Connie, the Queen of Mahjong
Yes, Connie, you are a cunt. Have fun playing by yourself.
with Lorinda Birdwhistle
Have you ever had one of those control-freak friends who ruined a good thing because she insisted on doing everything her way?
Meet Connie. She used to be our friend until winning at mahjong against rank beginners became her life’s mission. Talk about needing to get a life. Jesus christ. The reality is that Connie, who “kindly” volunteers to teach mahjong to the great unwashed masses at the senior center, doesn’t do so out of the goodness of her heart. She has a pathological need to win, and playing against beginners is the only way that’s going to happen.
Connie learned mahjong when she was sent off to boarding school at The Institut auf dem Rosenberg in Switzerland at age 14. The school actually had a Mahjong Master on staff - a person who had achieved a mahjong rating of over 2,000 in the Gold Saucer. I have no fucking clue what that means, but apparently it’s a big deal. And yes, Connie studied with the man, the master, Frank Tittlesworth – something she’s mentioned about 50 times. It’s one thing to name drop to impress people, but really - Frank Tittlesworth? He doesn’t even come up in a Google search. Pretty sure he was a character in the sequel to The Scarlet Letter. Oh yeah, there was no sequel. Probably no Frank Tittlesworth either.
You’d think that with all that amazing education, Connie would have a serious leg up on everyone else in town, at least at mahjong. Turns out all that highfalutin bullshit had just the opposite effect. After only a couple of weeks of learning the basics of the game, Connie’s students were whipping her sorry ass at the game.
According to Tammy, the park district's activities director, this pattern of Connie’s losing to her students has been ongoing—like since she started teaching the class. One could not help but notice that Tammy struggled with hiding her schadenfreude whenever she talked of Connie’s incompetence.
The long and short of it: Connie simply could not win at mahjong ever, even when pitted against the students in her class. Why? Because Connie never had to sharpen her teeth by living in the real world. She never had to figure out a single thing on her own, like how to push a baby out of her vagina.
Hell, Connie can’t even solve the Monday New York Times crossword Mini, which is super easy, even for those of us who’ve only got a humble GED from the local community college.
Oh yeah, and Connie’s never had an orgasm. That doesn’t really have anything to do with this story, but I enjoy letting everyone know this fact.
Alrightly then. Enough ripping Connie to shreds. It’s just so damn easy - like that time I put my mother-in-law’s Angora sweater in my cat’s bolster bed. She might never have noticed the sweater missing since she had nine more of the same in various other colors – except for this: in working through my passive-aggressive angst, I chose the fuchsia sweater. I was, undoubtedly, subconsciously channeling my anger toward Hank, her son (whom I would soon be divorcing), by choosing that bright, abrasive color. Long story short, when DeeDee found fuschia Angora strands strewn about our house and then compared them against the missing sweater in her massive walk-in closet, well, she connected the dots. After that, she quit ordering my favorite flaming pu pu platter when the fam did Chinese carry-out on Monday nights. Message received.
OK, back to the mahjong story. Holy shit.
So, it became super clear to all of us in the beginning mahjong group that Connie was a heinous cunt. Unfortunately, none of us had the balls to quit her group because, in three short weeks, we had all become mahjong junkies. It was like crack cocaine.
The build-up to what would happen next went like this – Connie, who was apparently incapable of winning a single game (or feeling human emotion), started picking on certain members of our group. Her targets? Widowed and divorced ladies and those living in the affordable housing complex next to the senior center. What kind of person picks on the weakest in the flock? A cunt. Connie.
So there I was, on the top of the list of people for her to hate on. Connie would soon greatly regret making me her victim.
The last Tuesday in July was the first mahjong gathering for the week. These games were now taking place at Connie’s house – a pretentious painted lady on the south end of town. Turns out that Connie had tricked Tammy (the activities director for the park district) into thinking our mahjong class had concluded, and that the graduating members had gone on to form their own groups. In reality, Connie had convinced the group to stay together, telling everyone the class was ongoing but would now be taking place at her house.
Like sheep, we believed her and fell into line. Baaah. Baaah. 🐑 🐑 🐑 🐑
That Tuesday in Connie’s parlor, I was on a roll. I was in the zone. I’d had a great night’s sleep with my new CPAP machine, with its full-face head mask and personal assistant. Totally joshing about the Jamaican lady.
Connie, on the other hand, had no doubt been tossing and turning all night. Two words: sexual frustration. And then two more: oxygen-starved brain. Yeah, shut up. Hyphenated words count as one – learned that in my GED course.
Connie did not like one iota that I was whipping her ass on the East Round. Nor did she like the fact that I had no bags under my eyes when her eyes looked like a Chinese shar pei. Connie glared at me from across the table, the wrinkly lipstick lines around her mouth all pinched up like a virgin anus. It was not a good look. Who the fuck would kiss that mouth? Or stick their you-know-what in there. Yikes.
Now, I don’t know about you, but in my experience, if a school teacher saw you doing really well in a subject in their class, they would be thrilled about that. In fact, they would knock themselves over from all that patting themselves on the back. Am I right?
But not Connie. There I was, doing really well in mahjong (and life generally), and her response was resentment – this after teaching me all the rules and demonstrating how to play the game, giving pointers, and correcting mistakes. Then, when it all came together, and I was actually winning the game, Connie got pissed. And I’m not referring to the kind of pissed one gets from putting back too many snifters of brandy.
At this juncture, I went from being Connie’s student to being her mortal enemy. Instead of congratulating me on my success, Connie began assaulting my character.
For starters, Connie accused me of taking too much time on my turns, even though, as a rank beginner, I was considerably faster than she was. When I pointed this out, she accused me of exaggerating and being disrespectful.
Next, Connie faulted me, in front of my friends, for not following the rules, citing my breaking one of the American rules as an infraction, and threatening to close the game down. We had been playing by the Chinese rules from the get-go, not the American ones. Pretty sure this stunt is the definition of gaslighting.
For anyone needing a refresher course on gaslighting, enjoy the movie Gaslight. This movie’s title put a word to the shit my stepmother doled out my entire childhood. A crazy movie that saved my sanity.
When I calmly pointed out the distinction between the two sets of rules, Connie looked like her head would explode. Also not a good look – Connie’s cortisol fueled red face with eyes popping out. It was all my friend Jessica could do to keep from nasaling her coffee. Connie had clearly not expected me or anyone else in the class to know the differences between Chinese and American mahjong. At Connie’s house, the entrée du jour: Manger du Corbeau, crow roasted in a gaslight oven.
The final straw, for me, was when Connie reached across the table to slap my hand, loudly accusing me of palming tiles. If she was truly upset by my behavior, why was she smiling like the Cheshire Cat?
The shock of the wrist slapping sparked my anger and I came really close to saying something that might have gotten me stricken from the group. But just before blurting out “What the fuck?!” I caught myself. Connie, on the other hand, as undisciplined as she was, couldn’t keep her mouth shut, then proceeded, in an attempt to turn everyone against me, to announce that I had cheated. Then to punish me for my so-called infraction, Connie closed down all the mahjong games for the day – a move that would not improve her popularity amongst the mahjong community. Connie’s social life was heading in the same direction as her vulvovaginal atrophy.
Connie now imagined she had me backed into a corner. In her sadistic glee, she failed to notice that all the other players in the room were rolling their eyes, not the dice. No one, I mean not a single player, believed her gaslighting bullshit. Not only had Connie failed to master mahjong, but she also never mastered the art of reading the room. To her credit, she did have the skill of a Navy SEAL sniper when it came to shooting herself in the foot.
And yes, I received a special award of achievement in my GED class for my prodigious use of idioms, so stick your cheeky comments up your ass.
The tale continues…
After Connie’s mahjong rules blowup and while she was off in the bathroom doing her business, I quietly invited all the other mahjong players to join me for lunch. Could we devise a plan to knock Connie from her throne, I pondered out loud? Yes, we could, it was decided – everyone was down for it, 100%. Quickly, we boxed up our mahjong tiles and carried our teacups out to Connie’s kitchen. Then we made a hasty exit, leaving before she emerged from the bathroom. Shit – she’d been in that powder room for over 20 minutes. Can you say fecal impaction?
Off our group went to Soda Springs to get some cheap Chinese food and to make our plans.
Planning Connie’s demise was as fun as it sounds. The goal: get Connie to disband the group on her own accord and then to leave the world of mahjong FOREVER.
First, I confirmed that the Senior Center had a space and four sets of mahjong tiles for us to use, then I called my friend Kallie to make sure she could fill the void that was soon to be created at my table when Connie was compelled to move to the planet Qo'noS in the Beta Quadrant of the K'thar star system (see Wikipedia: Klingons).
Next was the practicing and perfecting of the pranks I was to perform over the weeks to follow – pranks intended to upset and offend Connie, in the most gentle way possible, of course. Connie was easily offended, so this was a no-brainer. Fortunately everyone in the mahjong group was on board. Not one was a hold out or potential squealer. We were united in our goal of wanting to make Connie desperate enough to disband the group, so that maybe she would quit doing this shit to people – that is, getting them hooked on mahjong, then ruining it for them.
The week following the sadistic wrist slapping, I girded my loins for the next round of abuse. Connie had an entire week to conjure up a new strategy, which would, no doubt, be another futile attempt at provoking me into doing something that would get me kicked out of her group. I had anticipated this moment – practicing repeatedly the falling-out-of-my-chair stunt, something I’d perfected way back in Mr. Harvey’s 6th grade class. This had always elicited chaotic mirth from my classmates.
Connie’s new strategy? To cheat. With hateful enthusiasm and hubris, Connie went about loading her wall with jokers and other desirable tiles, in the process failing to notice that her scam was totally transparent to everyone in the group. There I sat, discreetly watching her from behind the transition lenses on my readers, which had darkened greatly in the bright parlor. I said nothing, instead patiently waiting for that moment when Connie would do that sharp intake of breath that always prefaced her shouting “Sik wu!” to claim a victory. Then… there it was! We could all hear it – Connie proudly filling her lungs with the potpourri-infused oxygen of her Victorian parlor. That was my cue!
With sophomoric delight, I performed the famous falling-out-of-my-chair stunt, theatrically grabbing the table linen on the way down, which sent all of the mahjong tiles and brandy glasses flying, then crashing onto the floor. A jumbled mess – shards of glass coated with spilt brandy, all mixed in with Connie’s heirloom mahjong tiles. It was a thing of beauty.
My best friend Nadine ran over to my writhing body, asking if I was OK (this was staged, of course), then explained to everyone that I suffered from narcolepsy and must have fallen asleep in my chair. Connie’s expression said it all: she didn’t believe a word. But what could she do? She had tricked us into believing the class was taught under the auspices of the senior center and park district, and both entities had federal funding. Narcolepsy was covered under the Americans With Disabilities Act.
Connie did not win at mahjong that day. Nor could Connie boot me from the group. And then there was that horrendous mess to clean up. It was an all-around excellent day, one that rivaled Ferris Buehler’s Day Off.
But Connie was nothing, if not persistant. Instead of taking a hiatus to recover from her humiliation, Connie doubled down, scheduling our next mahjong meet-up and reorganizing her campaign of elder abuse. I was prepared, however, to go another round with this cunt. For our next mahjong Tuesday, I orchestrated a plan – I would bring an emotional support animal. Yes, a coyote.
Bertram was a well-trained canid that I borrowed from the Judy Arkansas Nature Museum in Fulcrum, the next town over. As anticipated, Connie was dreadfully afraid of coyotes, even this one, with its emotional support animal vest and certificate of approval from Bumble for Beasts. Connie’s angst obviously upset the coyote, who promptly relieved himself on her oriental rug, the one she just had professionally cleaned to the tune of $900 after the narcolepsy fiasco.
Sadly, the emotional support coyote did not bring an end to Connie’s mahjong class. We were going to have to take another stab at getting her to shut it down.
It was then that Jesús, the only man in the group, came up with the idea to let Connie actually win a game. Hey, why not?! So we set to putting our amateur mahjong heads together to come up with a plan: the other three women at Connie’s table would work to give every advantage to her, while simultaneously botching every move they made – thereby guaranteeing Connie a win.
And win she did. Fucking A - we had never seen her so happy. Pretty sure Connie experienced her first orgasm ever that day, as post-victory she spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom and we could hear her muffled screams from behind the powder room door.
All of this worked out as one might have hoped. Connie’s sexual awakening dovetailed perfectly with our hiring of the sullen GenZ male stripper, Liam, for our post-mahjong high tea. Everyone in our class had contributed enthusiastically to his performance, in hopes of offending Connie, but the opposite happened – Connie loved the show, tucking a Ben Franklin into the waistband of Liam’s fishnet cargo pants. It was a good day.
After this, our group unanimously decided we would no longer be playing mahjong with Connie and that the best course of action was to block all of her future text messages.
Now that we were free and clear of Connie, Tammy, from the park district, approved our new clothing-optional co-ed mahjong group for Saturday evenings at the senior center. The group would be invitation-only going forward. Connie would not be on the invitation list.
Hallefuckinglujah.
Ha ha ha ha!
That was great!! Hahaha