Games of Chance

I play the lottery.

There. I’ve admitted it.

I don’t like to gamble, but sometimes I do. I’ll play blackjack at the casino with my husband every once in a while, but I fret too easily and can’t stand to be there long when I lose. I used to do slot machines, but then again, I wouldn’t do it all the time. I certainly wouldn’t spend MY money. If Mr. Demonic wants to give me some cash to blow on gambling, I usually pocket half and play with half. I’d rather buy a new pair of shoes with money I can see than hope for more.

One time, we were at a casino for the Labor Day weekend. Mr. D and I were playing blackjack and losing heartily. I got angry and said, “let’s get out of here. We’re not getting anywhere.” He wasn’t happy that I dragged him away from the table. I had a bucket of quarters from attempts at previous slot machines. We sat down at a bank of slot machines and dropped them in, trying to get rid of them. After a few minutes, my husband’s machine went crazy. He won the jackpot! No kidding! And the prize? it was a brand new purple Harley Davidson. That was the coolest night ever.

My husband still has his Harley, but he’s thinking about selling it. He doesn’t ride it much anymore. Plus, we’re suffering from a bad economy. He’d rather have the cash to put toward my daughter’s education.

When it comes to the lottery, I don’t waste a lot of money. I play a little, like $5 here or $10 there. And I don’t do it all the time. I might buy lottery tickets every week for a month, and then not play for three months. That’s just how it is. It’s a diversion. An entertainment. It’s cheaper than a night at the movies.

I’m not like Mr. Demonic. I’m terribly unlucky. My first theory on luck is pretty simple. Some people (like Mr. D) are lucky a good amount of time. I’ve seen him hit slot machines for thousands of dollars and walk away from blackjack tables with too much money to cash in by himself without having to fill out paperwork. Others (like me, and Mr. D’s best friend in another tundra state) are horribly unlucky. We can’t win anything. There’s no in-between. You’ve either got the touch or you don’t.

My second theory on luck is that for every hugely unlucky person, they will hit it big one time and one time only.

That’s the reason why I still play the lottery.

These days, however, the places that sell lottery tickets in my area are sad places. I see people who have no business spending any amount of money on a lottery ticket. They should be using it to buy milk and bread for their kids. They should quit smoking and stop eating out so they can afford to buy gas and pay their mortgages.

So far, I don’t have those kinds of worries, but I know I could be a couple of steps away from being desperate and dreaming big.

Until then, I’ll still take my chances every once in a while.

What is Laziness?

I was going to write something else today, but in mid-stream I started thinking about this, so I’m running with this thought. Just hope it’s not sharp like scissors.

What is laziness? I’m pondering that thought because I should be outside in the blazing hot sunshine doing some yard work. I’ve bitched and moaned about winter for the last six months. You ALL know that. You’d think I’d be breaking all speed records to get outside. OK, I was just out there, and bagged up a couple of refuse bags full before the wind kicked up and I ended up with a leaf in my eye. Well, not an entire leaf, just a bit. Enough to make me go inside and get a glass of water.

While I was getting my glass of water, I noticed I was breaking out in hives, so I took a Benadryl. Now I’m waiting for it to take effect before I go out and my hives get worse. All this led me to think, am I lazy?

Well, I might be… After all, I’m in here typing and not outside raking.

Then I thought: What is laziness? Is it an inherited gene? I don’t think either of my parents were lazy. Lackadaisical, maybe, lazy – no. My sisters and brothers do not appear to be lazy. I’ve got some lazy cousins, the kind who never have a job. They think that they will hit the big time some time, and they pin their hopes on the lottery or other nonsense. I’m not sure they are lazy. They might be putting too much energy into hoping for their ship to come in, instead of maybe working on something that might have a possibility of coming to fruition.

Is laziness like a virus you get, and then you get better? It appears to me that sometimes I feel lazier than others. Sometimes I can work and work and work, and not even realize time has passed. Other days, I get to work and can’t believe I’m still there twenty minutes later. Wait a minute, make that five minutes later. When I feel that way, is it because I have the “lazy” bug? If I have the lazy bug, what cures it? Surely not antibiotics. Perhaps a never-ending round of mimosas or a tray full of cosmopolitans?

Am I lazy because I don’t want to work out? I’ve been telling myself that I don’t like working out because it’s boring. Yes, it is. It’s way boring. My dear husband can do it for an hour and a half every day. I can’t spend that much time in front of the TV. If I could work out in the out of doors, that might help. Except that I have this work to do in the yard, and I’m still sitting here. Hmm… Still, when I visit California, I could walk on the beach for hours. I also could walk back and forth across downtown San Francisco all afternoon, and it doesn’t seem to affect me, even the hills. Well, I take that back. It usually affects me later, when I wake up the next morning and find my knees throbbing.

I like playing my instrument, but I get lazy there sometimes too. Sometimes the etudes are killers, or the pieces my teacher gives me to play are difficult because they aren’t harmonious. Then I’m not into it at all. Other times, I can play for hours and not even feel the time. I can play scales all day long. I love scales. So I’m not a lazy scale player, but am I a lazy homework student?

This whole “laziness” question might explain my entire life. Was I lazy when I quit college? Or was it really because I wanted to eat and not be homeless? Sometimes I think that if I weren’t lazy, I might be a doctor by now. Maybe. Of course, it was tempting to not be homeless, so I got a job and quit school.

Was I lazy when my son decided not to do hockey any more? I was certainly doing the happy dance that I didn’t have to cart him to the ice rink twice a week. I keep telling myself that it was for the good; he was better at the piano and I doubt he’d be in the NHL now. Perhaps it was a good choice.

Finally, am I lazy because I’m not working on my book? I can appreciate people who have a plan (like Dr. B) or others that I know that are able to write late into the night, and also participate in forums all night long. I feel like a thief or like I’m having a clandestine affair with my novel. I have to sneak in thirty minutes here and an hour there and plug in a couple thousand words here and there, when I have time. I suppose if I weren’t lazy, I could just sit here all day long and get my thoughts on paper.

Well, I think I’m ready to tackle those leaves now. In the meantime, I’ll take a poll. Am I lazy, or not? And what the heck is laziness?