Bingo Lingo

I really don't like Bingo. It's not that I mind the game so much (after all, how difficult is it to cover up a bunch of small squares with a piece of candy?), but I dislike winning bingo. Sure, in your head it seems great. All you have to do is listen for the number, cover that number up when it's called, and call out "BINGO!" when you've got 5 in a row. What they don't tell you is that when you do so, everyone else (even your friends) will turn and glare at you, since they were all just one number away from winning themselves. Then they'll watch you go up and claim your prize ... that prize that should have been theirs. And none of them clear their cards, secretly hoping that you covered a number in your winning row that wasn't actually called, meaning they have a chance after all.

And so it was, in March 2003, I found myself in this situation. Stephanie and I had bought a travel package including a week at an all-inclusive "resort" in Cancun, Mexico. We invited Jay & Aaron to go with us. The more the merrier, right? It was spring break time, meaning lots of college kids, lots of drinking, and a pool-side DJ every day ... complete with music, contests, and games. And you guessed it, Bingo. We were relaxing that day, spending a sunny day at the pool. So when the DJ announced that Bingo would be starting in 10 minutes, we went to get our cards.

With so few people playing (this is where the "resort" part starts to make sense, it was tiny and there were maybe 20 people playing), the odds that someone in our group would win were pretty good. They announce the prize (Strawberry Daiquiri in a giant yard glass) and start calling the numbers. I quickly cover a full row on my card but I don't want to announce my win for two reasons. 1: I hate the attention of winning and 2: I didn't want the prize. Jay sees my card, sees the completed winning row, and calls out "BINGO!" for me. (thanks Jay)

I go to claim my prize (or rather, hope to switch my prize for another ... they've been giving away T-shirts all morning long too). I took French in high school, I don't understand Spanish at all. So it comes as no surprise that I don't know what the DJ is saying into the microphone, asking for my name. At the same time, I'm asking him if I can switch the drink for a t-shirt instead. So everyone at the hotel hears:

DJ: "¿Cómo te llamas?"
Me: "t-shirt instead?"
DJ: (laughing, clapping, and in perfect English) "Let's hear it for T-shirt instead!"

The good news? I DID get a t-shirt for all of my embarassment. The bad news? Jay stole it.