I give in

A few weeks ago I was invited to join a few other ladies (11 to be exact) to complete the required number of players for a Bunco party. I was a little wary, because Bunco has been trying to get me for the past six years. But I figured a part-time stay-at-home mom can’t pass up opportunities to meet nice gals and make new friends. So I went. Alan, being the nice guy that he is, agreed to watch Meggie so I could spend an entire Sunday afternoon rolling dice and screaming “Bunnnnnnnncoooooooooooooooooo!”

When I make weekend excursions sans Meggie and Alan baby-sits I often make interesting discoveries about how they pass their time together. My first Bunco party was no different. Maybe it’s because I come home earlier than he’s used to and he doesn’t have enough time to reflect on how he should answer when I ask (and I always do), “So what did you guys do?” On this particular occasion he and Meggie had target practice by throwing rocks at empty bottles and tin cans. You know what they say, you can take a boy out of the country, but … When Alan told me what they had done and said with a deflated expression that they had ended practice because a beer bottle broke, I exclaimed, “You what!?”

I’ve been spending a whole lot of time and energy trying (unsuccessfully thus far) to break Meggie of the rock-throwing habit. “But she needs to improve her aim,” he said. There’s no use explaining to people that a good arm and precise aim are not desirable qualities in a 20-month-old, especially our 20-month-old. I have seen this child in playgroup, and I can vouch for the fact that her aim is not the problem – it’s her target selection: other kids’ heads. But, as I said, if a person (man) doesn’t inherently know this, there’s no use explaining it to him. It’s one of those rare opportunities to say “Well, if you don’t know I’m certainly not going to tell you” and mean it.

I settled for asking him to suspend target practice till Meggie is old enough to play tee-ball and went away reaffirmed in my belief that men and women are just plain different. On Mars, they cultivate dead aim in toddlers who like to lodge grapes in heating vents. On Venus, they know better.

And while we’re in the realm of Mars and Venus and the vast expanse between the inhabitants thereof, I have to say that Bunco is a total girl game. There are myriad reasons, but here’s an abbreviated list:
1. The kids have to stay home with daddy (or some other obliging adult), because you have to “concentrate” on throwing dice. When the first hostess told me this on the phone, it worried me a bit. I thought that I might not be able to chew gum while playing the game for fear that task saturation would make me forget something really important … like breathing. But it turns out that it’s just a good opportunity to get out and have fun with the ladies without the kiddos. (Alan, if you’re reading this, it’s really not a good place for kids. I think Meggie would be scared if she saw someone hurling a pink fuzzy die toward the head of another woman who was pumping her fists and screaming “Bunco, baby, yeah!” Of course it would be a perfect occasion to expound on the necessity of good aim.)
2. There’s A LOT of food.
3. Players are forced to mingle and meet new people. Everyone has to switch tables and game partners after every one of 24 rounds. This can be painful for an introvert like me.
4. At half-time, there’s another bout of eating – dessert. This is can also be painful for an avid eater like me.
5. There are more prizes for losing than for winning. You get prizes for being runner-up, middle of the road (closest to winning or losing exactly half the rounds), rolling the most of certain number combinations, and (my personal favorite) for being the biggest loser. Only women would give that many prizes to people who, frankly, just didn’t win.

I may have found my way into a permanent place in the monthly Bunco game, and I’m surprised to report that I’m really enjoying it. As I said before, Bunco has been after me ever since I joined the Air Force. Alan, too, was recruited extremely heavily, as the “spouses’ club” of my unit was more persistent than the spouses’ club of his unit. He used to get squadron newsletters with personal notes from my commander's wife: “Alan, we missed seeing you at the ice cream social. Hope to see you at Bunco.” It’s a good thing I got out of the military, because his stubborn refusal to attend ice cream socials was probably hindering my career.

Although Alan makes fun of me, I have to admit it feels pretty good not having to struggle against the Bunco black hole anymore. Especially since I discovered the nature of the matter so dense not even light can escape the Bunco universe – it’s bread pudding and cake and cookies and …

This past weekend’s Bunco outing was pretty fun. I overate. And when I came home, I was happy to find that Alan had kept his promise to hold off on target practice. Instead, he spent hours teaching Meggie to wave her arms and cheer “Rollllllllllllll Tiiiiiiide!” I suppose they’re never too young to learn to watch football.