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What your lotto purchase says about you…

1 Apr

Last week’s record-setting MegaMillions jackpot dominated my Facebook feed for a few days. Photos of lotto tickets (cleverly posted by radio stations offering share the winnings with anyone who “liked” their photo) circulated wildly. Friends were speculating what they would do with their newly-won wealth.

I found it fascinating to see how much money people were spending on tickets. Alan cited a quote that was circulating to explain the multiple tickets people were snapping up: “You’re nine times as likely to get hit by lightning as win the lottery. Better buy nine tickets to improve those odds.”

I speculated that the MegaMillions could be used as a fairly accurate diagnostic for a workplace morale, though when I started to create the scale of interpretation, I realized it sounded more like a Lotto Horoscope:

  • Didn’t buy a ticket? You’re either a scientist, mathematician, or so over-worked you couldn’t get to the liquor store.
  • Didn’t buy a ticket but “liked” more than ten photos of Lotto tickets online that offered to share winnings with you? You’re probably unemployed or lazy or a sucker. Might want to spend less time of Facebook and more time reading self-help books.
  • Bought one ticket? You enjoy your job and co-workers and like to contribute to water-cooler talk.
  • Bought 20 tickets? Might want to pull out your resume and give it a little TLC. Sounds like you’ll be on the hunt for a new opportunity later this year.
  • Bought 50 tickets? Do everyone a favor and resign already.
  • Bought 100 tickets? Resign, sell your worldly possessions and travel the world to find yourself. You’re clearly not on the right path. You might want to consider a change of religion or marital status while you’re at it.

And employers – think it’s cute that your employees organized a Lotto Pool? I’d say it’s innocent fun – unless each person is willing to kick in more than the entry fee for a March Madness bracket. In that case, your company morale is in the toilet and you’ll need to do more than $50 spot bonuses to prevent a complete exodus before year’s end.

Oh. And while I’m on the topic of workplace lotteries, I encourage you to listen to THIS, a brief story from This American Life about the troop of Riverdance and what it means to them to win the lotto. I haven’t been able to watch a theatrical performance the same way since it aired five years ago. Now, neither will you.

Which is almost as awesome as actually winning. You’re welcome.

 

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I suppose it’s still a form of addiction.

17 Mar

Alan and I have been watching “Breaking Bad” on Netflix. If you’re not familiar with the series, the premise is that a high school chemistry teacher – when diagnosed with terminal lung cancer – turns to cooking meth so he can squirrel away a nest egg to support his family after he’s gone. The show is somewhat graphic and has done wonders to educate me on the nuances of meth production and consumption.

Earlier this week I was working from home when I was struck by a somewhat horrifying profound realization: if DEA agents stormed through my door on a weekday, they might mistake me for a meth addict. Working form home may fuel productivity, but for true workaholics, there’s an ugly under-belly that I think most people gloss over…

Five similarities between me working from home and a meth-head:

  1. We both walk around the house in sweatpants and tank tops.
  2. A night’s sleep is 5-6 hours tops, and we stagger from bed to immediately pick up our addiction: theirs a meth pipe, mine a laptop.
  3. If interrogated, we would both struggle to accurately state the last time we actually showered.
  4. A frightening number of Mountain Dew cans are sitting around. (Mine in a recycling bin; theirs in babies’ cribs.)
  5. The only way we know if it’s time to brush our teeth is by feeling to see if the toothbrush is wet.

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I didn’t know it was possible for a plane to be occupied by so many children.

19 Nov

Based on this photo, I'm guessing my cabbie was from the Philippines.

Can someone please tell me when the Friday before Thanksgiving became the official travel day for the holiday? I thought the Wednesday of Thanksgiving week was supposed to be the busiest travel day of the year, but based on my experience in LAX yesterday, I’m thinking that’s changed.

The training session that had me in LA for the week wrapped up at 11am, giving me plenty of time to get to the airport for my 1pm flight. However, my cab driver seemed to take it as a personal challenge to get me there in record setting time, flying up the ass of every car in front of him on the 405, changing lanes as if he were in a roller derby.

One of my colleagues was riding with me, so I know I’m not exaggerating when I say: He was the single worst driver I’ve ever ridden with.

Example: We were the second car in line at a left turn arrow. The car in front of us didn’t turn (because there was on-coming traffic) and my driver? He executes a left turn from BEHIND the car that is actually supposed to be turning. Ouch.

I tell you this to explain that I probably wasn’t in the best mood when I tumbled out of the cab curbside at LAX. Actually, I was so car sick, I seriously looked around for a garbage can, thinking I would probably barf before getting my boarding pass. I ran my credit card in the boarding pass kiosk, but instead of it spitting out a piece of paper, I got the dreaded screen announcement: There has been a change to your itinerary. See gate agent. Damn.

Fortunately, the line didn’t seem long – there was only a group of three seniors (traveling together) waiting. Unfortunately, I soon learned that without a line, Delta has no sense of urgency. I waited 20 minutes before actually getting “helped.” I put this in quotes, because the agent who helped me was anything BUT helpful. Here’s how our exchange went:

ME, handing him my license: Hi. I’m hoping you can help me. The kiosk said there’s been a change to my itinerary.

HIM: Hmm. This is an Alaska Airlines flight, not us.

ME: Yeah – it’s operated by Alaska, but all the confirmations and reminders came from Delta and there is a Delta flight number, so I thought I had to check-in at your counter.

HIM, looking at me like I’m an idiot: No. You would NEVER do that.

ME: Apparently I would. So there’s no way for you to generate a boarding pass?  I absolutely need to go to Alaskan Air?

HIM, sighing: That’s what I just told you.

ME: So can you tell me where they are?

HIM: Different terminal.

ME: Thanks for being useless.

I also muttered a swear word as I walked away, but I’m going to blame that on the book I’m reading, which has made liberal use of the word “F*ckwit.” My more mature reaction was to go on Twitter and post, “@DELTA: your check-in workers at #LAX are rude and unhelpful. Not flying you again. Fire the guy at kiosk assistance.” I wish I’d noticed his name.

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I only parlez-français when it comes to champignons.

2 Nov

Our Learning Services team supports our offices around the world. I tell you this to explain why I was dialing Paris at 10am.

I thought I was calling someone who expected my call. We had a meeting invitation on our calendars, and I’d checked our corporate directory to ensure I had her direct line. But somehow, between trying to remember the international exchange code and entering her number, I managed to enter the general office number.

So I was surprised when she answered with a flowing sentence of French, beginning with the only word I understood: Bonjour. I responded with a Bonjour of my own, before switching to English in a “let’s drop this joke” kind of tone and said, “Hey! It’s Alison. Are you ready for me?”

Silence on the other end. Then, “Bonjour? Repetez, s’il vous plait…”

Which is when I realized it was NOT the person I was trying to reach. So, digging deep into my dusty mental reference drawer, I called upon the French I’d learned eight years ago when I briefly lived in France.

I strung together a sentence which – roughly translated – was intended to communicate the following: “Hi. My apologies. I speak little French. I am American. I am searching for Perrine. Is she there?”

The woman on the other end exclaimed like she finally understood me; then I was put on hold. After a brief delay, another woman answered. “Bonjour?”

Cautiously, I answered. “Perrine?”

Apparently not, because her response was a long sentence which left me stumped.

In my defense, even at the height of my French comprehension, I heavily relied on visual cues. The phone was always my enemy. Taking a deep breath, I had flashbacks of two other French phone calls from my past.

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Whole new meaning to the expression “Feeling Stabby.”

28 Oct

I’m in Chicago for work this week, training a crop of new hires. We’re booked at a hotel I’ve stayed at half a dozen times before, a short walk from the office.

Only this time, after checking in, when I told someone where I was staying, they said, “Oh.”

You know, the sagging, “Oh” that leaves you wondering what the rest of the story is?

Turns out, someone was stabbed to death in my hotel two weeks ago. AWESOME.

I checked the BedBug Registry, but didn’t think to look at police reports. The good news? It doesn’t appear to be a random attack – of the variety in which some creeper is hiding under your bed. But that hasn’t stopped me from checking the shower every time I come in – just to be on the safe side.

It’s gotten me thinking about what happens in my hotel room before it becomes mine. While someone dying in my room is a pretty long shot (I hope), there are other situations that probably have occurred. A prostitute turning a trick? High school kids throwing a party? A drug deal going down? A marriage ending? A child conceived?

I’ve gotten you thinking now, haven’t I? It’s kind of hard to stop once you imagine other people in your hotel room.

I could try to be all deep and extrapolate some moral from this situation, like how interwoven our lives are or something… but instead I think I’ll just leave a juicy tip for housekeeping. Thanks to them, I can pretend I’m the only person who has ever used this room.

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