I’m not a gambling woman. I live an hour from Vegas and have never once had the urge to play slots or bet big money on a woman named Rita to land on 37 black. My father-in-law occasionally buys lottery tickets, which he so graciously lets me scratch because I dearly love to use quarters for something other than candy machines—but I’m not interested in WINNING. I don’t enter WIN A MAC BOOK Facebook contests—which is a tad ironic if you know what I do for a living. And I certainly don’t play any game that uses the phrase, “Try your luck!”
So what is it about McDonald’s Monopoly that makes me go batshit bonkers every Fall?
As a kid, I would peddle my happy ass up to the corner McDonald’s, blow good birthday money (MONDAY—for those who forgot) on an extra large chicken mcnugget meal with a side of everything covered in grease, just to get those coveted Monopoly pieces.
SHIT. I got Indiana again. Screw the Midwest.
In college, a few friends and myself would pool our money together because let’s face it, we were RAs and we were dirt poor, and THINK ABOUT IF WE WON!
“Okay, I found 37 cents in my underwear drawer and a few quarters in the office downstairs. What did you find?”
“A dollar in my pants that I’ve worn 13 times in the past two weeks and my checking account has $1.17!”
“SCORE! We can get two coffees AND split a breakfast sandwich!”
Yes. We were THAT pathetic. There may have been a disgusting time in my life when I ate McDonald’s daily for a week. Of course, this is coming from the girl who also ate a case of fried egg rolls regularly in one sitting. (Not to be confused with “friend egg rolls,” which are just as crunchy but a little more creepy.)
You’d think with my ever growing maturity, this die hard McDonald’s insanity would fall to the wayside. You would be incorrect. I could spend my desk-job-earned money on something more important: bills, books, charitable donations, or even diapers to keep my kid from pooping on everything.
But what if that day I bought milk and eggs I could have peeled off a Boardwalk to match my Park Place piece? That would be a sad day INDEED. So, like a drug-addicted Alzheimer’s patient, I keep going back, JUST IN FREAKING CASE.
So if you happen to drive by and see me ragged and shaking from french fry overdose, sitting on a street corner with a sign that says, “Will work for North Carolina,” just honk and wave. It’s probably best you don’t stop and talk to me. I might misconstrue anything that doesn’t smell like salt and cheese as an enemy, and I’m prone to biting.