On Powerball

Powerball was the best thing to happen to me all week. Not because I won. (Apologies to the $8 that just shot me a look from across the room and would like me to clarify that I did in fact, win. Something. What this $8 doesn't understand is how much more than $8 I sunk into this effort.)

Seriously though, to make myself feel better about having to continue to go to work and operate under a budget and use the Claritin coupons that accompany my pharmacy receipts, I'm focusing on the fact that when I went to buy my Powerball tickets this week, the middle-eastern cashier gave me a quizzical and slightly suspicious look.

"Are you old enough?" he asked.

"What?" (Was he freaking being serious? I'm in my thirties.)

"You're eighteen?"

"Oh yes, much older than that."

"To me you look young," he said, still possibly skeptical as he got me my change.

This could all be a ploy to sell more tickets, because I feel forever endeared to this thickly-accented man and will likely be returning to his gas station the next time there's a record jackpot.

I mean, if you can't win a billion dollars, surely the next best thing is being mistaken for a teenager.