It’s time I came clean about something: I’m a bunko junkie. Now
before you jump up and start calling the authorities, let me just
say it’s not as illegal as it sounds. For those of you who don’t
know what bunko is, it’s a social game for 12 players (usually
women), who roll three dice trying to land on a certain number
while drinking cheap wine and gossiping about people who didn’t
show up. (Note for the people in my bunko group: Ha, ha! Just
kidding about that last part.) The nice thing about bunko is that
you need to rely more on luck than any real skill, and the biggest
challenge is trying to keep score after the alcohol kicks in.
It’s time I came clean about something: I’m a bunko junkie. Now before you jump up and start calling the authorities, let me just say it’s not as illegal as it sounds. For those of you who don’t know what bunko is, it’s a social game for 12 players (usually women), who roll three dice trying to land on a certain number while drinking cheap wine and gossiping about people who didn’t show up. (Note for the people in my bunko group: Ha, ha! Just kidding about that last part.) The nice thing about bunko is that you need to rely more on luck than any real skill, and the biggest challenge is trying to keep score after the alcohol kicks in.
But the other nice thing about bunko is that each member takes a turn hosting it, which means you not only get to visit all sorts of houses, you also get to check out the decor inside. (Ahem, to the people in my bunko group: Ha, ha! Just kidding.) Oh, all right. So maybe I’m not TOTALLY kidding. Some circles may call this “snooping.” Other circles might call it “being nosy.” I prefer to call it “investigating.” WhatEVER.
So what does all this mean, you ask? For some of you more entertaining types, being a bunko hostess means that once a year you get to show off your best china and latest addition to your Ethan Allan living room collection.
For me, it means letting 11 other people into my house to see what kind of shoddy dump I’m running.
This leaves me with three choices:
1. Cancel bunko during my hosting month.
2. Rise to the occasion.
3. Serve really, really strong margaritas.
Now while option one seems somewhat tempting, naturally it would only be a matter of time before someone caught on, and of course option number two is merely a laughable idea. So that leaves option three which, while not a particularly practical entertaining solution, has my vote.
Oh, sure, I could always take a more Gen-Xer-type approach and simply not care. But obviously I DO care. Or else I wouldn’t be giving it a first, second and third thought now.
So I did the only thing I could think of: I asked my resourceful friend Linda, also a veteran bunko player, what she’d do in this sort of situation. She said simply, “I always host bunko the month after someone who has worse furniture than me.”
Yes, a brilliant idea, for sure, except for the fact that no one NO ONE in my group has worse furniture than me.
Now in a perfect world I would say there was an uplifting turnaround where I cleaned the house, bought matching serving dishes and new furniture and everything was fine. And that’s what I did. Oh all right, I didn’t.
However another much easier idea occurred to me that I hadn’t thought of before: I’d simply find a new bunko group. One that doesn’t meet in homes, but rather in public places like, say, a nice Chinese restaurant or something.
Okay, so maybe this isn’t a particularly lofty plan, but you have to admit it does have its good points. Of course now the big problem is finding one.
Or, hey, I could start my own group. All I have to do is find 11 people who want to play bunko, don’t cook, and have really bad furniture. Fat chance, you say? Maybe. But as they say in life and bunko, you never know unless you try.
Debbie Farmer is a humorist and a mother holding down the fort in California, and the author of Don’t Put Lipstick on the Cat. You can reach her at
fa********@oa***************.com
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