How to win a prize you didn't mean to enter

I was invited to attend the annual Semi-Formal Odessa Soirée and live auction on Friday, May 2, and let me tell you—it was one for the books.
Let me take you to the scene of my latest public lesson: Odessa’s Town Hall during a semi-formal soiree. Fancy silent auction tables hugged the walls, the center of the room was all elegance and fairy lights, and wine and beer tasting stations dotted the room like little adult reward zones.

Clark—our resident MC and part-time voice of fall sports—was on the mic, cracking jokes and keeping spirits high. Barbara was zipping around the kitchen with a squad of high school boys in tow, all collecting volunteer hours and looking slightly overwhelmed. Nancy? Oh, Nancy was doing everything. She was slicing fake $100 bills in half (don’t ask—another drawing), parading around auction items, and somehow managing to be in six places at once.

It was finally time for the prize drawings. First up: the wine pull. Pay $20, pull a cork, get a mystery bottle. I scored a $50 bottle and felt like a fancy wine person until someone else walked out with a $15,000 bottle and someone else, I kid you not, pulled a $3 grocery store chardonnay. The wine gods giveth and they taketh away.

Then came The Drawing.

There were two decks of cards. One had Rosie the Riveter on the back and the other didn’t. For reasons still unclear to me—divine instinct or general chaos—I thought Rosie seemed like bad luck. I picked from the other deck. Nancy sliced my card in half (because that’s what we were doing, apparently) and I tucked it in my wallet without a second thought. I never even looked at it. Big mistake.

Clark called for someone to draw the first card to kick off the game. I was already up front taking photos for the paper, so naturally, I volunteered. I reached into the basket, didn’t even glance at what I pulled, and handed it over to Clark like the confident, over-helpful fool that I am.

He began his slow elimination process.

“Anyone with a red card—sit down.”

“Cards nine and under—sit down.”

“Face cards—sit down.”

And then... silence. Like, full-on silence. Five long, painful, socially anxious minutes of silence. The room scanned itself. People looked confused. Someone whispered, “Whoever has the card must be bad at cards.” I laughed nervously. Then paused. Then had a horrible thought.

Wait... surely not.

I slowly reached into my wallet. I pulled out the card. Flipped it over.

OH. NO.

It was the winning card. The one Clark had been announcing. My card. The wrong-deck-but-still-somehow-winning card.

You ever feel your face turn a shade of red previously unknown to human biology? That was me. Stomach dropped. Legs wobbled. I held up the card like a hostage note and said, “It’s me.” The crowd erupted in laughter. Clark made a joke I couldn’t hear because my brain was doing gymnastics and my Apple Watch pinged me with a very unhelpful, “Looks like you’re working out. Want to record this exercise?”

I told Clark to draw again—I couldn’t possibly accept. But Nancy, sweet persistent Nancy, came running. “Nope! You won. Pick a prize!”

Then Stan Dammel grabbed my camera, probably sensing the paper would need a photo of this. I handed it over without argument.

We took a photo—Clark and I, me looking like I’d just walked onstage at the Oscars with toilet paper on my shoe. My soul left my body. I do not do crowds. There’s a reason I went to film school: I like being behind the lens, not in the spotlight with shaky hands and an accidental prize win.

Nancy led me to the prize table. I was allowed to choose one item from the live auction—some exclusions applied (sadly, I could not walk out with a seven-day Alaskan cruise). I spotted a Ninja ice cream machine and got giddy. I’ve been wanting to try making low-sugar sorbet. So I pointed to it.

Nancy smiled. “Great choice!” She grabbed the placard and told the MC and auctioneer what I picked.

That’s when I noticed something.

It wasn’t just an ice cream maker. It came with a full margarita setup, including three bottles of liquor.

So now I’m the proud owner of a guilt-won ice cream margarita set. And honestly? I’m 22 (and by the time you read this, 23). What twenty-something wouldn’t call that a win?

I finally sat down. Took a breath. Tried to figure out what just happened. The only thought that made sense: Good lord. Only I could do something like this.

So, Odessa. And dear Healthcare Foundation. If you're reading this: I did not mean to pick my own card. But if you invite me to another event and you specifically request that I bring ice cream or margaritas—I’m your girl. I owe you one.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, this editor is off to figure out how to make low-sugar ice cream without accidentally fermenting something.