Gamblers Annonymous

Tom is playing poker. Again.

It's an addiction.

Mine.

When he first started playing, he set up the rules.

1. He would always ask if it's okay if he goes out to play. (No matter how many times I remind him that I'm not his mother, he still asks if he can do stuff. It's cute.)
2. His buy-in cash comes from his "petty cash" for the week. I never have to contribute from my "play" money.
3. If he wins less than $40, I get all of the profit.
4. If he wins more than $40, we split the profit equally.

He plays in a weekly league and at least once on the weekend. Some women would probably complain. Not this one. Why?

I'm the one who instigates most of his nights at the table.

I love money. All money but especially money that wasn't earned, money taken from friends and strangers alike.

I love money so much that I could be on that VH1 reality show if it wasn't for the pesky fact that my bikini days are far behind me.

Tom plays well into the night. I am usually asleep when he gets home. If I wake up when he climbs into bed. I say, "How was your night?" which we both know is code for "Will I be shopping tomorrow?" If he says he lost, I roll over and pout my way into a restless slumber. If he wins, I drift off peacefully with visions of shopping bags dancing in my head.

It's even better when I don't wake up when he gets home. When that happens, I wake up like a kid on Christmas morning, wondering if I got presents or coal. I don't begrudge pre-dawn requests for chocolate milk on those mornings, oh hell no. I spring out of bed, grab the baby in one hand, the gate at the top of the steps in the other and sprint for the kitchen where, if he won, my cut awaits me on the counter.

Empty counter, check me into the Heartbreak Hotel.

More often than not, though, he has artfully arranged my windfall into a little fan. I'm rich, biotch!

One time, he hid the money in my closed laptop, taking me from the agony of a bare counter to ecstasy when I sat down to check my email. His only regret is that he wasn't awake to see my reaction. He was awake minutes later, however, when I burst into the room and beat him with a pillow. He hasn't gotten cutesy like that again. Smart man.

When I see that money waiting for me, I feel a little bit like a prostitute collecting her cash from the nightstand. Not a "Leaving Las Vegas" type of call girl who gets gang banged by frat boys. Yikes, no thanks. No, more like Vivian in "Pretty Woman" but without the braying laugh, hotel suite and polo games. It's not like I did anything to earn the money and yet there it is, practically glowing with possibilities.

Actually, prostitutes have to do all kinds of things for the money (hello, Donna Summer) so that analogy makes no sense. I guess it's more like winning the lottery although that's kind of boring. I'd rather be Vivian at the Beverly Wilshire, post-balding, smelly johns off Sunset Strip.

*sigh* Whatever.

Anyway, yes, I'm the one with the problem. I tell myself I won't make him feel pressured to go out and win me some loot. (Hey, maybe HE'S the prostitute and I'm the pimp!) I try to resist the urge to suggest that he find a game. Then the weekend rolls around and it's all about the benjamins, baby. Dollars to donuts you will hear me oh-so-casually ask, "Any games tonight? The house is clean, you could have one here." And he takes the bait. Then I cross my fingers and wait.

And wait.

Luck be a lady tonight...