PINOCHLE PROTOCOL


As you have been following my Pinochle adventures for a while now, Dear Reader, you know that, as in other facets of my existence, my behavior has remained quite rigid.  In fact, I have set some rather fastidious rules for myself regarding conduct at the monthly card party.  The rules cover rituals enacted prior to arrival as well as comportment at the actual event. I have written them on an index card and added that to the contents of my Pinochle Purse, so as not to commit any infraction.  In no particular order, I exhibit them below for your perusal.

Study Ahead of Time.  For at least the week before, I commit to practicing counting meld at www.powerpinochle.com. I also have a tattered sheet of paper on which I took notes regarding meld bids, which I thoroughly review and memorize. I beg my friends to quiz me but usually this is not very successful, and I end up arriving at the venue feeling frustrated, anxious and unprepared.

Dress Up. I believe in respecting the tradition of the Pinochle Club and those who have been members for such a long time.  Clean clothes are a must, no rips or tears, no jeans or t-shirts. Good hygiene goes hand-in-hand with this standard: freshly brushed teeth, clean fingernails, no open sores (remember the icky blister in Pinochle Purse?), and good hair is desirable but not always achievable.

Sport the Pinochle Purse. This is really part of the previous rule.  It goes without saying that the purse is packed properly (see Pinochle Purse if you don't know what this means).

No Eating.  This is due to the many possible calamities that can befall me if I attempt to consume edible material.  The list includes, but is not limited to, food in my teeth, heartburn, sluggishness, flatulence, and bad breath. Several of these catastrophes defy other edicts. Not only is this a tenet for the affair itself, but it is a statute for the hours, and usually the entire day, leading up to the event.  The disadvantage to this precept is that it can bring on dizziness and disorientation, which can trigger misjudgment at the card table.  Faced with the disgraceful alternatives, I will risk the possibility of feeble-mindedness. This rule has been amended to include not accepting home-made Beer-itas graciously offered up by a hospitable host, and not attending local wine festivals prior to arrival.

Good Posture.  The meme is funny, but in all seriousness, this goes back to respecting my fellow Pinochle players and the tradition, and conveys my concentration on the game. Sitting ram-rod straight on a folding chair for four-plus hours explains why I can barely move for the next two days. It means no slouching - standing or sitting, no rounded shoulders, no hanging head, no Donald Duck butt, and no hanging on one hip.


Best Manners.  This also goes without saying.  Please and thank you are obvious, as is good grammar and no mumbling. Greet hosts by name, thank hosts before departure, learn the names of the other participants. A cheerful demeanor and smile are preferable, but sometimes difficult to muster if tension is high (please refer back to the first rule in the list).  An overly toothy smile, or one in which the lip is stuck to the teeth, is often a sign of anxiety. Keep conversation pleasant, brief and quiet, as others are mentally counting cards, and sizing up their opponents. Overly raucous behavior is not welcomed, nor is vulgar language.  Reader with an eye for detail and a mind like a steel trap, you will have read Moratorium and know how difficult this can be.  See the list of deal breaking conduct below.

Respect Differences.  Understanding the disparities between the manners of Bridge and the culture of Pinochle is key. In Bridge, cards are dispersed one at a time, and players do not pick them up until all are dealt.  In Pinochle, cards are distributed two and three at a time, and players snap them up as soon as possible.  To me, dealing two or three cards at once contradicts the act of shuffling.  I am determined to no longer remark on this fact, or lecture on how many standard riffle shuffles are necessary for optimal randomization of the cards (seven). Both topics seem to generate a more heated discussion than necessary for a genteel game between friends. Looking at someone else's hand in the game of Bridge is unthinkable, yet nobody seems to care at the Pinochle table.  In fact, everyone has the opportunity to see what cards everyone else has when they are splayed out for the meld. Just as it goes against my every grain to inspect the cards placed on the table for the meld, I automatically avert my gaze from the dealer's hands, as usually I am able to see which cards are being dealt to whom from my vantage point.

Anti-Confinement Clause. This is a rule that was initially not on the list, but was added out of necessity.  I have been trapped in at least one powder room and maybe more, and I am not the only one. This is not to say that I was trapped in there with someone, Naughty Reader, but that someone else was trapped in a different washroom.  A reminder will not prevent the entrapment.  It does, however, make one more aware of other escape routes, notice who is near the door on the outside in case one must hiss through the keyhole, and remind one that perhaps merely closing the door is adequate instead of risking the lock.

Deal Breaking Conduct. The following behaviors are beyond the pale. The expulsion of gases is out of the question, whether in the form of flatulence, hiccups or burps. Intentionally cheating in any way is strictly prohibited. Prattling loudly and incessantly is frowned upon by players desperate to remember what is trump, who played the last ace and if their partner is out of spades. Gloating at the end of the evening does not seem very sportsmanlike.

Have Fun. After all of these guidelines for propriety, try to have fun.  After all, it is one evening a month to fraternize with friends and neighbors and engage in a lively game of Pinochle.





MORATORIUM

I am the first to admit that I have a proclivity to perorate with profanity; to squawk and swear; to blaspheme unbiasedly. Generally this profanatory performance is brought on by a disagreeable development.  Examples of these intolerable incidents include getting the mower mired in the mud at the bottom of a steep slope; sustaining a surprise sideswiping scratch from a feisty feline; bearing a brutal bite from the aforementioned malicious mouser, or slopping the sweet sustenance of sentience, otherwise known as coffee, on one's sweater. The imprecations rarely implicate an individual, they are only howled in hopes to free the frustration that has formed.



I have my prized profanities with which I punctuate persistently. My favorite four-letter words are generally not really composed of quadruple characters.  Made up of stops, fricatives and affricates, they just feel fine flowing out of my mouth.

Several weeks ago, Girl11.67 had had enough.  "I don't want to come from a cabin that curses!", she cried.  Thus began the moratorium on maledictions.

I endeavored to educate myself on equivalent epithets.  I have experimented with the ensuing examples and I have provided context.

Fiddlesticks, I left my keys at home!
Zooterkins, that refrigerator smells!
Gadzooks, you frightened me!
Gadsbudlikins, that hurts!
Cheese and Rice, will someone tell me what's going on?
ARGH!  Son of a motherless goat!
Shut the front door!  That really happened?

I was really doing well, I had not uttered anything unpleasant in several weeks.  On the day in question, I was readying my Rock the Crock rations, trying to open a tin of tomatoes.  The can opener was cranky and after completing one circle around the cap, it still wouldn't open more than a crack. I tried tipping out the tomatoes through the tear, but this was not a triumphant technique.  Then, I had a terrific thought:  I would carefully crush the can, thus altering the aperture to an oval, allowing more to ooze out.  I squeezed with all my strength.  Suddenly, the Sicilian sauce spewed on to my sleeves;  liquid landed on the laptop; fruit was on my front. After being pent up for so long, the profanity poured out.
$%#@^&*<%#!#@^&*>?!







SPEAKING IN TONGUES, Part 200

February rolled around and I was invited once again to the Pinochle Club.  After my January performance, I was just a little surprised to be invited back so soon.  I figured it would have taken them longer to forget my transgressions at the table. As usual, I studied from dusk until dawn every evening prior to game night.  I had had several conversations about bidding strategies over the month, had a new attitude about taking the bid, and I was feeling pretty confident about holding up my end of the partnership.

It was at the last table of the night, Table #4, when my world came crashing down. Once again, I was partnered with Melvin.  His eyebrows already looked pretty high on his forehead.  He had partnered with me previously at Table #1 and it had been ugly.  I had not brought my A Game to Table #1, and maybe not even my B Game.  I just did not have the cards to work any magic. Then we moved to play against each other at Table #5. The cards were still not respecting me, and he and his partner outplayed me and my partner.  They may have even each had one hand tied behind their respective backs, for all I know. Between my late night lassitude and the witty wordplay happening around me, I was having a concentration crisis. Melvin had not seen me at my most super, but maybe witnessed me at my worst.  

Back to Table #4, it was Melvin's turn to open the bidding.  He looked into my eyes, leaned forward a little, enunciated slowly and clearly with a very serious tone, "Six Hundred."  Yes, I could hear that capital H.  I stared back into his eyes.   His face was exhibiting no emotion and his eyes continued to bore into mine.  Dear Reader, it was as if the entire room had frozen and we were the only people in it.  "Holy Crap!", I thought.  "He is speaking to me in a secret code!"  It was then that I realized my folly.  "He thinks I speak that language!"  

For the 22 hands before this one, I had been cheerfully chirping bids with not a care in the cosmos.  Foolishly, I had thought I was speaking my partners' language, when in actuality, I was speaking Pig Latin. While I had been bidding to be polite, they were all sending smoke signals to me, trying to communicate the marriages, slugs and Pinochles in their hands. 

My eyes did not leave Melvin's eyes.  "Pass", I choked out.  Melvin's eyebrows shot upward to what should have been his hairline.  He took the bid at six hundred, called the trump and then proceeded to give me a dressing down at the table.  "When I bid Six Hundred, I expect my partner to give a meld bid, if you have any decent hand at all, even just a good slug!" he started in.  I set down my meld of two marriages.  "I didn't have anything", I squeaked. I glanced at his meld as he laid it down and proclaimed, "I have a Thousand Aces!" (Dear Reader, this means eight aces, two in each suit.) My mouth may or may not have been hanging open as I thought, "How on Earth was I supposed to know that Six Hundred meant a Thousand Aces?????"  We easily won that hand, and the last hand of the night as well, letting our competition have only four and nine tricks out of fifty, respectively.  Dear Reader, this was a most excellent thing.  

When it was all over, Melvin was once again all smiles, and his eyebrows had returned to their natural habitat.  He was especially jolly as he had come up as the Big Winner of the night.  He proudly proclaimed to anyone who would listen, and even those who wouldn't, how I had helped him earn that title, as well as the $24 kitty. He clearly felt personally responsible for all of the successful progress I had made since October, downplaying any of the hard work I had done on my own in the wee hours.  Obviously, I was Eliza Doolittle to his Henry Higgins.  I held back the impulse to break out in the classic song from My Fair Lady, Just You Wait.

I left the February game feeling exhilarated for holding my own, yet full of trepidation. March was just around the corner and I had less than a month to become fluent in a new language.


SPEAKING IN TONGUES, Part 100

Pinochle has become my latest obsession.  Specifically, monthly Pinochle with a group that has probably been meeting since before I was born. I am sure that several of the nonagenarians are original stakeholders, while other players were born in to membership. Then there are those like me, drafted into service due to a shortage of professional participants.  Eager to play again, I have instructed my family and friends that my calendar is hereby cleared on all Saturdays, to ensure my availability up to the last minute.

As I explained in Pinochle Purse, I was called with less than a week before the October gathering and challenged with the question, "Are you trainable?"  There is really no way to answer that other than "yes", and thus began my whirl-wind education. That week in my crash course, I learned about marriages, slugs, and of course, the Pinochle.





By the time the January game night came around, I was so hopped up on caffeine and sugar that I could barely speak.  I had not played since the October game, and I felt rusty.  I had studied all day with cards, notes, the computer, texting and even a few frantic phone calls.  I was confident in my ability to count meld, but hopelessly inexperienced with regard to bidding.  With a helpful formula in my head, the mathematician in me was able to hesitantly, and reluctantly, bid a couple of times with some success.  Or so I thought.  

It was the 24th hand, the last hand of the night.  I sorted my cards into suits and began methodically counting my meld.   With my best comportment on display, my back ached from sitting ram rod straight on the edge of my chair all night.  My mouth was dry and my lips were sticking to my teeth.  The smile that I had pasted on in the hopes of looking pleasant had surely turned to a grimace by now.  My heart started to race. Normally cold, I felt a trickle of sweat run down my neck.  Great Balls of Fire, I had Double Jacks Around!  (For the Uneducated Readers, this means eight jacks, two of each suit.)  I knew this was something big, but I had never come across it in my meld training, or in the wild, and I had no idea how much it was worth. I glanced around, hoping to see a Pinochle Rules brochure hanging from the light fixture by some dental floss, or being used as a shim under a table leg.  Although I authored Pinochle Purse less than a month before, I failed to follow my own advice; my rule book was at home, simulating a coaster. 

It was my turn to bid.  The other three people at the table looked at me expectantly, if not a bit impatiently.  I coughed.  "Er, I don't know how much my hand is worth."  The competitor at my right smiled indulgently at me.  "You haven't counted your hand yet?"  I cleared my throat.  "No, I don't know how much this particular, er, phenomenon is worth."  My partner frowned.  Melvin always looked worried when paired with me, and tended to fidget annoyingly when he thought we were doing poorly. The others at the table looked around.  "Trudy!", someone bawled into the kitchen where the desserts were being cut.  "Come and help her count her hand!" I held back a groan and hoped that I had not ground my teeth so loudly that Melvin could hear.  

Trudy, the dessert knife in her hand and a kitchen towel on her arm, leaned over my shoulder.  I could feel her breath in my hair as she counted my cards.  I tapped my jacks.  "I don't know how much that is worth," I mumbled.  "Sweet Jesus!", Trudy exclaimed in a whisper.  "That is worth four hundred points, and your Double Pinochle is worth three hundred", her voice grew louder in my ear, "you could take the bid up to eight hundred!" I stopped breathing.  I had not even spotted the Double Pinochle.

The bid normally starts at five hundred, and I had never bid more than five hundred thirty.  My stomach did a flip. Harry had opened at five hundred, my partner Melvin had passed and Harry's partner had passed.  It was up to me to win the bid, declare trump and control the hand. "Five ten", I said, confidently.  Harry immediately countered with five twenty, and I quickly responded with five thirty.  Harry continued easily to five forty. I glanced at the reflection in the picture window and saw that Trudy was still standing right behind me with the knife in her hand. I was secretly scared of Trudy, and I suspect I was not the only one. There was nothing to do but bid.  I glanced at Melvin, who was not so subtly giving me the thumbs up sign.  I came back with five fifty.  Harry smoothly drove the bid up and each time I countered with a little more catch in my voice, after checking the reflection. Trudy had forgotten about the desserts and was standing guard.  Smelling my fear, she was not about to let me lose the bid to Harry.  Meanwhile, Melvin was nervously tapping a tattoo with his cards on the table. To me, the sound was like a deafening death march.  Harry finally shook his head and I took the bid at Six Ninety, a number I could barely rasp out in my nervous state.  The bidding over, we counted the meld and began the play, all of which became a blur of relief.  Melvin and I easily won that last hand, with a crowd of curious onlookers nodding their approval. When it was over, Melvin's worried face melted away and he was all smiles. He clapped me on the back, congratulated me, and then ambled into the kitchen.  He had worked up an appetite for dessert after all.

The crowd dispersed and I remained in my seat, suddenly overcome with cold.  My stomach felt hollow. My teeth chattered. My hands were shaking.  I wondered, "What have I gotten myself into, that I look so forward to and yet afterward end up a shaking mess?"  I took a long shuddering breath to calm myself before slipping unseen out the front door. 

The next day I got an email from my dad.  It said, "Be careful! Pinochle is just a gateway drug to Bridge!"


PINOCHLE PURSE

I have always been a Canasta girl. I grew up collecting 8 of a kind, making runs and melding.  I became a pro at 12 when I spent the summer in Germany. Not only did I learn to count in German, I quickly learned to appreciate, and look forward to, the custom of kaffeetrinken.

Both sets of my grandparents were Bridge players.  As a kid, I was dragged around to afternoon Bridge Club and Friday night Bridge with the Proffits (the best part of which began with hamburgers from Bill and Bea's). I lurked around the table, trying to decipher such mysterious comments such as One No Trump and Two Clubs.  I have always been perplexed by the bidding.


Since Girl11.5 came along, my card playing has been restricted to Go Fish and Crazy 8s. When the call came, I eagerly accepted, although the question does not sound complimentary.  "Are you trainable?" (Really, you had to ask?) The local Pinochle Club needed another player and I had less than a week to get down to brass tacks and learn the game.


Saturday night came, and although I wasn't sure I was ready to play with the likes of the veteran players at their 50 - plus year old club, off I went. I had my little black velvet cross-body purse with me, and I was armed with the basic necessities. I have come to the realization that this purse and this specific combination of contents are perfect for nearly any occasion.


1) Pinochle rule book. If I had to, I would excuse myself to the bathroom and study up. (Yes, Dedicated Reader, the bathroom has always been my Safe Place, and once again makes an appearance in RRR.)

2) Bandaids. I had recently acquired, through hard work on my roof with a rake and broom, a blister on my thumb.  Said blister was oozing and had turned black.  I was convinced I had MERSA and did not want to raise the anxiety level in the nonagenarians who had gathered that night to play cards and booze it up.  I have such a fat digit that the Bandaid did not stay secured for long, so I needed a healthy supply to keep my secret. Again, the bathroom would be my refuge for these covert ministrations.
3) Gum. The stakes were high and my panic level was higher.  Stress Breath was not something additional I needed to worry about. I naturally feel better smelling the mint emanating from my reticule, so I had a sizable supply of Trident pieces, the small ones.
4) 24 quarters.  There is a way to get penalized in a hand of Pinochle.  At this club, the penalty is a quarter.  I had no idea how many quarters to take.  I asked Girl11.5 her thoughts on the matter.  "How many hands will you play?"  "Well, there are 6 tables and so we will play 24 hands."  "Take 24 quarters."  Her lack of confidence in my abilities, as well as her honesty, were a bit disconcerting.

A recap is now in order. The contents of the black velvet handbag were clearly designed for my comfort that evening, but are applicable to any outing.  


1) Rule book - you may not need to know how much a round of jacks is worth, or what the secret code bid is to tell your partner you've got a bust for a hand, but you never know when you need a piece of paper to write a phone number, or wipe your nose, and the pages from this book will suffice in a pinch.

2) Bandaids - I wore new shoes to my brother's graduation from Pharmacy School.  We parked a few blocks from the venue and by the time I got on campus, I had a bloody mess in my beautiful new ballet flat. A stranger serendipitously offered me a Bandaid, that is how bad it was.  At no time did I supplicate in public, it was good samaritanship at its finest. My heel has regenerated, but the flat was ruined.  You can never be over-prepared in the Bandaid department, either for yourself or someone in unfortunate circumstances. If you don't believe me, check out my post titled "The Bandaid Nazi".
3) Gum.  I should not have to say more than one word:  HALITOSIS. However, I shall point out that this sticky substance is also useful for attaching notes to windshields ("Next time you decide to park so close to someone, leave a can opener!"), making friends in close quarters, repairing eyeglasses (or anything else broken), and, when chewed, reducing the acid reflux in your mouth and thus preventing vomiting.
4) 24 quarters.  That's $6.00. You can buy a pack of gum (refer to #3), a cup of coffee, or make a phone call. You can also make a small ring out of a quarter (Google it), or in this case, 24 of them.  You may channel your inner David Copperfield and make them all disappear, perhaps on a street corner and thus earn tips in the process.

There you have it.  The perfect combination of purse contents for every situation.  You can thank me later.