Carol came into the living room smiling. “I just won $10 tickets to Hamilton for next Thursday.” You might think that direct quote should have been punctuated with an exclamation point. I mean it’s Hamilton, not Guys and Dolls, The Fantastics or Cats. I’ve seen it twice on stage myself and still can’t get enough. But this was the third time Carol has won lottery tickets to this show just since I’ve known her. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

   Now, mind you, Carol is married to a man whose idea of “painting the town red” is moving to the other side of the couch to watch a Ken Burns documentary. Yet, Carol has rambled into the living room to proclaim winning tickets to a Star Wars live concert, a musical called Hadestown and then something involving the 1812 Overture complete with fireworks. (I knew why we were there, but I never did figure out what the people who bought tickets had actually paid money to see and hear.) 

   Now, mind you, Carol is married to a man whose idea of “painting the town red” is moving to the other side of the couch to watch a Ken Burns documentary

   Carol’s biggest haul, however, was winning something she hadn’t even signed up for. But apparently we were both in the running for this, as a result of doing nothing more than getting our Covid vaccines. One afternoon, she received an email saying she’d won an all expenses paid,  three-day weekend for two at some $3000/night health and wellness spa either in the Arizona desert or the redwood forests of the San Francisco Bay Area.

   Two things occurred immediately. One, in spite of our aggressive efforts to prove otherwise, the offer was not a scam or a time-share grift. And two, there was no way in hell I would be accompanying Carol on what the venue’s website sounded for all the world like The Hotel California. That role fell to Carol’s oldest daughter, who better knew her way around foot facials, mud baths and what, as near as I could figure out anyway, seemed to amount to a voluntary stoning. (I stayed home and experienced what it would be like to not change out of my jogging clothes all day and climb into an unmade bed at night. Not bad, as it turned out. When Carol returned home, she could see immediately I was in need of some emergency parenting.)

   Because she doesn’t seem disposed to enter drawings for Super Bowl tickets or Road to the Final Four, I’ve asked Carol to stop entering these contests before I wind up sitting through an exhumation of My Fair Lady or Hello Dolly! Or at least to start buying Powerball or scratch off games.

   So far, though, I haven’t caught her looking at me with an expression on her face that says, “What lottery from hell was that?”