Some women have a biological clock that ticks, the need to have children burns in them and the ache starts to swell; before too long their 20s slide into their 30s...and those 30s start to inch into 40s and their womb hasn't been filled with fleshy beasts.
My clock is missing the mainspring (believe me, my pendulums are still there) and I have no need for children but I have a mothering instinct; but it stems with my desire to feed.
I enjoy being in the kitchen, the counters strewn with saucers and bowls, knives and forks and all sorts of spices. Knowing that my creations are going to soon land onto the plates and shortly thereafter into the waiting mouths and tummies of my friends.
My girlfriends were over and I was delighted because they were satisfied, we sat and laughed and told stories over pasta.
I serve our meals in a very casual way, despite my love of cooking I have a great hate of cleaning up afterward, so I will set out picnic plates and cups instead of sticking my hands into another sink-full of sudsy water.
If anyone wants to wash dishes and eat off of the good plates...by all means they can certainly get out the scrubbie and have at it. However, we all know that no one wants to wash dishes so let's just get sloshed and contribute another paper plate to the landfill.
The plan for this little party was dinner, drinks and then to hit the local bowling lanes. Originally we were going to attend a local festival for a margarita contest but it was in collaboration with some country music, the tickets were ridiculously priced and we opted to find something a little more affordable to do!
Heck, I can make some mean 'Rita's at home if need be for a fraction of the cost and play lousy country music on the radio, we'd only miss out on the cute cowboys in their tight Wranglers...however all of us ladies are married and faithful to our own cowboys.
Once dinner was cleaned up, we decided it was just about time to get it over with and we climbed into our cars and headed out to the bowling lanes. Bowling is definitely going to be an experience unlike any other I've had recently because it's a physical situation I haven't put myself through in quite some period of time.
Let me remind the reader that I'm asthmatic, fat and happen to have a tumor growing inside one of my lungs. Not conducive for hefting a 10-12 pound ball down the lane, prancing like a dork in rented two toned shoes that some other smelly out of shape housewife wore prior to me.
(I am grateful to be an Amazon when it comes to shoe size
After a lane is given to us, we traipse over and realize we're only 2 hops and a skip away from the bar AND then only 1 more hop farther from the restroom - we set to getting those shoes on.
The bartender comes over, lord help us all. She has about 6 teeth in her head and Crystal Gail hair, probably to detract from her face. The thing about living in this lil' country town is that everyone's very nice, very kind but the degree of education versus the degree of inbreeding...well you get the idea which one is higher.
She takes our order, believe it or not the Lanes have these nice laminated menus with pictures of fancy mixed cocktails like you'd see at a restaurant like Applebee's or Chili's. The girls order 'Rita's, the man orders a beer and since I'm a fish I order a Long Island
We set into the grand game, encouraging one another to go for strikes but barely picking up spares let alone hitting anything at all. my closest friend is pigeon walking across the boards, stopping short right at the line and then flipping her wrist so that she gets mad spin action on the ball.
The spin doesn't do shit for her, the ball goes careening from one end of the waxed surface all the way down the lane to the other side of the surface straight into the gutter and never once kissing the pins.
The 4 of us high five, scream and WOOT WOOT with excitement for another failure and then take heavy slugs on our straws from our tasty beverages. The same beverages that took a minimum of 30 minutes for our delightfully dumb mixologist to prepare because she kept coming over to let us know that she did not have this or that ingredient to make the particular flavor of margarita the girls had ordered.
The girls finally settled on anything she could find enough ingredients for, just so long as we were drinking and before our Sangria buzz was worn off.
The lights were dimmed the next thing we knew, we were glowing in the dark! The white laces of our shoes were alight, our bras were glaring through our blouses like beacons in the dark...one minute I was Rebekah the next I was a Buick with it's headlamps on.
The 10th frame was upon us and I urged our girls to go for a turkey! dancing behind them gobbling..."gobble gobble gobble"...Don't think they KNEW what a turkey was, but it was still great fun dancing around anyhow. I have my hands planting on my hips, flopping my bent arms to and fro with my knees slightly bent and waggling my backside..."gobble gobble gobble".
Then I step back to let my other friend take her chance, grabbing my cell phone and setting the camera on and get the warning from her, "you better not take my picture...I better not read about my big butt in your blog". to which I am laughing and snapping pictures and plotting away.
When it's finally my turn, I switch on the charm because I should let y'all know that I am secretly in my own heart, a bowling champion. On the overhead, my theme song has come on from Queen "Fat Bottom Girls" to which I'm gyrating. Dropping it like it's hot, sashaying it, flipping my hips from side to side, ya, that's right - my big ass is the center of attention tonight.
Balancing my ball(a twelve pound beauty in tangerine orange) in my right hand while cradling it with my left I ponder my next move.
Bowling is a solo dance with props. I take my initial step out and quickstep my way towards the line, hurrying until I'm nearly there and raising my arm I start my swing but I've already put too much hip into my step...I start to slide...
I raise my arm, flick my wrist and release the ball and feel my balance go totally wonkers!
Since I'm already a goofball this is the opportunity to really go for it, as I'd been taking this attempt to impress everyone with my bootie shaking dancing I go with the slip and start windmilling my arms and fall into the lane, my foot goes into the gutter!
Down for the count? No way, I stay in for the show and with hands down, fingers splayed I twirl myself around so that I'm now facing back towards the seats I belly crawl like Tawny Kitaen in a Whitesnake video.
You know what really sucked? Everyone laughed (which I loved) but I got a strike which didn't count because I fouled!
Damn it all to hell, I'm always in the gutter!
