For anyone who follows the links to the right, I've updated my memory-blog, Arranger of Disorder. Check it out for non-poker content and the occassional poem/story.
So, let me lay this one out there for ya - the wife? Not so much the poker player. I mean, we'll sit down and play a few hands every once in a while, kind of a hanging out thing. But we're not a heavy-duty poker couple, unlike some folks I could name. But Suzy will occassionally sit in on our home games for an hour or so, and she really has no interest in thinking too much about the game, or odds, or any poker-related stuff, really.
I keep a copy of "the list" - the 20 or so decent starting hands in Hold 'Em around for Suzy, as well as a hand ranking chart. And she helps me work on different games, like Razz or Omaha, that the regular crew might not be willing to play. So we hang out and play cards.
Then there was last weekend. Since I'd been reading blogs allllllll week, I introduced the live straddle into our regular home game, with all the insanity that ensues after a couple of orbits of auto-straddle.
Then my wife, my dear, patient, loving wife, in front of four of our best friends, live straddled me right there in my own living room. And not even in a good way. Four orbits in a row, the Dear and Patient threw out a live straddle on each and every one of my Big Blinds.
After the 4th big hand I picked up on her straddle, she never did it again. But check-raising the wife with the nut flush was the hand I really misplayed of the evening.
Lumpy fucking sofa.