I had a dream the other night that I was at bingo. I seldom go since my Mom died, because it’s something we did together, and well, I turned into a snotbag when I went without her.
Ass Burger Boy knew this, and graciously volunteered to go with me, so I wouldn’t be alone and prone to the snotfest. Isn’t he sweet?
I don’t exactly know why I thought I should go, it isn’t as if I dreamed I would win or anything. And? Have you ever been to bingo and watched the people around you?
Nobody smiles. Even when they win. I heard one woman who won almost $500 mutter “It’s about goddamn time, after all the money I put into this.” If they’re going for fun, I’d have to give them a fail.
If you’re in a good mood, and talking with your companion, or strike me dead laughing, you are on the receiving end of the bingo hall death ray stare. It seems that laughter is verboten at bingo.
The only time there was any real hilarity at bingo was at my expense. I once went with Mom and her friend in the valley. The tree in her friend’s yard had ripe plums on it, and I ate quite a few of them, not thinking that plums, when dried, are prunes. These were fresh, ripe, and delicious.
The rumblings coming from my tummy announced the fool who had been eating fresh plums, and the dashes to the washroom underlined just what fool it was. Everytime I scraped my chair back, the tables around me tittered.
I was happy to provide some amusement. Because bingo? Full of sour-looking, cranky faces.
