The Politics of Bluey and Bingo vs. Angry Birds

In 2009, a new cartoon game for kids featured colorful angry birds trying to save their eggs from malicious green pigs. According to the web, the red bird developed his anger issues from being deserted by his parents before he hatched. Then, he was bullied by other birds. It was a popular game, and kids who played it would be in their late teens or twenties by now.

But those cartoonish games were benign compared with what is available to my grandchildren. It’s terrifying…truly terrifying.

I was babysitting one evening and we’d been watching Bluey. I love Bluey! For my purposes, let’s pretend Bluey is Bingo’s brother, even though in the show they are sisters. They’re Australian cattle dogs with the sweetest accents. Of course, there’s mischief but it’s harmlessly playful and fun.

I could watch Bluey all day, but the kids had seen enough and were clamoring for something else. So, unsuspecting Granny started flipping through kid channels looking for an alternative. Ah! There was one with trains. I’d seen numerous episodes of Thomas the Train and thought that’s what I’d found. We cuddled in to watch.

I have to admit, sometimes my mind drifts when the storyline doesn’t engage me. Such was the case when, in the midst of my daydream I heard, I’ll kill you, you little bastard, coming from the TV. HUH? My attention was riveted to those big bad engines running over defenseless baby trains with language that curdled my blood. This was not Thomas the Train!

The TV went off with only a few minor complaints from the kids. They knew better.

Who creates those atrocities, and why? Why the violence? The language? What about those children who have unmonitored access, the ones who watch those creepy cartoons and play killing games? They’re being programmed in ways pre-tech generations never were. Perhaps most disturbing is the fact that cartoon and gaming evil seem to go unpunished, or worse, rewarded. There are no consequences,

It’s not just a kid thing, either. What news media gets noticed, especially now with the heated political climate? What’s more entertaining? Is it the smiling face of Kamala Harris and the unpolished charm of Tim Walz? Or are we mesmerized by the toxic vitriol from the Trump/Vance team? Don’t we all wait with morbid curiosity to see who they’ll disparage and mock next?

It’s a little like Bluey and Bingo vs. The Angry Birds and I’m so over it – so ready to change the channel.

We don’t have much longer to wait. Out here in the wilderness, my ballot is mailed to me. I’ve already voted. I know all my readers aren’t of the same persuasion as I, but voting is one of our most cherished rights, especially for women and people of color who weren’t always granted that privilege. It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly.

So, dear friends, even if what it boils down to for you is an attempt to determine the lesser of two evils, please choose and vote. Then sit down and watch an episode or two of Bluey. But unless you’re equally as tech-savvy as a 7-year-old, and want to double-up on your blood pressure meds, don’t even try to play Angry Birds.

The Incredible Joy of Not Giving a Damn!

My level of frustration at this exact moment in time is off the freaking charts!

In the past week, hours evaporated while I:

tried to change my cellular service provider

tried to connect to my new cell phone hotspot

tried to connect my Roku to the elusive hotspot

tried to connect my TV to Roku

tried to connect my computer to my printer using my new hotspot

tried to…oh crap…tried unsuccessfully to keep from bellowing obscenities…

It’s a good thing I live alone…

I thought I was tech-savvy. Seems that was yesterday. Things change at the speed of light…or is there something faster now? I wouldn’t doubt it. 

Is it a function of age? If I were, say, 40, would I automatically have the necessary skills? Or six years old perhaps? My twin grandsons grasp technology better than I do.

Perhaps I’m past my use-by date. I haven’t expired, but I’m beginning to decay. 

The other day I was visiting with a group of women, all seventy-plus. Our conversation began innocently enough, talking about the books we’d been reading, the TV series we were hooked on. As we warmed up to each other, we moved from the abstract to the intimate, how advancing years have made us less tolerant of discomfort in any form, especially clothing. Specifically, bras.  

From pre-teen to middle age, I didn’t think twice about harnessing up with underwires to support my abundance. The silhouette was most important so I tolerated the metallic uplifting and powered on. 

Then came Bali. Every cremation, wedding, and ceremonial event, required a sarong, a lace kabaya, and an undergarment so constricting from cinched waist to hoisted breasts that breathing was no longer involuntary. The Mona Lisa.

Ngusaba Tegen was the worst. We suited up by the hundreds and walked the gravel road in high-heeled flip-flops to gather outside the temple. Row upon row of offerings made by the men of the village, hung suspended awaiting the blessing of the priests. And so did we – wait. Women and children sat on the ground literally for hours.

Imagine ninety-degree heat, air chewable with humidity. You’re dressed in a tightly wound sarong, legs folded sideways underneath you with the Mona Lisa corset shoving your breasts up under your chin. 

Balinese women don’t squirm. They don’t sweat. They just gossip happily, a child in their lap, an arm around the shoulder of the friend they’re chatting to. Hair perfect. Makeup exquisite. And in the midst of them is me, swiping at the moisture dripping off my chin, tugging at the sarong that threatens to unwrap, yanking down on the creeping corset that wants to pop my breasts out of the low-cut neckline of the itchy kebaya, all the while smiling, trying to appear, well, Balinese…cool, calm, composed.

Is it any wonder that here at Granny’s Landing in the middle of idyllic nowhere, I’ve burned my bras along with my bridges? After fifty years enslaved to the silhouette, I refuse to have my torso squeezed up or down, in or out. My breasts swing freely, like balloons full of pudding. There’s nothing sexy about them. The jokes about old ladies are too true to be funny. 

Right?

I used to care. I’ve thought about that. Why did I care? If I’m honest, I have to admit that I was motivated by sheer vanity. I wanted to look good for me. Makeup. Perms. High heels. Mini skirts. Underwires. How much of that do I still do? Zip. Zilch. Nada. I’m over myself. Now, all I care about is comfort. 

It’s wonderful! So liberating! Intoxicating! The incredible joy of not giving a damn. 

And just so you know, somehow I managed to facilitate the new cellular service install and connect to the hotspot. As if by magic, the Roku talks to the TV and my computer works. The printer…no amount of begging, pleading, cajoling, or cursing, has succeeded so far. It remains disconnected to frustrate me yet again another day.