more proof that i’m actually a senior citizen

my bingo card at the sons of italy club. this is when i was playing only one card at at time. i already had my money out for more.

in the body of a 31-year-old.  

case in point: saturday afternoon. we were at the annual feast of st. anthony festival in little italy (my yearly excuse to eat eggplant parmesan out of a  paper container on foot), and just behind the bocce ball tournament there it was. the sign i’d been waiting for my whole over-18 life: 25 cent bingo.  

“BABE!” i said to holly, with more excitement than anyone should ever have over a game many of us played in first grade. “LET’S PLAY BINGO AT THE SONS OF ITALY. IT’S ONLY 25 CENTS A CARD!”  

that was the kicker. 25 cents. i pictured myself at a table with four to six cards in front of me, surrounded by piles of those little transparent red bingo chips i used to always find on the synagogue multipurpose room floor as a kid. i pictured myself shouting BINGO! amidst a sea of set senior hairdos and winning the whole damn pot and then buying another serving of eggplant parmesan and then an italian ice (the one in the lemon!) for dessert.  

“really?” said holly, surprised. “you really want to?”  

“YES REALLY.” i told her. “i’ve always wanted to play bingo!”  

she happily obliged, and we made our way past the bustling bocce ball courts and festival crowds and walked into the famed sons of italy lodge. it smelled a little like a basement and a little like a church. i loved it immediately and couldn’t stop smiling.  

there were round tables with lots of senior citizens sitting and talking (pros!) and ladies with those old-timey cloth money holders waitresses sometimes still tie around their waists going from table to table collecting money. there was as cute bar in the back, and a big light-up bingo board on the wall. it was like a real-life scratch-off lottery ticket (i love scratch-offs). i had finally found my crowd. i could barely contain myself.  

we bought one card each. then two. then worked our way up to four. this was a lot for me to keep track of, as the heat had sort of melted my brain (i’m notoriously flaky when it hits 90 degrees) and my blood pressure was already pretty high, i’m sure, from the excitement of it all. i should mention that there were no transparent red bingo chips. instead, they were these neat red slidey things. i was disappointed for about a nanosecond, realizing quickly that picking up chips and placing them on the correct coordinates would only slow me down, and thus felt grateful for the technology.  

i swear, every time we were remotely close to winning, some other person would shout “BINGO!” i was trying to be a good sport about it, but considering we had already spent like five bucks on about a million cards, i usually wound up calling each winner (never a senior, oddly; always some loud newbie visitor from the festival) a name or two in my head. (whaddaya want from me? i was high on lemonade and eggplant parm plus probably dehydrated  so cut me some slack.)  

the winning pots ranged from $10.50 to $13, so it’s not like we were missing out on anything major, money-wise. i just wanted to experience the sheer thrill of shouting BINGO! in the sons of italy lodge. still, just like scratch-offs, it’s the thrill of the chase. plus now i know the mystery that is senior bingo (oh you know where i’ll be hangin out in about 50 years!), and i treated myself to another eggplant parm anyway.  

playing four cards at once. i know. i'm a shark.

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perfect ten

i may be “a gay,” but i’m still a girl. and us girls play games. whether we want to admit it or not, we all play games, esp. when it comes to our mates/spouses/partners/signficant others. 

and we all get burned once in a while with these games. and i suppose that, yes, i was playing a game with holly the other day and i got majorly burned. 

here’s the story: 

we’re driving in the car on the way back from breakfast at our favorite diner–or maybe we were coming home from home depot, oh who the hell knows, we’re at that goshforsakin place so much (i swear i get hit with a wave of exhaustion every time we walk thru those damn double doors that’s so severe i could fall asleep standing up, no lie) and it’s right across the street from the diner so it’s all become a big blur to me–and we had the radio on. it was one of those morning drive-time radio shows headed by a big-mouthed, obnoxious, mildly loveable dj whose job it is to stir the pot and egg ppl on. 

so the topic at the moment was…let’s see, how can i phrase this without it sounding as trashy a topic as it was/is. the topic was the “theory” of how women that are “less attractive” are often “better in the sack.” the dj apparently backed this theory 100%.  both women and men were calling in to share their thoughts, including women that rated themselves lower on 1-10 “scale,” announcing to the dc/baltimore metro areas that while perhaps they weren’t raving beauties that could stop traffic, they know how to have a good roll in the hay. 

i decided to rate myself. 

“i’d say i’m about…a six,” i said to holly as she drove. i could already hear her response. 

“no way, babe! you’re a total 10. an 11. off the charts.” and she would seal her declaration with a kiss. 

instead she paused and said, “you are not a six, babe! you are totally an eight.” 

silence. 

(you just stopped breathing for a second, didn’t you?) 

shock. 

anger. 

and then the sadness only women and very vain gay men are able to feel. 

and then RAGE. 

“WHAT?!” i shrieked. “I’M AN EIGHT?!! YOU THINK I’M AN EIGHT??! I…I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU JUST TOLD YOUR WIFE SHE’S AN EIGHT! DON’T YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT WOMEN! GEEZUS I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SAY I’M A TEN! A PERFECT TEN!” 

first she was stunned into silence. and then she went into all-out protection mode. 

almost no one’s a perfect ten she said. practically no one. not even celebrities. 

i had goosebumps. i was that upset. i told her this. and yet–she didn’t budge. 

on looks alone, she surmised, she could only think of two women that she’d rate as tens. the girl (latika) from “slumdog millionaire.” and drew barrymore. (even in my rage, i had to admit to myself that my partner really does have impeccable taste.) 

then she proceeded to say that her personal “rating” system takes into account not only looks but personality. oh and this was supposed to make me feel better? if you add in my sparkling personality, that alone should make up the two points and give me a ten! 

oh we had a jolly old fight about the whole thing. it was really classic. really, you should have been there. (really, you shouldn’t have. i just said that to say it.) 

in conclusion, ladies, watch the game playing. i know you’re all sitting there shaking your heads like perfect angels, oh no, i don’t blame games! i would never!

oh but you do. you do and you don’t realize it. or maybe you do and you’re just scared to admit it. regardless, do yourself a favor. don’t put a “score” over your head and expect love of your life to do what s/he is supposed to do and rate you as a ten or, you know, an 11+. while we’re at it, don’t ask if your butt looks big either. b/c if you’re asking, it just might look big and you know you don’t want to hear it.

frieda pinto (latika from "slumdog millionaire"). one of holly's two "perfect tens." yeah yeah yeah. fine. she's ok. all right she's *gorgeous*. let's change the subject.

drew barrymore: even children and small animals love her. plus she can rollerskate.

 

i think i have a crush on my Wii trainer

what? my balance is good? aww *blush* thanks!!! (ok actually? i have no idea what she's saying here b/c clearly it's not in english. it's just the best pic i could find.) (hi! see you tonight!!! can't wait!)

no, i definitely do.

i don’t know her name (and i don’t think she knows mine). and it’s not the way she looks (tho she is fit in a…mechanical kind of way). it’s that voice! omg it’s like…velvet. a hot soy latte on a blustery day. wooooh boy! baby baby.

i must clarify that this is my Wii Fit trainer. you know the nintendo game thingy where you run around your living room like a maniac swinging a remote, which is actually a tennis racket. or a bowling ball. or golf club or baseball bat. we got the system from holly’s parents for xmas along with this Wii Fit board. i was a bit wary of it at first (after all, the last time i played video games was the original super mario bros. like…back in the late 80s? yeah i saved up the $113 for it myself and played til my tiny thumbs hurt). but once i tried it (THANK YOU, CHRISTINA! are you reading?! love ya!) i was impressed.

so, in a nutshell, you can do all these aerobic/strength/balance/yoga exercises. and for the strength and balance sections, you choose a trainer: male or female. now, i know what you’re thinking! that homo, she probably chose the girl. oh but you are WRONG, my friends! i chose the guy. (i prefer male trainers, male hairdressers, male bosses, male colleagues; sorry, girls, but you know we can all be a pain in the ass and i can’t deal w/the friggin drama) i decided to switch it up earlier this week w/the female trainer and…yeah.

we were doing yoga together (siiiigh) last night, and i was like, hotDAMN i can’t deny it any longer! i cannot deny my feelings! oh Wii trainer, i love how you compliment my balance even when it’s way off. i love how you tell me i must have good posture (even tho i probably don’t). i love all your encouragement. most of all, i love that sexpot voice. rrrrrrrrrrrar! see you tonight!  don’t tell holly! 😉