About msplayful

I am someone who finds life humorous and often share my views with friends and co-workers. Since I've been told I should be a stand-up comedian, I thought I'd see how well I could do at writing funny things that happen, or that happen in my head.

Bingo

So, I got up, put on makeup, wore the outfit I’d picked out, and drove to Bingo. It’s Parks and Recreation Day. They have good prizes. I missed Target last week. Gonna get a nice prize!

The woman who is going to call out the numbers, I’ve never seen before. She’s black and mouthy . . . yak, yak, won’t quit talking. She puts brochures on each table with a section for us to fill out with contact info. Yak, yak, yak . . . takes out her prizes. A couple of covers for beer bottles, she says, with coke and some other brand on the covers . . . I guess because we seniors have to disguise the fact that we’re drinking beer, if we’re drinking it. She also has bird geegaws that won’t stand up, but she says we can put them on our shelves at home . . . sit them on our shelves. I look at the dead looking birds laying on their sides on the gift table and think that’s depressing.

I look at her brochure which is telling me about how to plan my funeral and similar types of info.

She called numbers for Bingo until three of us win. (We play the same game until 3 people bingo and then she starts a new game.) Between games she tells us a horror story about a man who paid his insurance premiums, missed one, tried to get reinstated, got sick . . . went in the hospital and was diagnosed with cancer. The insurance refused to reinstate him . . . at least for 90 days. He went right from the hospital into hospice. . . If you have insurance, she says, let your relatives know so no premiums are missed . . . she wants us to fill out the forms so she can contact us about her insurance policies.

She starts another bingo set . . . we’re going to play 3 more games and then she’ll tell us a happy story . . . meanwhile between calling numbers, she tells us stuff I don’t really want to sit and hear while I’m trying to do my one fun thing this week . . . I’ve been sick and felt better . . . wanted to go to Bingo. Now she’s telling us to let our relatives know we have a life insurance policy. We don’t have to tell them how much or who the beneficiaries are, but they will pay it, if we can’t. No, we don’t have to tell them anything because she knows some relatives are mean and we don’t want everyone knowing our business, but it’s important that we keep our life insurance policies paid up . . .

I’m sitting there listening to how important it is for my relatives to get money when I die and I need to have insurance policies because I could go at any time, like that poor old person who went to the hospital after not paying his premium . . . he should have let a relative know . . . they would have paid it for him, she’s sure.

I already battle depression frequently. I have looked forward to this Bingo game all week. I’ve been sick, very sick for about a week and as days went by and I got better, I was delighted because if I wasn’t sick on Friday, I was going to Bingo! I counted down the days.

And now this. This depressing, worrying woman who has a roomful of old folks . . . most are older than I am, and none of them reached for her brochure, but shoved it to the middle of the table and sat expectantly waiting for Bingo to begin.

I looked at the prize table with the apparently dead bird figurines and the covers for my beer bottle . . . I don’t even drink beer, and if I did, I wouldn’t feel like I had to hide the fact . . . and wondered why I was sitting there getting more and more depressed. Mental health affects physical health. I was just getting over a week long illness.

As she called numbers, I put my coat on. I put my shoulder bag on my shoulder and between games, I stood up to leave. Everyone at my table looked shocked. “Are you leaving?” they asked. I wish I’d been quick enough to say “Not permanently”, which seems now an appropriate response to the question, but I nodded and said yes and walked out. I stopped by the front desk to ask where the regular folks were who usually came on Fridays and she said she didn’t know. I started out and came back. I told her I suffered with depression and all the woman was talking about was funerals, death, cancer, hospice, insurance . . . and I had to get out of there. Then I walked out.

It’s like telling a kid you’re going to give him a piece of candy and when you bring it to him, you tell him you decided he’d like a raw piece of broccoli instead. No thank you. I’ll come back home and watch TV.

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Cell Phones

You know what I miss? Dial tones.

When I use my cell phone, it’s dead air while I’m making a call and I don’t know if it’s going through or not. I still hesitate to hear a dial tone and I know and have known for years that cell phones don’t have them.

I just tried to activate a new card I received. First I had to key 1 for English. Then I had to key in the card number. Well, that stubborn 1 was still showing and must have affected the numbers they considered because they couldn’t accept the numbers I keyed in. I called back.

This time, rather than press 1 for English, I just waited because I knew the instructions would say enter the 16 digit card number. And it did. And it was in English. So I got my card activated, but there is a lot of stress related to using the phone now that there didn’t use to be.

Just like kids don’t know how to use a rotary phone when presented with one, seniors don’t know all the quirks and gimmicks of a cell phone because we didn’t grow up knowing what key will do what on technical gadgets.

The world has changed a lot since I was young. I even worked as a telephone operator for two years way back when, but I still struggle with my cell phone. The other day, as I was skyping with my youngest, my cell phone rang. I tried to answer it. It was the doctor’s office. I recognized the number calling. No matter how many times I swiped my finger on the screen like I have to do to answer the phone (remember when you just picked the thing up and said Hello?), but no matter how many times I swiped, it would not answer. Even my son didn’t know what else I could do as he watched. I ended up listening to the message the doctor’s office left, which was to call them back. Well, I would, if my phone let me.

I don’t like cell phones. I know they are very convenient, but only if you can make them work. I spend more time trying to use mine that I would if it was the way I learned to use a phone. Even a rotary phone would be more welcomed than this tempermental thing I call my cell phone.

When Children Argue

I spent time with a group of 8 year olds today and the thing that bothered me the most was how much they argued with adults. I wasn’t the only adult they argued with and tried to correct. What in the world?

I think it’s important that children learn to express themselves, but they need to remember adults are in charge and they need to have respect for the adults with them and realize they have a lot to learn before their “arguments” can all be valid.

Even I, as an adult, listen to the other person’s point of view during an argument. Once in awhile the other person even changes my mind. Most times I realize we’re just going to have to agree to disagree.

But children? When did children decide or be told that they had an equal vote in any adult discussion or decision? I would never have dreamed of contradicting my grandmother. I may have thought she was wrong and as I bit my tongue not to say so, I continued to watch what happened and always, without a doubt, realized that she did know better than I did . . . especially when I was 8 years old.

I worry about the younger generations. I think they have been given too much freedom and too many choices at a young age. People also don’t wait for anything any more and they will never know the joy of anticipation.

But when it’s been raining and an 8 year old insists they have the right to go outside in the wet, cold grass to play and then have the audacity to argue with an adult about it?

These times certainly were a-changing and they did not change for the better.

Where Did The Tolerance Go?

When I was growing up, we acknowledged that people were different. Sometimes we celebrated our differences. Other times we tolerated them. We believed people had a right to their own ideas and thoughts, beliefs and traditions. We didn’t try to force everyone to think alike, but delighted in the fact that we lived in The United States of America, where people had freedom to be themselves.

Now? Now you can lose your job, if you say or do the wrong thing. We all must believe exactly the same ideas or we will pay the price! Newscasters and leaders tell us what we should believe. If we don’t, there’s something wrong with us and we will pay the price!

Where did the tolerance go? I was fascinated with different ideas, difference religions, different beliefs. Sometimes I was persuaded to change my belief; most times I was just aware that people are different and different didn’t mean bad, it meant exactly that . . . different.

We have shootings in America now like we never had them before. You don’t know when the next place will be shot up and you sometimes don’t know why it happened.

Words have become more meaningful than actions.

People can say something about someone and instantly folks jump on the bandwagon to smear that person’s reputation. No one knows if it’s true; they just know someone said it, and they believe it. Used to be, proof was required.

Folks keep wondering how all these shootings can be stopped. Well, why don’t we try a little tolerance? If someone says something we disagree with, we can have a debate, or we can not spend time with that person. We had freedom of choice. It was bad enough in school when everyone wanted to be just like everyone else. We outgrew it. What is going on in this single minded country today?

Staying In The Past

I met a man at the doctor’s office. I had broken my big toe and he had hurt his arm/wrist? We chatted as we waited for our turn with the doctor.

He told me how he hurt his arm falling off a ladder. I don’t think he ever told me why he was on the ladder, because at that point in his story, he told about how he landed a few feet from where his wife had died. Well, that was sad. Then he went on and on about his wife who had been dead for ten years. On and on and on.

I sat there beside him wondering if his life had stopped the day his wife died? He must have been youngish when she died.

I wondered how he couldn’t see a woman right in front of him that was interested in him? But all I ever found out was what a saint his wife had been. Yep, his life had stopped with her death.

Later I saw him again in the x-ray department. He was telling the receptionist about how he fell just feet from where his wife had died . . . he fell on the cement driveway. (I was surprised he wasn’t hurt worse.) But he stood there talking and talking and talking to that receptionist about his dead wife . . . she’d been gone ten years, but yak, yak, yak . . . I spoke to him when he sat down, but had had my fill of his wife story and didn’t strike up a conversation.

It’s funny, but a few days later I saw him in the shop where I get my hair cut. Guess what he was talking about to the hair stylist . . . his dead wife. Was that all he has in his life? His arm was in a sling and he told me he had broken it. Then he told me again how he landed just a few feet from where his wife had died.

No. He landed in his wife and his wife died in him and killed him in the process.

I too have stories I tell, and I’m sure they’re not all that interesting, but they do vary. And I try to live in the present or the future. I find when I busy myself with today and maybe some tomorrows, I am more cheerful and feel more alive.

No matter how I tried to change the topic that day as he belabored his wonderful, dead wife, he stubbornly clung to talking only about her. I think I’ve learned everything there is to know now about that man. His wife died in the his driveway and he knows the exact spot he found her and she’s been gone ten years. Everything else is gone too, except for his past with her.

Media’s Mental Manipulation

Walter Cronkite’s “And that’s the way it is” sign off is a far cry from today’s “news anchors”.

“And that’s the way it is”: Walter Cronkite’s final sign off – YouTube

 

I enjoyed hearing the news when the one delivering the news assumed I had sense enough to have my own opinion about what was going on.

Now I have to listen to what I am to think about the news. 

I miss Walter Cronkite and other newscasters like him.

If the newscaster forgets the opinion most people are expected to have (Megyn Kelly), they are shunned out of their jobs. Not only are they to tell me what to think; they must appear to think it themselves. 

I didn’t live this long to need to find out how I should feel about something, news or otherwise. I still have my own opinions, and I still voice them. 
Yes, I’m old and younger ones may think I’m a dinosaur, but I know what I know and refuse to feel or think or opine what others expect. That’s really no freedom at all, when everyone does that. 

the feminization of the american male

someone needs to write a handbook for the american male. clearly he has no ability to figure things out for himself. please list the what’s appropriate when where . . . he doesn’t need to know why, he is clearly unable to understand the whys of anything. then require men to memorize these rules before he can go out in public. women can do all the jobs and they can take care of the men. men can stay home and be barefoot in the kirchen. hail to the women who now rule america. what do men have to do with anything anymore except to understand the correction given frequently and swiftly by women.      i take it as a given that men can no longer instigate sex, but must wait for the woman and then must always comply?