It was just after 2am. I had three beers in my belly and PokerStars' screen burned into my corneas. I'd just finished watching BadBlood embarass a bunch of 180-SNGers. I'm not sure I've seen anyone play a final table stack much better in recent weeks.
Now, it was bedtime and Mrs. Otis was already dreading what would happen in about five or six hours.
"I'll Rock/Paper/Scissors you in the morning for who has to get up with the baby."
I couldn't believe what I just heard. I said, "Really?"
Through her pillow, she said, "You know, Roshambo."
I tried to ignore my gambler's arousal and said, "Okay." It was the kind of okay that men offer when someone offers to buy them a beer, pay for their lapdance, and take care of their student loans.
My wife, while fiercly competitive, rarely challenges me to any sort of contest. The simple act of competing against her was more than I could ask for. Plus, if I won, I wouldn't have to wake up at 7:30am.
Pshawwww...me win at Roshambo? Sadly, while I like to think I'm a master (and tend to beat less experienced players), I tend to collapse under pressure. G-Rob routinely beats me (except for one glorious night outside Uncle Ted's house in which I turned G-Rob into a panty-wearing pre-school girl in front of a group of people).
I shoved my face in my pillow and smiled. It was time to get in her head.
"So," I said, "What are you going to throw first?"
"Rock," she said, "or scissors, or paper."
Little bitch was messing with me. I started to get a little worried.
"So, best two out of three?"
She answered quickly. "No, just once."
And then I figured it out. She's been reading Jesus' Favorite, a bet-loss blog written by a friend of fellow poker bloggers Wil and Shane. Annie lost a Roshambo bet with Wil and ended up having to write a blog (which, incidentally, is just priceless).
"That Annie is one funny chick," the wife had said.
The next thing I knew it was 4am and I was stuck between throwing paper or rock. A part of me said to come out strong with rock and show the little woman who she really was. But, as she slept peacefully, I thought she might be on to me. Coming out with a first-throw-rock is the equivalent of a small-penised man buying a Porsche. False masculinity, and all. And so, I drifted off to restless sleep with paper on my mind.
The human alarm clock woke up just before eight. Mrs. Otis rolled over and said, "Ready?"
I tried to clear my head. Had I decided on Paper or Rock? And why was my lap-dance dream still grinding on my brain? "Yeah, ready."
My brain woke up. Don't throw rock, you bastard!. I listened just in time and threw out paper. My bleary eyes saw her hand...
She'd thrown paper, too. She'd put me on rock before she even went to sleep.
Like heads up poker, there's no room for error in round two of a Roshambo match. And no time (like four hours of drooling on your pillow) to consider the move. I had less than ten seconds to decide. And then it hit me. She was going to double throw on me.
I threw scissors and looked down to Mrs. Otis' double-paper.
Back to back papers, indeed.
In the equivalent of a poker room fist-pump, I buried my face in a giant feather pillow and pretended to snore. Mrs. Otis got up and trudged across the hardwoods. "You cheated," she said.
And I couldn't resist, "Next time maybe we'll play a little heads-up hold'em for kid duty. Whatta ya say?"
She was out of the bedroom before she spoke again, but I'm pretty sure I heard the words, "Cocksucking bastard prick-cocksucker."
Ladies and gentlemen, I woke up this morning to December 1st. The November Slide, if only by definition, is over and it ended with me mercilessly trouncing my wife in a high-stakes Roshambo match.
One week from this very second, I'll be inbound for Las Vegas.
The timing couldn't be much better.