My husband has the Devil’s own luck. I swear it. For instance, he wins the lottery. Never very huge winnings, granted. Most of the time, he wins a few euros, just enough to purchase another round of lotto tickets. But several times, he’s won amounts significant by anyone’s standards. I know people who have never won the lottery. Where does he get off winning so often, when so many never win at all? Like me, for example.
I shouldn’t question it, really. As his wife, I benefit from his winnings, so I’m not complaining. But I’m patiently awaiting the day he wins the big one.
It’ll happen.
It’s bound to.
I hope.
But the hell of it is, my husband and I love to play games—backgammon and canasta, in particular. And playing games with him is hell on earth. Why? Three guesses.
Yep, you got it. He always wins.
If I were less smart than I am, I’d chalk it up to my own lack of intelligence. But I know I’m not dumb, and neither is my husband. He’s pretty sharp. In fact, he’s smart enough that I let him add up all the scores through a canasta game. In some ways he’s smarter than me. In other ways I’m smarter than him. It’s a good balance. So, we should be good competitors when it comes to games that involve a fair balance of strategy and luck.
Not so here. And I’m not the only victim of this circumstance. My husband wins games against everyone he plays against. A strange phenomenon, I was thinking. Until I made the connection between that and him doing the grocery shopping on the odd occasion and my desire for particular items without voicing them—usually in the interest of healthful consumption.
Can you guess what happened?
Yep. That’s right. I would think about those Snickers bars, the Ritter Sport chocolate, the cheese balls, or an odd item like clothes pins… and he would trot right on home with them in the paper bag. It was downright bizarre. There have even been occasions when he left to pick up a few items I’d jotted down on a list, and inevitably I would forget something. During those times, I would sit down and think about said forgotten item very very hard. And most of the time, he would come home with it, or something very like it.
And how many times have I walked past the phone thinking, “I think I’ll give my hubby a call in a few mintues,” and then the phone rings?
Man, I wish I could do that. My husband is freaking psychic!
So, it was during our many many games of canasta that I realized that the reason he was always winning, the reason why I so frequently laid down the card he needed to snatch up the pot, was because the booger is psychic. And it also happened that on the few occasions I’ve won against him, were also the occasions that I had a glass of wine or two, or indulged in my favorite amontillado.
He laughed when I explained it to him. He didn’t believe me.
Until this weekend.
Saturday night, I enjoyed two snifters of amontillado and a delightfully fuzzy head. And won one game out of two.
Sunday night, I won two games out of three—sweetly buzzed, of course—and slaughtered the poor man.
As expected from someone who wins All the Time, he did not take well to losing against me. He was not a happy camper. And I was giggly and happy and not the least bit interested in coddling his poor wounded ego. This time, when I explained to him that the alcohol seems to fuzz up the connection between us, which allows my mind to focus less distinctly and renders his unable to sift through the interference, he finally listened. He didn’t laugh at my theory, this time. Losing three games to me in twenty-four hours—and two of those having left him nearly castrated—was too much evidence to ignore.
I will still tease him about having the Devil’s Luck, and I will let him sink back into believing what a lucky guy he is. But I know better, and deep down, so does he. He may be psychic, but I can beat him at his own game—with the help of fermented and distilled beverages. That sounds like a happy solution to me!
