Oh Karma, you evil mistress

Out of 30 lottery numbers, I got one. I guess Holmes' car issues weren't enough to swing Karma in my direction in a big way. But then again, I found a good deal on a cute hotel for an upcoming trip to Puerto Rico and I got to leave work an hour early today, so I'll take it.

Come on, karma, throw us a bone

It's been a little while since the Karma Cycle has allowed a day like this. "Buy a lottery ticket now. Tell you later why". That's the text I got at 12:30 this afternoon from Holmes. First thought: he failed Organic Chemistry. Second thought: he wrecked his sweet ride. Either way, since Holmes and I share a pool of luck, I just might win some cash off this karma windfall.

But my karma wasn't really paying any dividends today, either. My lunch break was largely consumed by hassling with the various insurance companies, prescription services and unions that are jointly in charge of my health coverage. I was just trying to get the pill. Not like I needed $2,000 worth or anti-psychotics or something, though after jumping through numerous bureaucratic hoops, I probably could have used some. One unsuccessful trip to the pharmacy, six phone calls, four automated systems and three "patient advocacy specialists" (they really have taken renaming phone-jockey positions to a whole new level), and I still didn't get anywhere. Bastards. Just when I was ready to throw the phone out the window in frustration, my doc's office called, offered a solution and promptly saved the day. But the whole ordeal pissed me off, and I still had to make a trip to the other end of Manhattan to get my pills after work. Grr.

I wasn't feeling very karmically-receptive when I set out to find a place to buy lottery tickets. And of course, today is the day I learn that there are no bodegas within five blocks of my office in any direction. Frustrational. After hustling from downtown to waaay uptown after work, I got back to my neighborhood and again tried for tickets. There's this weird little shop a block away that has all these ceramic figurines and stationery products in the window, but basically just exists to sell candy, cigarettes and thankfully, lottery tickets. Ah, purveyors of the daily vices. What would this city be without them?

I've actually never bought a real lottery ticket, only the scratch-off kind. I felt like I was using the SAT bubble sheets, and had to call Holmes for instructions. A damn Masters degree and trouble buying lottery tickets. Turns out that Holmes slid his car off the road and had to get AAA to tow his ass out of a ditch. Yup, pretty much what I thought. Karma definitely gave it to him harder than it did me (and probably didn't cuddle afterward), and he wasn't in a good mood. But after a bit of coaching, I got five lottery tickets plus a scratch-off to satisfy my need for instant gratification. Got a whole lotta nothin' outta the scratching, but the big drawing is tomorrow, so it could be me....

Karma strikes again

Alas, as soon as I decide to do a blog and keep it updated with some regularity, my trusty old Dell gives up the ghost with a sputtering beep of despair. Most likely a bad DC jack, which will require a costly and time-consuming return to the mother ship for repairs. I was tempted to round up a soldering iron and make the fix myself, but since I haven't soldered anything since high school (and my skills were poor then at best), I figured I'd do considerably more harm than good. My technological situation such as it is, the Karma Cycle will be offline for the near future, to return in excellent form at the soonest possible moment. Of course, I doubt anyone's reading this, but if by chance you, lone internet traveler, are hanging on my every word, well, you'll just have to hold your horses or send me $150 for parts.

The Karma Cycle

The Karma Cycle began back in college, with a white '92 Honda and a tire jack in an alley next to a gay bar. Holmes, Scooter and I were headed to The Brick for a beer. Holmes, the lucky dude who rolled around campus in that 2-door chick-magnet, can get a little testy behind the wheel on a good day. After spending 40 minutes looking for a parking space, he had built up a minor case of road rage. With some choice expletives, he hit the gas, but took a corner too sharp. Bam! Tire popped. The swearing having reached a fever pitch, Scooter and I knew to keep our damn mouths shut while Holmes pulled over in the first place available. Holmes limped the Honda into an alley, and we got out to survey the damage. Sure enough, the tire was completely blown, and there I was, dressed in a little pleated Burberry skirt, tights, a sweater and boots standing with two dudes who, I found out, were completely clueless about all things automotive. Now, don't let the skirt fool you. I know my way around an old car, having driven a wide variety of beaters, lemons and junkheaps in my time. In fact, I can jump a car during a red light. But that's another story.

Once we'd gotten out, we realized we'd pulled in the alley in front of a popular gay bar. As this was a Friday night, we had an audience with all the people waiting to get in. The conversation went something like this:

Scooter: "Dude, tire's blown"
Holmes: "No fucking kidding, asshole"
Me: "You got a tire jack and a spare?"
Holmes: "Maybe. Uhh..."
Me: "You know how to use it?"
Holmes: "Uhhh..."
Me: "Scooter?"
Scooter: "Uhh..."
Me: "Pussies. Guess I'm gonna have to show you how it's done."

Luckily, the previous owners of Holmes' car had left the jack and donut in the trunk. I let the two of them fumble around with it for a few minutes before scooting them out of the way, getting down on my knees and hooking the jack into the chassis where it belonged. I'm there with my skirted ass in the air and my head under the car, when unknown to me, Scooter starts cranking the jack. I feel my elbow-length hair pull a bit. I say to Scooter, "Get off my hair". I hear a voice about two feet behind me say, "I'm back here, dude". Holmes cracks up. My hair had been wound into the tire jack so far that my cheek was nearly on the pavement. We're all laughing so hard that nobody unwinds me for a good two minutes. The assembled club patrons get a look and start laughing, too. Finally Scooter comes over and sets me free. I have a massive grease-filled hairball on the right side of my head. We finish putting on the spare, and I drag my fingers through the giant, stinky greaseball the best I can and take a stab at being presentable. We miraculously find a spot and head to the bar for the long-awaited and much deserved beers. Scooter got a good job the next day.

This encounter was the origin of our particular Karma Cycle. We’ve figured out over the intervening few years that Scooter, Holmes and I share a common karma supply, and that bad luck for one or two of us means something good is in store for the other ones. If one of those dudes wins the lottery, I’m moving into a padded room for a month. Being one of the luckiest unlucky people I know, I like the idea of karma, the connectedness of everyone, sending good vibes into the universe, etc. But sometimes I hope that if I ever get a big karmic payback, that it comes in the form of cold, hard cash (preferably in unmarked, non-sequential large denomination bills).