Bunco. It's Complicated.

Bunco. It's Complicated.

It’s Bunco Night in the suburbs and Nancy proffered my invitation at the community pool just the day before, “Why don’t you come to Bunco tomorrow night? It’s at my house. Bring one of your fabulous dishes." She immediately tried to rescind her invitation by diplomatically adding, "You know, you don’t have to stay.”

Friday afternoon I'm desperate for adult conversation so I ignore her put-down, whip up an appetizer, think up an all-purpose anecdote, dress up and go.

As I approach the front porch, I can see through the sidelights surrounding the front door that a group of neighborhood moms is already mingling in the kitchen. I don’t know Nancy well enough to just walk in. I wriggle my hand free from the heavy platter and ring the bell. I ring the bell a second time. Iris and Anna look my way. They pretend not to see me and return their focus to the gossip. Nancy appears from nowhere and opens the door. I hand my platter of bite-sized empanadas to her. “Oh, what did you bring? That looks delicious! You’re such a good cook!” As she passes the group, she tells me, “You could have just come in. You didn’t have to wait for someone to open the door for you.”

The women glance at me then quickly, avert their eyes and return to their covert conversation. It is all done in unison. They have practiced the 3 Point Shun maneuver many times before.

Nancy puts my platter down next to Anne’s block of picante sauce covered cream cheese and Iris’ seven layer taco dip. For the sake of full disclosure Iris tells me, “I was out of olives so it’s really only six ingredients but it’s still seven layers because I added a second layer refried beans.” By the look on Nancy’s face I can tell Iris has repeated the explanation many times already. "What did you bring, Ramona? That smells…so good!” Iris takes of bite of an empanada and declares it delicious and I watch in gloomy triumph as the others dig in. This is the only part of the suburban stay-at-home mom test I ever pass.

I am not like them. They know what “season” their skin tone and hair color are and dress accordingly. They are all made up to look their best and wear open toe shoes to show off their latest professional pedicures. I don’t know my “season”. I haven’t colored my hair in years and it’s been almost that long since I washed it. I forget to moisturize. In my pre-suburban mom life I tried wearing make up with the hope of looking like Shirley Manson but gave up when a stranger pointed at me and yelled, “Look! It’s Carrot Top!” I learned to accept my unvarnished face. Blotchy skin and sunken eyes are so rock-n-roll. Or so roadie, anyway. I rarely wear make-up now and never when I’m attending a neighborhood get together with a bunch of other housewives.

They are equally excited to name drop the exclusive boutique where they bought their clothes or the big box store where they bought designer knock-offs. I wear clothes until they have holes that show an unflattering amount of underwear. If the holey garment is, in fact, underwear, wearability is determined on a case-by-case basis. Most of my clothes have been carelessly splattered with paint or bleach or both. I am often given the professional discount at Sherwin-Williams just based on my attire.

“Isn’t this cute?” Nancy says with a twirl to show off her new peasant style blouse. "I got it in three different colors. They were, like, 4 bucks each!” I’ve topped my ratty paint splattered jeans with a faded Blondie concert tee shirt. The silk screening is so cracked that Deborah Harry looks like James Woods before Pro-Activ.

Looking for a friend or at least someone who will not walk away, I squeeze one shoulder into a group that includes Nancy and Karen, famous for her dry wit. I am only half listening and muttering syllables of agreement to whatever is said. I hear Karen complain that Anna has lost a lot of weight and looks really good, but that she did it with the aid of prescription diet pills so it doesn’t really count. I think I hear Karen complain that her diet of black coffee and cough drops is getting her nowhere. But then my mind wanders and before I know it, I’ve agreed that Ginger, with her championship show cats, potter's wheel and lack of a proper manicure, is just too strange to live in this neighborhood and should move out to the country where they live like that.

I glance over at Ginger who chatting with a group in the kitchen. I'm relieved that she's out of earshot. I hide my gnarly hands with their dried out cuticles and misshapen fingernails deep in my pockets. Karen suggests, “I guess she thought this neighborhood had covens--not covenants.” Iris doesn’t seem to know what a coven is and laughs loudly to hide her ignorance.

I’m focused on the stripes on Nancy’s shirt. They don’t match up at the sleeve seems. The group continues to gossip. My mind careens off course until I end up musing about how the sleeves don’t even match up with each other, much less with the bodice. Why did that happen? Was it carelessness or cost cutting practices at the sweatshop? Did the seamstress not take pride in her work or was she in a hurry to fill a quota? Is she starving? Does she have kids? What kind of existence do she and her family have? Why am I so concerned about the stripes matching when she probably has no running water? Do green and purple really match? Are there any college teams with those colors? Is that purple or really lavender? Wouldn’t it be great if fabric smelled like spices? But not turmeric, that stinks. Where did everybody go?



Everybody has gone to refill their wine glass or get another bottle of beer. Jennie and I stand out as the only non-drinkers. Jennie, a divinity student and who has a 5K the next day, is given a pass. I, on the other hand, must defend my abstinence. “I never drink and drive,” I offer. Anna responds with a fake laugh. “Oh, Ramona, you’re so funny!” She considers my confused look an invitation to discuss her leadership role in the annual Bike & Boogie for Our Freedoms Parade. “I just get too stressed. I’m a micro-manager and there are so many details. I like to delegate which means I have to constantly check on people to see if they’d done their part. It is very time consuming.” I agree that being a micromanaging delegator is mind boggling and that I'm glad she thinks outside the box and that next year’s event will probably either be Bike or Boogie, but not both, without her visionary leadership.

Alone again, I try to look busy by serving myself water from the refrigerator door. I fumble a bit since it’s different than the water dispenser on our frig at home. Finally Karen comes over and pushes a button for me. I feel the need to justify my ignorance. “Ours is different—you put the glass under the spigot and--” Karen impatiently interrupts, “Just push this button. I know--it’s complicated.” The hostility generated by my lack of general household appliance knowledge takes me aback and I manage to drip water on the floor. As I tear a couple of sheets off the roll of paper towel next to the refrigerator, I hear Karen call out, “Nancy, where do you keep your rags? Ramona just spilled all over the floor. She must be drunk.”

As the evening wears on, many beers are drunk, much food is eaten and even more lives are judged unworthy, but very little Bunco is played. Three tables of women clumsily shake dice and roll them on the tables. Points are counted, “Bunco!” yelled and Iris can be heard telling every group she’s with, “Y’all, I used to be the biggest slut!” I wonder if she means by size or by volume but she is boisterous and pleased by the laughter. Anna mutters, “Tick check,” and brings everyone to hysterical laughter. The fact that I’m not laughing makes it clear that I haven’t heard the 'Tick Check' story so Iris is beckoned to our table to regale me.

It turns out that her young son walked into his parents' bedroom while they were sharing an intimate moment. Iris, standing naked with her husband’s face buried in her nether region, had the wherewithal to explain to her son, “Tick check, Grant. Daddy’s checking for ticks.” Everyone laughs even though they've all heard the story before. I laugh, too, thinking of Grant’s next Cub Scout camping trip.

Winners of each Bunco round stay put and the losers rotate to a different table. Eventually Karen and I are paired up. We take turns fetching the errant dice as they bounce off the glass top coffee table. The conversation turns to celebrities. I’m ready with my anecdote. ”Angelina Jolie is so beautiful that I could have sex with her and still not be a lesbian.” There are gasps followed by awkward silence. I’ve clearly misread my audience. Karen loudly speaks the words, “Ha ha ha.” The others follow her lead. “What’s so funny over there?” Nancy asks. Karen doesn’t hesitate for a minute, “Ramona just admitted she's a lesbian.”

That sends the whole room into an uproar. Apparently, there is no such thing as a suburban lesbian. Karen hits comic gold.

Anna spends the rest of the evening shouting her new catchphrase, “I’m not a lesbian!”

“Nancy, I like your blouse. Oh, that sounded bad! I’m not a lesbian or anything.”

“Jennie, I noticed you have very shapely legs. Ha! I’m not a lesbian! Is that from all the running or did you pray for them?”

“I’m going to the bathroom. Karen, come with me--not that we’re lesbians. ’Karen come…’ that’s so funny! Karen is not a lesbian, y’all!”

At nearly midnight, three games of Bunco have been played, all the beer and wine are gone and lactose intolerant Anne has gone deaf from consuming her block of picante smothered cream cheese all by herself. Karen asks for the empanada recipe and I agree to email it. I have no intention of following through since I’ve sabotaged her diet by making the crust from white flour, cream cheese and butter.

I want to get home but wait until Ginger leaves first. “Party pooper!” They tease as she heads for the door. “Someone really should report them to the homeowner’s association,” Nancy says once Ginger is outside. Jennie leaves next, citing her 5K in the morning. “Good luck!” they call out. Karen adds with her famous deadpan delivery, “May God be with you!” once Jennie is out of ear shot.

Eventually the conversation degrades into arguing over who is the drunkest. Iris repeats, “Am I think as you drunk I am?” until someone finally acknowledges her clever contribution to the dialogue. I make my exit quietly and as inconspicuously as possible. No one seems to notice.

But Nancy follows me to the door. I suspect that she fears I will attempt to pleasure myself with one of the columns on the porch. “You know, Ramona, you should visit San Francisco. It’s so…so liberal. You’d really like it there,” she says with malicious sweetness. I imagine San Francisco through Nancy’s eyes: a land where street corner transgender mimes perform abortions on under-age illegal aliens. I say good night and turn away, smug in the knowledge that the stripes on her shirt don’t match.

As she walks back in to join the remaining group, I hear her say, “I think Ramona really is a lesbian. She was staring at my chest all night."