Casino Tournament~

I am pleased to write and inform you of my good fortune last night.  A friend of mine is in town and wanted to do some "investing".  Naturally, I agreed and took a C note with me.  I was playing, playing, playing slots.  It seemed as though there was nary a bonus round to be won last night on any of these slot machines.  I was down to less than half of my allotted gambling dollars for the evening when I heard them call my name over the loud speaker.  "Please come to the main entrance for the Slot Tournament!"  This was unprecedented, people!  Never had I been called via a loud speaker for any prizes.  So, I stomped up to the front. They verified my identity and told me to wait to the right until the 12 members who had been called had all assembled.  Naturally, you can imagine the buzz of the 11 others and myself as we discussed the excitement of being called out of ALL of the peeps at the casino at that time.  It was simply something to behold.

Then they gave us the instructions.  You sat down at the slot machine that had your name flashing on the screen.  You hit the MAX bet button repeatedly with vigor and tenacity.  There would also be balloons that came up on the screen that you had to tap with your other hand.  Each balloon you popped gave you extra points.  Whomever had the highest point score at the end of 3 minutes would be awarded $300.  2nd place was $200 and 3rd place was $100.  The other 9 contestants would leave empty handed.  You can imagine that I was longing to be a winner in 1st, 2nd or 3rd place.  After all I was down $70 and needed to re-coop my cash so I could leave and be made whole.

The game began and I was pushing the MAX BET with vigor, people!  I pounded it over and over while simultaneously popping balloons all over the screen getting these extra points!  Then my screen would flash "BIG WIN!" every now and then because of what I had rolled on the screen. (Yes, I am amazing.)  From time to time it would say "2nd place!"  "1st Place"  "3rd Place"  I surmised that this was to entice the players to play harder and with more fury.  I rose to the occasion with grace and humility. -

 The three minutes felt like a half an hour as the crowd behind the 12 contestants grew.  People were cheering, shouting. Obviously these were gestures that signified simply jealousy that they had not been called for this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Then, as quick as it started the game was over.  I sat at my slot machine and wondered how we would know who the winners were.  Then I saw a message on my screen "CONGRATULATIONS!"  There was also a live camera feed of my ugly mug on not only my screen, but every slot machine in the tournament area and on the BIG screen above the bank of slots.  Still, it is not registering in my pea sized brain what is going on here.  A woman behind me said, "You won!" and poked my shoulder.  I say, "I did? - Oh, this is fantastic!" 

Then the workers descended on me with much fan fare and "Congratulations!"  I imagined this is what it would be like to have Ed McMahon show up at your door with the prize patrol!  Then she produced a voucher for $300 and asked if I had fun playing in the tournament to which I replied, "Oh, yes great fun!  Thank you!"  I then scoobied off to find my friend who was at the Cheetah slot machine.  Apparently when he heard my name called he didn't want to uproot and come check out my master playing at the tournament! -  I stomped up to the cash cage and they cashed in my ticket for 3 fresh C notes!  We then high tailed it out of there!

It was nothing short of a miracle, people.  I tell you it was great fun!

That's all for now.... Just deciding what I will blow the $300 on.

Inquiring Minds

People have said, “You are private.”  Yes! Yes I am!  I pride myself on it for some reason.  I have mastered the skill (insert synonym: strategy) of avoidance by asking lots of questions about situations and not revealing anything about my own experience when weighing in on something with someone.  I perceive that people, friends and colleagues don’t really know much about my past, where I have been or what I have experienced except for the minuscule tidbits that I carefully expose. (No doubt I would be surprised to know what people really did know about me.  It is all about the illusion of thinking I have them all at bay.)  I like it that way. It gives the illusion of control, which is something we all need, whether we think we do or not.  The pickle is that some of us hold onto control like grim death. (Guilty)

It wasn’t until recently that I had an understanding of why it is that I maintain so much privacy.  If you are private you don’t run the risk of others getting to know you and therefore save yourself any risk of being rejected, disappointing someone else and being exposed.  It makes sense.  So, the question I was faced with a few days ago was “What is this privacy costing you?”  I didn’t like that question.  So, I pretended not to hear it.  You know that move….We all use it.

Unluckily (Is that even a word?) for me,  the counselor I see pulled her usual move and ignored what I was rambling on about to avoid the topic and reiterated her question. “What is it costing you?”  (Is she crazy, I wondered?  I don’t like to be pushed.)  I furrowed my brow with a few extra crinkles and wrinkles up there.  This is how I let her know I am not interested in exploring the topic she has laid on the table.  She just stared back at me. She has those piercing kind of eyes that are like lasers, burning holes in your skin.  It isn’t my favorite look from her.  She knows this ritual and is no longer moved to try another angle when I implement such a strategy. We sit in silence for a while, which is me maintaining the illusion of control again.  (I am good at it, if I do say so myself.) 

Then she starts on this quest to have me link experiences from the past and my childhood that would have led me to this highly sophisticated strategy of protecting myself via privacy.  I don’t like all of this “linking” today’s behavior with the past. I remember vividly feeling my heart begin to pick up the pace of beats and knew that I was being asked to venture out into the crocodile infested waters.  No thank you!  The “tick-tock” of the clock on the table next to me was drowning out the silence in the room.  That irritates me too.  So, I caved in and began to identify experiences from childhood that may have a connection to today’s rigorous strategy of maintaining privacy.  She noded, concured and pressed for more details.  Of course this is not how I like the sessions to go.  She wants every dripping detail of every moment of my life. The details of my life really aren't all that exciting and so I am compelled to know how anyone could really want to know all the ins and outs of my past.  I tell her as much and how I am a little irritated with her “need to know”.  Again, she ignores my push back and skillfully asks more detail oriented questions.  She must have gotten a “E” for Excellent in perseverance and tenacity on her report card in grade school. After I begrudgingly dole out some details I am relieved to see that the ticking time bomb clock on the table next to me indicates the session is over.  Hallelujah! I stomped out of there quicker than a jackrabbit.  “Buh, Bye.  I’ll see you next time,” flies out of my mouth as I scurry around the corner. Free at last.

So, I have made some connections from the past to the present day.  Sometimes that old saying that “Ignorance is Bliss” really is true.  Now I am faced with a new dilemma.  What does one do with these connections?  Where do you go from this place of awareness?  - The good news is I have a whole week to figure that out before I stomp back in there and have to face the “inquiring mind”.

Guilty Pleasures

Every so often you hear people talk about “guilty pleasures”.  I have been putting myself first and giving in to guilty pleasures my entire adult life.  I highly recommend it!  I have gobbled down half a flat of Krispy Kreme doughnuts in one sitting.  (Guilty, but delicious)  I have often passed up the skim milk at the market and stocked up on 2% chocolate milk.  It tastes great with Honey Nut Cheerios and the sugar buzz from this mix isn’t one to be missed.  I nap nearly every day in the summer.  Why not let the rest of the world crank out the hard work? Yet, the one guilty pleasure that stands out the most in my mind once I hit adulthood was to order dessert first before my meal when out at a restaurant.  There are two reasons why this guilty pleasure is just what the doctor ordered to keep the blues away.

1. You have earned this right as an adult.  For your entire childhood, and for some of you even during your courtship or marriage, you were told that you had to eat ALL of your dinner before you could have dessert.  This is not true. As an adult I say throw caution to the wind, people.  Order up that Crème brûlée and gobble it down before the appetizer hits the table.  You’ll be glad you did.
2. If you don’t order dessert first it is likely you won’t have room for it after the meal and who doesn’t want to imbibe a delicious piece of Vanilla Bean Cheesesecake and suck it down like water? Not me. Extra whipped cream, please.

Try it.  You’ll be glad you did.  Once you get past the second look from the server and sometimes your table mates, you will be a trend setter.  We can turn this convoluted and long standing practice of eating dessert last around with some determination.  Who is with me?

Up Sell Me!

This has been happening forever, but for some reason I am recently more "in-tune" to it.  This thing is "up selling".  It seems like it started in the fast food industry many years ago.  At the time you could get a jumbo Coke for 25 cents more.  A bargain at even twice the price, right?  Then it included french fry up sells.  For 59 more cents you could have a jumbo Coke AND jumbo fries with the sandwich.  Why not pack on the pounds with jumbo sized sides, right?

Somewhere along the line up selling began to take over nearly every purchasing opportunity known to man.  I bought a new car some years ago and for $990 more I could have the car rust proofed and the seats stain guarded.  SOLD!

I bought a laptop at a retail store a year or so ago and was asked a minimum of four times between selecting the model and checking out if I wanted to have any number of the offered "protection plans".  They varied in price and of course had varying degrees of protection.  I managed to decline this up sell, but wondered for months afterwards if I did the right thing.

Then when cell phones became the rage it was only a mere $5 more a month for unlimited texting. For $15 more a month you could make your phone Internet accessible.  Why not? You can completely ignore every other living person in your presence so you can "check your email" and check the stock quotes and make a reservation on your mobile phone.  I gladly plunged into the world of technology savvy consumers lock, stock and barrel.  The iPhone was the start of the end for me.

When you go to the car wash you can get the "PRIMO" car wash for $4 more than the "REGULAR" car wash.  It includes an under carriage wash, which every car must have, right?

A few weeks ago I had dinner with a friend at a restaurant where the server attempted to up sell us a half a dozen times.  Did we want bottled or that nasty tap water?  Tap.  Did we want to have a delicious appetizer?  No thank you.  Did we want to have the steak that was 6 ounces larger for only $5 more?  Maybe.  Would you like to change the order from two glasses of wine to a whole bottle of wine for only $12 more?  No thank you.  Would we like to have the lobster tail added to our steak dinners for only $9 more each?  No.  (I claimed to have a seafood allergy which is a sure way to quiet the seafood up sells.)  Would we be interested in a torte for dessert?  Of course!  Would we be interested in each having one.  There was a two for $3 more special.  But of course!

Then today at the optometrist I nearly had a violent reaction when the clerk attempted to up sell me an additional 10 boxes of contacts for only $150.  10 boxes?  I can't remember a year that I have ever used 10 boxes of contact lenses, let alone 10 additional boxes at any price.

In this quest to help people save more by buying in larger quantities there is an element of panic.  More doesn't necessarily mean better.  Or does it?  I am a mass consumer.  I love to consume.  I am a sucker for any new gadget.  So, I can't proclaim to be a minimalist, but I do wonder what these subtle hints of encouragement to consume more mean.

So, why is it so irritating to have someone up sell you....repeatedly in one transaction?  Aren't employees just doing what is asked by their employer?  Aren't they encouraged to generate as much revenue for a company as possible?  Yes, I suppose that is true.  At what cost, I ask? Or is this just guilt for saying, "No."?

Contact Lens Crisis

New contact lenses feel great!  I recognize that I am odd. Yet, I do look forward to the annual eye-exam in which I stomp out of the exam with a new contact lens prescription in hand and several boxes of those magical small pieces of circular concave plastic that cling to your eyeballs.  It is a victorious feeling, I tell you! (As I write this I realize it doesn't seem like it takes much to satisfy me.)

Today was the day!  It has been 14 months since I have had an eye exam and I arrived for my eye appointment with 4 minutes to spare.  I am amazing at planning on time arrivals. If there were an Olympic Sport for such an event I could be considered athletic at something.    I had just phoned my insurance company to be sure I fully understood the realm of benefits and my eligibility.  Good news, people!  I was eligible for the full benefits in my contract.  Woot!  Woot!

Then, the girl behind the desk reached over, grabbed my contact lens high and yanked it from my hands!  She said that the doctor of optometry in this office, who replaced my former doctor, has the policy to have the patient pay for the visit up front.  Once she is reimbursed by my insurance company she will then issue me a refund check for today's services.  Come again?  I have never heard of such a thing.  Why would I have insurance if it meant I had to pay up front, wait for the insurance to pay the doctor, and then have the doctor reimburse me?  What is the world coming to?  Is the health care system in such a state of shambles that this is what medical service is coming to?  Maybe, but I quickly jumped to a few other conclusion as I processed this news out loud. 

"Is the doctor broke? Does she need money that bad that this is how she sees patients?"  Well, that wasn't the thing to say.  I was met by a dumbfounded "I can't believe you asked that." look from the girl behind the desk.  I then invited the girl behind the desk to ring up my insurance company.  "They will tell you I have a valid policy and what coverage is included."  She replied, "We have already verified your insurance."  Oh, so what is the problem here, I wondered.

Thinking all of the above was just some misunderstanding I said, "No, I have insurance.  It pays in full for these services.  There is no co-pay, pre-payment or getting reimbursed from the doctor."

The gal behind the desk sang me the "This is the new doctor's policy" speech, which only irritated me more.  So, being as mature as I am I simply said, "Oh, I'll go somewhere else." and with that I turned and headed for the door.

Now, maturity is something I lack.  If you know me then this is no news flash to you.  However, I have to pause here and say how good it felt to stand up for something.  What I was standing up for is still not clear to me.  Was I standing up for the principal of not letting someone else put their needs ahead of mine?  Was I standing up against someone I quickly perceived to be taking advantage of the situation?  I mean, who is to say that a refund check would ever come from this doctor once she was reimbursed by the insurance company?

So, here I am penning this thinking "I showed her!" when in the back of my mind I am poking myself because now I need to round up a new doctor of optometry. 

I keep telling myself that my own stupidity isn't as bad as it comes across.  Yet, as I read this I wonder who I am fooling...

Crash 'Em, Smash 'Em

When I first got out of college I had a Volkswagen Fox, Wolfsburg Edition.  The Wolfsburg Edition was a fancy way of saying that Volkswagen had “fancied” up a regular VW with some shinier emblems and Air Conditioning.  Nonetheless, I was quite satisfied with this car, though I stood 6 feet five inches tall with no head room in the car I managed to drive that car until the end.  (My head was about two millimeters away from the roof when I drove it.  It looked like a clown car when I was inside.)

At that time in my life I had a continual hankering for Wendy’s Old Fashioned Hamburgers and their baked potatoes.  Who knows why?  It wasn’t uncommon to make a midnight run to Wendy’s for these things.  When you are 22 you can eat anything and not regret it.  So, I did.

A new Wendy’s had opened up not too far from where I lived.  It was so new, in fact, that they hadn’t painted the lines on the pavement for parking spaces nor had they painted the curbs yellow.  Ummm Hmmm… You can see where this is headed, can’t you?

I zipped through the Pick Up Window to get my sustenance.  Immediately as I pulled away from the window I reached in the bag for a hand full of fries, released the clutch, turned and shifted, all in one fell swoop (Driving is not a strong suit of mine and driving a manual transmission only exacerbates the problem.) I was barely in second gear when the entire car lurched forward, fries and sandwich flew to the floor and my giant Coke was now taking the shape of a puddle on the passenger side seat.  Well, this was alarming, but nothing that was insurmountable, or so I thought.  There were loud noises similar to what it must sound like when a car goes into the crusher at the junk yard.  As luck would have it, I had managed to get the Wolfsburg Edition hung up on a curb in the middle of the parking lot.  Don’t ask me how.  The front end was up and the back end was down. 

Every attempt to get the car off of the curb was useless.  I had to get out of the car and survey the damage. It wasn’t good.  The bottom of the car was on the curb, and the wheels in the front had some how managed to be airborne and not in contact with the surface beneath it.  Hmmm. What to do?  I sat there for a minute and then stomped inside Wendy’s.  This was before cell phones were all the rage.  I asked to use their phone and I rung up my mother.  Her whole life has been one experience in terror after another and I was sure she would know what to do. 

While I waited for my mum to arrive I sat in the car eating what was left of the hamburger, which I had careful re-assembled.  The manager of the Wendy's walked out to the car and tapped on my window.  (Insert humiliation here).  He was apologetic for there not being painted lines or curbs yet and wondered what they could do to help me with this UNfortunate situation.  I suppose their real interest was in not having this freak show in their parking lot any longer than necessary.  Who hangs their car up on the curb, sits inside of it and still finishes their meal?  I do.

Luckily it wasn't long before my crazy mother showed up. She zoomed over in her baby blue Cadillac.  What’s more?  She was wearing her bedroom slippers and a full length mink coat. Attractive.  After all, it was late at night.  We decided it would best serve our needs if she pulled the Cadillac up behind the Wolfsburg Edition and slightly accelerated just enough to push me off the curb.  This seemed like a good way to save the $50 charge for a wrecker to come and set me free.  So, I agreed.

Now, you would think that a Cadillac with a V8 would have no trouble getting the 4 cylinder Wolfsburg Edition off the curb, but I was awe struck at how unsuccessful things were turning out to be. (The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.) So, while I was waiting inside the car with the gear shift in neutral I thought I might as well salvage a few fries and began eating the ones that seemed to be resting on top of others and that were not in direct contact with the floor.  Tasty.  This smorgasbord was interrupted as I was violently thrown forward.  Mother Dearest had backed up the Caddy and stomped on her gas pedal.  Mmmm Hmmm.  Not only was the crunching sound of the cars meeting slightly alarming, so was my mother’s thinking on how this would be the best way to solve this situation.

I am pleased to say that the final “smash ‘em” trick did work and the Wolfsburg Edition was free of impairment from the curb, but it had some new damage thanks to the Caddy.  We drove both cars home and decided we wouldn’t tell too many people about this venture too soon.  Well, it’s been fifteen years now and this seems soon enough!

Fender Bender

I was awakened from a slumber by my good neighbor phoning me one afternoon last summer.  “You need to come out front.” – Now, one thing that I am sure of is that mid-day summertime naps are of utmost importance.  The invitation to leave a warm bed to come outside for whatever it was that I “needed” to be a part of fell on less than favorable ears. 

I stumbled around and found some flip flops, tumbled down the stairs and went out front.  A cargo van was parked in front of my car and broken pieces of race car red plastic was strewn around the back end of my car, which was parked on the street.  I’m not a quick study, especially when coming out of a sleepy fog…..So, I wasn’t making the connection between the cargo van and the plastic sprinkles on the street until I rounded the back end of the car and saw a swipe of white paint across the quarter panel and bumper, a dent and what was left of the tail light.  The Hot Tamale had been clipped! – (A friend named my car the Hot Tamale a number of years ago when I two-wheeled it around the corner and she saw it for the first time.)

Luckily for me, my good neighbor had been a witness to the whole incident.  The driver of the cargo van was still sitting inside the van, even after my neighbor had stomped up there to say, “Are you going to get out?  You hit that car.” or something to that effect.  I like living next to a Neighborhood Watch participant who has tenacity and a willingness to face danger head on. I live in fear, and would have probably let the guy drive off.  Thank you, neighbor!

I surmised that the damage was minimal and wasn’t too worried.  The cargo van driver stumbled out of the van.  He was unharmed and his white cargo van had a nice red stripe on the back quarter panel, thanks to the Hot Tamale. 

And so began my multi-week frustration with an automobile insurance company.  As luck would have it, there was some “question” as to whether the driver of the cargo van was currently covered under the policy.  What did that mean exactly?  Surely issuing a policy to a driver didn’t mean they “might” be covered.  They would have to do some “research”, whatever that meant, and get back to me.  After four days pass you can imagine my level of irritation is at an all time high.  Never fear, though. The Hot Tamale was drivable and I zipped all over town in that thing. 

As luck would have it, I learned that the cargo van driver was not covered by the policy via my cell phone as I was at the airport ready to board a flight to the desert to soak up the sun once again.  (It is all about R&R, people) A slight glitch in things, which were to be compounded by being 1,000 miles from home.  Apparently the cargo van driver was insured, but by another company.  More days of waiting for a response from the driver to learn who the lucky insurance company was that was about to hear from me regarding the slight fender bender.

After several phone calls with escalated tones, mostly mine, an insurance adjuster stopped by my house to examine the vehicle and write up a claim once I swooped back in from being in the desert for a week.  Good, good!  We were getting somewhere.   During this time I had been in consultation with a few of my neighbors to ascertain what their thoughts were about just pocketing the cash and leaving the car with its new signature for all of eternity.  There were mixed reviews to the proposal, but in the end I did just that.  I stuffed that check in my pocket and stomped to the bank.  Five months later I was on a plane to sunny Cancun with the cargo van driver’s insurance money.  The good news?  I can always tell which red car is mine in a parking lot.  I just look for the white swipe of paint and the smashed tail light.  See, things always work out.