by Patricia V. Davis

Photo Still: Actor Jon Hamm as 'Don Draper'

Are you engaged to be married, but no one in your circle seems as rapturous about it as you are? Is it possible that they see something to which your infatuation might ─ just might ─ have blinded you?

Well, once again, I, your Expert in Failed Relationships is here to help. The following are two dozen and one indicators that might be too subtle for a woman in love to pick up. Each one is almost a guarantee that you and your perfect love will end up in divorce court. (And please don’t ask me how I know):

1. If he has a neck tattoo he got in prison…
2. If he always calls your private parts by a four-letter word…
3. If he’s already complaining about your family…
4. If he lies to his friends about the fact that you’re a year older than he is…
5. If his religious rituals are too complex for you to understand…
6. If he owns designer socks and ties in seven shades of blue, and insists they must match exactly whenever he dresses, even though they all look the same to you…
7. If, even when just out for a casual car ride, he swears at other drivers…
8. If he reports to you that his friends are upset about something you said or did…
9. If he cheated on someone to go out with you…

10.   If he drinks lemonade when he’s paying and single malt scotch when he’s not…

11.  If he forgets the name of your child from your previous marriage…

12.  If he asks you to sign a pre-nup, but you’re the one who waitressed tables to put him through medical school…

13.  If his first sexual encounter was with a prostitute that an older male family member ‘treated’ him to on his fourteenth birthday…

14.   If he laughs when someone compliments your outfit…

15.   If he thinks homosexuality is “learned”…

16.   If he refuses to run out and buy you emergency tampons…

17.   If female airline pilots make him “nervous”…

18.   If, at your engagement party, he whispers to your sister that he wonders what would have happened if he had met her first…

19.   If you find fetish magazines he’s hidden under the laundry hamper in the bathroom…

20.   If he snorts when you voice your political views…

21.   If you cook his favorite dish as a surprise and his response is that it’s not the way his mother makes it…

22.  If he complains it takes you too long to reach orgasm…

23.  If he knows the difference between your salary and his to the penny, and he makes a lot more or a lot less than you do…

24.  If he mentions that if he were gay, he’d sleep with your best friend’s husband…

25. If he has a neck tattoo he got in prison.

by Peter McCarthy

One of the challenges of being a sweet and innocent young lad recently escaped from the iron grip of the Sisters of Occasional Mercy, is that your fellow male Aussies feel it is their duty to thrust you into a world full of adventure. It all sounds like fun, but when you start drinking alcohol you rapidly discover that:

• You can’t last very long standing at the bar.
• If it was fun, you can’t remember a blessed thing about it, so you missed it, anyway.
• You may well have made an absolute fool of yourself.
• The next morning death seems imminent.

Eventually you work it out, but sometimes not too quickly. Years can pass before you settle down. Once you have been through the trial of learning to drink, (and I have proudly reached the dizzying heights of a 2-can screamer) the next thing your “friends” decide to help you with is losing your virginity, or as it is known colloquially, ‘getting the dirty water off your chest.’

This is a hell of a lot harder than getting a beer, I can tell you.

With the hormones raging and thinking everyone else has ‘done it’ and also being clueless at reading body language, you probably do need some help to get started, but I’m afraid friends are probably the worst help you are ever going to get. In all honesty, they probably have the same level of experience as you, and are hoping to learn from your mistakes.

About this time the idea of going to a strip show pops up, though how this fits in with relating to women I don’t quite get. Sure it’s rather fun and exciting, but it’s more distraction than constructive, being about much use to your love life as was falling in love with Sister Petra back in the 5th grade.

Nonetheless, it still happens, and here is where innocence strikes again. Melbourne used to have a rather handy venue called ‘The Sandra Sands”, with a burlesque show accompanying their counter lunch. Quite handy, really, to satisfy three appetites on your lunch break, counting the beer. And in those days, I worked for Telstra, so a liquid lunch was quite acceptable. (I was just trying to fit in, mind you).

At least I was half smart. I thought I might be a target being as I was so inept with the ladies, and as I also wear glasses, (which turned out to be a handy prop for a stripper, as I was soon to discover) I cleverly placed myself halfway along the table so I wasn’t too close to the stage. Untouchable, I thought.

But as it turns out, this stripper was a cunning young lady who deftly stepped from the stage onto the table, and my specs were whipped away before I was able to defend myself. Now the gentle reader might think that this was an educational experience as the stripper held my glasses in front of various parts of her body that I was not intimately familiar with. But alas, I couldn’t see a damn thing even after I retrieved my glasses, now with a mess of fingerprints all over them.

Eventually, the exquisite humiliation was at an end well before I had my wits about me, so all the humorous comments I was to think of later came long after their chance to be uttered.

Did this help me in my continuing search for a replacement for Sister Petra?

No. She did eventually slip from first position on my list of ‘Most Wonderful Women’,

as the safer way to love ─ married life ─ developed as a very real possibility.

I still have the greatest respect for those formative nuns and strippers. Though I know life can be tough on those who choose either lifestyle, I hope their lives have been as much fun and as rewarding as mine has been.

A Satire by Stefanie Freele

Ballpark, Michigan: Mary Martha Seaton, age 42, eight months pregnant and proud mother of seven, pushes one full grocery cart and tugs another through the “Bed and Bath’ aisle of her nearest Walmart, ten miles away from her home in Ballpark Michigan. “I’ll be so glad when they build the new Walmart two blocks from my home.” She wipes her brow and one of her baby’s cheeks with her sleeve. “Between you and me,” she whispers, “I have more money now than I know what to do with. I mean, how many trailers can one person live in?”

Mary Martha Seaton is just one of the newly affluent mothers who have taken advantage of the government draft program, ‘Young Guns.’ For each child she signs into the military to join the forces in Iraq, she receives $25,000 tax free. “Danny Jo here is one of the first military personnel drafted en-vitro.” she pats her belly “She’s going to work in ballistics. I just know she’s got a head for detail.” The other seven, Jeremy, age 8, is planning to be a paratrooper; Joey, 7, is interested in submarine warfare; Cindy Mae, 6.5 (“.5″, she emphasizes) plans to be in the Coast Guard because she loves water; Timothy, 5, will be in charge of cloud seed-planting and other offensive weather tactics; Zach, 4, isn’t sure what branch he’d like to be in, but would like to carry an M16.

“The money isn’t just for diapers.” Mary Martha points out. “It’s to help me help my children help the government. I’m so proud of them.” She hugs each one cheek to cheek for the camera.

Washington rumors include an increase from the $25,000 to $30,000 after the first of the year. Congress is currently approving a measure to double the incentive for any children born with clefts in their chin. Senator Shitake explains, “Men and women with clefts in their chin are looked up to. It is a strong leadership symbol. If you think about it, who would say no to John Travolta in a uniform? Even Sandra Bullock would be intimidating with an AK47.”

Some say project Young Guns is taking the financial incentive idea a bit too far. Jerry Littleseed, Walmart shopper in the ‘Lamp and Light Bulb” aisle, is infuriated. “Children should know there are other options. Who will be a barista or an arcade attendant, if all the children are in the military?”

Senator Shitake pshaws such nonsense. “Babies have a natural sense of fight in them. After all, for nine months they’ve been held captive. Their born with the zest for battle. It’s usually suppressed after birth by the excessive presence of pastel.”

Seaton agrees. “My infants were each wrapped in Confederate flags at the hospital. Every moment of their lives is leading toward preparation to fight in Iraq. For dolls, I only let them play with Taliban figurines and Army men. I’m really excited to see that Walmart is now carrying the ‘Prisoner-Of-War Torture Variety Kit’. I’ve been looking for it everywhere.”

Walmart officials are ecstatic over the Young Guns policy. “We are expanding Walmart to every nook and cranny. Not just medium-sized towns anymore. Parents have so much extra cash to spend and are plopping out so many rugrats that we’re expanding to any town that has at least one intersection. Eventually, everyone in the country should be able to walk to the nearest Walmart after the planet runs out of oil,” Night shift manager Ed Grease reports.

How long with this go on? The Treasury Department, already printing bills as fast as their machines can spit them out to cover war expenses, will be expanding soon. “Let’s just face it,” says an anonymous Washington DC aide. “The Iraq war will not be coming to an end in any of our lifetimes. There is far too much at stake here to end a war now. If it were up to me, the war in Iraq definitely wouldn’t come to a halt until there is a Walmart near my house. I’m sick and tired of driving fifteen minutes to get my favorite frozen wontons.”

Photo from PeopleofWalmart.Com

The return of the space shuttle Endeavour on July 31 marked a great leap forward in the history of underpants. Returning to Earth was Astronaut Koichi Wakata of the Japanese space agency, JAXA, who had secretly been testing super jocks during his four months on the International Space Station.

According to this daring astronaut, he had been wearing the high-tech undies for 30 days without a let up, and with no complaints from his fellow travellers. But, I’m not sure that this rates as scientifically proven. Perhaps his compatriots were simply too polite to say anything, and were always grateful when the chance came along to take a space walk.

Assuming the designers did come up with a stunning breakthrough, the abilities of the new undergarment are quite impressive. Called J-Wear, it is made of cotton and polyester with a silver coating and is anti-static, flame-resistant, odour-eating, bacteria-killing, and water-absorbent.

Water-absorbent?

I guess everyone attends to their own used underwear as they like.

Actually, it sounds like an innovation that might come in handy when I hit the retirement home in a few years time.

However, the reason for designing this new piece of ‘astrogear’ is quite sensible. Currently, all astronauts used underwear is ejected from space vehicles and burns up during re-entry. Astronauts have to take enough underwear to last for the expected duration of their space trip, and if they are going to the International Space Station, this can be several months’ worth.

If a decision is made to send humans to Mars then the trip is going to take about 214 days (7 months). Assuming there are several crew members, all without the new undergarment tested by Astronaut Koichi , one can visualise a bright shiny capsule arriving above Mars with a trail of soiled laundry flying along in formation above the Red Planet. If they circle the planet for a day or two before landing, the astronauts will be treated to the planet’s first display of flaming skivvies.

And still thinking along those lines, one might wonder how many folk have thought they’ve wished on a falling star, when in reality it was just some astronauts used unmentionables.

Last 5 posts by Peter McCarthy

• The Nun and the Stripper - December 17th, 2010
• Can the Pope Be Detained? - June 29th, 2010
• Pissy Could Drink - July 1st, 2009
• Do Violent Video Games Actually Teach Us to be Peace-loving? - April 23rd, 2009
• Australia’s Reaction to the Election of Barack Obama - February 13th, 2009

Here in Seattle, it’s known as Soak ‘Em* and back in 1979, when I was in the seventh grade, it was more brutal than any other game our emotionally damaged gym teacher could select from his vast trunk of torturous and humiliating activities. Hands down, Soak ‘Em was more painful than touch football, more dangerous than archery, more tiring than soccer, and mortifying beyond even the most ridiculous of square dance movements.  Early on, that simple game was probably the single most constant reminder that starting school a year early only benefited me intellectually; from a physical and emotional standpoint, I was completely out of my league – pretty much a Dodgeball practice dummy with a high-school reading level.

Soak ‘Em was never offered up merely as a suggestion; subjecting my head, neck and groin to forty minutes of constant bombardment was absolutely required, because middle school P.E. instructors are all vampiric imps that feed of the negative energies emitted by tormented schoolchildren.

But just as a Buddhist monk is thankful to his poverty for reminding him of the true purpose of life, so must I be grateful for having had the opportunity to learn of life’s cruelly neutral nature at such a young age through strictly imposed violent sports. Indeed, the hardships brought about on the Dodgeball court are, to a diminutive twelve-year-old, every bit as significant as the trials of monastic Buddhist life, if nowhere near as admirably recognized.

Unlike so many other experiences that similarly offered no choice in the matter – circumcision and inoculations are some colorful examples – the subjugation of Soak ‘Em was something I refused to just resign myself to. There really wasn’t much I could take away from being stabbed in the arm with a hollow needle, but numerous were the life lessons I took away from that form of legalized child abuse known as junior high Dodgeball

Endurance

Obviously, the game was all about endurance. Players had to withstand perpetual salvos of red, rubber artillery without the convenience of bunkers and foxholes, so we found ourselves doing a lot of running. A lot of running. My legs being shorter than everyone else’s, I did the most running.

Now, there were a small handful of rules, one of which outlawed throwing “sidearm” and another that limited shots to below the shoulders; no head shots, in other words. The latter rule was not very well thought-out, however, or it might have been amended to include no shots below the knees because the lumpy mouth-breathers, already pissed off about the “no sidearm” rule, intentionally turned their aim to the opponent’s feet.

Here’s the math: Running Full Speed + Dodgeball to the Feet = Wicked Painful Gym-Floor Face-Plant.

I’m here to tell you – few things build one’s endurance like ducking and weaving until completely winded before being violently slammed to the ground. After a while, I started to realize that the hardwood hurt less and less; the rubber slowly but surely lost its sting.

Confidence

For the longest time, I had been content to hang in the back, dodging and ducking; it passed the time and kept the injuries to a minimum. But my strategy changed dramatically with the realization that I could withstand a solid blow to the torso from both ball and gym floor alike. It occurred to me that if I were skilled enough with my hands, I could use this new found invulnerability to completely turn the game around. All I had to do was master catching the ball. If I could train my fingers to be sticky, I could own this fucking game.

Just like that, in a single epiphany, my confidence shot up through the roof. I moved forward from the back of the court, implicitly challenging the largest of the lummoxes to turn their bullying gaze upon me. At first, I was insignificant. In spite of my new found bravado – perhaps even because of the sheer absurdity of it – the sweaty troglodytes saw me as less than a threat and I was mostly ignored…

…until I finally made a catch and hurled the ball at the ankles of the largest goon present with accuracy that can only be described as providential. The kid went down like a tranqued silverback, and the resultant thud seemed to bewilder the opposing team long enough for my teammates to seal victory. I had personally eliminated two of them inside four seconds, and even though I ended up being knocked out of the game before it was over, I knew I’d reached a turning point and it felt great.

Strength

With the endurance to stay in the game and the confidence to get aggressive, I was finally in a prime position to go about giving the big guys a taste of their own medicine. Unencumbered by self doubt and fear of bruises, I found that the entire dynamic of the game changed completely. Their girth only made them easier to hit, while, conversely, my smaller stature had suddenly become a major asset. They weren’t as quick as I was, which meant that the balls near the center line were no longer solely their easy pickings. Dropping that first kid had shown me that pain is universal, so I knew all that was left was to match their throwing velocity. A cross-hatched welt on the lower back was the precise opposite of fun, regardless of the size of the recipient.

I began concentrating, really focusing, on winging that ball as hard as I possibly could. The temptation to slip into sidearm was great, but the desire to remain in the game was greater. I hadn’t the physical strength of my adversaries, but spurred on by their winces and angry barks, I found that with each throw, my technique got better and better. And better technique meant harder throws, my size notwithstanding. Before long, I was a force to be reckoned with.

Oh sure, my adversaries had plenty of chances to serve up revenge, but even as I fought to keep from having my face shoved into a urinal or my entire head wrapped in medical tape, I knew there’d come a day when we’d play Soak ‘Em again. That triumphant knowledge was all I needed to survive junior high school.

From there, it was just a matter of seeing life as one big Dodgeball game.

*The name has nothing to do with fluids of any kind and I use it interchangeably with ‘Dodgeball’ in this essay.

Last 5 posts by Kirk Starr

• Bodhisattva Bowwow - April 23rd, 2009
• Immortal Kombat - February 1st, 2009
• Brown Belt, Black Shoes - January 1st, 2009
• You Can't Get Good Help These Days - July 19th, 2008
• Macho Cheese - June 20th, 2008

Attention Deficient Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD) seems to be running rampant, tearing the limbs off Barbie dolls and smashing its toy cars against the wall, within our pre-school population these days.

Doctors, psychologists and educators are so darn quick to recommend medications for this problem. But any savvy mother can calm her four-year-old and increase his attention span the natural way, without spending her hard-earned pennies from her part-time job at Hooters to buy Ritalin for her child.

First, just a few dietary changes will help your little one relax and keep focused on his daily pre-school tasks. But here’s where you really need to be a parent, for godssakes. Even if your child insists he needs more to jumpstart his day, limit his morning mugs of coffee to two.

Since broccoli is known for its calming effects, add some to his bowl of Sugar Blast Cereal each morning. Chop the vegetable into very small pieces and your four-year-old probably won’t even notice it’s in there, especially if his cereal is an artificially colourful one. You can also slice open the Twinkie you give him for lunch and sprinkle a bit of all-natural dried valerian or pretty California poppy over the white cream. Then just close up that pastry again and your child’s afternoon in the classroom will be a tranquil one. (Be careful not to use too much dried herb. Side effects can include cramping and mild hallucinations.)

In addition, regular and consistent bedtimes are a must for any child to maintain an unperturbed demeanour. In bed by midnight may seem a bit harsh, but your child’s teacher and playmates will thank you for it!<

Now that your pre-schooler has been soothed without nasty drugs, he’s ready for some special activities and brain exercises that will enhance his ability to concentrate. Here are some you can try:

1)        At home – if you have a weekly cleaner, take your child aside while she’s there one afternoon and whisper to him that the cleaner is actually his real mother, whilst you are just watching him for her temporarily. Explain to your four-year-old that this is why she’s there every week. The moment his “real mother” sees him misbehaving, she’ll take him back to his “real house,” where she’ll teach him better manners. This exercise will increase your child’s strategic thinking skills. If he’s reasonably bright, you’ll immediately see the thoughts processing in his brain by the expression on his face. You’ll know this exercise is working for sure by his lengthy focus on the cleaner and when he formulates questions like this one, “Why don’t I look like her?” Tell him it’s because he looks his real father, whom he hasn’t met yet. This will give him even more opportunity to exercise his reasoning abilities.

2)        At the baker’s – a simple trip to purchase fresh bread can be an exercise in attentiveness for your little tyke. Lean down to him and whisper, “Can you keep a secret?” When he says “yes,” point to the baker’s chocolate-stained white apron and whisper that those brown stains are dried blood. Tell him that the baker keeps an alligator pit in the back room and that sometimes he lures children back there for the alligators to eat, by offering the children a free biscuit. Tell him to watch the baker very carefully and see if he smiles at any of the children in his shop. His smile means he’s happy that he’s picked out a new, tasty child for his pet alligators to have for lunch. After your child absorbs this information, have him utilise his reasoning aptitudes by asking him to guess which child he thinks the baker will pick next.

3)        Your place of worship is another venue to balance out any lack your pre-schooler might have in attention span. It doesn’t matter what faith that is. In every organised religion, there are gory parts and the crucial thing is to explain each and every one of those disgusting details to your little one. The crucifixion of Christ, the oppression of the Jews, the massacre of the Muslims, are all bloody and excruciating tales. The more you embellish the gruesome side of your beliefs, the more riveted your child will be. My experience has been that this sort of talk can fixate children for hours. He’ll get plenty of practice sitting still and paying attention as you relate accounts like these. You can even tell these tales at home, in lieu of a bedtime story. (But, remember – in bed and fast asleep by midnight.)

Utilising these techniques will eliminate your child’s need for drug therapy, for sure.

(photo above- ‘Dr’. Davis takes one of her young charges on a riveting expedition, guaranteed to keep children focused and paying attention!)

(Originally published in the UK’s Happy Woman Magazine at: www.happywomanmagazine.com)

Last 5 posts by Patricia Volonakis Davis

• A Girl, a Boy, and a Fountain - July 1st, 2010
• Podcast Interview with James Redford: “I Ask Myself ─ Even if Nothing Comes of It, Will it Enrich My Life by My Having Spent Time on It?’” - June 24th, 2010
• Podcast Interview with author Scott James: “People Don’t Want the Government in their Bedrooms” - March 4th, 2010
• Catching Up with Some of Our Previous Podcast Interviewees - March 3rd, 2010
• Podcast Interview with Michael Larsen & Elizabeth Pomada - February 3rd, 2010

My boss, feeling that his devoted and talented Advertising staff had kicked quite a substantial amount of ass last quarter, took us all out for lunch Friday and then to the Seattle Art Museum to see the Roman Art from the Louvre exhibit. It was, overall, a delightful time, though the experience did ironically force me to endure a level of inelegance for which I was terribly unprepared.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Pacific Northwest region of the U.S., the city of Seattle is located on a waterfront, which is to say that being downtown is much like being in an open-air fish cannery only with less mackerel blood and more hobo urine. Pretty much everything along the waterfront itself is, as you would imagine, maritime themed. This is because it is impossible to think about anything else when your every sense is being assaulted by the countless and odious essences that waft in off the ocean. When all you see is water and wood pilings; when chum is the only aroma; when you open your mouth to say something and immediately taste brine; when the din of seagulls, ships and foghorns becomes a white noise; when everything you touch is either slimy or gritty… well, let’s just say an environment like that does not readily inspire visions of shiny technology, fine woodworking, and glossy metropolitan chic. No, when you’re on the waterfront, you feel like a fisherman – from the cracked lips and cold ears right on down to the unending desire to drink yourself dead.

But if sea life and all its related rankness doesn’t perturb you too badly, there are some really neat things to see, such as the peculiarities at Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe. There’s nothing like looking at a two-headed calf suspended in a jar of formaldehyde to make you forget how disgusting the waterfront is.  Seattle’s fish district is an enormous tourist attraction. This is because most tourists think anything so drastically different than home is worth spending far too much money to experience. Hell, people will shell out thirty clams per person just for the opportunity to eat actual clams the way I imagine actual hyenas might eat actual clams.

Which brings me to the irony I mentioned earlier of becoming completely repulsed during an excursion to view some of the most beautiful artwork in human history. It so happens that the Seattle Art Museum resides very close to the waterfront. It shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn it was decided lunch would also be consumed on this selfsame locale. It makes sense after all, doesn’t it? Consider: the museum is in Seattle. Seattle is a port city. Therefore, logic dictates lunch absolutely must consist of boiled crustaceans and mollusks. Anything else would unravel the very fabric of reason that holds the universe together. And so it was that reservations had been acquired at a lovely little wharf-front eatery known as The Crab Pot. I had been informed prior to the event that The Crab Pot was one of those novelty restaurants – you know, places that feel the need to adopt a gimmick in order to peddle their (in this case smelly and offensive) wares. This, I was assured, meant good times for all.

So we arrive at the so-called “restaurant” and sit down to a thirteen foot long table covered with…

.. .wait for it…

… butcher paper. As far as I can tell, someone’s going to slaughter a hammerhead right there in front of us as we enjoy our complimentary bread and water*.

And then I spy my first random disgusting item: a saltshaker covered in the resultant goop of someone else’s seafood-crazed orgasm. Beginning at the moment my cerebral cortex decoded the visual data, my desire to eat lasted about as long as a virtual electron-positron pair. That’s a fancy way of saying I immediately lost my appetite.

Nevertheless, I ordered the Colossal Burger, one of only three meat offerings not of the cold-blooded variety. And for the record, a forty-two pound wad of ground beef on a bun was the smallest portion I could order. There was no ‘Moderation Burger.’ I guess in their zealous love of seafood, they figured whoever ordered a cheeseburger at a fish joint deserved to force down half a cow – it would be their own fault for hating fish and being in Seattle at the same time.

Pretty much everyone else ordered The Westport, or as I like to call it, ‘The Shellfish Orgy.’ With the Shellfish Orgy, they just come along and dump bowls of briny bits right onto the table. Clams, mussels, shrimp, two kinds of crab, Andouille sausage, corn on the cob, and red potatoes all piled right there in front of you like so much animal fodder.

Your silverware consists of a shrimp fork and a wooden mallet. You just bib up and start in crushing exoskeletons with a hammer! That’s the elegance of the seaport.

“No point in concerning yourself with dishes or hygiene, laddie; you might be sucked overboard on the morrow! So roll up your sleeves and revel up to your armpits in the salty, smelly moment!”

Real sailors and fishermen, I’m told, don’t bother to de-poop their shrimp, either.

* Have you ever noticed that bread and water are the staple complimentary items at both American restaurants and Turkish prisons?

I listen to Pete (my husband) talk about poker the same way he listens to me talk about Harry Potter. I have no clue why it’s so important to him, I just know it is. Very, very important. Therefore, just like he sits there and nods his head, making sure he keeps eye contact with me, so I don’t catch on to how bored he is when I say things like, “Dementors,” “Dumbledore” and “Diggory,” I return the courtesy when he repeats certain phrases endlessly, such as “down the river,” “on the button,” “the flop,” “bad beats” and my personal favorite, “Because in poker, sometimes stupid wins.”

So far, only that last one makes any sense to me. The others, after several years of hearing them, are juuust about starting to sink in. I don’t get it, but it doesn’t matter, because Pete loves poker and I love Pete. So much so, that when he told me that his dream was to go to Vegas and play in the World Series of Poker main event, I told him, “You should go, then.” I even booked him a room.

This is bigger than you might think, if you know even less about poker than I do. The main event of The World Series of Poker costs ten thousand dollars to enter and that’s without the expenses of room, food, transportation, etc. Even though I booked the least expensive room I could find (at Circus Circus, which these days has degenerated to pretty much the equivalent of sleeping out on the main strip) and even though Pete can quite happily live on one meal a day, you’ve got at least another two thousand in expenses. So ‘twelve g’s’ at least and of course, there’s no guarantee that when you’re in, you’ll get, to use more card player lingo I’ve picked up, “in the money.”

Still, I booked the room and told him, “Listen, you’re fifty-two and not getting any younger. It’s time to do this now, if it’s what you want. You’ve worked hard all your life, you deserve this. You’re a good poker player. So, you’re going. No arguments.”

Pete said, “Wow. Wait till I get there and tell everyone that my wife forced me to play in The World Series of Poker.”
Yeah. Right.

But you don’t know Pete. About two months later, on Father’s Day, no less, during the time all the boys are ringing up to say, “Hey, Dad,” and chat with him a while, I hear him shout. I jump up and start barrelling towards his office, but he’s already on his way out to me. We stop dead, staring at each other. He’s got a beaming smile on his face and the last time he gave me such a bone-crushing, jubilant hug was the day I said I would marry him.

He’d won a seat. He’d been playing in an online poker tournament sponsored by Poker Stars with almost 7,000 other people. He’d needed to knock out all but 219 of them. Only 220 out of 7,000 got an all-expenses paid ticket to play in the main event of the World Series of Poker and Pete was one of them. He was over the moon.

That week last year was an exciting week for my husband. He flew to Vegas, called me every day and regaled me with tales of where he was, what he was doing, what else was happening around him and who he saw. (Jamie Gold and Toby McGuire, just to name two. I had to ‘google’ that first guy, but I’d seen the Spider-Man movies. Spider-Man‘ plays championship poker, in case you didn’t know it.) Another thing that thrilled him was that Poker Stars gave all their tournament winners free t-shirts. Getting a free t-shirt is, in my husband’s opinion, right up there with playing poker, watching baseball and eating graham crackers and peanut butter for lunch every day.

Then the tournament started. A lot of people love poker, apparently. Over 12,000 people had entered, from which the organizers had collected over 100 million dollars in cash. Pete needed to get through three days of 14-hours-a day of poker at least. The heat in Vegas at this time of the year is excruciating and the interiors of the casinos are at any given time, 30-50 degrees colder than what it is outside. You get three bathroom breaks, a lunch and a dinner break. Like I say, I don’t know why over 12,000 people think this is worth ten thousand dollars, but…okay. It must have something to do with the millions of dollars you win if you make it to the final table.

Pete wasn’t one of those nine people. He was out by the end of the first day. All that day, I’d willed the phone not to ring. I knew if it did it would be him, saying he was out and I just couldn’t take it if that happened to him. At six o’clock in the evening, I went out and came back around ten. Sometime between six and ten, Pete had left me this message: “I’m out of the tournament. I played like crap and I just want you to know that, because I don’t even want to mention poker when I call you tomorrow.”

The part you need to pay attention to is the, “I played like crap,” part. After marrying Pete and getting four extra sons as a bonus, as well as having one of my own, I’ve learned a thing or two about the ‘testosterone set.’ They don’t sit around drinking apple martinis with their friends, commiserating and sympathizing when something goes wrong. Sympathy is anathema to them. Especially if they’ve screwed up. I’m not joking. It’s bad enough losing, but if they’ve lost because they think they didn’t do their best, it’s absolutely worse than being maimed. And the last thing they want to hear is what I and all the females I know want to hear when we screw up, “Aw, honey, come on – you’re usually so good. You’re the best to me, you know. You’ll get another chance.”

F*** that. Do that and they’ll spit tacks at you. No, the best thing you can do to show them your support, respect and love when this kind of stuff happens; in the case of my husband and boys, when they’re playing baseball, poker or music, is to do nothing at all. If you feel you must say something, you just get to say three little words and they’re not the three words you might be thinking. You can say, if it’s your husband, “that sucks, hon.” Or if it’s one of your sons, you say, “that sucks, kid.” Then walk away and leave them alone, to lick their wounds by themselves. I know its hard to imagine, yet that’s just what they want you to do, just what they need. But there’s something that I need. I need to say that I think Pete is great. He is a star and he should have won. Failing that, he should have at least made it through the first day, not just because he really is a great poker player, but because I love him and I wanted him to.

“I love you,” are the three words I couldn’t say to Pete the day he was knocked out, because that day, they just wouldn’t have hit his ear as well as “that sucks, hon.” But I needed to say them, just because he lost and wanted so much to win. So, I hope you won’t mind that instead of saying them to Pete directly, I say them to him here:

I love you, hon, and
…there’s always this year….