Powerball

First of all, you need to know that we don’t gamble and we don’t play the lottery. I was so naive about how one plays the lottery that I had to quiz my coworker about it this week. “There’s a sheet of paper with circles that you fill in? Can you use a pen or a pencil? And how many bubbles do you select? And does it cause flashbacks to the Scantron exam answer sheets we filled out in grade school?”

My project team decided to go in together and try to win this week’s $1.5 billion Powerball jackpot, so we each dropped $2 in the pot, drew up a humorous contract to prevent any single member of the team from running off with the money (it includes clauses such as, “team members shall not murder, attempt murder, or maim one another…”), and made our purchase. Separately, I had the wild idea to buy a few tickets on my own then surprise my husband when and if I won something. Plans changed though, so I ended up going straight home after work.

Sometime after dinner I mentioned my surprise plan to my husband then asked him to take me to a gas station, since I was still determined to pay the “stupid tax” and buy a few tickets. He patiently waited while I bubbled in numbers on a couple of lottery forms then he drove us home after I was done foolishly spending $21. Here’s the conversation that took place on our way home.

Her: I feel silly. $21 on lottery tickets; I’ve paid the stupid tax. Oh, make that $23 with the one I purchased at work. I should have donated that money to someone in need. I feel guilty.

Him: But if we win that’s not much money spent. Oh, and I bought some tickets too.

Her: What? You’ve been holding out on me? How did you not tell me this? What girlfriend are you planning to run away with when you win? How much did you spend? Oh man, we wasted more than $23!

Him: I was going to surprise you.

Her: That’s funny that we were both going to do that, because I was going to surprise you too. “Surprise! I won the lottery and you don’t have to work anymore! I love you!”  Wait, how much did you spend?

Him: I bought 25 tickets.

Her: FIFTY DOLLARS WORTH?

Him: 25 tickets. I was going to surprise you when we won.

Her: Okay, no matter how you slice it, Mister, that’s $50 down the drain. Wow. I’m shocked! I thought we were wild for spending $23 on tickets, and now I find out we’ve thrown away $73!

Him: Don’t worry; I’ll share my winnings with you.

Her: I’m just shocked. We don’t gamble, and to find out you spent that much on lottery tickets out of the blue after I was feeling wild for the whopping $23 spent; I need time to process this.

Him: You’re just upset because these aren’t tangible purchases. But think about it, we spend money on dinners when we eat out, and there’s no tangible output there besides poop.

Her: (laughing) You stinker.

Him: Depends on the outcome of tonight’s meal, I suppose.

Making Fun of Fancy Things

Hey, here’s another ridiculous gift buying guide!

 

Devi Steam Seat

“We all love yoni steaming, but for some, figuring out exactly how to get positioned for the steam can be a bit tricky.” Really? Do ALL of us love steaming our vaginas? When did this become a thing? Should I be stressing about how to get into position to steam my yoni? Also, why are we calling it a yoni now? I feel like if I adopt this into my vocabulary I’m one day doomed to slip and call my mother-in-law a vagina since the grandma-but-not-grandma name she has selected for herself is only one letter away from yoni: Noni. Finally, can we discuss the fact that this board-with-a-hole-in-it gift is intended for pairing with a Home Depot Homer bucket? Nothing says fancy like squatting over a Homer bucket to steam yer lady parts!


Cedes Milano Toothpaste Squeezer

The toothpaste tube always says, “Squeeze from the bottom and flatten as you go up.” Screw that; I’ve got a $244 toothpaste tube press to do the heavy lifting for me. Hallelujah!

 

Canoe Condom Dispenser

“…this 100% stainless steel dispenser safely stores this essential personal care item with characteristic German efficiency.” *insert joke here about characteristic German efficiency in the bedroom* Ten points to whomever has the cojones to buy one of these and set it up on their desk at work like it’s a business card dispenser.

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Pop Culture

C: Do you know what the term “Netflix and chill” means?

B: No. I’d imagine it means to watch Netflix and relax.

C: Yeah, me too. Except somebody said it at work today and when several others laughed really hard at what he’d said I asked why it was so funny and someone just said with a snicker, “It has another meaning” so then after I got home I looked it up. *reads definition of the term from a random Internet site*

B: How do we fall behind on these things?

C: I don’t know! Usually you’re up to speed though, so now I’m worried!

B: Ohhhh! Now that we’re talking about it, I think one of the developers used that phrase today, and at the time I just thought he was talking about watching Netflix and relaxing. Who used and laughed at that phrase at your office?

C: (recites names)

B: They’re not married, right?

C: Yes.

B: Maybe that’s the secret; they’re in the dating world and we just don’t know it because we’ve been married so long.

C: That’s what we’ll tell ourselves, anyway. (Also, this reporter doesn’t seem to know what it means, either.)

Is This a Test?

I’m sitting in a panel job interview, round two of three, so I’m about 1.5 hours into a nearly 3-hour session with a total of six interviewers. The two phone interviews prior to this one seemed to go well. The first two panel interviewers seemed impressed and genuinely excited by my responses to their questions and the walkthrough they had me perform, but these guys aren’t easy to read. I’m working to monitor my stress response–interviews always make me nervous–while I devote as much of my energy and focus as possible to answering their questions. I CAN do this! I KNOW I can do this!

I receive a question that requires some thought before I’m able to form a response. As I pause to collect my thoughts, I glance out the window between the interviewers and realize that in the skyscraper immediately adjacent to this one, on a floor just about even with the one we’re on, there’s a naked man. At first I see him with his back to the window, standing in front of what looks like a dresser or bar. My brain registers what I’ve seen and I look back to the interviewer to answer the question but then it clicks that what I just saw was A NAKED MAN. My gaze quickly snaps back to the open window to confirm. Yep, there’s a man. Yep, he’s naked. And this time he’s slowly strutting through the room, almost as if to say, “Here I am! Didn’t believe it the first time, huh? Well, get a good look now!”

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The Night I Slept Wrapped Inside a Giant Roll of Bubble Wrap On Somebody’s Front Porch In France

It’s sometime in the darkest part of the early morning, and I’m in a vehicle with a stranger driving through the forest in a part of France that I don’t know. We don’t speak the same language. I’ve got a steak knife hidden in my hand in case he tries to pull anything funny, I’m exhausted, and I’m feeling just a little bit crazy.

Continue reading “The Night I Slept Wrapped Inside a Giant Roll of Bubble Wrap On Somebody’s Front Porch In France”

Holey Underwear, Batman!

I’ve heard this complaint from several of my girlfriends, so perhaps it’s a common issue among married couples our age. Regardless, it still drives me nuts that my husband insists on keeping and wearing his holey underwear well past the point where they’re functional and to the point where they’re really only suggestive of underwear. (Remnants of underwear? Fragments of underwear? The ghosts of underwear past?)

I suppose if I were one of those wives I could just creep in under the cover of darkness to throw out the holey underwear, but I just can’t bring myself to that type of behavior. He respects my space, my style or lack thereof, and my privacy, and I aim to do the same for him. I married him for who he is and vice versa (haha, sucker!), and we try not to change one another for our own benefit. Still, The Holeys resurface in our conversations from time to time, because, well, I just can’t. *eye twitch*

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Book Review: Ready Player One

Ready Player OneReady Player One by Ernest Cline

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

First off, I have to state for the record that instead of reading this book I listened to the audio version narrated by Wil Wheaton. And if you’re going to listen to this book, I’m convinced there’s really no other way to listen to it than to hear Wil Wheaton walk you through its pages, audibly seeming to geek out over the same things the story’s main character does. It’s like doubling down on the geekiness!

And speaking of doubling down on geekiness… On its own this book does just that, over, and over, and over again. It’s as though someone took a dictionary of all things gaming, sci-fi, and 80s pop culture oriented and dropped a storyline on top, with references crammed in in small seemingly random lists here, and there, and over there, and over there too.

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