I got a phone call at work, around noon yesterday. It was my friend Sonya, “We need a twelfth person at Bunco tonight, will you come? I know you have to work tomorrow, and you don’t like doing stuff on week nights, but it’s only from six to nine. There is dinner, dessert, and drinks; it’ll be fun! Will you go?”
Sure! Count me in! Do I need to bring anything?
“No, just bring yourself, a five, and three one dollar bills. That’s it. And you can’t cancel. You have to commit. Be at my house by five-thirty.”
And just like that. My mouth betrayed me. I don’t drink or “go out” on week nights. I have fake OCD, and I like my routines, and rituals. I work out when I get home from work, I have dinner, I watch a bit of TV, and I fall asleep by ten o’clock. Boring. If I deviate, if I get less than eight hours of sleep, I’m a crabby, dysfunctional, hot mess.
Plus, I don’t even know what bunco is…
So I Googled it. Some random website defined Bunco as a social dice game played in groups of twelve or twenty, and popular with suburban housewives.
I planned to leave work early but it didn’t work out that way. I left work late, and hurried home. I couldn’t wait to take off my stepford work clothes, and throw on some jeans and flip-flops; I had fifteen minutes… tick-tock. My phone rang. It was Sonya…
“I forgot to tell you, there is a theme; you have to dress up like a princess, so wear a dress and glittery jewelry. I have a tiara you can borrow. See you soon!”
O-M-G I’m going to play dress-up with suburban housewives. F%$K I threw on a quasi-comfy, black halter-dress, heels, and layered rhinestone bracelets; I grabbed a cup of coffee, and I bolted out the door. So much for comfy jeans and flip-flops.
FIVE HOURS LATER… I was a Bunco expert.
I knew that Bunco was boring and age appropriate to a four-year-old level; there are hard-core old-lady-bunco players, and they take the game super serious; some people wear carpal-tunnel-syndrome-bowling-wrist-braces on their dice-rolling hand and they win a lot; some ladies are super bitchy and they snap at you if you pause during your turn, to tally your score, or to talk. So don’t talk. Or count. Ever.
And since I couldn’t pause to tally my score, I lost track; which is probably why I won the $15 booby jackpot for the person with the most losses. Not. Kidding. Those old ladies were super scary.
So I guess I cheated to lose? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. At least the mind numbing game was over. It was eleven o’clock, and way past my bedtime. I couldn’t wait to go home. And I could finally take a break from the Bunco Nazis and go pee, get some iced tea, and check my phone. I also texted Hubs, because I knew he was anxiously waiting to hear how the Bunco night was going…
“OMG longest game ever. And so boring. NEVER. Again. It’s almost painful. It’s so f*&king boring.”
And then I heard my friends hollering for me… There was another game. I’m not kidding. Apparently endless rounds of tossing dice, and changing chairs, and ringing bells, wasn’t enough.
THEY WERE GONNA PLAY ANOTHER F(*^KING DICE GAME.
I felt like I was in an ABC Afterschool Special. At this point my friends were really drunk. And I was the designated driver. And I was trying to corral them; trying to convince them it was time to go home and we should just skip the last game. WTH? I was trying to reason with drunks. I’d get one friend, and plant her by the front door, and she would wander off while I went to get the other friend; I felt like I was trying to herd puppies.
And after I couldn’t take any more drunken wine-breath kisses, bear hugs, and I love yous, I caved in; I gave up; we stayed for the next game. My friends promised it would be a quick game. Drunks have no concept of time. My friends promised it would be the funnest game of the night. Everything is fun, when you are drunk. I was not drunk.
The second game was called C-L-R. And, uh, if you’ve never played, just think: four-year-old’s know their left from their right, correct? So, you get the idea.
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER… we finally left.
I think I got about three hours of sleep.
My definition of Bunco: a time sucking dice game, probably invented by Ernie and Burt, that will turn suburban housewives into frat boys.