What’s the point of Drag Bingo?

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I saw a drag bingo game while binging on one of the many shows I watch. It looked incredible. So I checked it out, and sure enough it’s a thing. As luck would have it, there was even a weekly one, with brunch, in London where I would be visiting in a few months. I assumed my niece who lived there, would love to spend some quality time with her Auntie,  so I purchased two tickets.

I was looking forward to a show of beautiful, impressively made up people dressed to the nines.  Performers in outfits I couldn’t even imagined existed.

It was held at a comedy club below street level. We were ushered to a table for two next to the main stage and cat walk, and below the mechanical ball draw machine.

It’s probably the closest I’ll come to being seated like a VIP.

Most of the surrounding tables were for groups of 8 to 10, gathered for hen (bachelorette) parties. Many wore sashes, crowns, and paper bridal gowns.

My expectations were slightly dashed when the MC, sporting a hot pink mini dress, platform shoes, and platinum wig, began the show. I wanted to be in awe, but I was distracted by the lush mustache. The false eyelashes were impressive, but I didn’t exactly feel transported.

The event featured three rounds of bingo. There are no letters so it’s “Drop your drawers 74” rather than “Candy store, B74”.

Originally called Housey-Housey, British bingo uses 90 balls whereas the local VFW uses 75.
I’m not sure how that’s relevant.

Using your colored marker, another slight disappointment, no real dauber, you mark the called numbers and hope to fill a horizontal line anywhere on the page.

”Give us a cheer if you know what horizontal means” smirked the MC when giving instructions to the only two people in the room who weren’t sure what they were doing.

As the numbers are announced, you have to shut out the clucking and frivolity,  and move your eyes rapidly around the page. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize the empty squares were free spaces and no numbers were repeated.

The first winner got on stage and did a dance with the MC. Everyone seemed to recognize the choreography, except for me. 

”Touch my bum, number one!” Our host continued from the podium, after twerking with the second winner. At that point I vowed not to win.

There was a fair bit of audience participation, besides rapid eye movement. The DJ started and stopped musical tracks to the MC’s banter, songs that most of the audience knew the words too. During the 30 second singalongs,  I only recognized Cher’s “ If I could turn back time”, so I joined in with Mad Magazine‘s version,  belting out “If  I could find my clothes.”

Most of the songs came out before my niece was born, so I advised her to sing WA-TER-MEL-ON  over and over again. It moves your mouth around enough to look like you know the lyrics. I mouthed as I waved my arms overhead in solidarity with all those rueing lost love in a prosecco daze.

”Tickle my bits, twenty-six!” our host said with a wink.

Volunteers were invited on stage (six inches away) for a Macarena contest. Despite slight egging from my fellow VIP,  I stayed glued to my seat. Good thing… I forgot that you put your hands behind your head before crossing your heart. I would have looked like an idiot.

During the break, a woman behind me at the end of the 12 hen bathroom line said “I can’t wait… I’m going to the gents… or maybe I shouldn’t… should I… don’t know…”

“Go” I commanded, “I’ll follow you and stand guard.” That was unnecessary because the handful of men had whipped in and out already.

Half a dozen followed us to one enclosed toilet and four urinals. I thought how cool it would have been if I’d packed the camper’s funnel I bought a couple of years ago so I could pee standing up while in the woods. (It was a covid purchase.)

Fortunately, I didn’t have to go that bad. This was more precautionary.

When the first woman came out, she thanked me profusely, as if I had just secured voting rights or something. A bottomless Prosecco hen party will do that.

“I’m the oldest one here,” I yelled in my nieces’ ear  when I got back from sentry duty. “No,” she yelled back. “There’s a bunch of gray haired people at that table over there.” 

Must be celebrating a second marriage.

Throughout the games,  the MC periodically razzed on audience members. I hoped to God she wouldn’t say anything to me like, “Hey Nan, still getting plenty? It’s number 20!”

Why was I uncomfortable? Was it because I was there with my niece? Was that weird? Was it because I didn’t know what to expect, didn’t quite get the rules, or simply because everyone else was at least 40 years my junior?

I was there because I had the opportunity to experience something that intrigued me. It’s OK to feel discomfort, to feel awkward. It means that we are challenging ourselves, perhaps emotionally, perhaps physically, perhaps mentally.

It’s interesting to see how we react, and why. What are we learning, appreciating or understanding?

Maybe these questions are the point of a drag bingo brunch.

Don’t forget to floss.

Alexandra Langstaff2 Comments

I sort of retired this summer because I stopped teaching creative movement classes for little ones. It turns out that I’m teaching the same amount, but all the classes are intentionally yoga based. Is that boring?

Although closing the age gap from 1 to 98 years old to 8 to 98 ( letting go of 6% of my student population) it will hardly effect my life expectancy. However, older folks will appreciate the fact I don’t ask them to drum their names while I toss Monkey in the air, and young kids won’t wonder why I’m not doing so.

I’m not 100% sure why I’m letting them go, except for the fact that I’d be teaching a second and almost third generation of kids and it makes me feel long in the tooth.

There’s nothing wrong with a healthy dose of ego to get one to change life paths. So I guess I didn’t really retire from everything.

“You aren’t retiring, maybe redefining?” my friend Claudia typed back after receiving my weekly missive of fussing and thoughts.

In simple terms, I’m getting out while I’m ahead. It may be in my own head, but that’s all that matters.  I did the same during my skiing and dancing eras. Totally ego based decisions. Wise ones at that.

Ego is important. It keeps us balanced between inner, natural and human, desires and expectations, and those of the outside world.

Redefining the ego is an essential practice, it involves retiring what is no longer of use or available. It may be based on life circumstances, financial obligations, or on our physical and mental capabilities.

My ego is pretty healthy when it comes to paying attention to my teeth.

The Dreaded Question (s)

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“How often do you practice yoga?”

Whenever mom’s bored with my conversation, she asks me. So I get it a lot.

I know she means a physical practice but I always go the philosophical route with my answer. It’s sort of a game.

“Every day” I reply.

“Really.” She looks up from the needlepoint chair cushion she’s been working on forever. Her eyebrows are raised in question and with slight skepticism. (I’d find every day hard to believe myself.)

“My practice is less physical and more mental. That’s harder.”

“Good answer slacker”, someone, somewhere is saying, or maybe that’s just me.

I think mom’d rather a more athletic response. At 95, she’s still addicted to exercise and doesn’t understand why her children aren’t following directly in her never ending footsteps. Or maybe she’s checking my sincerity. Will I say the same thing over the years? Is it a real commitment to yoga, like some hold with religion or favored book genres? Or am I faking that I know what I’m doing and what I believe in?

The last time she checked on my true devotion to something was when I said I was going to take a gap year after high school. She asked me a few times what I was going to do instead. My answers were all over the map, yet they included nothing around the map. 

I didn’t know where I was heading or how, and somehow mom knew I wasn’t yet ready to flow with the world.  I was lucky to be offered 4 years of college to hone some directional skills instead.

Her  questions then and now are good reminders for me to take stock.

Am I following my authentic self with knowledge and direction?

Do I know what I’m doing?

The last time she asked about the frequency of my practice, I had put some thought into my answer and was prepared.

“When I get tailgated on the road and I don’t react by slamming on the brakes, I’m practicing yoga. 

I’m practicing when I patiently collaborate, or agree to do something I have no interest in doing.

When I do any kind of manual labor for longer than 20 minutes, or add  kale to my breakfast smoothie, I’m practicing yoga.

When I clarify a misunderstanding or share a brownie, it all counts as part of my practice.

When we are committed to yoga, it’s a full time way of being.”

Mom nods her head in agreement with my monologue. My response sounds authentic to us both, with just a touch of predictable laziness on my part.

How often do you practice? Mom wants to know.

Noticing a yoga shape counts as practicing yoga.

Who doesn’t want to have a point?

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My writing friend is a good influence. Somehow she encourages philosophical prattle and slight irreverence in me whenever we get together.  The other day we met to discuss petty, yet important, dramas and strains in our lives.

“I just realized that no matter how bad, sad, or frustrated I feel, I’m not the only one feeling this way. That’s sort of a bummer,” I whispered as we sat at the end of the mystery section in the library.  “Why can’t it just be about me? Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, not even Jesus,” I half sang.

I believe Jesus is quite aware of my woes. Just as I am aware of the woes of others.  This is what I mean about her influence. She made  selfish, whining words roll off my tongue. It was liberating. Maybe that was her intention.

”Write that down” she exclaimed excitedly. And of course I did because that’s what we do.

The day’s discussion got pretty deep as we discussed writing goals. She intimated she was aiming towards a large manuscript. “My point is I want to have a point,” I confessed. 

“Write that down” she directed. 

I don’t know if I made up that sentiment about making a point, or read it on a poster in the early 80s. 

That happens. Phrases that resonate are like discovering buried treasure when all you’re doing is lazily digging your fingers in the sand. “Enjoy your next trip around the sun” popped up on social media one year. That’s brilliant. Who came up with it? Euclid?

”I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired” my buddy Mike said after we taught skiing all day in a blizzard. I had never heard anything so original, so grumpy, so perfect. It was like he channelled the old grousing crabs who sit in the box seat at the theater on the Muppet Show.

It became my go to response when I knew my crankiness and frustration was out of proportion to the situation at hand. It would be great printed on a rubber  bracelet as a reminder to snap out of it.

Research shows that activist Fannie Lou Hamer originally used the phrase in a more serious way. Bromley ski school had nothing on the Jim Crow South.

Later on the drive back to town I said, with a bit of alarm, ”Wow it’s hard to see. These snowflakes are huge”. The blizzard hadn’t let up.  “Well, don’t try to hit them” Mike said calmly.

With that advice, my grip on the steering wheel softened and my body began to relax.

Just because you’re driving in a blizzard doesn’t mean you need to hit the flakes. Wait. Did we just make up a slogan for an inspirational accent pillow?

As a wedding gift, a childhood friend gave me a glittery blue bumper sticker that had bold white letters saying “One day at a time”. 

What an incredible bit of advice. It could be an inspirational cross stitch done by Mrs. Walton or Ma on the Little House on the Prairie. The message was clear, life is filled with challenges, keep calm.

I was only 30 so the AA connection didn’t register.

I proudly stuck it on to our tractor but now wonder how many people driving by over the years wondered  which one of us was in recovery.

That marriage didn’t last, but the sentiment did. 

That’s the wonderful thing about seemingly trite phrases. Pretty much everyone gets them; however, our interpretations may be different. When we make fun of them, we are actually doing ourselves a favor. It transmits a message from the brain to the nervous system that says “Chill out man, you aren’t alone, there’s a special place in heaven for you.”

Maybe that’s my point.

Pump Me Up: Gold Bond or Gold’s Gym?

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The last couple of weeks have been hell on my ego. It started with a flattering email from a fake writer that I came this close to “agreeing to the terms to market your exceptional book”  and then came a different email from a real person. This one said, “We find manuscripts like yours have insufficient reader interest.” Those were nine  words that got seared onto my brain. My ego deflated faster than an unknotted balloon. It’s not my first rejection, I just didn’t expect it.

During the past fortnight, after 36 years rolling around like a hotdog, and tangoing like a rabbit,  I taught my last  creative movement class. The days of being eyed suspiciously when one’s child greets me at the grocery store will dwindle.

“Hi, Vinny and I know each other. I’m Hullabaloo.” I say reassuringly. “Oh yes, of course he loves Hully” they reply, relieved that I’m not some weirdo. My ego is tentative about losing my identity as the person who has more four year old friends than those her own age, however my body is 80% ready for a transition.

One of my favorite routines with kids is “Hawk and the Rock”. I’m a hungry hawk looking for something to eat. Each child sits like Buddha, pretending to be a mouse that’s pretending to be a rock. This old bird thinks she’s going to have a pistachio ice cream, or a chili con carne flavored mouse to eat. But no.

They love being lowered back down to the ground as I complain, “That’s not a mouse, that’s a rock.” Foiled again.

Over the years, my arms have turned into strong, wiry, sinewy, raptor-like appendages. 

It’s not the best look, and when my ego is getting kicked around, it means reevaluating all of my shirts in dismay.

“Why is your face so red?” A 5 year old asked.

“You try deadlifting twelve 45 pounds kids in two minutes,” I did not reply.  

Which reminds me, I started taking high blood pressure medicine last week. The last prescription I remember taking was Darvon every time the braces on my teeth got tightened in high school. I don’t think this new daily dosage is a big deal but  my ego is slightly concerned about now having a condition.

And then this arrived:

“I hope this email finds you well! I’m reaching out because I noticed you haven’t completed your nomination to be featured on Behind Bodybuilders. This is your chance to inspire millions, grow your personal brand, and unlock incredible opportunities—but time is running out!” 

“Did they really mean to contact me?” My ego asked coyly lifting itself off the ground.

Let’s think about this.

There’s no way I would complete, much less initiate my own nomination to something like BB.

My bodybuilding journey is a short one. My official weight training began once my fractured shoulder had sufficiently healed, about 3 months ago. I say official because the woman who gave me two 20 minute individualized work out programs is a real live professional. Apparently hoisting kids-pretending-to-be-mice-pretending-to-be-rocks is not quite sufficient for doctor recommended osteoporosis prevention.

Maybe I’m misreading and they want to feature those people behind the bodybuilders, those who inspire, encourage, and support the Lou Ferrignos and the Iris Floyd Kyles out there. That still doesn’t explain my inclusion. (I had to look up famous bodybuilders because I couldn’t spell Schwarzenegger on my own.) 

Maybe they are phishing for those of us who use our bodies to earn a living. We sure do come in all shapes, sizes, and areas of expertise. I have a friend who teaches pole dancing and she’s much more fit than me. I wonder if she got the email.

Although my every other day (or once a week) weight routine may be effective, I think it’s the daily application of Gold Bond’s Age Renewer Crepe Corrector that’s doing the trick. I don’t think this kind of testimonial is what the BB’s are looking for.

And then this happened:

“You have good arms,” Mom said after our Oldster yoga class. “You can wear sleeveless shirts.” I pretended not to hear her so she would say it again. 

With those nine words, my ego was inflated with helium. I can almost imagine tattooing the words around my slightly defined bicep.

And then this happened:

“Let’s get together and see how we can keep Hully going.” That came from a legitimate (and much younger) educator and colleague. Maybe my hotdog rolling days aren’t over yet.

Sometimes our ego keeps us grounded and tethered and sometimes it gives us the weightlessness needed to make changes.

I may have insufficient reader interest, and a future floating in the air, but someone is interested in carrying the torch I’ve loved carrying, and mom said my arms look good. My ego is right where it should be.

Someone sure made a monkey out of me.

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It’s official. I got scammed. “How?” You might ask. “Aren’t you the one always warning others and believing yourself to be so tech savvy?”

I fell for the oldest trick in the book, flattery.

Hi Alexandra, Virtuous Sinner Made in Vermont is an irresistibly honest and wonderfully human memoir. Your voice wry, grounded, and full of grace makes the messiest parts of life feel like shared wisdom. From dairy farms to ski slopes, concussions to enlightenment, you’ve managed to turn experience into something both meaningful and delightfully entertaining.

The words were an aphrodisiac. Fortunately, my feet were still on the ground, despite my swelling head, so I prudently checked the few references.

Being as smart as I am, I didn’t click the links but did do some internet research. One of the more prolific authors has been writing crime novels for over 30 years with Harper Collins.  Her picture shows a  pleasant looking woman holding an adorable yorkie. Both have lived in the UK all their lives. The chance that she used a marketing firm in St. Petersburg, FL  with no website is highly unlikely.

I had vague feelings of discomfort, but that didn’t stop the feelings of euphoria.

I can say without hesitation: Virtuous Sinner Made in Vermont is the kind of memoir people don’t just read, they carry with them. Its blend of unvarnished honesty, Vermont charm, and dry wit is rare and it deserves to be discovered…to design a campaign that reflects your tone and truth, I like to start by reading the manuscript. This gives me the foundation to build a strategy that feels as authentic and layered as your story itself.

The lure of the New York Times Best Seller List was intoxicating. Despite EJ’s lack of an online presence (with the exception of some stylish jeans of the same name) and the fact that she intimated that she had already read the book, I wanted to believe in her/it/myself.

This really was a dream come true. It never entered my mind that it was too good to be true. Someone saw the value of my words and would do all the stuff that I had no desire to do, to get the word out. That’s what people do.

If you’re hoping to connect Virtuous Sinner with more readers who will laugh, nod, and maybe even heal a little through your story, I’d love to help you build a campaign that reflects your one-of-a-kind voice.

I was becoming addicted to the praise and recognition. So, later that day I sent in a PDF.

Thank you so much for sending over your book and for the trust that comes with sharing such a personal and beautifully written piece. I’ve started reading Virtuous Sinner, and your voice immediately struck me: warm, candid, and effortlessly wry. It’s the kind of memoir that doesn’t just tell a story it invites readers in to recognize their own.

What’s the worst that can happen? It’s like giving away a free book right? I actually made things pretty easy for a theft of intellectual property. A friend said this happens in the cookbook world all the time. A book written here can get hijacked (or get giddily handed over).  After a few cosmetic changes and a new author, someone in Croatia or Australia has a best seller on their hands.

In a way, I’m honored that a well versed person or AI thingy took the time to contact me directly. How cool is that? Unfortunately it means the stats for book sales for Alexandra Langstaff will remain static but the ones for Langdexter Scammith will fly through the roof. That author will end up with a big chunk of change and probably land a movie deal. 

There’s a lesson here. I know it and you know it. There’s no need to rub it in. 

Shouldering Chores

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Last Wednesday, Peter’s surgeon told me, in no nonsense medical terms, that “His shoulder was a mess but the operation was a success”. What great news! Just think, in six, short weeks he will be able to take off his sling and lift a cup of coffee.

In the meantime, I’ve had to take over some chores I prefer not to do. I just did the lawn on our spaceship lawn mower. I felt like Grandpappy Amos from the Real McCoys (Series 1, episode 6). He tried out one of them new fangled machines, albeit a tractor, and drove into a tree. Fortunately I only ran over some daffodils. Funny, I don’t remember the porch being covered with grass clippings after Peter mows.

Cleaning the toilets and taking the garbage and recycling to the transfer station are two chores I’ve yet to tackle. I hope there aren’t more.

Most everything else we take turns doing. But there’s no turn taking going on for the next month and a half.

He’s managing well for himself for breakfast and lunch, however I’m responsible for dinner. When Peter steps into the kitchen with a family recipe or something exotic, he stays there until it’s done. And he cleans up. It may take two hours but usually more.

I’m Queen of Casseroles and Leftovers. Short prep, easy clean up. However I can’t submit him to quesadillas and last summer’s, never-ending supply of frozen zucchini soup renditions for the next 45 days, so I’m trying new recipes. That means more research, more shopping, more prep, and more clean up. 

I’d rather not use the dishwasher because Peter rolls his eyes when I stack it. (Personally, I think it’s a poorly designed machine.) But unfortunately I’m using more utensils and such, so it’s required.

I’m an early riser so I give Lassie her breakfast. Peter, normally, does dinner at five. He washes out her dog dishes more often than I do. Like 100% more often. I thought dog dishes were better left to season like cast iron skillets and salad bowls. We’ll see how the Lass is doing at the end of June.

Of course cooking, cleaning and caring for my loved ones is not a hardship. It just takes more time than I’m used to giving. Frankly it’s a bit more of my time than I would rather give. That doesn’t make me a bad person.

I think Peter was secretly relieved when I told him that by no means was I taking over lawn mowing. It’s still his job. With any luck, I can reassure him more, once I find the toilet brush and the garbage permit.

Just think in 6 to 12  weeks Peter is allowed to make a sandwich. Did I mention it’s his right arm?

Darn good job!

Walking thoughts

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I can’t pretend anymore that Lassie and I take 2 to 4 walks a day because of her Australian Shepherd background. Most of my friends and family are on to me.

“Does she play with toys, can you teach her tricks, would a cable runner help?” They ask.

The answer is always the same. No.

We follow old deer, bear and cow paths, behind our house and our neighbors.

She would be fine with half the amount of time we take traipsing, I’m the one who needs it more. I find it very productive. I get to try out all kinds of material. It’s like an open mic night with just me performing. It can be stream of consciousness, educational, or just plain fussing. And as we remember fussing is the art of creative problem solving where there doesn’t seem to be a problem. 

It’s the perfect excuse to think about anything I want to think about. For example, just now during a hike on the big loop:

It’s about 50 degrees and drizzling. If it were 15 degrees warmer I could count the orange newts. The other day I saw 6. Last year my record was 27 in one day. This morning they have burrowed back underground until the sun gets stronger.

At least I don’t have to watch out for stepping on them.

My cowboy boots feel sturdy, comfortable, and reliable through the spring water overflow and the slick leaves. This downhill section is a good test. It’s fun to lope in slow motion.

The first owners of the old house, after us, reclaimed this part of an old sugaring road for horseback riding but it ended up being too steep.

I spotted a lone daffodil off to the side and mentioned it to my friend, Jenna, the other day. She suggested a bird had something to do with it. 

“You mean it picked a daffodil and dropped it in the woods?” I asked.

“No, maybe it dropped a bulb” she replied.

“From its mouth?” I asked incredulously.

“I thought maybe it pooped it out or something.”

“I think they prefer to eat worms,” I said officiously.

We both laughed. I’m not sure which of us thought the other was more of a dope.

That owner must have planted it decades ago. Has it taken over 30 years for that flower to burst out, or 30 years for me to notice it?

Peter should be home from singing in the choir any minute. I took another mystery casserole out of the freezer for dinner earlier today and made a cucumber salad.

The last frozen meal I pulled out was labeled Vegetarian Lasagne with Pork Sausage. Obviously it wasn’t vegan. Did I mean the pasta was vegetarian? Opposed to what?

Interestingly the reheating instructions were rather intricate, thaw for 24 hours, heat wrapped, continue heating unwrapped, and then let sit forever. It was pretty good, however I have no idea where this recipe came from. 

Yet another successful dinner never to be repeated. At least I know I’d be a terrible cookbook author. 

After dinner the three of us will take our nightly stroll. We have to be prepared for that fumbling porcupette. It keeps coming around the house and we shoo it off with brooms and the old pool skimmer. The mom came by earlier in the spring to see how we all would react. Everyone was calm and Lassie gave it a wide berth. It ran off after a little coaxing.

She was letting us know that one of her offspring would be fumbling around soon but would eventually get the picture and head for the hills.

The young porcupine is still learning as the mother watches from the treetops, and we all wait patiently.

That was a very productive walk. 

It gave me a chance to remember that sometimes no one is right and no one’s wrong, remain observant even when I think I’ve seen it all, I can write what I want, and community requires patience with fumblers.

“Lassie, I think it’s time we stretch our legs.”