(original post-date: March 9, 2011)
In my Monday rerun, I mentioned playing Lotto, which I do.
But I don’t stop there.
I’m a gamer by nature, and I love investing a dollar or two into the possibility of getting more than a few in return.
Back in New York, when I worked at the burgers-in-a-basket joint, I started playing “the number.” By which I mean that, every day, I’d invest a dollar (50 cents straight/50 cents box) in the New York Lottery’s Daily Number drawing. My number was 142 (and no, I don’t remember why I chose that particular string).
If my number came in straight (i.e., in order), I’d get $250 for the 50-cent straight bet and another $40 for the box. If it came in out of order (e.g., 241), I’d just get the $40. I cashed in more than a few times, and I may well have remained ahead, if not even. Regardless, I kept playing. You see, that’s the thing about playing the number in a burger joint in Manhattan. Your co-workers play them, too. Not only that; they know your number. So, if it comes in and you didn’t play, well – you’ll never hear the end of it.
One day, I was feeling particularly light-hearted, so in addition to my 142, I decided to bet a dollar straight on a second number. I looked at the dollar in my hand, and read off the first three digits of its serial number: 160.
It came in.
$500 for me.
(Not bad, considering my rent was about $150 at the time.)
A few years later, when I had moved from waitressing to the Ford Foundation (a transfer only gamblers get to make), I was sharing my winning tales with a fellow secretary. She decided that the next time our bosses traveled together, we should play their flight numbers and ETAs and so forth (i.e., whatever 3-digit numbers showed up on their travel documents).
Sure enough, our bosses planned a trip within the month, and when another member of the support staff decided to join our investment in the lottery, the three of us pooled our resources ($4 each) and bet two dollars straight on six different numbers.
And guess what? One of them came in.
$1,000, split three ways.
Not only that, but because the gals I worked with decided I’d brought all the luck to the endeavor, they took me out to lunch.
Nice.
These days, I really enjoy Crossword scratchers. What can I say – it’s the perfect marriage of my gaming ways and my love of words.
I’ve been playing them for several years now, and back in 2007, I was quite lucky just before my 50th birthday. I scratched off enough words to cash in my ticket for $1,000.
Not bad.
Because of my affection for words, though, I can be teased at times. Once, I got a Crossword scratcher that included the words “jackpot,” “fortune,” and “lucky.” Can you blame me for assuming this was the $20,000 winner?
It wasn’t. I don’t even think it was any kind of winner. But I loved the thrill of the scratch.
That’s the other appeal of the Crossword scratchers. They take time. The sense of hope can be prolonged for a bit.
So the other night, as I scratched my latest lottery purchase, I was again filled with that sense that this could be it. The ticket to a small fortune…
When the process was complete, I ‘d not become rich, but I also was not disappointed. I’d scratched off two words, which is the equivalent of breaking even.
Fine. I’ll pay it forward.
But then, I noticed the two words I had scratched:
EASY
YEAR
Easy year.
I’ll take it.
In my opinion, an easy year would be worth all the Lotto jackpots combined.
For lest we forget, stress is also a verb.
Showing posts with label Lotto. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lotto. Show all posts
Monday, March 12, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
When Cats Puke
Hmm… having spent New Year’s weekend reading the 2009 memoir, Homer’s Odyssey, I feel a bit tacky offering up this piece. Really, I kinda do.
Let me explain. If you haven’t read Gwen Cooper’s charming book, then here’s what you need to know: it is a remarkable account of a person/animal relationship. And in this case, the person happens to be a woman, and the animal happens to be a cat.
Reading Homer’s Odyssey, I was absolutely captivated. I mean, I gotta face it… admit it: my long-term relationships have always been with cats. And so I love the stories that describe those relationships.
Joy Adamson and Elsa (of Born Free fame) used to be my go-to when I thought of such relationships. But, last weekend, that story got supplanted. By Homer’s Odyssey.
Sorry, Joy and Elsa. Gwen and Homer are the deal. The real deal.
Never have I enjoyed crying so much.
But, oh dear, I’m getting maudlin. And we don’t want that, do we? I know how to fix that, and I’ll do it fast. I’ll return to my original intention. I’ll return to the story that earned the title of this post.
You should know, before you read further, that this piece is a bit graphic. (A “bit?” Who are we kidding!) I tried to share the story with my sister, over the phone. She wouldn’t allow me past what will be the first reference to puking.
(And SHE’S GIVEN BIRTH! Hello?)
Anyway, proceed with caution.
Which is to say, consider yourself forewarned.
… The weeks of December were tense for me, and on the night of Monday, December 18th, I had a major epiphany. I realized why the end of the year always feels so frenetic.
It isn’t the shopping, which I don’t do. (I give presents to people when I feel like it; not when some holiday tells me I should.)
It isn’t the December parties, which I avoid.
It isn’t some need to go to religious services, because… I just don’t affiliate.
No, it’s because I am a consultant. And what that means is this: I don’t work for one organization; I work for several. And what that means is that I am answering to about 6-8 bosses, all of whom are slamming to get work done before the holidays.
Not only that, but the work we are doing (grant proposals, mostly) is deadline-driven. Throwing something on the back burner just isn’t an option. Not if you want to get the money.
And this is money that is sorely needed. … It goes to afterschool projects, domestic violence shelters, and teen pregnancy prevention programs. It goes to the arts. It goes to educational curricula that help children think lovingly. This money makes a difference in our world.
… The morning after my epiphany, I was at my workstation (i.e., the southwest corner of my kitchen). I was anticipating the deadline-meeting day ahead. I’d just got up and made my first cup of coffee.
And, as is my routine, I traveled the internet while waiting for the caffeine to kick in (at which point, I would begin the all-important billable hours).
Within a few moments, I heard a retching sound behind me, and I was not surprised that it was Vesta, the senior of my two cats.
She was puking.
Just behind my wheeled office chair.
Which is when I knew I could not back up those wheels any time soon.
No, I’d need to wait at least 10 minutes.
I’d need to give her and Lotto time to gobble up the puke and make it go away.
(It’s what animals do, people. Regurgitation as feeding. If you’re not familiar, check out March of the Penguins.)
And so I waited, confident that when I eventually rolled back, my desk chair’s wheels would not spin up anything wet.
But as I waited, something else happened.
Lotto (younger, larger cat), who had partaken of Vesta’s puke, walked over to the middle of the kitchen floor and proceeded to do a remarkable impersonation of George H.W. Bush in Japan.
I’m talking projectile vomit.
I’m talking ICK.
And then he moved to a distance further away from me and puked a bit more.
I decided I needed to remain at the desk for at least ten minutes more.
… When I eventually arose from my chair, I was happy to see that the first instance of puke (the one that had been deposited directly behind my chair) was indeed pretty much gone. Sure, a few tell-tale signs, but mostly, gone.
Then, I moved closer to the area of the Bush impersonation, and looking at it, I started to gag.
I coughed in a choking way.
I started to wonder if I would puke.
And what made me gag/choke even more was my wondering: if I puke, will the cats eat it?
Oh my God, this is just becoming so gross, isn’t it?
… Yes, it is, and here’s why.
I don’t mind cleaning up cat puke.
But cleaning up cat puke that is puked-up cat puke is more than I can stand, and that’s why I had issues with the liquid piles that Lotto had left. It wasn’t his own puke. It was Vesta’s. Recycled.
(I’m gagging as I type.)
Fortunately and wisely, I just left large, multi-layered paper towel pilings where he had retched, and I waited a while.
I waited until my impulse to choke had subsided.
Once it had, I cleaned up the mess and met the day’s deadlines. Then, while telling this story to my mom over the phone, I had the best laugh I’d had in about two weeks.
Happy New Year.
(And speaking of 2012, with this being a major election year, I suspect we’ll have much to gag, choke, and puke about in the coming months. Should be fun. Keep paper towels in stock, folks!)
Let me explain. If you haven’t read Gwen Cooper’s charming book, then here’s what you need to know: it is a remarkable account of a person/animal relationship. And in this case, the person happens to be a woman, and the animal happens to be a cat.
Reading Homer’s Odyssey, I was absolutely captivated. I mean, I gotta face it… admit it: my long-term relationships have always been with cats. And so I love the stories that describe those relationships.
Joy Adamson and Elsa (of Born Free fame) used to be my go-to when I thought of such relationships. But, last weekend, that story got supplanted. By Homer’s Odyssey.
Sorry, Joy and Elsa. Gwen and Homer are the deal. The real deal.
Never have I enjoyed crying so much.
But, oh dear, I’m getting maudlin. And we don’t want that, do we? I know how to fix that, and I’ll do it fast. I’ll return to my original intention. I’ll return to the story that earned the title of this post.
You should know, before you read further, that this piece is a bit graphic. (A “bit?” Who are we kidding!) I tried to share the story with my sister, over the phone. She wouldn’t allow me past what will be the first reference to puking.
(And SHE’S GIVEN BIRTH! Hello?)
Anyway, proceed with caution.
Which is to say, consider yourself forewarned.
… The weeks of December were tense for me, and on the night of Monday, December 18th, I had a major epiphany. I realized why the end of the year always feels so frenetic.
It isn’t the shopping, which I don’t do. (I give presents to people when I feel like it; not when some holiday tells me I should.)
It isn’t the December parties, which I avoid.
It isn’t some need to go to religious services, because… I just don’t affiliate.
No, it’s because I am a consultant. And what that means is this: I don’t work for one organization; I work for several. And what that means is that I am answering to about 6-8 bosses, all of whom are slamming to get work done before the holidays.
Not only that, but the work we are doing (grant proposals, mostly) is deadline-driven. Throwing something on the back burner just isn’t an option. Not if you want to get the money.
And this is money that is sorely needed. … It goes to afterschool projects, domestic violence shelters, and teen pregnancy prevention programs. It goes to the arts. It goes to educational curricula that help children think lovingly. This money makes a difference in our world.
… The morning after my epiphany, I was at my workstation (i.e., the southwest corner of my kitchen). I was anticipating the deadline-meeting day ahead. I’d just got up and made my first cup of coffee.
And, as is my routine, I traveled the internet while waiting for the caffeine to kick in (at which point, I would begin the all-important billable hours).
Within a few moments, I heard a retching sound behind me, and I was not surprised that it was Vesta, the senior of my two cats.
She was puking.
Just behind my wheeled office chair.
Which is when I knew I could not back up those wheels any time soon.
No, I’d need to wait at least 10 minutes.
I’d need to give her and Lotto time to gobble up the puke and make it go away.
(It’s what animals do, people. Regurgitation as feeding. If you’re not familiar, check out March of the Penguins.)
And so I waited, confident that when I eventually rolled back, my desk chair’s wheels would not spin up anything wet.
But as I waited, something else happened.
Lotto (younger, larger cat), who had partaken of Vesta’s puke, walked over to the middle of the kitchen floor and proceeded to do a remarkable impersonation of George H.W. Bush in Japan.
I’m talking projectile vomit.
I’m talking ICK.
And then he moved to a distance further away from me and puked a bit more.
I decided I needed to remain at the desk for at least ten minutes more.
… When I eventually arose from my chair, I was happy to see that the first instance of puke (the one that had been deposited directly behind my chair) was indeed pretty much gone. Sure, a few tell-tale signs, but mostly, gone.
Then, I moved closer to the area of the Bush impersonation, and looking at it, I started to gag.
I coughed in a choking way.
I started to wonder if I would puke.
And what made me gag/choke even more was my wondering: if I puke, will the cats eat it?
Oh my God, this is just becoming so gross, isn’t it?
… Yes, it is, and here’s why.
I don’t mind cleaning up cat puke.
But cleaning up cat puke that is puked-up cat puke is more than I can stand, and that’s why I had issues with the liquid piles that Lotto had left. It wasn’t his own puke. It was Vesta’s. Recycled.
(I’m gagging as I type.)
Fortunately and wisely, I just left large, multi-layered paper towel pilings where he had retched, and I waited a while.
I waited until my impulse to choke had subsided.
Once it had, I cleaned up the mess and met the day’s deadlines. Then, while telling this story to my mom over the phone, I had the best laugh I’d had in about two weeks.
Happy New Year.
(And speaking of 2012, with this being a major election year, I suspect we’ll have much to gag, choke, and puke about in the coming months. Should be fun. Keep paper towels in stock, folks!)
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Bupkis
That's what I got this week.
Bupkis.
Zilch. Nothing. Nada.
Neither a story nor an opinion...
But since so many people enjoyed learning about my cat, Lotto, in last week's post (scroll down to "Welcome Home" if you missed it), I thought I'd share some pix.
Enjoy!
Looking regal on the bedroom bench. This was taken probably within a month or two of his arrival at my door in April, 2009.
Taken around the same time. He thinks it's funny that I gave him his own phonebook.
Probably a year later. Note, though, his weight has remained within 8 ounces of 11 pounds the whole time. I'm not kidding. It's all about the fur.
It seems wrong to post photos of Lotto and not also include the more senior cat here at Chez Katie.
What follows is a pic I took not too long ago.
As you'll see, Lotto adores Vesta (just as I do). And what is really cool is that -- despite her having no teeth (now 15, she had severe gum issues at an early age) -- Vesta harks back to Hemingway heritage, which means she has extra toes. And therefore extra claws! And so, she generally wins their mock battles, which are so much fun to watch.
Thanks for stopping by!
Bupkis.
Zilch. Nothing. Nada.
Neither a story nor an opinion...
But since so many people enjoyed learning about my cat, Lotto, in last week's post (scroll down to "Welcome Home" if you missed it), I thought I'd share some pix.
Enjoy!
Looking regal on the bedroom bench. This was taken probably within a month or two of his arrival at my door in April, 2009.
Taken around the same time. He thinks it's funny that I gave him his own phonebook.
Probably a year later. Note, though, his weight has remained within 8 ounces of 11 pounds the whole time. I'm not kidding. It's all about the fur.
It seems wrong to post photos of Lotto and not also include the more senior cat here at Chez Katie.
What follows is a pic I took not too long ago.
As you'll see, Lotto adores Vesta (just as I do). And what is really cool is that -- despite her having no teeth (now 15, she had severe gum issues at an early age) -- Vesta harks back to Hemingway heritage, which means she has extra toes. And therefore extra claws! And so, she generally wins their mock battles, which are so much fun to watch.
Thanks for stopping by!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Winning Words
In my Monday rerun, I mentioned playing Lotto, which I do.
But I don’t stop there.
I’m a gamer by nature, and I love investing a dollar or two into the possibility of getting more than a few in return.
Back in New York, when I worked at the burgers-in-a-basket joint, I started playing “the number.” By which I mean that, every day, I’d invest a dollar (50 cents straight/50 cents box) in the New York Lottery’s Daily Number drawing. My number was 142 (and no, I don’t remember why I chose that particular string).
If my number came in straight (i.e., in order), I’d get $250 for the 50-cent straight bet and another $40 for the box. If it came in out of order (e.g., 241), I’d just get the $40. I cashed in more than a few times, and I may well have remained ahead, if not even. Regardless, I kept playing. You see, that’s the thing about playing the number in a burger joint in Manhattan. Your co-workers play them, too. Not only that; they know your number. So, if it comes in and you didn’t play, well – you’ll never hear the end of it.
One day, I was feeling particularly light-hearted, so in addition to my 142, I decided to bet a dollar straight on a second number. I looked at the dollar in my hand, and read off the first three digits of its serial number: 160.
It came in.
$500 for me.
(Not bad, considering my rent was about $150 at the time.)
A few years later, when I had moved from waitressing to the Ford Foundation (a transfer only gamblers get to make), I was sharing my winning tales with a fellow secretary. She decided that the next time our bosses traveled together, we should play their flight numbers and ETAs and so forth (i.e., whatever 3-digit numbers showed up on their travel documents).
Sure enough, our bosses planned a trip within the month, and when another member of the support staff decided to join our investment in the lottery, the three of us pooled our resources ($4 each) and bet two dollars straight on six different numbers.
And guess what? One of them came in.
$1,000, split three ways.
Not only that, but because the gals I worked with decided I’d brought all the luck to the endeavor, they took me out to lunch.
Nice.
These days, I really enjoy Crossword scratchers. What can I say – it’s the perfect marriage of my gaming ways and my love of words.
I’ve been playing them for several years now, and back in 2007, I was quite lucky just before my 50th birthday. I scratched off enough words to cash in my ticket for $1,000.
Not bad.
Because of my affection for words, though, I can be teased at times. Once, I got a Crossword scratcher that included the words “jackpot,” “fortune,” and “lucky.” Can you blame me for assuming this was the $20,000 winner?
It wasn’t. I don’t even think it was any kind of winner. But I loved the thrill of the scratch.
That’s the other appeal of the Crossword scratchers. They take time. The sense of hope can be prolonged for a bit.
So the other night, as I scratched my latest lottery purchase, I was again filled with that sense that this could be it. The ticket to a small fortune…
When the process was complete, I ‘d not become rich, but I also was not disappointed. I’d scratched off two words, which is the equivalent of breaking even.
Fine. I’ll pay it forward.
But then, I noticed the two words I had scratched:
EASY
YEAR
Easy year.
I’ll take it.
In my opinion, an easy year would be worth all the Lotto jackpots combined.
For lest we forget, stress is also a verb.
But I don’t stop there.
I’m a gamer by nature, and I love investing a dollar or two into the possibility of getting more than a few in return.
Back in New York, when I worked at the burgers-in-a-basket joint, I started playing “the number.” By which I mean that, every day, I’d invest a dollar (50 cents straight/50 cents box) in the New York Lottery’s Daily Number drawing. My number was 142 (and no, I don’t remember why I chose that particular string).
If my number came in straight (i.e., in order), I’d get $250 for the 50-cent straight bet and another $40 for the box. If it came in out of order (e.g., 241), I’d just get the $40. I cashed in more than a few times, and I may well have remained ahead, if not even. Regardless, I kept playing. You see, that’s the thing about playing the number in a burger joint in Manhattan. Your co-workers play them, too. Not only that; they know your number. So, if it comes in and you didn’t play, well – you’ll never hear the end of it.
One day, I was feeling particularly light-hearted, so in addition to my 142, I decided to bet a dollar straight on a second number. I looked at the dollar in my hand, and read off the first three digits of its serial number: 160.
It came in.
$500 for me.
(Not bad, considering my rent was about $150 at the time.)
A few years later, when I had moved from waitressing to the Ford Foundation (a transfer only gamblers get to make), I was sharing my winning tales with a fellow secretary. She decided that the next time our bosses traveled together, we should play their flight numbers and ETAs and so forth (i.e., whatever 3-digit numbers showed up on their travel documents).
Sure enough, our bosses planned a trip within the month, and when another member of the support staff decided to join our investment in the lottery, the three of us pooled our resources ($4 each) and bet two dollars straight on six different numbers.
And guess what? One of them came in.
$1,000, split three ways.
Not only that, but because the gals I worked with decided I’d brought all the luck to the endeavor, they took me out to lunch.
Nice.
These days, I really enjoy Crossword scratchers. What can I say – it’s the perfect marriage of my gaming ways and my love of words.
I’ve been playing them for several years now, and back in 2007, I was quite lucky just before my 50th birthday. I scratched off enough words to cash in my ticket for $1,000.
Not bad.
Because of my affection for words, though, I can be teased at times. Once, I got a Crossword scratcher that included the words “jackpot,” “fortune,” and “lucky.” Can you blame me for assuming this was the $20,000 winner?
It wasn’t. I don’t even think it was any kind of winner. But I loved the thrill of the scratch.
That’s the other appeal of the Crossword scratchers. They take time. The sense of hope can be prolonged for a bit.
So the other night, as I scratched my latest lottery purchase, I was again filled with that sense that this could be it. The ticket to a small fortune…
When the process was complete, I ‘d not become rich, but I also was not disappointed. I’d scratched off two words, which is the equivalent of breaking even.
Fine. I’ll pay it forward.
But then, I noticed the two words I had scratched:
EASY
YEAR
Easy year.
I’ll take it.
In my opinion, an easy year would be worth all the Lotto jackpots combined.
For lest we forget, stress is also a verb.
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