Winning

I don't know whether I have good luck or bad luck. As a rule, I feel like I'm pretty lucky in life. Things seem to go more or less my way when I need them to, and I never seem to want for too much. God knows I'm not going hungry.

Still, I do have my own wing at the Venetian in Vegas, so good luck clearly isn't always riding shotgun.

But every once in awhile, Lady Luck doesn't have a date for the night and decides to plant a big wet one on me.

For example, the reason I joke so much about becoming a lotto winner as a profession is because I've actually been one. Back when the state lottery was first introduced - when they only had scratcher tickets - on the third day they were out I won $5000 with a ticket similar to the one above. My wife-to-be was with me when I bought a ticket in the little market between the towers at Santa Monica Shores, where I lived at the time. After I'd scratched off two $5000 squares, I remember turning to her and saying "How funny would it be if there were a third one under here?"

Which to our unbridled surprise there was.

My feeling was since it was the introduction, they top-loaded the scratcher tickets with winning ones. Fine by me. I wound up using the money to buy my 1986 Toyota Supra (the first half of the year model, before they ruined it by rounding out all the edges).

Years ago on channel 9 in L.A. there was a local show called The Dick Curtis Show, which everyone always confused with The Lloyd Thaxton Show (feel free to look up both of them). Anyway, the show aired live, and one afternoon they had one of those "...and the fourth caller wins a months supply of frozen pizza!"

Guess who was the fourth caller?

I remember they sent a certificate for ten frozen pizzas, which we had to pick up from the market. It was as exciting as it was challenging, because we didn't have a freezer nearly big enough for ten frozen pizzas. But we had hungry neighbors and I'm a giver, so we made it work.

Just this past week, I won something I desperately needed: a luxury car wash. I take my car to Rossmoor Car Wash in Los Alamitos for two reasons. They do a great job, and it's owned by good friends of mine. Which is why I thought winning their Facebook question of the week contest was a total fix.

Come to find out they had nothing to do with it. It's entirely overseen by their manager, who also selects the names randomly from what I can only assume is an empty carnuba wax container.

So I claimed my prize yesterday. Just my luck, as I was driving home it started to drizzle.

Oh well. Can't win 'em all.

'Twas The Night Before Christmas - Revision 5

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the agency halls
Not a planner was stirring, there were no client calls
The glasses were hung by the conference room with care
In hopes the Christmas party would soon begin there

Creative directors nestled with campaigns that were dead
While visions of One Show Awards danced in their head
They’d talk of production and work they had done
It was true this year’s party would be nothing but fun

When out in the lobby there rose such a clatter
I sprang from the status meeting to see what was the matter
Was it the new intern wearing an Urban Outfitters jacket
What could possibly be making all of that racket

With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
Let’s go in the kitchen and see what they’re fixen!
To the corner office and just down the hall
They found trays of hors de oeuvres and ate them all!

The staff would look forward to the holiday bonus
Saying "as hard as we’ve worked of course they would owe us"
The general manager spoke, it was quite a summit
He told us all how profits had started to plummet

Cutbacks, downsizing, raise-freezes, client losses
He would if he could, but not so the bosses
He charted the bonus with marker not chalk
He wrote on the white board “That’s just crazy talk.”

They showed the work that’d been done all through the year
But with no bonuses the staff was not of good cheer
Sure there was music and dancing for those who were able
Even some shenanigans on the conference room table

Soon it was over, soon it was gone
All the carrying they’d planned had been carried on
The party was finished, the tinsel unhung
The songs they were singing had all been sung

After bad luck like this, what else could they add
It was Christmas, and really, things weren’t that bad
Until he exclaimed as his limo drove out of sight
Happy pink slip to all, and to all a good night!

Heaving her Christmas cookies

I can hear the season laughing at me, and it sounds like Ho Ho Ho.

Until now, this Christmas seemed to be shaping up nicely. It wasn't nearly as hectic as ones in the past. The lights were up in time. We found everything we wanted shopping wise. And it all managed to get here in time.

We still haven't gotten Christmas cards out, but the bright side is now they'll turn into New Year's cards. Yet another Christmas miracle.

We were going to have family over to our house on Christmas Eve, then visit more family on Christmas day. It was shaping up to be a Christmas full of fun, merriment, egg nog and family. And lots of bourbon in the egg nog.

That was right up until my daughter, through no fault of her own, started heaving her own cookies when we got home today.

She'd been complaining of a bad tummy all day, but she has that every once in awhile and it usually passes and then we move on to more important things- like what's for dessert.

She was a trooper today in spite of feeling bad. I took her to our dentist in Santa Monica and had her teeth cleaned (something she might be needing again). We had lunch at The Counter, although she really didn't have much appetite.

But once we were home, she asked for the bucket and started spreading a little Christmas cheer of her own into it. Very thankful her aim is true.

So it looks like our Christmas plans are in a holding pattern until we see if she's feeling better.

But as Christmas' go, sitting on the couch with my girly next to me, looking at our beautiful tree and watching tired Christmas movies isn't a bad deal.

The bad deal is having to empty the bucket.

Terms of endearment

The last time I looked, and believe me I don't look often, the iTunes Terms of Use Agreement had 38 pages. That's 38 pages that make liars out of all of us when it comes to having read it. Sure, we click the "Accept" button. We say we've read and understand it. But we've done neither.

Fortunately there are people who have way too much time on their hands that do go through them, and alert us to things we should know about.

Like the latest Facebook privacy invasion.

The disparagement clauses that don't let you post bad reviews of companies on Yelp.

How they collect and sell your information, even when they say they don't.

There's a lot of essential information in that Terms of Use Agreement. Not surprisingly, it's all skewed to protecting the site as opposed to the rights of those using it. And every site you visit, big or small has them. Except this one.

Until now.

Starting today, you're on notice that Rotation and Balance now has a short albeit strict Terms of Use policy that will have to be adhered to should you desire to continue using this site. And really, why wouldn't you?

Terms of Use Agreement for Rotation and Balance

Don't be a jackass in your comments. I'm not made of glass and I won't break if you disagree with something I've said or don't think it's funny. But try to be civil about it. Or at least be funny. I don't shy away from a good debate, but name-calling and insults don't make it one. If you do it, not only will I block your comment, I'll see to it you're put back in your cage where you can throw your feces at passersby and I don't have to watch.

Don't pretend to know me. Odd as this may sound, some strangers who leave comments assume an undeserved familiarity in their tone. This will come as a surprise, but I actually know who my friends are. I know who I know. And if I don't know you, don't pretend I do. By all means feel free to comment. Just not like you're a friend.

Tell me who you are. If you're going to take the time to comment, don't do it anonymously. Cause really - and I think you know this already - it's the coward's way to comment. If you're going to dish it out, you have to be able to take it. Anonymous comments don't count. Just look at the ones on any given Yahoo article.

Don't point out my typos. Let he who is without ever having had a typo cast the first stome (see what I did there?). It happens. I type fast - it's part of my job description. It's not like the boom mic hanging down in the middle of scene and taking you out of the movie. You'll still know what I mean. And I promise I'll eventually go back, reread and correct it. Keep in mind this isn't Miss Quigley's english class. It's a blog. You're lucky I can spell anything at all.

If you comment, check back for my reply. Don't just talk to me, walk away and never look back as if you were any one of my high school girlfriends (it's okay, I'm over it). If you're going to take the time to comment, I'll gladly take the time to reply if it calls for it. I'll probably reply even if it doesn't. What can I say, I'm a giver.

Never forget that you're appreciated. There are so many things you could be doing right now besides reading this. I never forget that, and I'm forever grateful you give these little musings any time at all. Often it probably takes longer to read them than to write them (does it show?). Anyway, nothing but gratitude.

So there it is. Not too bad, not too complicated. It's not like I'm selling music on here. I'm not even going to ask you to click on the "Accept" button.

First of all, I don't have an "Accept" button.

And second of all, if you've read this far, I already know you're pretty accepting.

Dr. Sarah

The Christmas season brings many things with it, not the least of which is Christmas handbell concerts. So tonight, I was at the third handbell concert for my daughter's high school, because my daughter is in the handbell choir.

But let me paraphrase a question: why is this handbell night different from all others?

The answer is because my daughter, whom shall be known from this night forward as Dr. Sarah, sprang into action.

I'm going to be completely impartial here, but as I was watching my beautiful, poised, talented, smiling daughter play the first song in the set, I along with the rest of the parents in the audience noticed Kaitlyn, the girl playing handbells next to her, was very suddenly in a great deal of distress. She stopped playing, was very disoriented, was trying to find some direction to walk in, the color drained from her face, she couldn't focus on any one thing and she was clearly about to faint.

Dr. Sarah sprang into action. She grabbed Kaitlyn, held her both up and still, speaking comforting words to her while Kaitlyn's father quickly ran up from the audience, scooped up his little girl and took her outside.

The concert continued, but as you might imagine in a room full of parents, most of whom have known these kids since kindergarten, they were very concerned with Kaitlyn's condition even as they listened to the music.

After the handbell choir, the high school orchestra took the stage. But before they begain playing, the teacher/conductor made an announcement that Kaitlyn was okay.

The roomful of parents erupted into relieved applause.

Afterwards, Dr. Sarah told me that Kaitlyn had fallen off the stage before the performance, and came down particularly hard on her ankle. She either severely sprained or possibly even fractured it. What looked like dehydration or the onset of the flu from where we were sitting was actually shock, her body finally surrendering to the pain of the fall.

Thanks to Dr. Sarah and her cat-like reflexes, Kaitlyn didn't fall and risk even worse injury. Thank to her compassionate words, Kaitlyn didn't spiral into any more of a panic than she was already in.

I'm proud of my daughter for the musician she is.

But that's nothing compared to how proud I am for the caring person she's become.

Rein it in

It's that time of year again. Actually it's been that time of year since before Halloween.

Every Christmas season, the assault on our senses begins - bad commercials blaring out of the television and radio, all touting money-saving Christmas sales. Plastic Christmas trees at Costco. Indifferent, tired Santas at the malls. Salvation Army troops ringing that damn bell at me on every corner. Crowds at the post office. Another Mariah Carey Christmas album.

But I manage to take most of it in stride, and in fact even enjoy some of it. Whether it's despite of it or because of it, I usually find some way to get into the true spirit of the season.

However there is one pet peeve I have about Christmas: car antlers.

Granted, it's a seasonal pet peeve, but still. For some reason I don't think it's saying what the drivers of these oversized clown cars think it's saying.

As a rule you don't see this Christmas car decor on more upscale models. So Mr. PT Cruiser and Mrs. Hyundai Accent, I'm sorry you have to hear it this way, but you already look foolish enough without the antlers. Or the nose. Or the wreath on the grill.

Here's an idea: instead of spending the money on car decorations, spend it on gas and drive over to a nearby neighborhood that has a Christmas Tree Lane. You know, one where each house tries to outdo the next. Oooh and aahhh at the bright, colorful decorations.

Then drive home, secure in the knowledge that other Christmas revelers are laughing with you instead of at you.

Once you've come to your senses about decorating your car, if the urge to decorate something is still so overwhelming and you know resistance will be futile, may I suggest adding more lights to the tree.

Or the chimney.

Perhaps a few more ornaments on the mantle.

Or more stockings.

The point is, let's get the thought of putting antlers on something out of your head

Before you do something you know you'll regret.

Winging it

Like so many things, I just don't get it.

I've never liked chicken wings. Ever. From the wrinkled, bumpy skin that looks like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly, to the search and rescue party you have to send out to find any meat on the bone, there's absolutely nothing appetizing about them.

So I'm at a total loss to understand the seemingly endless proliferation of wing places popping up all over.

For starters, they seem like a food from a time when people were a lot smaller and had tiny little hands. Watching people eat them always reminds me of the scene in Big where Tom Hanks is eating the appetizer he thinks is a little corn cob.

Next, why all the different flavorings? BBQ. Cajon. Ranch. Asian. If these things didn't taste like dry little leftover chicken parts to start with you wouldn't have to smother them with sauce just to make them taste like something.

Obviously I must be in the minority because these restaurants are being built faster than mirrored buildings in Orange County.

And exactly at what point was the decision made that celery would be the perfect accompaniment to chicken wings? Maybe after a few too many Bloody Mary's the chef said, "Well, if celery works in a glass, maybe it'll work with chicken wings."

There's no accounting for taste, especially when it comes to these places. But to each their own.

At least I can still enjoy a real meal at the Frog and Peach.