Category Archives: Quirks

Powerball Hangover

I’m not sure if this is a quirk or not, but I don’t buy lottery tickets. When people ask why, my response goes something like this:

Me: “No, I don’t buy lottery tickets.”

Lottery Junkie: “Why not, it’s so much fun!”

Me: “I bought them twice before, and didn’t win.”

Lottery Junkie: “You expect to win after only two tries? Luck could happen at anytime. You must be prepared!!!” (then they usually roar like a lion, I don’t understand why.)

Me: “Well, I just don’t like to throw good money after bad.” And then I give them a big toothy grin to show I was only pulling their chain. Then they stop, because no one trumps a good end joke.

But the truth is, I don’t like the lottery hangover. You know, up all night talking about what you’d do if you won. The dreams of cars, houses, hot men (or women), and no longer having a day/night job. Paris, Milan, Albuquerque – you’re a travelling man of mysterious awesomeness!

But then the next morning, despair, sadness, mucked up energy because the dream fizzled and died. Someone in rural Missouri stole your dreams away with a random stop at a dilapidated gas station. You’ve been scorned by the universe, and now you just want to spend the day curled up in bed.

And today I was discussing this with coworker M, who may allegedly be a lottery junkie. She would probably deny this. Maybe I’m being unfair. But our conversation went something like this.

Coworker M: “But you miss the fun of staying up all night talking about what you would do with the money. The hopes, the dreams, the future. My boyfriend and I did that for hours last night. It was lovely.”

Me: “Oh yeah, my boyfriend tried that conversation and I told him, ‘I’ll figure it out when it happens.'”

Coworker M: “You’re no fun.”

Me: “That’s what the Boyfriend said!”

Coworker M: “And then I asked my boyfriend if we won the lottery, and the next day I died, would he give the all money away.”

Me: <cricket noises>

Coworker M: “You know, because the lottery’s cursed. I told him I would give away the money if he died. Cuz I would want that money as far away from me as possible.”

Me: “You could give it to me.”

Coworker M: “I’ll do that. If I win the lottery, and my boyfriend dies the next day, you can have all the money. No strings attached.”

Me: “Excellent…”

That Murder She Wrote episode just wrote itself, didn’t it?

Tapas Turns Us All Into Angry Birds

As mentioned before, I’m a bit of a quirky individual, and one of the ‘preferences’ I have, much to the enjoyment of my coworkers, is to avoid tapas restaurants.

These are tapas – the serving size of a single slice of a personal pan pizza.

It would be convenient to blame the Tapas restaurants themselves, forcing people to handle food with their grubby hands and then pass it along to the next person, infecting them with the zombie or Chuck Norris virus, but I repeat myself. (Seriously, you can hit that man with a bat and he just keeps on coming. It’s only if you destroy his brain that he can be stopped.) If Typhoid Mary was transported to the present day, I have not doubt she would find the nearest Tapas restaurant and get to work.

Nor is my issue the size of their plates. I liked the munchkins from the Wizard of OZ, they didn’t terrify my, unlike some little brothers that shall remain nameless (AHEM). It’s completely legitimate to be terrified of the Alien from the Sigourney Weaver movie of the same name, and that fear is not equatable to the representatives of the esteemed lollipop guild. Now if the tapas plates had alien mouthcocks with teeth, then I would be disturbed; but I think that’s fair.

My issue with tapas is the sharing, because everyone acts like a thin girl on a first date at a tapas restaurant. They all sit around saying, “What, more? No, I possibly couldn’t, I’m dainty and satisfied with the seven peas and four slices of bread that I’ve already consumed. Also, I’ll have ice cubes for dessert.” But meanwhile they’re thinking, “God, just get me home so I can eat a box of Oreos, a 16 oz steak, and a gallon of milk – Mama’s gotta eat!”

So I, like my compatriots, nibble at wonderfully delicious morsels, all the while evaluating how much everyone else has eaten and whether or not I can grab that last bacon wrapped date from communal plate. And then when the bill comes, there’s always at least one asshole that has to point out that I had three more coconut shrimps than everyone else, so being a Beluga whale, I should probably pony up a few extra dollars.

This is a Beluga whale, and it is prettier than you.

Sorry for mixing animals in that last sentence, but the Beluga whale is known as “the pony of the seas.” (It’s not, but you should teach your kids that, it’ll be funny in 12th grade animalology class, when their teacher calls them a “numb nut” – that’s building character!)

My coworkers think this is hilarious and suggested tapas for lunch once every two months. Until two months ago, when they suggested it and the new guy said, “Ugg. I hate tapas. There’s never enough food and people always get ornery about the check.”

Moral of the story:

A) You’re never really alone.
B) The new guy is obviously the second most awesome person to ever live.
c) You need to spend more time reading about Beluga whales, since you’re a numb nut and had no idea what one was.

The Problem with Nail Salons

My neighborhood is walk-friendly, by which I mean, there are sidewalks, storefronts, and minimal parking lots.

Since the area is so walk-friendly, the boyfriend and I don’t have a car. The grocery is three blocks one way, the vet’s office four blocks another, the gym is right around the corner, and out our front door, bars as far as the eye can see.

I have 20/20 vision, so that’s pretty damn far, Muthafucka.

(Aside. – I’m not calling you a Muthafucka, this is what I call everyone when I’m out at the bars. It’s exactly the same as when your Grandpa called you “Champ” because he couldn’t remember which of the grandkids you were. If this bursts the loving memory bubble of Gramps, I should also let you know that when he said, “Champ” he meant, “Muthafucka.” Your Grandpa was one bad-ass mofo and you should appreciate him for that. But I digress…)

Nail salons are a staple in my neighborhood. Whether I’m going east, west, north, or south, I have to pass a nail salon. And while advertised as a nail salon, they also offer a variety of other spa services, such as waxing, massage, and make-up services.

All of this is well and good, because to the best of my knowledge, there aren’t any human trafficked sugar waxers providing happy endings that we need to worry about. And really, isn’t that the trifecta of human bondage we should all be concerned with?

The problem with the nail salons are not the mani-pedis, eye shadowing, foot descaling, or misspelled signage. The problem is the large signs announcing that these locations offer “FACIALS;” for every time we approach one of these signs, the boyfriend becomes irritated and grumbly.

She looks so HAPYY!

I can hear you asking why would a simple spa service, meant to help reduce crater sized pores, created by excessive drinking and liverĀ cirrhosis, bother the boyfriend? Doesn’t he have a heart? Doesn’t he realize the pickled liver people need love too?

It annoys him, because every time we walk by a salon with a big sign that says “FACIALS,” I giggle.

And then I whisper, “Bukkake.”

If you’re uncertain what I’m referring to when I write “Facials” and “Bukkake,” Google them. On your work computer. Preferably while hooked into a projector. In front of your boss. Make sure to play the video.

For added fun, include “Gay” in your search term.

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