Babes With Balls

Last night was the final night of our bowling season. We gals came in 9th out of 10 teams. Guess we should get back to practicing. I got another badge for Most Improved Woman. OK, I admit it--there wasn't anyone else to give it to. My team contained the only women in the league.

League nights are the only times we let men (boys, actually) talk trash to us without our completely emasculating them and screaming harrassment in return. My mother would probably be embarrassed by some of the stuff Becci, Amber and I say at the bowling alley. OK, she'd be embarrassed by all of it. But hell, it's all in fun and everyone gives as good as they get. I mean, where else can Becci talk about her smelly balls? (No, really, her bowling balls are scented!) Or when one of the guys picks on Amber for losing her ball in the return, her response is "well, you see, it's not attached." Last night I was teasing Jerod about seeing London and France and he had to prove that his red boxers did not in fact have Santa on them, but monkeys with bananas. Oh, and how could we possibly forget the night last season when we were mooned? (Wait a minute, this is beginning to sound like a Roman bacchanal. It's not--I would say it's more like Animal House.)

We may talk a lot of trash, and threaten to kick each others asses, but the cheering we do for each other pretty much evens it out. These are a fun bunch of guys. Too bad there's not a 30-something single guy among them.


Wayne's threatened to track down this blog and leave horrible messages. If he can find this site, I'll publish his sophomoric ramblings. But he must be aware I'll begin discussing his varied "health" issues. He knows what I mean. ;-)