I’ve barely got time for a fly-by post tonight, ladies and germs. Things are, and have been, crazy whacky hectic around la casa de Puddin these past few days, and well, there’s still the proverbial mile to go before I sleep. For example, in just the next few hours, I need to write a post for Hoperatives, craft this month’s 3-Way Thursday offering, put the kids to bed, and go to a non-standard Wednesday night recreational hockey game.
By the way, that was like heavy breathing, not a random reference to wearing pants. I mean, I am wearing pants, which I’m sure is reassuring, but then, no one needs to be thinking about my pants, regardless. On the other hand, I guess heavy breathing isn’t the most polite topic either. I remember one time, my Grandmother had this strange phone call where the person on the other end was just…um, hey, you know what, forget I said anything.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, so, whew, that’s a bunch of stuff, right?
Like I said above, though, it’s not just today, but the last few that have been like this. Last night, as a matter of fact, I took the Puddinpop and Mini-Me bowling with their Cub Scout Den. If you don’t think that just screams hectic, well you’ve never seen a Cub Scout den in a bowling alley.
Picture, if you think you’ve got the cajones for it, 27 or 28 (I lost count) 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grade boys, all primed and rarin’ to go, spread out across six bowling lanes. And if that’s not enough to make you question your beliefs, give each one of those wound-up young fellas a pair of the worlds slickest shoes, a waxed wooden floor, and a bowling ball that weighs anywhere from 6 to 10 pounds. Then you tell ‘em to fling that ball down the lane as hard as is humanly possible. Yeah, good luck keeping them from doing it all at once.
Actually, it wasn’t bad. In fact, it was a whole lot of fun. I got to watch the boys bowl for the first time, and they got to see me bowl as well. Now, this might seem hard to believe, but I’m actually not completely incapable when it comes to the sport. I’ve even got a pair of shoes and a ball someplace down in the basement, from my misspent teen years. And by misspent, I mean I should have spent it flirting with members of the fairer sex instead of spending my Friday nights two lanes over from Bertha, who was inevitably chain-smoking between asking someone named “Hon” to get her another pitcher.
But I digress.
I didn’t take my shoes or ball last night because, well, they’re fit for adolescent feet and hands, and the only thing adolescent about me anymore is maybe my sense of humor. But with a house ball and a rented pair of shoes I’m sure the Puddinette doesn’t even want to think about, I showed my oldest two sons that maybe, just maybe, I am capable of succeeding at some things that don’t include sitting at a computer.
And that’s worth a little chaos, every time.