My friend Special K and I went out to play bingo last night because we're cool like that. And before you think it's ironic or something stupid like that, let me tell you, it's more nostalgic. I went and played bingo with my grandma's all the time when I was a little girl. Sometimes, my mom would go and she'd make me bring colouring books and toys or something so I wouldn't get bored. But I did. Frequently. I remember the Catholic church bingos in the hall across from the church. There was an old pop machine there, with real glass bottles. It wasn't so long ago that those were the norm. It was right around the time that the loonie was introduced. I think I was about seven or eight years old. I had to get change for the loonie because pop machines didn't take them back then! Ha! Can you imagine? So I remember very clearly getting a fresca in a green glass bottle.
Ahhh, yes. Fresca. Good times. Good times.
But last night, I didn't have my ID with me, and the "here are your bingo cards" woman in the obligatory bingo operator muu-muu apparently took us for neophyte bingo players. (What on earth would give her that impression?) And asked for ID. I was like "Uhhh, it's in my other pants?" She wasn't taking no for an answer and I just couldn't believe it! We had been there before! God! There is NO WAY I look under 20 even, let alone 17, since 18 is the legal age for drinking/gambling/etc. here.
Because, yes. I am a 17-year-old who is trying to sneak into the smokey, gross, old-people-with-troll-dolls-filled bingo hall to get my cheap, easy, gambling high. Now hook that bingo-hall milkshake up to my veins and get me a fresh batch of Nevada tickets! Stat! Momma feels those four bells coming!
She says "You look under 25."
I was like "Well, I'm actually 26."
"But you look under 25."
"I have work ID!"
"I need something with a birth date on it."
"Do you really think a major newspaper is going to employ a 17-year-old as an editor?"
"I need a birth date."
"I want to play bingo! Not open my own bordello/tattoo/piercing parlour!"
"I need a birth date."
"What you need is a broom-stick extractor!"
Okay, I didn't say the last one, but really? She totally did!
The elderly woman who was in line behind us got increasingly impatient, until I told her what was going on. Then she was all mad on our behalf.
Old lady: "Well! They're clearly old enough!"
Me: "Yeah!"
Old lady: "Old as my grandkids! They're all grown!"
Me: "We're 25 and 26!"
Old lady: "WELL! Humph! Imagine!"
Me (to teller): We'll be back next week to prove you're wrong, then? We're never coming back here again!"
Old lady: "Me too! Your prizes suck anyway!"
Woooo! Old lady to the rescue!
So we stomped out and went to see a movie instead. Crash, if anybody cares, is really good. And Matt Dillon reminds me more and more of Bruce Campbell.
0 have spoken
