In Which Our Hero Admits a Personal Failing

Sarcastro took me bowling last night, which was great fun. I was rusty. No, to say I was rusty is an insult to rust. So, let's just say that the difference between someone who's never bowled before and me is not that much, except that I don't have the excuse of not knowing what I'm doing. However, while bowling, probably about the time I let the ball slide off my fingers and roll towards Sarcastro, who was standing behind me*, I realized that I bowl right handed. America**, I'm not right handed. I use my right hand to move a mouse, shift my car into drive, and wipe. That's it. Otherwise, it just hangs there like some vestigial limb. Why would I try to pick up any object that weighed more than, say, seven ounces with my right hand? As a girl who's made a career out of mocking other people's obtuseness, I've got some nerve***. Sarcastro actually came into our house, which I thought would spur the Butcher into cleaning, seeing as how we're having company this weekend. When someone comes into your house and has no place to sit or even stand for all the slacker pothead accoutrements littered about, most people can discern that there's a problem with the level of picked-up-ed-ness of things. Yet, when I ask the Butcher, "Are you going to clean before Shug gets here?" he just looks up at me through one half-closed eye and says "I did clean." Perhaps I should ask if he inadvertently cleaned another house, not ours. *And yet, I came back from that embarrassment to get a spare. **And other nations of the world. ***Also, this weekend, after watching The Lost Boys for the eleventy-seventh time, I realized that all the folks the vampires have the altercation with on the carousel end up dead.