Bunco, that game that rests on the shelves of Bed, Bath & Beyond waiting to be purchased by people who need a quick gift fix; bunco, that game played by women who delight in embodying a female stereotype by drinking wine, discussing shoes, and partaking in a game housed in a pink box; bunco, that game I will be playing tomorrow night.
Good God, Texas, I didn't see this one coming.
Cheryl, my friendly neighbor who I've never met, called me last week because she needed a Bunco sub for the community game. Lucky for me, the neighborhood directory was freshly printed and my cell was listed with a pink asterisk that read, "fresh Bunco meat."
"Well, you must have the wrong date. I accidentally called your husband first and he said you'd LOVE to join us."
"Well now, did he?" I said my pitch rising as I catalogued ways to beat my husband.
Fearing a house egging by the drunk-o Bunco gals, I accepted.
Upon my husband's arrival at the homestead he assured me he only suggested Cheryl call me and told her I'd love to meet the neighbors. She translated that into a rousing interest in Bunco. Oh Cheryl, your call to him was no accident, was it?
I am playing Bunco tomorrow night. Does anyone know how?