Life With the Poker Queen

People often ask me what it's like sharing my life with a poker queen like Barbara Enright. Since she's so nice and friendly at the poker table, everyone assumes that she treats me with the same respectful behavior that she shows to her poker opponents. Well, that's not exactly how it works, and I'd like to let you know how she really treats me.

To start with, her majesty is always ordering me around. She'll be playing in a tournament and commands me to fetch her a root beer from the snack bar. I return, and she yells, "You expect me to drink from a bottle? Get me a glass." I bring her a glass. "Now go fill it with ice," she orders. I go back for the ice, only to get sent back yet again, this time for a straw.

She never lets me forget her status. One time, I was about to do some measuring and asked where the ruler was. "I'm in the kitchen," she replied.

In general, nothing I do ever seems to be right. For example, she often scolds me for playing in low-limit games. "Play higher limits," she'll tell me. "You can't beat the rake in those little games." So, I move up a notch or two, maybe from $4-$8 to $10-$20. The next thing I hear is, "Why are you playing so high? You're out of your league, you idiot!"

Other times, she'll urge me to improve my game. "How can you ever expect to become a winning player if you don't study?" I agree, and start to read a poker book. "Why do you waste your time with poker books?" she'll chastise me. "You can't remember anything. Why aren't you doing the dishes or the laundry instead?"

Or, she'll criticize me for being so timid and predictable at the table. "Mix up your play," she'll say. "Make some moves. Try check-raising for once in your life."

Then, she'll see me check pocket aces. "You never check aces!" she yells in my ear.

"But you told me to, so I could check-raise," I protest meekly.

My sweetie throws up her hands in despair. "You can't check-raise when you're last to act, you nincompoop!"

See how she keeps contradicting herself?

Of course, these mind-numbing inconsistencies aren't confined just to poker. Let's take my personal appearance. "Suck in your stomach," she's constantly reminding me. A minute later, she's whacking me on the head. "I said to suck in your stomach, not suck your thumb, you imbecile."

My hairline (or lack thereof) constantly annoys her. One time, she stared at it and made a face. "Why do you shave your head?" she complained. "You look like a bowling ball." So, I tried letting my hair grow. Two weeks later I heard, "Why is your hair getting so long? Who do you think you are - Johnny Depp?"

Money is an ongoing theme. "Can't you make any more?" she'll badger me. "Why don't you try doing some more writing?" Dutifully, I'll attempt to, only to have her tell me that I shouldn't be spending so much time at the computer.

Let's take another area, my driving. I'm on the freeway and she'll nag, "Why are you driving so slowly? Can't you see that everybody is passing you?" I gun it to 50 mph and then hear, "Slow down, Mario Andretti. Don't you know that old people have no reaction time?"

In a similar vein, she's always complaining about my acting so old. "Break out of your rut. Do something young people do." So, I went out and bought a bag of marbles. "Don't be so childish, you old fool - which reminds me, isn't it time you changed to a geriatric doctor?"

I can't even seem to talk right. "Speak up, Maxwell," she'll instruct me. "I can't understand what you're saying." The next minute - you guessed it - "Don't you raise your voice to me, you little worm."

My wardrobe? Don't even ask. "You always wear the same thing, jeans, and a casino tee shirt. I'm ashamed to be seen with you. Can't you dress a little more fashionably?" The next day, I proudly show off my groovy new chartreuse silk shirt. "Where did you get that ugly thing? Even Tom McEvoy would be ashamed to wear it."

Oh, sometimes Barbara will show a little compassion - or maybe it's just condescension. "I always decide which movie we're going to see, Maxwell," she said to me one day. "This time I'll let you choose."

I was ecstatic. "Oh, boy, I've been dying to see Superman Returns. Can we see it, please, pretty please?"

"Superman?" she sneered. "Only infants go to Superman movies. We'll go see that new Carrot Top film." But Barbara does care about me, and often expresses concern about my physical condition. "You're falling apart, Maxwell. You need more exercise."

"OK," I once responded. "Maybe I'll take up skiing again."

"Skiing?" she laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. I threw your skis out 10 years ago."

All of the above are bad enough. But, now let me tell you about the most terrifying, traumatic situation that comes up all too often in our relationship. She'll be playing in an online tournament when something requires her attention, and I hear those dreaded words: "Can you pick up one or two hands for me, Maxwell?"

Reluctantly and fearfully, I'll take her seat at the computer. One hand? The next thing I know, she'll be on the phone with her friend Cheryl, which means she'll be talking for at least the next two days. "Mommy!" I'll yell out. "I'm in the small blind with pocket fives and somebody just raised. What do I do?" Then, "Mommy! I'm in the cutoff seat with A-Q suited and nobody's called yet. Do I raise?"

With increasing annoyance, she'll stop what she's doing, look at the screen, and advise me. Finally, totally out of patience, she'll yell, "You decide what to do for once, you wimp. Can't you ever make your own decisions?"

What happens next is obvious. A bit later, Barbara will return and ask, "How are we doing?"

"Uh … I'm afraid you're out of the tournament," I'll inform her, hanging my head.

"What did you say? What happened to all the chips I had?"

"Well," I respond sheepishly, "you told me to be more aggressive, so I moved in with A-8. I was in pretty good shape until I got called by someone who got lucky and outdrew me.""Outdrew you? What did he call with?"

"Uh … A-K."

"You moved in with A-8? What position were you in?"

"Well, I was under the gun. But my hand was suited," I added defensively.

Oh, well, what's another welt or two on my head? Maybe I'll just let my hair grow long again.

OK, so maybe I give more grief than I get, but I know what you're thinking: I would have to love someone very much to put up with such treatment.

I do.