Sunday, May 30, 2010


My almost (tomorrow) 10-year-old great nephew Luke and I share something besides the fact that his middle name is the same as my last name. Literally and figuratively, we both dig rocks. Luke loves them so much that the top mattress of his bunk bed is reserved for his special specimens. I don’t go so far as sleeping with rocks, provided you don’t count Big Bore rolling over on me in the middle of the night….which is more like a boulder.

Last summer, Luke and I went on a cave tour and visited a rock museum/shop in Missouri, and right after that we started planning bigger. This coming week we are headed to a state park in southern Arkansas to dig for diamonds. Now, personally I’ve never been all that keen for wearing diamonds and I’ve never owned more than cubic zirconium. I’d rather load up on rubies, emeralds, and sapphires; however, sitting around in a big pile of dirt digging for diamonds appeals to me. Same with Luke. ---So, I’ve packed up the car with buckets and trowels and we are leaving on Tuesday, in search of the big mother lode. We will take a crash course in the art of diamond digging and then go for it. I am hoping it will be raining because that’s the best condition for successful diamond hunting, and everyone knows that I am mud-friendly, provided I'm wallowing in someone else's yard. A side trip to Devil's Den to hike and explore the cave there is also planned.

The Flaming Bore is over and out for the next five days. And always remember: diamonds are a girl’s best friend…as well as a little boy’s.

Thursday, May 27, 2010


Well, I take back everything I said on Facebook yesterday about the American Idol finale being one hour and 55 minutes of boredom and five minutes of excitement when the winner’s name is revealed. They brought out the old timers!! Rock on!!

For starters, Alice Cooper, replete in tight black leather and studs, opened the show with “School’s Out.” What an inspiration! If he can still stuff himself into a jumpsuit and bust a move at age 61, then maybe there is hope for the rest of us.

Next, be still my aging heart, came Barry Gibb and his bro Robin of The Bee Gees fame. OMG! I was about ready to have a Jive Talkin’ musical orgasm right on the spot. Even though Barry now resembles Buffalo Bill Cody with his long, gray locks, he can still hit those high disco notes.
Representing The Doobie Brothers was Michael McDonald. Now, I once rocked to the DB’s at the Kansas State Fair maybe a century ago, so my excitement continued to mount. And when Hall and Oates came out Man Eatin’, I could no longer contain myself.

“What ARE you doing?” Big Bore asked, eyes rolling at me.

“Sofa dancing,” I answered. “Just be glad I’m not standing up.”

“Well, thank God there’s just five more minutes.”

“Not tonight. It lasts for one more hour!”

“You're kidding! Two hours?” he asked, exasperated.

“Yep, I smiled.”

He headed for the door.

What could top the first hour? Good lord, Bret Michaels has come back from the near-dead, and there he is on stage jamming’ with Casey James (third place idol contestant, for those of you who don’t follow the mania). The man was lying on an ICU bed two weeks ago with a brain aneuyrism, knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door, and now he’s performing like a mad man. A super mad man. What’s next? Is Elvis actually in the building?

When Chicago came on, I tried finding Big Bore, thinking he’d surely want to see them. He was hiding somewhere in the backyard. His loss. He did get back to the living room in time to see some rapper and dance team wearing the baggiest jeans on the planet.

“Do you know who these guys are?” I asked BB.

“Beats the hell out of me,” he answered.

“Well, they’re all about to lose their pants.”

Obviously, I’m skipping over all the chick singers who appeared on the show: Alanis, Christina, Janet (Miss Jackson). Divas don’t count.

Finally, the end was near, and just when I think this show can’t bring on another old idol of mine who’s still living, who should appear but JOE COCKER!!! Faaaaaaaaaar out!!

“That’s Joe Cocker?” BB asked, incredulously, spoiling my moment of utter delight.

Okay, so he hasn’t aged well. He’s Joe freakin’ Cocker, for god’s sake. What do you expect?
So, he's led a hard rockin' life and needs a little help from his friends. It's amazing that he's still breathing.

By the time all the screaming and screeching had calmed down, I was worn out. What a night!! I didn’t care who won American Idol. I was just delirious with seeing all my old home boys. Who would have thought that the grand finale show would turn out to be a love fest to the ‘60s and ‘70s, and The REAL American idols are drawing Social Security? At least for one night, they got out of their rocking chairs and showed those young hopefuls how to rock the stage!

Wednesday, May 26, 2010


Memorial Day is almost here, so I’m once again planning to make the "flower rounds" at the cemeteries where my Evans family are buried. For many decades, this was a sentimental, annual trip I would make with my Great Aunt Ethel Evans and Mama Bore. After Ethel (top in the picture above) died in 2000 at age 97, it became Mom and me going to the cemeteries, and since her health declined in late 2008, I started going alone last year. It’s sure not the same being by myself.

Ethel, her husband (my Great Uncle Jobe), and his parents are buried in a little country cemetery, Mount Pleasant, west of LaFontaine. No one else in the family makes the trek to this beautiful spot. “You were their favorite,” Mom has always said about Ethel and Jobe, and I suspect she’s right. They never had children of their own, so I was about as close to a grandchild as they had, mainly because I was their only relative who truly enjoyed hanging around on their farm. I have always had a fondness for dirt.

I never knew the boys in this picture. Great Uncle Chester, at top, left Kansas as a young man, and Raymond, who is holding the baby (my Grandma Evans), died of a brain tumor when he was only 9-years-old. Grandma and he are buried in Neodesha next to their mother, Great Grandma Rose, and my Grandpa Evans. I never met him, either, because he was killed in a refinery accident in 1941. He was a brother to Jobe. The sisters, Ethel and Pearl, married brothers. When I got my divorce in 1998, I had my last name legally changed and that’s how I became an Evans, too.

I wonder if anyone will take the trouble to lay flowers on their graves when I am no longer around, or if their lives will be like so many others. Gone and forgotten. No family around who knew them, who laughed with them, who held their hands. Just a granite marker with a few dates to show someone below was born and died. No memories in between. Will the time come when no one puts flowers on their graves for Memorial Day? I hope not, but I know better.

Sunday, May 23, 2010


Dear, sweet Fluffy recently gave us great concern when we couldn’t find her. After ripping apart both closets, twice, looking for her, I was beginning to fear she’d run away from home and I’d never see her again. “Fluffy, where are you?”

When I went into panic mode, Big Bore asked, “Have you check behind the dresser?” There is a little niche in the wall there that goes all the way to the floor. I made a mad dash, looked behind the dresser, and there she was--looking up at me with her one good eye, helpless. “It’s about time you got here!”

The space was too tight and too deep an area for her to leap back out, and since she is a mute cat--no meowing from Fluffy to give us a clue where she was--she was just stuck there. I couldn’t retrieve her, so Big Bore pulled away the dresser and Fluffy dashed out to freedom.

We have since stuffed a huge afghan into the niche, hoping to prevent any repeat performances. Of course, if she hadn’t been exploring the contents of the dresser top, then this accident never would have happened in the first place, but try reasoning with a cat…..

Thursday, May 20, 2010


In follow-up to yesterday’s musical blog, here’s photographic proof that I was once a high school Gleek, thanks to the 1966 Yellowjacket yearbook. This is our glamorous girls trio, (love those dainty, lady-like white gloves!) plus piano accompanist. I was the second soprano, lost in the middle, since the other two had great voices and could read music, both skills that I was lacking. ( I have blogged once before about my stellar singing career--see Sept. 9, 2009 entry). The only thing I had going for me was that I had a mouth and it was LOUD.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010


“I get TV from 7 to 9,” I told Big Bore last night. “American Idol” and “Glee” are mine--all mine! Two hours of wonderful music--some great, some not-so-great, but always ever-so-much better than listening to myself sing to the cats, which is a daily excruciating experience, although Fluffy sort of digs it when I make up silly songs and the lyrics include the word, Fluffy.

I don’t consider my television hogging on Tuesday night as imposing upon BB too much. Although he doesn’t share my enthusiasm for “American Idiot,” as he calls it, “Glee” is a different story. He has a mad crush on the character named Rachel, and he loves her voice even more than her long, dark hippie hair. He has been known to give her standing ovations from his man-chair--and getting his butt out of that chair for any reason besides going to the kitchen to fetch for seconds is quite a fete.

His biggest applause last night, however, was for the glee club teacher and his old high school nemesis played by Dr. Doogie Howser himself, Neil Patrick Harris. Their Aerosmith’s duet of “Dream On” rocked the living room, although there were a few times their jumping about on the set made me fear for their body parts. Big Bore saved his teary eyes, as did I, for another duet, this time with Rachel and her long-lost mother, who sang “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables.

But my favorite performances of the night were from the paraplegic Artie (Kevin McHale) who did a cool, fantasy Michael Jacksonian-type group dance at a mall to Men w/o Hats’ “Safety Dance,” and his sweet finale of Mama Cass’s (Remember The Mamas and the Papas?) “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” Oh, what a Glee-full night it was!! We gleeks at Casa de la Flaming Bore were just toe-tapping happy, happy, happy by the end of the show.

Ninety minutes later, as we cashed it in for the night, I began butchering a few notes of the Mama Cass song, thinking it appropriate bedtime music, no matter how badly it sounded.

“I sure liked the theme on ‘Glee’ tonight,” I said, giving up on my singing and trying to start a meaningful conversation.

“What do you mean?” asked BB.

“Dreams. All the songs related to the characters’ hopes and aspirations,” I explained. “And most of the songs had the word dream in their titles. Didn’t you get that?”

“No, not really,” he mumbled, already in partial-snore mode.

“Geesh. All this time I thought you were watching ‘Glee’ because of its deep connection between the plot and the music lyrics. Every week there is a theme, and the music expresses what is happening in the lives of the students and teachers. Didn’t you know that?”

“Dream on. I just like the music…zzzzzzz”

“To Dream the Impossible Dream” is more like it.

Monday, May 17, 2010


(Maggie and Mary walking the streets of Rockaway Beach, 1967)

(The Flaming Bore, in a flaming fashion disaster, with friends.
Sunday was high school graduation in our fair burg. I didn’t attend the rowdy affair, but I did pause to think about my own “Pomp and Circumstance” experience 40+ years ago. To tell you the truth, I remember very little about it. I’m sure the valedictorian, salutatorian, and class speaker had plenty of inspirational words to pass along--but I was more interested in pondering the graduation booze party I would be attending with the Boyfriend of the Month (BOM), who had somehow become the Boyfriend of the Semester--my personal world record in keeping a guy interested in me, despite all odds.

Without a doubt, the most memorable of all senior activities was our class skip trip to Rockaway Beach, Missouri. It was a hotbed of frivolity in the Ozarks, complete with bumper cars, paddle boats, and motor scooters. Far freakin’ out! Ya can’t top that for entertainment in the 1960s! Plus, at the end of the day, we had a dinner/dance on a real live paddle boat. Dress-up attire required. Oooh, lah, lah!

It took three school busses to haul about 100 seniors and brave sponsors to Rockaway Beach. Even though we weren’t spending the night, we had some motel/cottage rooms for changing clothes, taking naps, whatever. No hanky-panky allowed, though. I mostly hung out with the BOM. We rented a paddle boat, but it wasn’t much fun and not because of the drippy weather. I didn’t realize how much damn work it was going to be to propel one across the lake. Good lord! I was exhausted! A motor scooter looked a lot easier and a lot more fun, but we didn’t rent one. Bummer.

I think the best thing about the Skip Trip was just that we seniors got to take off a day of school and romp in the Ozarks. Heck, I’d never even been to the Ozarks before, so I felt like I was on some exotic vacation.

At recent reunions, classmates have talked about how much fun it would be to take a 45th reunion trip back to Rockaway Beach. I have it on good authority, me, that the place has changed very little over the years. It’s like taking a walk back into the Twilight Zone. Outer Limits. A total time warp. The bumper cars still look like the 1967 models and the paddle boats are still moored on the beach waiting for suckers to rent them. If we can set aside our aches and pains long enough to actually take a class trip to Rockaway in a few years, that’s one activity I absolutely do not care to relive. Paddle boats. I don’t even want to get near one. No way. Nada. Skip it.

Sunday, May 16, 2010


Flaming Bore: “Wouldn’t you know. This is peony peak week and it’s rained every other damned day. And not just a little mist. No, it’s the raining cats and dogs variety, and the poor peonies are drooping to the driveway. I wait 51 weeks for this one week and it’s shot all to hell.”

Big Bore (on the way to the big city and back) “Go ahead, pass on a bridge, you dumb Dodge.” “Grandpa up ahead doesn’t know this highway isn’t for gandering.” “Thanks a lot for not using your turn signal.” “What are you waiting, for lady? There’s no traffic coming! Can’t you figure that out after five minutes?” “ Slow down! You’re in a 25 miles per hour zone, you a**hole.”

FB: “I wish it would quit raining. My beautiful peonies aren’t going to make it.”

BB: “I can’t believe Oerchlein’s doesn’t have canning supplies.”

FB: “I can’t believe Dollar General is out of peachy water.”

BB: “Where’s a Wal-Mart sales associate when you need one?”

BB: “There’s no price listed for this dry ice. "I can get these eggs cheaper at home."

BB: “I can’t believe that the only sales associate Wal-Mart has working the floor is a poor guy who can’t talk.”

BB “I can’t believe the price for this deli turkey is $2.00 a pound higher than the everyday price its store in Arkansas charged when we were there last month.”

FB: “My peonies are never going to quit sagging under all this rain.”

BB: “We should have gone to the self check-out line. I can’t believe they only have three checkers available. We should have gone to Dillions.”

BB: “I’m never shopping at Wal-Mart again.”
FB: "This is the worst scratch-off crossword ticket I've ever had."

FB: “Oh, my gosh! ALCO is closing out its material department.” (Wah, wah, like I know how to sew a stitch.)
BB: "I can't believe ALCO wants $80.00 for a pressure cooker canner. I just want a submerge bath canner, and they don't have one."
FB: "Man, when is it going to stop raining?"

BB: “You know, Saturday Night Live isn’t as funny as it used to be.”

FB “All I want is some sun. Is that asking too much?”

Thursday, May 13, 2010


The other night I stayed up late watching something worthless, but one commercial caught my attention: Booty Pop, a padded panty enhancer that gives the wearer perky, freaky-shaped butt cheeks. Geesh. That’s all I don’t need or want at two for $19.95 in black and nude. They come in cutesy sizes like Xtra Sweet, Sweeter, Sweetest, etc. The pitch person warned that Booty Pops attract so much attention that gals may be swarmed with admirers. Watch out! Dangerous curves ahead!

I don’t think Booty Pop panties are designed for flat, flabby bottoms of my age, however. I’ve been sitting on this bum for 60 years, and there’s nothing that’s going to fabulously elevate it, short of a tire jack or plastic ass surgery. And, that’s just too much trouble, in my opinion.

I asked Big Bore, my fashion advisor, if I should invest twenty bucks in Booty Pops.

“Why would you want them? You butt’s big enough already.”

“But it doesn’t lift up to the sky.”

“Then walk around in high heels. That’ll work.”

“With sweatpants?”

I stuck some hand towels down my Hanes to see if a popping booty would get his attention, like it did with the guys in the commercial. It did, but not in a good way.

“You look like some fat-ass,” he laughed. “Forget it. You don’t need Body Poops or Booty Pads or whatever they’re called. If you're all that concerned about it, start doing Brazilian Butt-Lift exercises.”

"Is that anything like a Brazilian wax?"

No ifs, ands, or big butts about it. Booty Pops are not going to be popping out eyes in the Flaming Bore household anytime soon.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010


Last month I blogged about not being able to part with the ancient Do Not Enter sign that gathers dust in my garage. I mentioned that it was given to me by a pal from the early 1970s, Baseball Ray. Little did I know that I would soon see his real name in the newspaper--in the form of an obituary. How could that be?

Ray was 6’7” and rock solid strong. He was cute in a boyish sort of way, a gentle giant who had a fun sense of humor. I met him in The Basement, a college pub in Pittsburg, through mutual friends. We each needed a partner for playing spades. He attended a bigger university, so he wasn’t home often, but we usually got together when he was back in town. I was probably stuck on him more than any other guy I dated in college, but I knew the relationship wasn’t going to last. He had bigger plans in mind: a professional baseball career loomed just around the corner, and I wasn’t in the mix.

The last time he called me was to break a date in Dallas, where I lived at the time. He had been drinking. I was angry and disappointed. “Well, whenever you get your act together, you know where I am.” But I never heard from him again. I was sad about that. I really did care for the guy.

Well, life goes on. The baseball career fizzled. He went back to college to finish his degree. I moved back to Kansas and got married. He got married and moved to Texas. Fast forward to the obituary.

It didn’t sound right. He died at his home in Missouri? The only surviving relatives were cousins? I thought he was still in Texas and had children. Why weren’t they listed? He was cremated and there would be a service at some unspecific later date. Why were his two years of minor league baseball listed as his only accomplishment? How did he die? What really happened to him? I had to find out. And I did.

Baseball Ray had died of alcohol poisoning. A self-induced, miserable death. All alone. In a rented trailer.

I’ve since wondered what happened in his life to lead to such a tragic, lonely ending. What causes a guy who, once upon a time, seemed to have it all? He was athletic, smart, funny, and had friends all over the place who admired him. Why would such a person turn into a hopeless drunk? I thought back to our last conversation so many decades ago, still a sad memory. Was it a sign of what was to come? “Get your act together.” I never thought it would lead to this. Who knows what troubles burden another person.

Rook, I pray your soul is in a better place and you have been released from your demons. And I wish someone had cared enough about you to save you from yourself. I’m sure I’m not the only old friend out of your past regretfully thinking, “Had I known…”

Monday, May 10, 2010


Last week when I was out walking in the neighborhood, a group of rowdy kid bicyclists zipped by me, the little snot-nosed brats, and I had a flashback.

I was around 5 or 6 when I learned how to manhandle a two-wheeler, which I first rode in the backyard since crash landings on grass didn’t hurt like they did on concrete. Before long, I was making the scene on my red racer, carrying on conversations with my make-believe friends, and eventually I graduated to cruising around with real-life pals. I thought I was the fastest bad-ass biker on Robinson Street.

When we wanted to be extra cool, Beans and I would bring out some old baseball cards and clothespin them to our bike spokes. This was supposed to make the bikes sound like they had heavy-duty motors, but in hindsight I guess the noise just sounded like, well, flapping baseball cards.

The picture above was taken during the tricycle years before I became street legal, but notice how totally cool I looked in those hot sunglasses. Even at an early age, The Flaming Bore was keen on being a biker chick, ready to burn some rubber in her stylish coat and saddle oxfords. Pump those pedals, baby!

Oh, these rowdy neighborhood kids don’t know who they’re messing with. In my heyday, I could have blown them right off the road. “Get outta my way, you slow pokes!!! This is MY street!!” Queen of the Asphalt. Sweet.

Sunday, May 9, 2010


Happy Mother's Day to all my blog readers, even the Moms of cats and dogs! Here's a bouquet of peonies for you, with the actual peony bushes seen from out the window in the background. Have a happy day!

Friday, May 7, 2010


One of my great neph Boomer’s favorite shirts is this orange and black #51 number. It just happens to be the same sporty shirt his ol’ dad wore when he was a tyke. My mathematical calculations figure that this shirt is, hmmm---(Brandon was born in 1971 and I think he was three years old when I took this picture)---36 years old. I’d say Big Sis got her money’s worth. This may be the reason she laments that her basement is exploding with “stuff,” but the day Boomer can no longer stuff himself into this decades-old shirt and he has to hand it down to his baby brother-in-waiting will be a sad one for Boomer, indeed.

Thursday, May 6, 2010


They're heeeeeeeeere!! Happy, happy, joy, joy! Happy, happy, joy, joy! The peonies at Casa de la Flaming Bore are starting to bloom! The driveway is alive with the sound of music---that’s me singing, “You Are So Beautiful” to my ten peony bushes.

Three-and-a-half years ago Big Bore and I went out to Pleasant View cemetery west of La Fontaine to dig peony eyes from one of the four giant peony bushes at the Evans family plot. Well, it was more like BB digging and me watching, because extricating peony eyes is not a task for the weak and weary. That’s why he was along, of course--to do the labor. Anyway, we brought home a bucket full of peony eyes and planted them--again, Big Bore handling the digging duties, but I had the exacting task of placing the eyes in the holes and covering them up, which is a rigorous day’s work for any retired woman in my estimation.

Mama Bore, my green thumb guru, advised it would take three or four seasons for the eye transplant to really start taking effect, and she was right. The first season all we got was greenery. We got maybe a dozen flowers total the next year, and then last spring the bushes were FULL of pink babies. This year I’ve counted 100 buds on a single bush alone. My gang of peonies originate from great stock, and Big Bore has mulched them and made sure they have fine soil and drainage. About all I do is admire them and inhale their great aroma for the two weeks of the year that they’ll be around. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it and I am more than glad to oblige!

Wednesday, May 5, 2010


Mother’s Day is fast approaching. I’m not a mother, but I have strong opinions about the mothers who raised me on TV many years ago. Here are some notable ones:

June Cleaver (Leave it to Beaver), Donna Stone (The Donna Reed Show), Kathy Williams (Make Room for Daddy), Harriet Nelson (The Ozzie and Harriet Show), and Margaret Anderson (Father Knows Best; Mother knows diddly) were all just too darn prissy for my tastes. They did their housework wearing dresses, high heels, and fancy jewelry, for gosh sakes! Their homes were immaculate as the women in charge. Heck, my own tennis-shoes mom slaved over housework wearing a bib apron over a bra and Bermuda shorts and the place still looked like a train wreck. I just couldn’t relate to these TV moms at all.

Later on came Carol Brady (The Brady Bunch) and Shirley Partridge (The Partridge Family). Carol had a live-in housekeeper, for Christ’s sake, so she was definitely on my despised list. Shirley, on the other hand, was more to my liking. She was raising five kids on her own, just like my mom, so she had my sympathy immediately. Not only that, but she also wore bell-bottom pants, sang, and drove her brood around like nomads in a wildly colorful bus. How cool was that? I loved Mrs. Partridge. And it didn’t hurt that her son Keith (David Cassidy) was cute, in a teen idol sort of way--even though I was in my early 20s when the show aired.

The Roseanne Show was a big hit in the 1980s, although Roseanne was the antithesis to the previous TV moms. She was brash, bawdy, and didn’t even seem to like her kids very much. They couldn’t get away with a lick of orneriness--she’d done it all before herself, so she was wise to their every move. What a killjoy. She behaved worse than the kids. But here’s what I liked about her: she always wore sloppy oversized shirts covering her big belly. We had the same personal stylist.

These days the only TV show I watch that features motherly roles is Desperate Housewives. The stars, all mothers in various stages of madness, wear tight leggings, low-cut, boob-belching tops, and constantly have sex on their minds.

If Mrs. Cleaver was still around on television, she would be popping her pearls.

Monday, May 3, 2010


The other day I was walking around the school track when I gazed to the west and thought, "Wow! It's being cleaned up!" The salvage yard adjacent to the parking lot was no longer stacked sky high with heavy metal. What's going on here? Yes, the picture above still looks mighty messy, but if this improvement keeps up I may be forced to remove it from my list of Top Five Crap Holes in Eureka. About six years ago the Student Council planted trees along the fence line in an attempt to hide the eyesore. Most of the trees bit the dust, and the ones that survived have been slow to grow. I figure it will take about 100 years before they are big enough to do much good, but maybe, just maybe, the salvage yard will continue to come clean.

There are plenty of other places in town, though, to keep my crappy places list alive and well. Big Bore and I first noticed the junk pile below almost a year ago. We figured someone was fixing up the house, but apparently the only task that got accomplished was removing all the crap inside and dumping it in the front yard for all to enjoy. I call this a Crap Transfer. Every time we do a drive-by, Big Bore asks, "Doesn't this violate some city law?" Apparently not.

This next house is caddy-corner from the previous place. What a great neighborhood! The property value must be soaring!

Some crap locations here in town are legal and thriving. This one is a business a few blocks from our house. It has a quaint, sweet name, but we call it Crap Corner. Whenever guests are coming to Casa de la Flaming Bore for the first time, I just tell them to look for the 8-foot Rusty Rooster along the highway. You can't miss it! We think all the metal farm animals are procreating in the yard overnight. There just keep getting more and more them every day!

My final Top Five Crap Hole is actually one of the town's historic sites: the "Eureka! I have found it!" spot. It signifies where the town was founded back in 1857 near a spring. The marker is situated along what is lovingly known by the locals as "Turd Creek." When I was recently taking one of the high school foreign exchange students on a quick tour of town landmarks, her reponse to this one was, "It is not very nice." Ah, come on. What's there not to like about a washed up tire and trash?

Eureka! I have found it! And, alas, it isn't so pretty.

Saturday, May 1, 2010


There has been a dispute festering in the Bore household--ever since we got home from our horseshoe adventure earlier this week. I got on the website of the National Horseshoe Pitching Association of America (NHPAA to those “in the know“) to check if Big Bore’s scoring system was correct, and I learned he was right on target BUT he had failed to tell me that the foul line for women is 10 feet closer to the stake than the foul line for able-bodied men under 70!!! No wonder he kept whipping my ass!

“Hmmm. Listen to this,” I said while reading from the website. “The foul line for women is at 27 feet, not 37 feet like for men. I should get a handicap.”

“What?!” he said incredulously. “You’re making that up!”

“No, I’m not. Come read it for yourself.”

He got his butt up off his easy chair and lumbered over to the computer to take a look.

“See. It says right here that if you’re a female, physically impaired, or a man 70 or over, you can move up 10 feet closer to the stake.”

He leaned over my shoulder and put on his reading glasses. “Well, you’re not impaired,” he protested. “You didn’t have any trouble getting the horseshoes to the stake the other day. Half the time you threw them OVER the backstop.”

“But I’m a female. And I was having to put all my strength into getting them that far. Remember how you made fun of me when I kicked my right leg back as I threw the shoe? Well, that was because I had to give it extra ummpphhh. So next time we play horseshoes, I’m going to get closer like I’m supposed to.”

“But you’re not 70,” he continued.

“I don’t have to be! That’s just for men.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s fair.”

“It’s the rules. It's sanctioned. You’re just scared that I’ll beat you.”

“No, I’m not. You could stand right in front of the stake to throw and I’d still win,” he laughed.

“You just wait. Next time out, I’ll beat you so badly that it’ll feel like I’m sticking those horseshoes right up your butt crack.” (Ouch!)

To be continued.....