Empty Handed

I didn’t win the lottery.

To be honest, I didn’t really expect to win, but the Powerball had reached a ridiculous over 400 million dollars, and someone, at some point, was going to claim a buttload of Benjamins. Why not me? Why not my family? Why not now?

The Saturday after Thanksgiving was the last big Powerball, and my husband said in passing that we ought to get a lottery ticket. We were at the beach for the holiday, and we planned to drive home on a Friday. Our drive would take us by interstate and by small rural 2-lane roads, which meant we had the opportunity to pull over to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere and buy some tickets. It always seems the big winners get their tickets in some heretofore unheard of dead end, so there was precedence for our theory.

I want to throw out a disclaimer here about my life, which is, for all practical purposes, pretty damn cushy. I don’t work full time. We live quite comfortably. Our needs are met, and we have enough to travel and have nice things. I do appreciate what I have. We are very fortunate, and for the most part, I am generous and not materialistic.

At the same token, I would like to be able to do, well, more. My daughters will soon be in college, and how nice would it be to not have to worry about how to pay for their education? What if we had enough extra money to fix up the stuff we have been putting off around the house? What if we could take a trip to Disney World before Christmas? I recognize that I do not need over 400 million dollars. I would have been happy with a cool million, enough to handle that wish list and have a little left over to share with others in a charitable way. A million doesn’t go as far as it used to, you know.

We did go to Disney World before Christmas a few years ago, when at least one of our kids was still considered a child by Disney age guidelines. It was traditionally a slow week, which meant lower hotel rates and a free Disney dining plan. Airline tickets were a tad more affordable because we had more competition in our market. The temperatures were perfect for amusement, and the crowds were small, and we could ride almost every ride more than once without having to Fast Pass or wait in line. We refer to that as the Good Old Days.

Now my kids are considered adults, and there is no off-season, and we don’t have that kind of money to blow on an extra vacation just because it would be fun. I miss the Good Old Days.

So, yeah, I was thinking about college, but really, I wanted to go to Disney World. We stopped at a gas station between two towns, the names of which are irrelevant and instantly forgettable. My husband stayed outside to pump premium gas into my European crossover SUV, while my daughter, S, and I went inside the convenience store to purchase snacks and drinks and five dollars’ worth of lottery tickets.

After grabbing a bag of Bugles, our preferred car snack, and selecting the most disgusting version of Mountain Dew currently on the market, which according to my spouse is the grape-flavored Pitch Black, we walked up to the counter to pay.

“Is that all?” the cashier asked me.

“No, I would also like to buy some lottery tickets,” I told her.

This was the second time in my adult life I have purchased lottery tickets. Any other time we had a wild hair to lose some money, my husband was the one who did the deed. I don’t know the protocol for playing the lottery, as everyone near me was about to discover.

“What do you want?” the cashier said.

“I would like five tickets, please. And make them Powerball,” I said.

"Ten dollars.” she said.

I hesitated a moment, trying to understand how my five tickets turned into a ten dollar purchase. Then I remembered the Powerball part was an extra buck a ticket.

“That’s fine,” I said, and handed her my credit card.

"Numbers?”

“Hmm? Oh, um, I’d like quick pick please.”

She printed out a small receipt and put it on the counter. “Cash,” she said. Her irritation with me was visible.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Cash, not credit. You can’t charge lottery tickets.”

Did you know you cannot buy lottery tickets with a credit card? I sure didn’t. I took my wallet out of my moderately overpriced name brand handbag and dug around. I found two crumpled dollar bills and some pennies.

“I don’t have ten dollars,” I said. “Is it all right to wait and let my daughter run out to the car? S, go tell your father I need ten dollars to play the lottery.” I spoke those words. The whole thing was really happening. I was, in fact, this person.

A small line formed behind me. The cashier sighed and looked at me. The other cashier quickly handled the purchases of the other people waiting.

S came back inside with some money from my husband. “Here you go,” I told her, handing her the bill. “I’m sorry about that.”

She took my money and pushed the receipt in my direction. I grabbed it and our other stuff and went back to the car with S trailing behind me.

“I don’t think we are going to win, if the purchase experience is any indication,” I told my husband, handing him the slip.

“Everyone knows you can’t buy lottery tickets with cash,” he said.

“Apparently not everyone,” I said to him.

Two days later, the lottery numbers were announced, and out of our five tickets, we won four dollars for hitting the Powerball number. It was the only number out of all the numbers for the five lottery tickets that matched. Our four dollar win meant we only lost six dollars, so I guess that’s some sort of consolation. We planned on using our winnings to buy more lottery tickets. I think that’s how gambling works.

In case you were wondering, one person did win the entire over four hundred million dollars. One. Single. Person. I think it was a woman in Michigan. I don’t know what she is going to do with all that money, but I hope she goes to Disney World before Christmas.

Coming Right up

My younger daughter, S, told me yesterday that she has never seen a performance of The Nutcracker. I have to admit, I was floored at her announcement because I’ve seen it at least seven times now, as have my husband and my older daughter, E.  It has become a holiday tradition of sorts for the three of us to have a lovely dinner downtown and see the show.

S has never sat in the audience; instead, she has been up on the stage. For seven of the past eight years, S danced in a variety of roles. She has been a little mouse, a party girl, a toy soldier, a toy soldier on horseback, an angel, and a big mouse. Well, twice on the big mouse, and believe me, she is still disappointed about it. She has been on pointe and in ballet shoes. She has had her hair curled and her face covered with a mouse head. The one year she missed was due to an injury, and she volunteered to help with the production even when she could not perform.

The Nutcracker is a huge commitment for everyone involved. Auditions are generally held at the end of summer, and practices take place every weekend for months until that one weekend in December. There are many families way more involved and committed to the experience than mine, but we each contribute in some way to make it work.

Honestly, I love to watch the show. I love dressing up and going out and sitting in that slightly uncomfortable concert hall seat. I love when the lights dim and the musicians play. I love the grandeur, and the tradition, and I love when I see my child take the stage for roughly five minutes, knowing that she will have this special experience of realizing the reward of her hard work and dedication as well as the thrill of taking the stage with professionals from around the world for an audience of over 3,000 people.

This year, my sister, LK, joined us to watch the show. After our delicious dinner, we went to the concert hall and took our seats. We had good seats too, almost in the middle of the row, closer to the front, a great spot to see all the action. The first act went off without a hitch, and I was impressed as always by the quality of the performance.

After a twenty-minute intermission, the second act began. I love the second act because that’s when all the trippy stuff happens in the Land of Sweets. Spanish, Arabian, Chinese, and Russian dancers all perform, and the music and choreography and costumes are mesmerizing. Indeed, we were all engrossed when it happened.

Sometime during the Arabian or Chinese dances, we heard this horrible sound. It came from two rows behind us, and it was like a splash, only human. A human splash. It wasn’t a sneeze or a cough; in fact, it was so unusual a sound to hear in public that at first we didn’t know what to make of it.

About thirty seconds later, it became aromatically clear that the sound we heard was, in fact, the spew of vomit. My sister is notoriously phobic about vomit, and E is almost as bad, so the fact that the two of them were in such close proximity to someone else’s puke and powerless to flee made all three of us anxious. We had to turn around repeatedly to see if it was directly behind us. The large man seated in that row may have been targeted. He had an awkward look on his face and moved around, unsure if he should stay seated or get up and leave. We took comfort in knowing it was at least a row away.

We covered our noses with our fingers, but seriously, the smell. E, who was not in the greatest of moods, courtesy of being seventeen, decided there was no way she could sit through the rest of the show. She did that thing where she would start to stand and then sit and then sort of squat because she didn’t want to be rude, but really, it was too late for that, all the while with that look on her face that showed her contempt for other people and crowds and bodily functions. I told her to go, and so she did.

At that point, my sister took E’s seat. Apparently, the woman next to her made the mistake of putting her purse on the floor, as well as the bottoms of her shoes. LK leaned into me and we covered our faces with our collars because our fingers alone were not enough of a filter. On my other side, my husband sat and watched the show, oblivious to the panic and disgust we were experiencing. He later said he could smell it but chose to ignore it. I insist that smelling vomit is not a choice.

With E gone and LK next to me, we turned back to the show, and damn if we didn’t miss almost all of the Chinese and Russian dancing. After a bit, the smell dissipated, or we adjusted like my husband, but we were able to make it through all of act two and curtain bows.

We met up with E in the lobby. She told us that after cleaning the soles of her shoes in the restroom, she sat on a bench by herself. Soon after, an older woman sat next to her, even though all the other benches were empty. She held in her hand a large trash bag, inside of which was her vomit-covered coat. She gave E a sheepish look, and E got up and moved to another bench.

I debated asking for a refund for E’s ticket. The seats were over 55 a head, and she was too grossed out to see the entire show. I also thought for about a minute or two that they should have turned on the lights and thrown some cat litter or baking soda all over that puke, but the show, as they say, must go on. There was nothing to do but sit and watch.

After congratulating S on another successful show, we spent the drive home discussing what would cause a grown woman not to get up and leave if she felt that she was going to be sick. She certainly wasn’t a child who may not understand that nauseated feeling, but an adult? And in a formal theatre? Again, it wasn’t a heavy metal show or a football game; it was the motherfucking ballet. Have some class, people.

I wanted to have some sympathy for the woman. She didn’t set out to ruin everyone’s evening. She didn’t feel well, and for whatever reason, she wasn’t able to leave before she got sick. But then I thought about the audition and all those Saturdays of practice and the hundreds of dollars spent for everyone to watch the show, and I decided no.

You ruined more than your own night; you ruined the performance for at least two rows of people. You made me miss the Chinese dance. Perhaps you should stay home and watch it on DVD, or, at the very least, bring a discreet bag with you. Pick an aisle seat maybe. Wait and eat after the show. Go to a different show, maybe Disney on Ice. I’m sure you won’t be the only one puking there.

A Little Bit of Pixie Dust

I haven’t written a blog in almost two months, and my silence is weighing heavily on my mind. It’s not that I haven’t had stories to tell, because there is always a story. It’s really a combination of things. They fit together like a puzzle that disappoints when you place that last piece, when you don’t have a sense of accomplishment, just the realization you have wasted your time.

The primary reason I haven’t blogged is my freelance work producing web content. I spend most of my days writing, just not writing anything fun. Now, if you are interested in the benefits of metal roofing or storage units or replacing your windows, then I’ve got you covered.

I do have to be creative to make boring topics semi-interesting, and I have to do it on strict deadlines and formats and word counts. I am writing more than ever, but none of it makes me feel very good, and it barely adds loose change to my pocket. The few cents a word helps to cover the occasional dinner out or birthday gift or shoe splurge, and I am gaining what I hope will be valuable experience, and so I persist.

In addition to not having as much time or as many creative sparks, I am struggling to find humor in the every day. This is a tough one for me, because laughing is my favorite. But ever since November 8, things just don’t seem so laughable anymore. Now, every day brings another brick of sadness and hurt. My disillusionment has become the existence of so many like-minded people, when every day I want to see what’s happening in our country and the world, and we sink lower than the day before. It’s a pretty hopeless feeling, and I can’t shake it.

Part of it is that what used to amuse me seems so trivial now, as if I am wasting time on frivolity that could be better spent bearing witness to the shit show into which our political system and government has devolved. Also, things seem personal now, and hurtful, and laughing at weird news feels cruel and sadistic. We have real problems to address, but now, we cannot rely on those in charge to weigh things like facts and reason and logic before making decisions. I feel a responsibility to pay attention even if I am powerless to do anything, and all that paying attention is exhausting.

I grew up in a less than happy home. My main coping mechanism was humor. It helped me survive a pretty rough childhood, and it’s been there like a touchstone throughout my adult life. Now, I feel deserted, and alone, and scared, and at a loss. I don’t know how to cope without an ability to find comedy in tragedy. Without the humor, it’s just pain.

I have been feeling like this for weeks, and I have hesitated to express it. I don’t want to sound melodramatic and fragile. I live a pretty nice life now. I am fortunate. The social issues that matter to me do not necessarily affect me directly, and I know I am lucky. People like me who are not in survival mode are exactly the ones who need to stand up for people who can’t for whatever reason do it for themselves. Maybe it’s the reform Jew in me, or the intellectual, or just the sensitive soul I am, but the compassion I wanted for myself when I was a child is what I now share with others in whatever small way I can. I am disheartened because it doesn’t feel like it’s enough to make a difference for anyone.

I am writing this now, at the beginning of December, when I normally try to write and post 12 blogs, my annual Twelve Blogs of Christmas. I have been trying to meet this goal I set for myself every year at a time when we are all feeling both the joy and stress of the holidays. This time of year is especially busy in my home. From October to January, it’s one celebration after another. Halloween, my older daughter’s birthday, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, New Year’s, and my younger daughter’s birthday. Throw in a good football season, and we have the makings of a mental breakdown’s worth of to-do lists and preparations. That’s a fuckton of work to be done, my friends.

In a good month, I may post two or three blogs, which as of late has dwindled to none. And now, at the start of December, I want to meet my goal. I want to take twelve moments out of my life or out of my mind, where I do most of my living anyway, and write them all down and share them with you. I can’t promise they are all going to be funny, but hopefully, they will be relatable. Who knows, maybe together, we can find a reason to get up every day and keep going in a pretty hopeless time. For me, it will be writing. For you, I have no idea, but maybe, just maybe, it will be reading.

For what it’s worth, this counts as number one. Eleven more to go. I would say game on, but I really hate that expression. Instead, I’ll leave you with this…HERE WE GO! Please read that in Peter Pan’s voice, because that’s how it sounds in my head.

Oh, the Horror

My teenage daughter, S, is solidly in her horror movie phase. Luckily, she doesn’t want to watch the gory movies because I would not be able to participate. I can’t butcher a chicken without feeling queasy, and even fake blood can make my stomach turn. She and I much prefer the kind of suspense that makes you watch from between your fingers or through the weave of a blanket, my preferred viewing method. I have seen more scary movies over the past year than I did in the previous forty-odd, but I suck it up in order to spend time with my lovely child, periodically shrieking and knocking over popcorn.

The good news is I am not nearly as frightened as I used to be. I am able to walk down the hall alone and use the bathroom by myself. I can even look in the mirror, and I don’t have to turn on all the lights. The bad news? I fear, between the constant creepy movies and the daily news, we may have become jaded. We don’t seem to scare quite as easily as we once did, yet the real world provides enough terror without having to search for it as entertainment.

A few months ago, my girls and I were at the beach for a long weekend. We brought along one of S’s beloved friends, AH, who shares S’s passion for spooky movies. We had gone out for dinner and decided to stop at a Redbox, one of those DVD vending rental machines, on the way back to the condo for a night of thrills and chills. My other daughter, E, stayed in the car in the Kroger parking lot because she has not only outgrown horror movies, she also insists she cannot sit still for over 90 minutes, even though she does it every day at school.

AH, S, and I stood in the fading sunlight by the outdoor Redbox kiosk, trying to agree on a movie. The usual underage degenerates squatted nearby on the bench, probably waiting to approach a sketchy adult to ask for an illegal beer purchase. We ignored them and got down to the business of selecting a movie, which was scary enough on its own. Three people trying to agree on anything? Someone could end up in a body bag.

As I scrolled through the titles, I read them aloud. Ouija Board? Stupid, they said. The Forest?Already seen it. The Visit? More funny than scary.  Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?  No, just no.

I made my case for the zombie movie. E was in the process of reading her first Jane Austin book for school, and I thought the movie would be great if she didn’t finish it in time, kind of like SparkNotes. S and AH thought it looked boring and stupid and definitely not scary.

I had the feeling we weren’t alone anymore. The little neck hairs stood up, telling me to turn around.

Directly behind the two girls, these young, vulnerable teenagers, stood a middle-aged man, reeking of alcohol. He sported a tank top and a leathery tan, an overgrown mustache, and some seriously bloodshot eyes.

He practically leaned into them, and he mumbled, “Whhaa arrre we playin’?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

He took a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket. “I gaaa a dollar for the nex’ game,” he said, and tried to push past us to shove a dollar into the Redbox.

I put my hand up in the universal Stop and Back the Fuck Up position. “Sir,” I said loudly. “This is a movie stand, and we are selecting a movie. You will need to step back until we have finished and then you can have a turn.”

S and AH were paralyzed with fear, eyes bulging and unblinking.“Don’t move a muscle,” I whispered through my teeth at them.

The man lurched closer and continued to slur his words in our direction and wave his sweaty dollar bill around. Finally, another intoxicated man came over and hauled him away, over to the rough-looking teenagers who thought they just won the jackpot. I glared at him until I was comfortable enough to turn back to the Redbox.

“Pride and Prejudice and Zombies it is,” I said to the girls. “We are not spending another second picking out a movie.” I swiped my credit card and grabbed the DVD, and we race walked back to the car, where E was waiting for us.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she greeted us warmly. “Where’s the fire?”

“Did you see that guy walk up to us?” I asked her.

S and AH both talked rapidly, over each other, to explain to E what had transpired at the Redbox.

E pointed at the man. “That guy?” she asked.

“Yes, him. God, he’s drunk,” I said.

“He smelled horrible,” S said, “like old beer bottles and raw onions.”

“And pee,” AH added.

“He just pulled up in that car over there,” E said. “He was the driver.”

The movie wasn’t very scary, but after the Redbox drunk, nothing fictional would have frightened us. I only hoped that when E had her test on Pride and Prejudice, she would throw in something about the zombies.

Collective Memories

15 years ago, the lives of almost 3,000 Americans were lost because of coordinated terror attacks. We could not have anticipated or prepared for such a horrific event; we could only respond with shock, with anger, with sadness, with fear, and ultimately, with distrust.

I don’t know if everyone remembers where they were that day. I remember. I had just dropped off my 20 month old at daycare. I was pregnant with child number two, my child who was born after 9/11. I went to Target, trying to get my errands finished early so I could go home and rest before I needed to pick up my daughter. Target was quiet, unusually quiet, even for an early morning. I walked around, throwing the items on my list into my cart. No one spoke to each other, as if we were all observing a moment of silence but we didn’t know why. I only knew that a plane crashed into one of the towers. I didn’t know that it was on purpose, or the first of four planes diverted.

I drove home and sat on the couch in front of the television. I flipped between several television channels for hours, watching the planes hit the towers, over and over again. I felt numb and alone, except for the child I was carrying, a child who would be born into a very different America than the one I knew as a child.

As we mourned the many losses we suffered that day, we became a different country. We gladly gave up a bit of personal freedom in the name of public safety. We were encouraged to turn in neighbors, to report suspicious behaviors. Our government patched together a plan, a reactive solution, and we reminded ourselves to never forget.

We reacted more, by removing shoes and nail clippers and shampoo bottles at the airport. We invaded countries that ultimately suffered worse at our hands than by their own. We demonized an entire religion based on a small percentage of evil people, and we turned fear into an American value.

What we did forget, in our goal of never forgetting, is what being free felt like. We lost our sense of hope and trust in other people. Our response as a nation centered on protecting ourselves from ever experiencing such terror again, yet we live with our own fear on a daily basis. I don’t know about you, but I am more frightened of the divisiveness and anger that has torn us apart than the possibility of another major violent attack.

Some other things we should never forget are other sad moments in our history. McCarthyism and the Red Scare. Japanese internment camps. Slavery. The Trail of Tears. We are not above committing some pretty heinous acts against each other as a country. How did we as a nation overcome them before? Where are those history lessons?

I don’t want to make America great again. I don’t know what that means. What I want is to feel safe and hopeful. I want my children to grow up without having active shooter drills at school or knowing where the closest exit is in the movie theater. I want us not to spend hours at the airport because we all have to take off our shoes, unless we want to pay more money for the privilege of keeping them on while skipping ahead in line. I want us to respect our police officers, but I also want them to rebuild community relationships. I want our leaders to be problem solvers, not finger pointers. I want us to all take a good, long look at our Constitution, not just the 2^nd amendment or part of the 1^st, and try to live by what we use as our guiding principles.

I want us all to do better, to be better people, to raise better children. Better isn’t about winning or making money; it’s about supporting one another, about showing kindness, about learning to trust, about listening instead of speaking, about thinking before acting. Better is when we all move ahead, instead of stepping on the backs of others to jockey for position. Is it a race, a contest, a journey? We all end up in the same place eventually, and I for one am not in a hurry to get there.

It is okay not to agree on everything. It is perfectly fine to discuss different ideas and not have a solution. It is one of the rights that we should exercise regularly.

I don’t know if the terrorists did this to us, or we did this to ourselves. We turned against each other. We suspended some of our core beliefs as a nation, and I don’t think we will ever be the same.

I know good people who do good things for others, and I cling to these examples to find my hope for the future. I try to teach my children to look for the good, and if they don’t see it, to be the good that other people see. I don’t know if that is enough to make a difference, but I like to think it is more effective than removing my shoes at the airport.

Progress, at What Cost?

As I was driving to Target yesterday, I passed a house that I always pass, but something was different. Along the road, at the corners of the property and next to the driveway, were tall wooden posts, the first signs of a fence that is being installed.

The fence made me sad. In a matter or days or weeks, depending on whether they are hiring someone or doing it themselves, that house and its surrounding yard will no longer be visible from the road.

I love to look at that house. It looks a bit like an out-in-the-country home, only new neighborhoods are encroaching on its isolated location. The house itself has some years on it. It has a front porch and is in need of a fresh coat of paint. I can picture a couple of cane-backed rocking chairs out there, but honestly, I have never noticed if they have rocking chairs. I may have missed my chance for clarification.

It’s not the house itself that draws my attention. It’s that magnificent yard. So much is happening out there. In one corner is an old RV, which may possibly be a room addition of sorts. There is a shed in the other corner, and in between, lots of things clutter the yard. There’s a crudely penned area on one side of the house, and in the back, what I think might be an above-ground pool.  Clothes lines, old bikes, a short windmill, mostly a bunch of junk, really, but not a bonafide junk yard. It’s the kind of yard that demands you pay attention, which so much to see, but no real sense of order. It would be fine in the country, which it used to be, but now, it looks a bit like an eyesore, probably more to the neighbors than to me. I find it fascinating.

The real reason I love the house is that I never know what animal I’m going to see in the front yard. I’m not talking dogs or cats or even a rogue chicken.

In the past, I used to see a mostly white swayback horse with a little age on it. It would mill about in front of the house, grazing on blades of grass that sprouted at random through patches of dirt. The horse had no lead, no supervision, and no fence. It would just stand in the yard and chew. I never saw it out in the road. That horse knew its boundaries.

I have driven by that house on and off for at least a decade. At first, I saw the horse almost every time, and then less and less, until finally, no more horse. Even though I never saw it, I still looked for it every time. Like the house itself, the horse had some years on it, and I figured nature took its course.

And then one day, I saw a pair of Sicilian donkeys. Regular donkeys are just sort of heehaw ho hum, but Sicilian donkeys? Holy hell, I want a dozen of them. They too hung out in the front yard, minding their own donkey business, doing their donkey thing. I took more trips to Target than a family of four warranted, in case I could catch a glimpse of those beautiful taupe mini donkey-donks just chilling in the yard.

Cute AF, am I right?

 

Then one day, there were three! A baby had been born, perhaps in a manger, and it was the cutest thing I had ever seen. The homeowners seemed more protective of the wee donkey, and at some point a makeshift corral was built to contain the family of three. I would slow down whenever I had occasion to drive by, grinning like a fool the whole time if I was lucky enough to spy them.

The donkeys, unfortunately, are no longer residents of the yard. I am convinced they were forced to give them away, because no one in their right mind would willingly part with a family unit of Sicilian donkeys.

And now, the tell-tale signs of a fence have been erected. I will be denied of my chance to eyeball the yard, looking for animals that seem so out of place on the way to Target. So yes, I am a little sad, because progress means more development, and development means country houses are no longer isolated, and maybe having a horse in the front yard is not the sort of thing that should be happening. Going forward, every time I pass that fenced-in house, I will reflect back to the good old days, when the country was the country, and donkeys and horses roamed freely in front yards.

In the Off Season

Last week, we celebrated Christmas in July, on July 25, to be exact. Yes, it’s the middle of summer, and to be fair, we are Jewish, but hear me out. I had my reasons, and they were all pretty good as far as I am concerned.

For starters, it’s hot, ungodly hot, the kind of heat that makes domestic abuse and other violent crimes increase. It is so hot you literally want to beat or murder another human, as if you needed another reason.

Also, it’s six months from Christmas. That’s a long time to wait for holiday fun. Think about it, other than summer vacations, what does the summer have going for it in the way of celebrations? Fireworks and red, white, and blue clothing? Hot dogs and hamburgers cooked on a grill? Watermelon seed spitting and competitive eating? None of those hold a cinnamon-scented candle to the winter holidays. There’s no gift exchange, no special decorations, not even any themed movies. And forget about Hanukkah in July. That has literally no ring to it. Plus, there is no way I am stinking up the whole house with the smell of fried potatoes.

Which brings me to the real reason we celebrated Christmas in July.  Have you seen Krampus, a movie loosely based on a German folktale about the darker side of Christmas? Krampus is a sort of half goat, half demon creature that punishes the bad boys and girls who don’t deserve Santa’s good graces, and seems to have that dark side we have come to expect from German traditions. The movie premiered last holiday season, but we did not get a chance to catch it at the theaters, and now it’s available on Redbox. It seemed wrong somehow to watch a holiday movie in the middle of summer….but if you make it a special occasion, well, you get Christmas in July.

I am known as one who likes to run with a theme. I sat down and came up with a whole menu and everything. Originally, it was going to be turkey sandwiches with cranberry mayo and decorated sugar cookies, but S, my daughter, didn’t like the idea of mayo on her sandwich, and I can barely stomach the mess of decorated cookies at Christmastime. We switched to roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, and frozen hot chocolate, most of which could be purchased from an upscale fancy grocery store and reheated at home. Score!

The day of the festivities arrived. I was working on an article about ways to keep cool during the heat of summer, which is one of the more interesting topics I’ve had from my freelance web content job, and I learned a few ideas during my research. Some of the weirder tips included spritzing your sheets with cool water before you slip into bed, which is a great way to get a head start on your night sweats, and putting a fan behind a big bowl of ice like it’s 1916. One of the other things I read suggested reversing your ceiling fans to run counter clockwise in order to push the cold air down.

I mentioned the fan trick to my husband while my daughter, S, and I sat on the couch, trying to keep cool and save energy by not moving any parts of our bodies. He said that went against logic and engineering, but if I read it on the Internet, it must be true, so we could give it a try. He reversed the direction on the fan. It slowed down, stopped, and then began turning in the opposite direction. My husband stood directly below it with his hand stretched in the air, trying to see if he could feel the cooler air.

And then, just like that, it started to snow.

Gentle puffs of built-up dust and cat hair floated down and settled on the coffee table, the sofa, even on S and me. The dust and funk of that ceiling fan that no one can reach blew softly around us like fat gray flakes before blanketing every surface underneath it.

“Look, snow! It’s snowing for Christmas in July!” I exclaimed.

“That’s disgusting, and it’s getting all over me,” S said.

“When was the last time you cleaned this fan?” my husband asked.

S sneezed, and my husband returned the fan to its normal clockwise setting. I got up and vacuumed all the snow dust.

“Gee, cold air,” he said, and walked into the other room to play the Centipede arcade game that he bought the family two Christmases ago.

Later, we listened to Bing Crosby crooning familiar carols while we ate our lukewarm mashed potatoes and rotisserie chicken. Even upscale fancy grocery stores ignore turkey in the summer months. After we cleaned up and made the frozen hot chocolate, we settled under blankets upstairs to watch Krampus, and for a moment, we forgot all about the summer heat.