Lottery’s Labors Lost.

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By rich Emmet

I won $66 million last night. Maybe not.
I won a thousand dollars a day Monday night for the rest of my life. Maybe not.
Here is what you do not do with lottery tickets. Leave them in your back pocket for a weekend of kayaking on Long Lake, then Damariscotta Lake. I don’t know about you, but I have not found a method of avoiding a wet rear end in a kayak. Either you get wet getting in or out of the Ocean Prowler (I like that) or you take in water over the side in a Long Lake breeze.
Follow that with hours stuffed into a folding chair reading the memoirs of Ted William’s daughter (it was Father’s Day, after all) or discussing the issues of the day, like where Russ Frances went to College, on Big Pine. There always seem to endless problems to discuss and diagnose.
Can you see where this is going?
When I finally got home to mighty Cobb Manor and unpacked the car, I searched my pockets and found two scraps of paper, folded over and stuck together. These were my lottery tickets, the (only) key to the future of solvency. I owe more on Cobb Manor than the day I bought it, 31 years ago.
Yes, I am good with money. I spend it as fast as I can. Yes, I have a little trouble with saving. O’Meara is an Irish word that means “no savings allowed.”
The tickets had been drenched and dried repeatedly, then Irish-pressed into a little concrete mass.
Naturally I picked at these vital documents just as carefully as I could. I could use $66 million. I could use $365,000 a year and fix David Grima’s chimney. I could send money to Cousin Jerry now marooned in Stimpfach, Germany. But It was no use. The tickets were pressed together like they were glued. I was just making it worse…and worse.
My first thought was to wet them again so they would open up. Naturally, it just made it even worse. I tried holding them up to the light to at least see the numbers. No go.
I brought them to Blue Eyes, who is as smart as anyone I know. She would know how to separate these now gummy tickets. “No way,” she said, unwilling to take the responsibility of $66 million or $365,000 a year, for life.
The Kid’s no trouper.
I usually spend lottery day planning on my purchases at the BMW dealer (So I can be as cool as Besaw) and at the Irish real estate office. Now, I am staring at two lumps of paper that could determine my financial future and that of future generations of Mearas.
Maybe steaming them will work. Maybe olive oil. You know if I can’t open them they are both winners. If I do open them, they are duds.
Maybe I will call the lottery office. They will know what to do.
One thing I do know. My lottery tickets will never go kayaking again, at least not folded over. I could won $66 million and be as rich as Gary Fowlie.
Who else would this happen to?