Bingo: 24 Ways to Win

Recently, Shells and I went to play bingo at a hall near us. This was the first time I'd played bingo since I was in Catholic grade school. I had fond memories of this game and Shelley had mentioned playing it periodically in attempts to win money, so we went. This particular hall offered cash prizes all night, including a $1,000 prize for the coverall card at the end of the night.

When we pulled into the lot (behind a Coach bus laden down with bingo-bag-wielding folk), we were immediately overwhelmed by how crowded it was.

"Surely all these people aren't here just for bingo," I said, but as we walked inside, we learned that was indeed the case. Buffet tables with rigatoni, salads, and bread slices for $6 a meal (pass), the perfume reminiscent of my grandmother lingering in the air, and the knowledge that we were easily the youngest people in there added to the feel.

We purchased our cards and doppers and sat down, taking it all in. I pulled out the Trolls I had stuffed in my pocket (a suggestion by my friend Liz) and set them on the table in front of us after noticing more than a few other people with varying good luck charms. Besides, these trolls had come as a gift alongside the movie after my "Trolled" blogpost, and even found their way into my lunch bag, so I felt it was appropriate.

"Put those away! Seriously babe!" Shelley hissed. "I can't believe you brought those!"

I sat there in my usual staunch refusal to budge, and they remained there as Shelley muttered about Roseanne episodes and bingo ladies.

The experience was fun, overall. It went on for nearly four hours, with a handful of workers on a constant loop over the aisles between the tables like those ducks on a loop at a carnival game or something. The whole time they walked, they yelled, hustling players for tickets for raffles, scratch off cards, additional playing cards...

"I'm going to hear these calls in my nightmares tonight," Shells quipped.

The callers went so quickly we could barely keep up, dabbing away at numbers with hardly any time to talk to each other in between. I was cracking up. Between the two of us, we played 42 cards at any given time. We didn't win a cent, and more than once made half-serious jokes about having to practice high-speed bingo at home. Additionally, we learned that there were now apparently 24 ways to get a standard bingo-- whatever happened to standard, good old across, up and down, or diagonal??? We were probably getting bingos and not realizing it.

In spite of all of that, it was a blast. We were out together, taking a break from the work school sleep cycle that has been my life the last 7 months, and we enjoyed it. We laughed, we did something new, and the people-watching was prime.

The bright side:
The trolls weren't good luck charms, but they did hold our cards in place under the blowing air conditioning.

Trolled

It started with cereal.

I have always been a huge fan-- perhaps this has something to do with the fact that I watched Jerry Seinfeld and his friends shovel it into their mouthes throughout random conversations about nothing for a great deal of my developmental years-- and as such, I like to have a few boxes around for me to consume at my leisure. I convinced my girlfriend that this was essential while we were grocery shopping (in spite of her hatred of milk) and basically brainwashed her into selecting a variety of cereals for herself (because we are adults).

While I prefer Pops and virtually any form of Cheerios, she tends to like the kid cereals, like Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Cookie Crisp (aka dog biscuits in milk). One of these boxes boasted that it came with a prize, and thus, a game began.

I was upstairs brushing my teeth one day, only to hear her crunching in the hallway. I looked out to see her eating a bowl of cereal, and then nearly spit out my toothpaste as I viewed what was on the banister.

This troll. 

From the cereal box. 

Watching me. 

So of course it became a game. Since late September, we have been trolling each other, so to speak, by hiding this little thing all over the house. One day, I was at work. I opened up my lunch, which Shelley had woken up early to pack for me (I am, unfortunately, chronically late).

I had to document the evidence to
our friends. 

Lunchtime rolls around. I open up my bag. A napkin. Useful. A note. Sweet. And there, on top of the food which was so lovingly packaged, was a tuft of orange hair.

It didn't stop there. This thing has hidden in cleaning supplies, under glasses, and in waiting in her shirt in a closet (the troll waited in there for a long, long time-- probably should've picked a different shirt). 

One night, I was sitting in night class after having recently shared the Troll Saga with my friend Liz. This class was the dullest, longest, most ridiculous excuse for a special education class ever (due in large part to the instructor), and as I sat in the midst of this four-hour lecture of boredom, I decided to pull out my planner and focus on more important things, like news articles, homework for my other classes, lesson plans, a to do list (dropping old clothes off at the Salvation Army dropbox was vying more for my attention than this instructor). I unzip my bag. 

I reach for my planner. 

There, sticking out of the aqua blue cover, was a tuft of orange. The troll. Hiding, so inappropriately timed, in my planner, probably shoved there by Shells right as I was about to leave the house. I lost it-- laughing out loud, having to awkwardly explain the troll and how its placement in my planner during class was akin to Jerry Seinfeld placing the PEZ dispenser on Elaine's leg at a concert-- that kind of laugh. 

Months later, we are still at it...