Bingo

Last night I did something that was so much fun that I added it to my Life List, just so I could cross it off.

It all started with Bar Bingo, since our good friend PJ was kind enough to have a birthday during a gorgeous late-spring holiday weekend.  It was wigs, sparkly things, and Bar Bingo.

We met at Tyler’s, and everybody got a card to fill out.  There were easy ones, like “pool table” and “high heels.”  There were some we figured we’d spot later in the evening, like “phone number swap” and “drunk person” and “night gone wrong.”  A few were people-specific, like “NCSU shirt” and “frat boy” and “girl with a clutch” and “girls’ night out.”  I was really hoping to see “seat dancing” and “laughing head-toss” and “catcall to a person in our group.”  I was really, really hoping to see “animal shirt,” as in, Brett’s entire wardrobe from Flight of the Conchords.  I left one “choose your own;” a bit of a wild-card category which ended up including “sexting” and “poozer” and “douche,” pardon the language, I did not make that up.  If you don’t know what a “poozer” is, you’ll have to watch Sixteen Candles again.  It’ll be worth your time. But if you don’t have the time, I’ll tip you off that “poozer” = “douche.”

People took the Filling Out of Cards very seriously.  I’m told a few folks even had a strategy, a plan to orchestrate a scenario in which they started a chain reaction leading to a five-in-a-row, Bingo, blammo, like THAT.

Which is why, once we filled out cards, I made everybody swap.  I used to be a teacher.  This is not my first rodeo.

People took the Wearing of Wigs seriously, too.  I expected no less from this crowd.

We R-Lined it to our next stop, Mosaic, which is the kind of place with music that goes DOO-gzh DOO-gzh DOO-gzh and makes you feel creepy with floor-to-ceiling photographs of exposed breasts on the walls.  I passed out cards and pens and we got to work.

“I am SO checking off “douche” here,” came a voice from behind me.

We racked up big at Mosaic.  In our group alone, we had “skinny jeans,” “beard guy,” “redhead,” and “girl with a clutch.”  We had to look harder for other ones.

“Sexting!! I see sexting!!”  said Veronica.

“How do we know that’s not just plain texting?”  I asked.

“Check the look on his face,” she replied.

Ew ew ew ew.

From the patio, we also saw both “maxi dress” and “sunglasses indoors,” on the same person.  Score.  Rodney was the first to win:  Drunk person, maxi dress, high heels, girl with clutch, and bartender, all in a row.

Apropos of nothing, doesn’t the birthday girl look hot in this blonde wig on the patio?

We walked from Mosaic down to Napper Tandy’s, where we figured we’d check off “darts” and then head for the R-Line again.  There was thumping club music, and the barstools were full of quiet people, and everyone was milling about in little clusters like at a middle school dance.  We couldn’t even check off “seat dancing” here.

For the record, I am a wallflower.  I do not usually dance, because I cannot abide club music, and it looks so silly, and I never, ever drink enough to make that fun.  Also, in an embarrassing personal revelation to you, my friends: I think I kind of  dance like a stripper.  Not in a good way.  I plant my feet and swivel my hips in kind of a primal way, and then there is over-the-head arm action and the hip swerving gets worse, and basically, that’s not something I’ll usually do in public.

Last night in the quiet crowd, some godawful thumping club music came on, and there was nothing to be done but stripper-dance at my friends.  Nothing to be done but embrace it.  I threw down.

In ten seconds, I had five friends dancing with me.  In fifteen seconds, I had the whole crowd on our end of the bar going.  Within thirty seconds, the dance floor was packed.  There was a guy doing the worm.  The sorority girls at the end of the bar went AT it.  Our group went nuts.  You could not move for the flailing.

“I totally started this dance party,” I announced to our crowd.  They were kind of in awe.

Guy doing the worm then started doing a strip-tease with his shirt.  Girl with the head-to-toe Hawaiian pantsuit joined in and started grinding.  Guys at the bar started doing “laughing head tosses” at each other.

“I feel like “Night Gone Wrong” just exploded all over me,” said Erin.  I crossed off half my list without leaving my spot.  My one empty spot for “bingo” was “frat boy.”  So of course, in a crowded bar, I yelled, “ALL I NEED IS A FRAT BOY.”  Crowd went entirely silent for a moment, as the record skidded to a stop, and everyone turned to look at me.  Or maybe I made that part up.  William leaned over and said, “You can totally count me as Frat Boy.”  “Thank you!”  I said.  “And, BINGO!”

The scene at Napper Tandy’s was turning into something I did not want to witness, so I attempted to gather our crowd and move us to Foundation, where the grown-ups are.  “You totally did this!” our group pointed out, surveying the scene on the dance floor.  “I know.  I can’t believe it.  And we have got to get the hell out of here,” I said.

The new mermaid blue wig gets credit for starting that dance party.  That, and my snake hips. Two people told me I looked like a country-western singer circa 1970, which I loved. I already had a blue wig.  But, as previously mentioned, I was having a blue week anyway. I needed a boost.  This was a good one.

There were a couple more stops after that; we sort of blended in downtown, since there was an anime convention going on and there were wigs everywhere anyway.  Twice, Handsome Cowboy walked past me on the sidewalk.  I didn’t figure leading with blue wig was my best plan.  Twice I let him walk by. It wasn’t my week.

But I got home, late, and added “start a dance party” to my Life List.  And then I crossed it off.  Happy birthday, PJ! And happy long weekend, all.

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2 Responses to Bingo

  1. Pingback: Advice Booth | Carolina Gypsy

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