday night was our monthly Bunco game. There were so many ‘senior moments’ I wonder if all of us made it home safely.

It was hilarious to see how often someone reached for the dice when it wasn’t her turn, failed to take the dice when it was her turn, forgot to write points down, and more. One player actually started to keep score from the top of the column instead of the bottom. (You had to be there.)

People forgot to get up and move to another table when it was required. People forgot to ring the bell when their team won. People forgot to eat their yummy snacks! --oh wait, no they didn’t… We ate. We do not forget to eat!

The errors got so bad we couldn’t stop laughing about them. I figure by next year at this time we’ll still get together on the second Monday of the month, we just won’t remember why…

Bunco! --and thanks to Stephanie

First, may I offer my (dare I say?) heartfelt thanks to Stephanie at Steph in the City for bestowing the “Heartfelt” award on me. I am humbled, and delighted to be the recipient of this lovely honor!

Bunco!
What is bunco? Well, my brand of bunco is a game, played just for fun (well, maybe some prizes or money changes hands—I really couldn’t say for sure, according to my lawyers, Nolo, Contendere and Machiavelli. But it’s not a swindle or a scheme that deceives people into parting with their money, as defined in the dictionary. Or is it? (Index finger thoughtfully tapping chin.)

Bunco. One bell, three tables, nine dice, twelve women. (Okay, sometimes we are as few as eight women at two tables, but you get the idea. Or maybe you don’t. Stay with me.

Four women sit at a table. They are two sets of partners, not unlike bridge. If there are only three women at this table, two are partners and the third plays with a ‘ghost’, because unlike bridge, there are no dummies in bunco. (Ouch!) And although you think this is all just a brain dump, I can prove (sort of) that I did a bit of actual research for this post: In 1924 Hoyle’s Standard Games published rules for bunco! Hah—and they say journalism is dead…

There are three dice on each table. At the ‘head’ table there is a bell to designate the start of the game. Sounds simple, yes? Yes. Round one, you are playing for ones. (Subsequent rounds are also played for the target number—round two, roll a two, etc.) You roll the three dice, and for each die that comes up a one, you get a point for your team. (If you didn’t roll any ones, the turn passes clockwise.) You keep rolling as long as you get at least one point. Play proceeds around the table and continues till one team at the head table gets 21 points. When that happens, they ring the bell, and play stops at all tables.

Fine points: three of a kind, any number is called a mini-bunco, and is worth five points. Three of a kind of the target number for the round is a bunco, and is worth 21 points. So obviously if someone rolls a bunco at the head table, the round ends. Meanwhile, teams at other (less worthy) tables can end up with fifty or sixty points sometimes, waiting for the head table to reach 21. It sounds crazy, but it’s true. On the other hand, sometimes a round ends so quickly one table may end with a 4-3 score.

Details: You play four sets of six rounds. After each round the two women who lost move to the next table. The two who won stay, but one must change seats so that the two who won will not be partners in the next round. This goes on all evening till the 24 rounds have been played, or until a certain player (nothing personal, Jane) is too drunk to sit in her chair. Meanwhile, snacking is mandatory, and an impressive and yummy dessert is served when the games are over.

One more sign that actual research was conducted: Some groups play a variation of bunco called Wipeout. In that game, you never play a round for ones, only twos through sixes. Then rolling three ones is called a wipeout, and the team who rolls one loses their points for that round, and starts over at zero. Sounds like fun!

Scoring: Points are not accumulated beyond the round, so you just keep track of wins and losses, and of course the number of times you BUNCO! Prizes and or cash may or may not be awarded (we might each pay $5 to participate) to the player with the most buncos, the most wins, the second-most wins, and the least wins. Sore losers are not tolerated, and gloating is to be expected. In fact, in our group it has been raised to an art form. (You know who you are.)

Comments will be withheld on a certain player’s sister who visited from California, a total bunco newbie and scored an unheard-of, unprecedented and record-shattering FIVE buncos one night. She won the [imaginary] jackpot, not that we’re bitter!

My daughter has asked, “What is the deal with bunco?” Loosely translated this means, “Are you embarrassing yourself in front of people who know me?” The answer is, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. No, wait, that’s something else. This answer is, it’s not the game, it’s the stupidity.

Which just means that it’s THE PEOPLE you like to hang out with, and laugh with and have fun with. The older we get, the more important it is to have fun with people who don’t mind if you act a little stupid once in a while. Or even a lot stupid, because FUN is so very vital to our well-being and mental health.

I look forward to the second Monday of the month to get together with this awesome group of friends and have a fun time catching up on everyone’s jobs, families, ailments, pets, car troubles, travels, etc. We recommend books, tv shows, movies, and restaurants to each other. It’s a total gabfest, and the game is just a vehicle for the mixing and schmoozing. We range from a young mom with a 3-year old, to the retired grandmothers of tweens. We are women, and we know how to have fun!

So here’s my shout-out to the women who make bunco the party that life is meant to be: Kitty, Donna, Liz, Karen C., Karen P., Sandy, Nancy, Melissa, Boni, Carol, and our permanent substitute Joan. Y’all are the best. Let’s all hum Randy Newman’s “You’ve Got a Friend in Me”, okay? ‘Cause you do.

Grateful, But Not Dead

Well, my much-admired buddy from down under, Matthew at Abode One Three has seen fit to grace me with the “Honest Scrap” award! I’m totally blushing, and wondering if this is how President Obama felt when he heard from the Nobel Committee.

Which reminds me, shouldn’t the guy who invented the door knocker have been the one to win the No-bell Peace Prize? I’m just saying…

Anyway, a thousand thanks to you, Matthew, whose writing consistently blows me away. I (and your legion of followers) can only hope you are working on some tome of fiction or memoir for us to glom onto in the near future.

In accordance with the rules of the award, I am now required to tell you ten things you don’t know about me.

1. If I had been born a boy, I would have been named Samuel David, for my mom’s brother who died at age 14 of meningitis. He was her only sibling, five years older than she, and his death forever changed their mother and father. There are no photos of my grandmother smiling after he died. (She died long before I was born, so I have only these scraps of evidence.)

2. If I had been born a girl, --oh, wait, never mind. So I got the middle name ‘Sue’ as a proxy for the Samuel. My gender was only the first of innumerable disappointments I provided for my parents. Oh well… Bygones, I suppose.

3. The only pet we ever had growing up was a parakeet named Bingo. He was one of those beautiful blue guys, who sang like a, well—a bird, but to my mother’s never-ending chagrin, he didn’t speak a word. She even played a record on the hi-fi (remember—I am old!) meant to teach parakeets to speak, but Bingo did not enroll in that class. I think it really bugged her because her aunt’s parakeet said so many phrases. “Morning, Bessie!” when she uncovered his cage in the morning.

4. I’m a big Scrabble fan, and love to play with my kids when they are around. My husband won’t play with me, isn’t a big fan of games at all, but we discovered Scrabble Slam, a card (per)version of the game that we played last week in Sacramento, and he had a ball, too! Hooray—a breakthrough!

5. Speaking of games, I play bunco once a month with a terrific group of friends. My daughter asks me about the game, and I explain that it’s not the game, it’s the people. This is a corollary to “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.” Anyway, it’s an absurdly simple game played with dice (not gambling, though) and it’s a wonderful chance to gather with people who you otherwise might not get time to see. We laugh and joke and carry on, and there are snacks involved. (Where women gather…) And we finish the night off with dessert! I promised the gang last night that I’m going to blog about bunco soon, so stay tuned!

6. I live on a cul-de-sac we like to call Divorce Court. Four out of the five families here are in second marriages, or at least into serious relationships that followed a divorce. We let the other couple (the ones who’ve been married since time began) stay as tokens, though, just because we are an equal opportunity cul-de-sac.

7. I am apparently a squirrel magnet. I’ve had squirrels in my attic in my previous house, ditto in this house. They may look cute, clambering up a tree, but believe me these guys can do serious damage. We’re talking big bucks to get them removed from the premises, and more bucks to repair the holes they chew in the siding, soffit, etc. Why do they love me so? Actually, “Squirrels in My Attic” sounds like a good name for my autobiography…

8. I’m an inveterate seamstress (I only use that word because ‘sewer’ as in ‘one who sews’ looks like the word ‘sewer’, as in ‘waste disposal’. I love all things fabric, and once upon a time I used to make most of my own clothes. In fact, I just returned from a trip to one of my favorite fabric stores (Raspberry Patch Quilt Shop—hi, Donna and Lyna!) where I picked up a few pieces to add to my stash. You know what they say, she who dies with the most fabric wins. I need more time to sew and quilt… If only I could learn to function on four hours of sleep a night…

9. The specter of Alzheimer’s looms large, and so to ward it off, I not only do crossword puzzles, Sudoku and kakuro puzzles, I have taken to memorizing more epic poetry as time goes on. Some of you may recall from an earlier post my recounting of memorizing “The Cremation of Sam McGhee”. Well, after that I took on “Dangerous Dan McGrew”, “The Day is Done” and “The Raven”. I live in hope that these mental exercises will protect me from the disease that destroyed my mom in her 60s, and eventually killed her.

10. I DO in fact know the meaning of TMI, so I’m done. Now to post this before THIS day is done!

I pass the award on to the following worthy recipients: (This is so difficult because there are so many wonderful blogs out there-- and some of them already have this award, but hey, here goes anyway...) Thanks to all of you for the witty, poignant, insightful, heartwarming or wacky (as the case may be) reading!

Kathy at The Junk Drawer
Debbie at Suburb Sanity
Lora at Fever
GG and SG at Gay Guy – Straight Guy
Beth at So the Fish Said
Whispering Writer at Airing My Dirty Laundry—one sock at a time