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. ;-)

Get Me a Cane to Shake at These Punks!

My friend Becci and I seem to have a knack for adopting the young guys at the bowling alley. There's several of them that we have to check in with every week and we cheer for them when they're playing other teams and harass the snot out of them when they're playing us. Most of them are away from home attending college and evidently we're the only motherly figures they can find. Or more like den-motherly. I find it very strange to be big with the 20-somethings.

Becci is more "with it" than I am, I guess, despite having two grown daughters. Last night, one of our guys comes in with a mohawk. I'm not talking faux hawk--it's dead-on sides-of-head-shaved mohawk. Evidently he lost a bet with his drinking buddies. Becci raved about it, and I do think he actually looks really cool with it, but the first thing that came to my mind was "does your mother know about this??"

Once I got past the shock of thinking like an adult (I guess I don't just look like my mother these days--I think like her too!), I was able to tell him that I thought it was pretty cool. And his ego was boosted by the fact that he got phone numbers from three girls during a trip to the grocery store. So we then had to tease him about those girls just thinking he was a bad boy, but we know better. This is our sweet little J-Rod we're talking about here. (He reminds me of Cody Lindley from Hannah Montana--except now with a mohawk.)

And an update on the problem I discussed yesterday: I made it through bowling, but there was a moment where it hurt so bad I almost wet my pants. Then I went home and crawled freezing into bed. I got up and put an extra blanket on the bed and put on my bathrobe and fuzzy socks. I finally got warm, but my temp was only 97 degrees. Weird. And did you know there's really no answer on the internet as to why body temps drop without being hypothermic? Google and Wikipedia have failed me.

If You Can't be a Good Example....

at least be a horrible warning.

In my ongoing efforts to protect the world from repeating my horrible mistakes, I like to pass on things I've learned the hard way. Last night was a big one. Ready? Here goes....

DO NOT smash your thumb in the door one hour before you have to be at the bowling alley for league night.

It really would have been better for my team if I had just stayed home after that. My thumb is still swollen and getting it into that ball last night was an exercise in torture. Despite just getting the tip of my thumb into the ball, I still managed to get it stuck quite often. Every release it felt like my poor thumb was being ripped off.

I was bowling like crap and just trying to grit my teeth and get through three games when in the second game the ball and my thumb refused to part ways somewhere towards the end of the game. My arm swung up, and up, and the ball refused to release. My arm was almost above my head when basic physics took over and the ball flies up in the air, pain explodes up my arm, the ball goes straight up, comes straight back down, hits the lane, and bounces magnificently into the gutter. I turn around to see my team, other teams, and my friends with varying looks of disbelief and hilarity on their faces. It was one of those Funniest Home Video-winning moments, and no one had a danged camera! I was doubled over cradling my arm and hand and hysterically laughing my butt off because it was so funny (hey, if you can't laugh at yourself!!) and almost crying because my thumb and now my arm hurt so bad.

I managed to pull myself together and at least get the ball aimed at the pins on the next try. I think I might have hit one or two that time. The last game is still a blur of pain and I finished the series with scores of 90, 101, and 110. (My average is 134.)

Thankfully my teammates did well and we managed to take the series from the number one team. That's what teams are for--even when you're the lead weight around their necks dragging everyone down, you can still come out a winner. Here's to you, B.H. and Wawas. I raise my battered thumb in your honor. I'd raise my arm, too, but it hurts too much.