Cigar bingo

I truly am having fun blogging on vacation, but I better exercise some caution before the blog becomes a b-l-a-g. I would have used B-R-O-G as the portmanteau of blogging and bragging, but I know a really nice fella with the surname and it would seem weird. But no matter what word, I should stop saying things like:  "I solved the bonus on "the Wheel" last night and it wasn't even in English!" or.."my brisket was so tender last week that the entire family asked for thirds" or "Evan is so elfin smart that he doesn't read my vacation journals!" Or how about: "Luke is so nefarious that when we took him to the beach, he dug holes in someone's brand new blanket and uncovered the remains of Osama Bin Laden?" Yep. no more bragging less I become not relatable, thus  not readable.  But I did keep the cowlick tame for almost an hour today--is that boastful? When we came across a language barrier in the French speaking  island of Guadeloupe for my 60th birthday, I relied a lot on miming, like pointing to a bread basket and then acting like I was buttering the back of my hand, even 'though the waitress brought over a small bottle of P-U-R-E-L-L. Today, a worker who spoke no English dropped off our breakfast tray and I asked him for more toilet paper.  He was so confused, poor thing, and kept repeating:  "Paper? Paper? Paper?" I thought maybe he somehow knew I was going insane because I haven't had a chance to solve a Star Ledger cryptogram in days, but I finally point to the bathroom and once again say "Paper?"  He still didn't understand and I wasn't going to try to act it out in a charade. The TP hadn't shown up by the time we left the room. I told Jim we should have forced ourselves to listen to the Time Share pitch. I'm so glad I bring a notebook to the beach everyday.  My memory is sharp, but not sharp enough to capture every nuance of the baby lamb chops, or that fact that a french Mom violated two  rules by bringing a drink in a glass to the pool area without her top on. Oh, and I told Jim he just had to try the gestapo soup.  That is not Auto Correct, that is just me forgetting the word gazpacho. I met a nice Mom in the ocean and the subject of Woodloch came up in five minutes--my doing.  She said she was avoiding the family friendly resort  next door because there were signs posted saying not to flush anything--including TP--into their commodes.  It must be both a sewage and a shortage issue, but maybe we ought to stay away for a day or two. Update:  There are people who share near death vacation experiences because they went hang gliding or jumped from a helicopter  or ordered seafood from a gas station food stop on a road trip. We just risked our lives on account of bingo. He recruited us and would not take no for an answer, dangling us with the promise of a great and mysterious prize, which turned out to be RUM that I would not have drank. So we show up for the 4:00 PM game at the swim up bar, and our stool choices were to be asphyxiated by a cigar or burned by the sun since we left our sunscreen on a chair. We chose sunburn, and then everyone was given out what was needed for Bingo, and believe me when I tell you we might as well have been handed Uzis and blind folds.  We were given flimpsy numbered sheets that went from one to 85 ((!!???)that were thinner than toilet paper. They'd shrivel up when wet, which is unavoidable when the only place to put them at a swim up bar is on a wet swim up bar. We were handed the sharpest toothpicks I have ever seen in my life and instructed to punch holes in the number once it was called.  My puncture holes turned into gashes and my card looked like it was hemorraging. The numbers were called loudly in Spanish and quietly in English and I so desperately wanted someone to win so I didn't have to breathe in that cigar smoke or set my shoulders on fire. They should rename this activity Torture Bingo, because we left the pool area, barefoot, of course, where we had to dodge a messy array of both whole and broken toothpicks..and drinking glasses..and drunks. At least we can say we tried an activity that didn't revolve around napping or eating. And then I hear this from a group of men playing pool vollyball once I got to the safety of my lounge chair.  I hear one of them say:  "This may be the marijuana talking, but I'm getting stirrings down south." And I wondered three things: 1) how'd he get by the TSA with weed? 2) What is it  about playing aquatic volleyball with guys  that prompted him to yell this out loud? 3) Was he positive those stirrings down south weren't caused by his wife who was careless with a tube of Ben Gay?