Lotto dreams

        I have a dream. Actually, it’s more like a continual fantasy. I’m positive that I’m destined to become a millionaire, and I’m pretty sure that this stroke of good luck will happened on either a Wednesday or Saturday.

         Like so many other Jackpot Joneses, I believe that one day I will catch to previous lottery winners and move into the neighborhood that only instant millionaire can afford.

         I’ve picked a thoroughbred of a ticket that is guaranteed to cross the million-dollar finish line first.

        The sure-bet numbers are based on significant dates in my life. Not the birthdays or wedding anniversaries that most people use; instead, I’ve selected the dates of my biggest regrets, from the day I was kicked out of university to the date I decided to get a perm for my yearbook photo. Because birthdays and anniversaries are already positive days, their good luck has been used up. In contrast, I’m owed some good fortune for the awful days, and what better way to collect that with some Karma Cash? 

       After 10 years and several garbage bags full of losing tickets, however, I’ve become less infatuated with winning and more enamoured with the dream of winning. Like a cheap drunk in a cocktail lounge, I’ll nurse my Tangerine Dream ticket for days after the draw. My dreams spill out when I accidentally glance at the newspaper article that heralds the latest addition to the winner’s circle.

         Six years ago, I made a pact to avoid all news whenever the jackpot topped $20 million. This hand –in-sand strategy created a few gaps in my knowledge of current event. For example, a 6/49 jackpot of $32 million resulted in me missing the news report that detailed the discovery of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq,(Can anyone tell me where the Americans finally found them?) How could I care about current events when I had a millionaire’s life to plan? I sat on what I believed was the golden ticket for three weeks, while I mapped out every detail of my lottery-fuelled dream.

         At first, my goals mirrored most people’s plans: pay off the mortgage, buy a new car, smite my enemies. The usual stuff. But I soon realized that I could afford to dream bigger. A worldwide tour was in order. My itinerary included a North American first-class trek for New York to L.A. with patsy Gallant as my singing tour guide. I upgraded my flights form economy to first class to private jet, but this spending spree still didn’t put a dent in my imagined millions. I needed to step things up

       I was going to build a dream home form the ground up. With no consideration for the rules of architectural design, the guidelines of good taste or the laws of gravity, I mentally drafted the blueprints for my mansion. The sunken living rooms, garish indoor fountain and marble staircase that I had admired in Brain De Palma’s Scarface would be mine, along with Tony Montana’s high-tech security system. Michelle Pfeiffer was optional.

        When the plans grew too complicated, I drafted a virtual version of my dream home using a Sims computer game. Everything, including several kitchen sinks went into the monster house. 

        I even toyed with the idea of hiring inventors to build the real-life version of servo, the robot maid, but no matter how much I spent on the house; the lottery simoleons never seemed to go away.

        After my pretend spending spree, I decided that I had to share the lottery love. I wanted to dole out some of my dream money to friends and family. At first, I planned to divide the gifts equally, but then I started to worry about potential disputes. Would giving the same amount of money to my kid brother that I had planned to give to my cousin insult my brother? Should I give money to a friend if I didn’t like her significant other?

         My solution had to appease the people who expected to feel a breeze form my lottery windfall but only felt the slap of rejection. Easy solution. I knew the price of friendship in favours, so I converted this currency to dollars. The people who helped me move would receive more money than the people who asked me to help them move. When I proposed this idea to my wife, she asked why she didn’t have a say in how I spent our jackpot. 

        My lottery dream was quickly turning into a nightmare as I realized that money did not buy happiness; instead, it put a down payment on misery. I opted to donate most of my imagined jackpot to charity. No one would dare complain about getting shut out if the money went to curing diseases. I vowed to become a philanthropist. 

        Every day, I’d scheme new ways to spend the jackpot. My fantasy grew so real that I didn’t want to shatter the illusion by checking the numbers. I’d rather live in the lap of luxurious lies than rip up another hope. 

        Eventually, I came to my senses and checked the numbers. I had the all right, if I had played then in the lottery the week before. Now, that’s Karma.