Tea

Blogus Domesticus

• Atmospheric Phenomena
  

  They say, when life takes a dramatic turn, that the tides have changed.

  When things go smoothly, they suggest a favorable planetary alignment.

  When the pace of our lives hits a frenetic pitch, they check the calendar for a full moon.

  And when the space around us is suddenly filled with reminders of days gone by and people who filled our lives before, when reminders pop up with every eyeblink, when each minute seems to be punctuated by universal acknowledgment of our existence so strong as to be palpable, they say that something is in the air.

  We like feeling that our feet are firmly on the ground, but we almost all feel the pull of water's elemental lure. Even as we refer to esteemed persons as being " a fresh drink of water", we seek fire and heat from our particular persons of interest.

  And I have to wonder sometimes.

  What is up with the rocks we encounter? Why are our paths so frequently strewn with the damn things, and why do mudslides come along so quickly to knock us down? Why do hurricanes send us careening off our path in search of respite? Why must the earth quake and crack and threaten to swallow us whole? And why, when components of times gone by re-enter the current atmosphere, do we burn , with regret, with longing, with fear, with joy, with embarrassment, with the insight borne of experience?

  I have so few answers.

  Thankfully , though, they also say that when it rains, it pours, and that at least serves to distract from the searing, startling flames breathed into life by hurtling through time and space at breakneck speeds.

  If they make a boiler suit and wellies appropriate to withstand this sort of thing, I'll take several of each.

  Because this is New England after all... and the weather changes every fifteen minutes.

  Thank goodness.

• The Name-O of the Game-O
  

  We all know the song, bleated out over and over again during our Kindergarten tenure. B-I-N-G-O and Bingo was his name-O.

  My friend "Miranda" (names changed to protect the guilty, er, innocent) took me to Bingo last week. She goes with some of her cronies every couple weeks, and she decided it was high time I joined them.

  I thought it would be a lark, playing Bingo in the basement of a religious building with some nice church-going folks. A nice casual event, spent with Miranda and her similarly amiable crew.

  Clearly, I had much to learn.

  First of all, these people take this Bingo stuff SERIOUSLY. One very sweet , soft spoken lady, impeccably attired right down to her pearls, dropped all pretense of making nice and engaging in small talk once the numbers started being called. Periodically I would check with her - are you all right, can I get you anything - and she would smile and shake her head, no. At intermission she clutched my wrist and said, "I don't talk during Bingo." But we're here for hours, I said. Surely you must speak at some point. "Only to yell BINGO", she told me. (Now sit down and shut up, was the implication, I thought, so I did just that. Because she might seem sweet, but I tell you what, I wasn't going to cross her on a bet.)

  Second, there was a great deal of profanity being lobbed about, and not by myself, I hasten to add. A caller would intone, "We have a winner!", and from various points around the hall, I'd hear these voices muttering choice phrases more in keeping with what I would expect to hear in a pool hall than a church-based Bingo game.

  Third, there is a great deal of superstition and tradition in Bingo. I did not know this.

  For example: There was a woman a few tables away who would squeeze a squeaky toy, hard, every flipping time a particular number was called. Next to her, there was a lady with a bell. And every time HER number of choice was called she rang the damn thing. And let us not forget the posse of women in matching rhinestone studded fuschia cowboy hats who were very quiet (well, apart from the hats, which could only be called 'loud').

  So it sounded a lot like this:

  Silence from the woman next to me.... G28... SQUEEEEEEEEEEAK! B17...DING DING DING..... (a whoop from the Cowgirl Contingent) BINGO.... WE HAVE A WINNER!..... (Insert profanity of your choice here.)

  Also, I thought this game was reasonably mild and, forgive me, easy. I had no idea there were patterns. Jailbars! Crazy Ls. 7s and Zs. Hatpins. Goodness. I started to sweat a little bit, feeling like I was back in High School Abstract Mathematics Class with all these shapes and Zs comingling with 7s. (Mathematics and I do. Not. Get on well.)

  Further, as an adult, I thought it couldn't really be too hard to find the numbers as they are called, but I was astonished at how often one of our crowd would reach over with her brightly colored dauber and shout, "YOU MISSED ONE" or "THEY CALLED 18 ALREADY" and plop inky goodwill down on my papers. It was clear I needed all the assistance I could get, and my highly esteemed table-mates rose admirably to the occasion.

  Once I got past the initial intimidation, I started to get into it, and Miranda remarked that I was getting pretty adept at reading the numbers, daubing AND carrying on a conversation. I resisted the urge to employ my dauber on her.

  I even won a round, which was very exciting, not only because of the win, but because my table-mates did not approve of my half-raised hand and my meek call of "Bingo". Nosir - One of these soft spoken, petite and charming ladies opened her teeny little mouth and bellowed "BINGO!" so loudly that I actually recoiled and ducked a little bit.

  You never can tell.

  Anyway.

  At intermission, I stood up and walked around to stretch my legs a bit, lest a Deep Vein Thrombosis begin to manifest from sitting in such a rigid, clenchy position for so long. (March is DVT awareness month, you know. Google it.)

  So, anthropologically inclined little old me took a turn around the room and took a fresh look at the competition. And things looked different.

  I saw entire lifetimes laid out in a shimmering display of raw humanity. I saw devastation and heartbreak. I saw people who were there to play, and to win, and to have an excuse to shout as loud as they could in a socially acceptable manner, people who wanted to be a part of something, people who wanted comraderie and familiar, companionable warmth. I saw widowers who still wore their burnished, nicked, wedding bands though their wives were long dead, and widows who were dolled up, perhaps for themselves, perhaps for the memory of the ones they loved before, perhaps in a show of optimism towards what the future may hold for them.

  The scowling woman at the table adjacent to us suddenly seemed tragic, rather than scary, and the sisters across the aisle who sat huddled together at a table by themselves suddenly didn't seem hostile and reclusive - they seemed lonely and sad. I felt consumed by the perceived heartache in there, as players attempted to blot it out with irridescent dauber ink, the sounds of suffering in their heads drowned out by witty callers. The room seemed to reverberate with hundreds of untold stories, and my head threatened to split apart with the ensuing emotion which overwhelmed me in short order.

  I guess we were all there looking for something. Everyone wants to win, but none so much as Miranda, I think, who also wanted to spend time with us. The superstitious are there , perhaps to see whether their idiosyncracies pan out, and to seek validation thereof. Here, the lonely can feel they are part of something larger, and the angry can pretend they are just angry that they didn't win at Coverall, instead of the real stuff that fuels their fire.

  In fact, I think we were all there to fill a void, to meet a need, for the togetherness and human contact. That's the real name of the game, I think.

  But it can't compete with "Bingo".

  And I can't wait to go back.

• Selective Memory
  

  One of the offspring has a condition which renders him able to memorize anything - ANYTHING - in short order.

  It's terrifying.

  I, who furnished the child with fifty percent of his genetic material, cannot remember where I put my glasses (on top of my head), my keys (in my purse) or my purse (good luck with that). I can remember what I had for breakfast but only because it's what I've had for breakfast every day for three weeks. And I certainly can't remember whether the car insurance is due at the end of NEXT month (please, Blog) or THIS month (Blog help me). We will not discuss my evident inability to recollect what I said to whom in which context at what time or under which circumstances.

  So it is unsettling to me when The Boy pipes up from the back seat, "Hey, remember how you said I could have a puppy some day?" or "Hey, remember last September when you snuck those lollipops from the bank teller into that little compartment thingy there that you think is a big secret? Can I have one of those?".

  How is it the child cannot remember that he is not supposed to run in the house, use hand-to-hand combat as a solution to all life's problems, or sneak up on the damn cat and hiss at it - but he remembers that I promised him an ice cream six we