Did you know you can actually get . . . height . . . on a bowling ball?
Well, it turns out you can.
Maybe I should start at the beginning . . .
Things are opening up in our grand old city. People are starting to do
more than peek through their shutters. Now they are timidly peeking around
corners and *gasp* stepping semi-boldly out onto sidewalks.
We may just have survived this.
Of course, we’re still living with Sally, so there’s that.
Ahem . . .
Last night, Sally and Mort, in an attempt to mix clay, burned out the motor on the ice cream maker. Mom was less than happy. In fact, I think she was seriously considering enrolling Sally and/or Mort in a do-it-yourself Brain Surgery class--with Mom acting as head knife. And before any of you start to think her reaction a trifle . . . unjust, let me remind you of the 'bear cub' incident. I guarantee speculation will cease.
Now before Mom could issue her ultimatum, Peter, he of the amazing intuition, suggested the four of us ‘lovebirds’ (my word, not
his) should step out for the evening. Let our hair down. Paint the town red. Go
a little crazy. Party till you drop.
Of course, he said none of those. I think his actual words were: “How
about the four of us go out for the evening?” or something similarly normal.
The rest, my brain added. Because when one goes out with Sally, any or
all of the above are a distinct possibility.
Moving on . . .
He then followed his invitation with the memorable words: “The bowling alley’s
open!”
And that was all it took.
Sally and Mort were immediately crazy for the idea.
And I went along because, even with Sally in the company, I had Peter.
Things started out—as they usually do—very well.
We got our shoes. We got some snacks. We got the middle lane.
We were set.
The first couple of games were remarkable. (Not for our scores or
anything because, let’s face it, I’ll probably never break that #66 barrier.
Sigh.)
But because they were un-remarkable.
I even started to relax.
Okay, you who know Sally, also know that that’s the time when things
can immediately slide sideways.
It was Sally’s turn. Gracefully, she sauntered out to the lane, grabbed
her ball—a bright orange one—and stepped to the battle zone.
She did her wind up.
She swung the ball forward.
And that’s when it happened.
I’m not quite sure how and I really didn’t get a chance to go back and
investigate (due to being escorted promptly from the premises), but the ball . . . didn’t let go of her thumb.
True story. It . . . clung.
The unexpected grippage caused it to miss its normal trajectory and veer off somewhat closer to the
stratosphere.
But what it missed in course, it made up in speed and precision, hitting the
emergency sprinkler in the ceiling with amazing accuracy.
What followed was a confused jumble of scrambling workers and enraged
managers.
Which resulted in our finding ourselves outside on the sidewalk with
firm instructions that if we ever think of returning, we won’t.
Oh, and the recently-removed Covid signs? They’re back. But they look
something like this:
Each month, we participants submit words to our intrepid leader, Karen, which she then redistributes.
None of us knows who will get our words or what they will do with them till now.
We're as surprised as you are!
My words this month: ice cream maker ~ brain surgery ~ unjust ~ speculation ~ bear cub ~ ultimatum . . .
came to me via Karen from my good friend Tamara at: https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/
