Games People (but not me) Play

When it came to table games, my mother considered me a disappointment. She and her friends had a long history of playing cards: Poker, Gin Rummy, Canasta, Kaluki (does anyone still remember that one?). Then Mah-Jongg became the rage and continued to be the highlight of the ladies’ get-togethers for as long as they were able to get together. I was surprised that these close friends—who found lots to gossip and complain about—couldn’t seem to be in each other’s company for long without a game to occupy them. For me, just being with friends and eating something was enough entertainment.

It’s not as if others in my generation didn’t play some of the same games, especially Mah-Jongg. Many still do. I tried to learn Mah-Jongg, but I never really got it. I’d like to think it’s not because I didn’t have the mental capacity. I just didn’t care enough about it and didn’t want to spend my time that way. My mother didn’t coerce me any further, but I knew she wished I’d been interested.

I was grateful for my mother’s passion for card games and Mah-Jongg. It kept her busy in the years after my father died. Almost every day there was some activity that involved somebody’s home, baked goods—maybe even lunch—and a folding table set up for some serious playing (but not serious money).

As a child and teenager I liked playing card games. From War to Crazy Eights to something called “Pishy Paishy,” my friends and I had a good time occasionally playing them indoors when the weather wasn’t so nice. I also tried Poker, but that didn’t go very far. I liked board games, like Monopoly (but only when there was enough time to play this long, money-oriented game), Clue (my very favorite), and later, The Game of Life (not terribly exciting, but good for a few laughs). Scrabble was fun too, and more to this English major’s liking because it involves words.

I don’t object to games occasionally at parties, but I admit to being coerced reluctantly into playing and then often having a great time. This is different from scheduled weekly or monthly games. It’s just an activity to bring the group together after a hearty meal. I prefer word games, like CatchPhrase, and until a Halloween party a few years ago, I warmed up to a sketching game, like Pictionary. That is, until I was given a challenging task—drawing an oil well (I can’t remember what I was supposed to be depicting). I just couldn’t make my scribbling clear to my team, and we lost. Nix that game from now on.

Today, I don’t care if occasional games are on the party agenda or not, but I’m happier when we forget about them or time runs out. My only game passions these days are solo and electronic: Boggle or Solitaire. In recent years, I’ve learned of friends and colleagues who are involved in a Bunco club. I don’t know exactly what this is, but I reject it out of principle.

On the web site, My Jewish Learning, Senior Editor Meredith Lewis says, “It's…said that when the last woman of a mah-jongg groups dies, it's her job to ‘bring’ the mah-jongg set with her to the World to Come.” Sorry, Mom, that I didn’t keep up the tradition here, but I’m hoping you’re up there playing regularly.

We ain’t what we used to be. We’re better!

This year one of the members of our teenage club decided to host a reunion dinner meeting for us on a Friday night in late October. It was timed to coincide with the 50th class reunion for those who attended one of the two high schools our club spanned. What better time to call the girls together than when some of the out-of-towners would be in Chicago?

The fact that the club reunion meeting was held in a residence in a 55-or-older complex didn’t deter our members from feeling 16 again.

In the late 1950s, it was the era of the social club. There were popular clubs, not-so-popular clubs, clubs you were dying to get into but couldn’t, and clubs that would accept almost anybody. I’m sure everyone has a different notion of where our club, the A.D.O.s, fit in.

Too much time has passed for me to remember what A.D.O. stood for, but I can remember that we were often annoyingly referred to as “After Dark Osculaters”—with osculate meaning “kiss.” Since it was the 50s, if we thought about doing more than kissing, we didn’t share that thought with anybody.

The reunion meeting would have been “called to order” at 5:30, except that, for various reasons, many of the members were lost, held up in traffic, or had trouble seeing in the dark because of cataracts. Members came from as far away as Texas, Arizona, California, Washington state, and Glenview. As they arrived, everyone embraced each other, even while asking, “Who are you, again?”

After getting over the shock of faces that, although attractive, resembled our parents rather than the ingénues we were back in the day, we all remarked on how wonderful we’re looking—and how well we’re holding up.

It got a little noisy as we all squealed with delight to hear what’s going on in each others’ lives, but, sadly, there was no Sergeant-at-Arms to shush us, and possibly fine us, for talking out of turn. Our most respected and feared Sergeant-at-Arms is one of the few who left us far too soon.

Excitement at seeing each other after so many years was so consuming, not many people consumed the lovely snacks on the coffee table. When dinner was announced, each of us grabbed a plate and marched into the kitchen, where a fabulous spread included chicken, fruit, vegetables, twice-baked potatoes, and a terrific salad made with Chinese cabbage, Ramen noodles, and slivered almonds. Dessert included many home-baked items contributed by members and other delicious pastries we gobbled up while lamenting recent weight gain.

Issues discussed included—

• Living with a retired spouse and trying to maintain one’s own space
• Keeping up with growing grandchildren's activities and sports
• Keeping fit with a personal trainer
• The wonderful, full lives we’re all leading
• Gossip about our classmates and others we used to hang out with.

Remarkably, issues not discussed during the meeting included—

• Loneliness
• Illness
• Regrets
• General kvetching.

While gabbing enthusiastically with their long-lost club sisters, not one of the members uttered the words we heard so often years ago: “I wonder who will be picking me up tonight! I hope it’s him.” (Him being defined as the crush du jour during any month of the 1950s.) We imagine that not one of the members has an inkling as to who their him was at the time—except for the ones who married their crushes.

As the evening became late night, the adjournment ritual began. It took a little longer than 1950s meetings due to enactment of the Jewish goodbye, which means leaving a gathering at least twenty minutes after announcing one’s departure. The interim was filled with “Good to see you” and “How do I get out of this development?” and “Can I follow you to the highway?” A new addition to this ritual was “Will you take some of this food home?” and “Drive safely”—thus confirming the fact that we have become our mothers.

Vows were made to keep in touch. And we will.

Does this Boggle app make me look fat?

Sure, I know an online Boggle game can't make me look fat...by itself. But I contend that this addictive pastime is helping to make me fat. I can't place all the blame on this simple electronic addiction. I'm eating more and exercising less—except for the three days last week I did the one-mile Leslie Sansone workout. After three days, since it hadn't become habit yet, I slacked off.

It all started when I saw my husband playing Boggle on his iTouch. I found the Boggle game on the Web and played many games. I wasn't thrilled with having to use the keyboard to type the words (especially when I got a zero on one game because my fingers were on the wrong keys). So, whenever I could, I usurped my spouse's iTouch and played the touch-screen version...and played and played. I gave up the little device when he wanted to use it, and I was always considerate enough to charge it after I had practically worn the battery down.

Then I got an iPad. No surprise, the first app I bought was Boggle. Not only did I have the beloved game on a device of my own, I had one with a much larger screen! I downloaded other apps too—like Solitaire, and even a writing program—but after reading my e-mails and scanning Facebook to see what my daughters and grandsons are doing, I always go back to Boggle.

I know it's not bad to play games (it helps you relax and reduces stress) and word games are good for keeping the mind sharp, but I also know I've stretched the limit. There are times I should be moving about, doing laundry, taking a walk, cleaning the counter. Or if I'm going to be sedentary for a while anyway, I should be writing. But it's hard for me to break away. It's not uncommon to hear me muttering, "One more game. Just one more game."

So, if I've gained a few pounds and am having trouble zipping up my jeans, I can blame Boggle—and second helpings of just about everything. But it's not so bad. I can stop any time I want to. As soon as I break my 84 point personal best.

It’s a ghost…it’s a goblin…EEEK! It’s me.

I look around at the decorated houses and the aisles of seasonal goods. Horrible creatures dripping rubbery blood. Skeletons with evil smiles. Although I’d rather look away, these things aren’t so scary anymore. Here’s what gives me that creepy feeling today:

• Looking in the magnifying mirror—Oh, the chin hairs, the veins around my nose, the vanishing eyebrows!

• Looking in any mirror with my glasses on—Has my hair always been that frizzy?

• Trying to zip up last summer's Bermuda shorts—Did my hips expand like that in a mere 12 months?

• Glancing at the calendar and wondering what happened to last week (or looking at my watch and wondering what happened to the last three hours)—Does time really advance faster when you’re in your sixties?

• Starting to tell an old story to a new friend and suddenly realizing I'm not quite sure how it goes anymore—it’s not Alzheimers, it’s not Alzheimers, it’s not Alzheimers….

• Singing an old favorite song and forgetting the words I used to know so well—See above.

• Reading the daily obituaries and finding out about the deaths of contemporaries—I know I should stop reading them, but I can't.

• Getting indigestion and wondering if it could possibly be my heart—The scariest of all.

It’s not just these self-absorbing items that frighten me. I also fear the big things, like nuclear war, the Taliban, a meteor heading toward Earth, and the Tea Partiers. But I feel better about cowering from—and kvetching about—everyday horrors.

Happy Halloween!

Wii again

Earlier this year, I wrote about getting a Wii and actually enjoying bowling and other sports that I’m awful at. Nevertheless, it was fun to try, and I vowed to practice. But since March, I hadn’t even looked at the Wii, much less used it. My husband was one up on me: He played with it again about a week or two later. And that was it.

Then my daughter and her husband got a Wii, and after feeling sheepish about not setting it up after several months, they got it going. When I visited my twin grandsons this week, they exuberantly dragged me downstairs to go bowling with them.

We bowled five games, and I’m still pretty lousy at it, but it was great fun. The fact that my 6-year-old grandsons beat me didn’t matter at all. Here was an activity that we were all enjoying and having a wonderful time doing together. (The fact that one of them turns out to be a gloating winner and a sore loser was a little troublesome...During the last game I worried about what would happen if I won.)

Later in the week, my enthusiasm for the Wii and the bowling game hadn’t waned. That’s why my husband and I bowled a couple of games after dinner on our Wii last night. Of course, he beat me. But I was pleased that we were again using our indulgent purchase—and doing something other than watching TV. We hope to keep it up. As long as Grandma doesn’t become such a good bowler she causes a tot meltdown. (I’m dreaming, aren’t I?)

The product vanishes

There’s a crime spree under way, and I think I’m the perpetrator. My crime? Liking a product a whole lot.

When I find something that’s incredibly useful or enjoyable, I continue to loyally buy it. The second time around, I may buy a large size, if it’s sold that way, and it takes me a while to use it up. When my supply runs low, I go back to the store, looking high and low but not finding the product where it used to be. When I ask a store clerk about it, I’m crushed when I hear those terrible words: “Oh, that? It’s been discontinued.”  

This happens so often, I’ve come to the conclusion the problem is me. I am the kiss of death to an otherwise fine product. This has happened with—

• Lipsticks. A lovely, youthful shade I was sure I’d wear forever was taken off the market after being a best seller for many years

• OTC pill varieties. The easy-to-swallow Motrin (a really teeny one compared to its other varieties) was suddenly discontinued. I switched to Advil because it still comes in a smallish gel caplet. Now I'm hoarding them, just in case...

 • Peanut butter. I was ecstatic to find a natural peanut butter with no sodium, no sugar, nothing but peanuts. It was aptly called “Just Peanuts” and distributed under Jewel Food’s President’s Choice brand. Late last year, it disappeared from store shelves. I’ve been buying other brands—when I can find any without sodium—but they’re just not the same. (I learned that my daughter was also a fan of this product, so this tendency must be hereditary.)
• Shampoo and conditioner. I loved the way a product called Sunsilk Curly worked on my hair. I even found it in a travel size so I wouldn’t have to fill up a little bottle (and risk making a mess). Then it was gone. Walgreen’s no longer carried it, and it was nowhere to be found at the supermarkets and Ulta.

 These are just a few examples. The list is much, much longer. And if you’ve ever wanted to buy the products I’ve coveted—and caused to disappear—I apologize.

 

I can be rehabilitated, I think. I'll just keep switching products and let loyalty be damned.

 

Desperately seeking passion

With “passion” in the title, I suspect you’re looking for something along the lines of “Sex and the Sixties” or a tale of uninteresting foreplay. Sorry. I’m really lamenting the fact that I don’t have a pastime I’m passionate about—something that can keep me occupied if I ever decide to fully retire.

In answer to the question, “What’s your passion?” I’m stumped. I enjoy writing, but I don’t do much with it. (Writing for work counts now, but I am certainly not going to compose articles of interest to natural gas industry employees once I’m not on the job.) I love to read, and I’d be miserable without a few good novels on my nightstand. It’s an interest, but not a passion.

When I was a young housewife/mother, decades ago, I went through the same soul-searching. Before I returned to college for my bachelor’s degree, I tried art—going so far as enrolling in the “Famous Artist’s Home Study Course” and taking continuing ed courses in watercolors, sculpture, and photography. I wasn’t good at any of them, but my worst efforts were created (or occurred) in sculpture class.

Then I got interested in music. I bought an acoustic guitar—at a shop that sold guitars to Segovia!—and started taking lessons. After months, I could strum the chords to accompany my singing. Both were barely acceptable. I tried to learn classical guitar but soon realized this wasn’t my forte.

So I still liked art and music, but knew I wasn’t going anywhere with either of them. Then I went back to school, got my English degree, got hired as part-time editorial assistant, which grew into a full-time career—and here I am, 33 years later, still trying to find myself.

I still love to write, but you’re looking at the output here. Not bad, but not enough. Is sixty-something (and on the higher end of the decade) too late to find passion? I guess it doesn’t just fall into one’s lap or, in today’s terms, pop up on-screen during an unrelated search…although that could happen.

It’s been suggested that I 1) enroll in a Pilates class, 2) take writing courses, 3) learn jewelry making, and 4) just do something; interest follows action (loosely taken from an early Dr. Wayne Dyer book). Except for jewelry making, they’re all good ideas. I plan to take action….soon. Any other suggestions are most welcome—as long as they don’t involve sports.