Last night we went bowling and I, through some mystical synchronicity involving tepid disco lighting and the Magical Sea-Green 12-Pound Ball, earned 141--my lifetime high score, and one that left Tom groveling in the dust. This achievement was made even sweeter by the fact that he had, just previously, been making scoffing remarks about my affection for bumpers in the gutter. So to keep the record straight, I will emphasize that this was a bumper-free score. And that he himself could have used some bumpers.

(Of course, I should also mention that we did bowl three games, and my other two were dreadful.)

Now here it is, already past 8 o'clock in the morning, and I have yet to trudge outside and feed the animals, bring in firewood, empty the ash bucket, etc. The animals are none too happy about my laziness. But it's starting to snow-sleet-rain, as it's been forecast to do all day and all night; and I am unenthusiastic about Nature. I would rather sit at the kitchen table and drink coffee and relive my bowling triumph. An occasional social bowler since high school, I have spent 30 years consistently scoring below 100 and being triumphed over by whatever boys happened to have taken charge of the score sheet. Here I am, at age 46, finally winning and, what's more, being the first bowler present to figure out how to make our names show up on the little computer screen. Hah!