The Party: Part I

Now, before the night even started, I had had a pretty good day. The only thing on my to-do list was working out, and I had all day to get around to it. So, I went shopping with my mother and little sister, had a spot of lunch, and then came home to a nice, quiet apartment all to myself. I am very rarely home in the middle of the day, so I decided to abuse the hell out of it. I ate three s’mores and had a big cup of tea while watching the Coupling marathon on BBC America. Aw, yeah. As time went on, I got sleepy. I took a nap. It was glorious. I woke up about 4:30, and was surprisingly full of energy, so I put on my shorts and Taed the Bo. I had just enough time to shower and get ready (it should be noted that I happened to take down the skinny jeans from the top shelf, just to open up my clothing options, and they fit perfectly—what kind of omen is that, I ask you?) before my aunt came home to unwind before the party. After that very pleasant afternoon, I arrived in style at the bowling alley.

As much as one can arrive in style at a bowling alley, that is.

The Bowling:

We got shoes, got our lanes, and set up the roster, amid much talking and laughing. G, my former teacher, was the first one there (I was late for my own party; tacky, I know), and since we haven’t seen each other in a while, the first hour of bowling is spent in idle chatter. My aunt arrives, and she and G are reunited (they worked at Target together about a decade ago); there is much crying and hugging, and estrogen in general. My two sisters (finally) show up, we all get drinks and it isn’t long before we’re throwing off our shirts and comparing tattoos. Pretty soon, CD, Kate and Jackie arrive, and the party is complete.

G, and me, you can see, we’re blur-ry.

I am too happy / tipsy / busy bowling to notice that a shit-ton of food has been sent to our table, and I feel a dull panic that I’ll have to pay for it all (I didn’t; thanks, you guys, for being responsible—I hate getting stuck with the check). Also, if all this happiness weren’t enough, G gave me the awesome gift of The Jazz Singer. Now, if I haven’t mentioned, I’m a big Neil fan. Love him. Love the Neil. Moreover, I had a noteworthy concert experience where I actually got called up the stage and kissed by one Mr. Neil Diamond. Hotttt. (He was sixty, I was twenty, you are jealous.) So really, the best part of this gift was getting to tell the story to all the friends present who hadn’t heard it yet. That task fell to my brother (so the facts may be a little off, guys) since it was my turn to bowl.

My widdle bwudda. Awww….

I have not bowled since I was very young. Twelve, I think. It was with a church group, so that’ll give you some idea of how long it had been—I was still in catechism. Bowling is an odd practice; for some, the skill is like cheddar—you can leave it alone for years and it’ll get even better than day one (Kate). And for some (me), it is more like Wensleydale; when you open it up, it’s as good as it’s gonna get, and has a very short shelf life. Yet it is improved heavily with the addition of Guinness. Does everyone bowl better after drinking? I doubled my score after the first pint. The power of the pint, I guess—it’s better than Gatorade. Kate, I think, was the MVP of the night; she completely trounced my brother and (probably) made him cry. You can’t blame him; he’s been beaten by women his whole life. He probably likes it just a little bit by now.

The Drinking:

Me with the wee-beer

My first drink was the long sought-after amaretto sour. I really didn’t expect them to have it, but lo, they knew it was my birthday. It was tasty, perfect, gone in less than a minute, and earned the distinction of Only Drink I Paid For All Night. My game began to improve, I think because I was no longer intimidated by the pins. My father ordered an entire pitcher of Bud Light, and was soundly mocked by all persons present who like to drink beer. I didn’t want him to get stuck with the whole thing, so I drank a cup (it was free) until CD showed up with a pint of Guinness all-my-very-own. [You rule, man.] It is a very special thing to buy your fellow (wo)man a Guinness. I feel like we should sing sea chanties or something together.

I need a more supportive bra, what say?

And on that note (sorry)…

Tomorrow: Karaoke!


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