I used to think the following fact about me was weird: I gamble and when I win, — win big mind you — I give the winnings to my wife.
I used to think that most dudes (even ladies) when winning large pots kept their mouths shut when it came to their spouses. Hell, maybe some do, but the more I hear gamblers talk, the more I realize that we tend to share our winnings with our loved ones.
Think about every lottery winner you’ve ever heard talk about what they plan to do with the money.
No one ever says, “Fuck everyone else, I’m keeping all this shit!”
No one does that. It’s all “I’m going to buy my mom and dad the house they’ve always wanted, my wife’s getting her dream vacation and I’m totally having sex with three strippers.”
At least that’s what I’d say.
I bring this up because of two things. First I had a good night conning a bit of luck out of lady luck and second because my wife is insane.
I was $40 into my bet when I won $630. That’s what I call a “walk away moment.” I don’t care if my drink is still fresh. I don’t care if I just arrived at my game of chance,. I don’t care if the lady next to me is hot, naked and offering me a hand job if I’ll just play a bit more. A return like that is one I have to cash out immediately.
Makes sense right?
I gamble. I enjoy it. Like all gamblers I also have days that I don’t win. Those suck. My rule is pretty simple. Never lose more than $200 and any winnings of $200 or less don’t get reported to the boss.
Actually it’s simpler than that. I play until I’ve had one beer and then quit. Up or down, my rule is one beer and out.
So, there I am Monday $40 into the bet and a half a beer left and shit got real. I was suddenly $630 ahead. Clearly, it was time to quit.
Quit I did.
As I still had half a beer to finish, a fat wallet and time to kill I texted my wife, with a photo of the winnings. Prior to this, we had a deal that I would mop the kitchen floor when I got home that night and I asked, along with the photo of my winnings, if I still had to mop the floor.
She asked how much I had won.
I told her.
She said, “It’s not a grand so yes you do.”
Quickly I queried three female friends of ours about this dilemma. One replied, “You would not have to mop the floor tonight.” One said she, “I would mop the kitchen floor naked for that kind of cash,” and the third wisely ignored me for a while and mocked me several hours later.
In my head I was stuck. Dagmar, as I’ve mentioned before, likes to squirrel away in shoe boxes (despite a robust and healthy banking infrastructure) cash for vacations, rainy days and emergencies. This bounty would be a hefty addition to her 1930-era investment plan.
Also, I didn’t want to mop the fucking floor.
I called her on the drive home.
Me: Hey, that was a nice win, huh?
Her: It was, awesome.
Me: I can give you 630 reasons why I shouldn’t have to mop the floor tonight.
Her: Whatever, look I’m busy.
We hung up and I took that to mean that at least for the next 24 hours I was mop-duty free. I mean, $630 has to count for something.
Assuming you’re still with me on this tirade, however, you may have already guessed the outcome.
No, I didn’t mop the floor, but the second phrase out of my wife’s mouth after, where’s the money, was “Why didn’t you mop the floor?”