Chores Poker

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

You can’t see the position I’m in at the moment, but let me tell you, it’s far more humiliating than I thought it would be. I’m lying face down, bottom up, stripped to the skin, over the sturdy lap of my loving wife, Marge, for the purpose of domestic discipline. We agreed there would be penalties for not keeping up with our chores this year, and I didn’t quite make it all the way through week number three.

In our years together (We’re approaching our 47^th anniversary.), Marge has occasionally complained that I was not doing my part around the house. And, yeah, I do sometimes let things go for a few days, but I never let them get out of hand. One of our disputes has been which chores fall under the heading of “women’s work”—I am a traditionalist when it comes to defining this term—and which are the proper province of the man of the house.

Division of duties was simpler before we retired. I was a nine-to-fiver with a long commute and occasional overtime, while Marge’s time on the job as a teacher in the local school district was several hours shorter. Not saying Marge’s job was easier—you’d never get me to spend day after day in an enclosed space full of snotty-nosed pre-teens—just that she had more time at home than I did. So, naturally, she did the housework while I shoveled walks in winter and mowed the lawn in summer. (That’s not all I did, those are just examples.)

It was the 28th of December last year, when Marge proposed a redistribution of chores.

“I know how you feel about cooking, cleaning and all the other things left to me,” she said, “but you must realize that the current distribution of chores around here is not fair. Times have changed, John. The drudgery expected of a housewife of the 1950s is long gone. While you live the life of a retired gentleman, I’m still stuck with the same cooking, cleaning and most everything else that I’ve always done. You get to go off with your friends to play golf, hunt and fish; I’d like time to pursue my interests as well.”

“I hear you, dear,” I said, “but we cannot afford a live-in maid. Perhaps we could arrange for an exchange student to live with us and help out. That wouldn’t cost too much, and there’s plenty of room in this old house now that the kids are off raising families of their own.”

“You,” she said, “are no doubt imagining some sweet young thing you can admire when I’m not looking, but I’ve had enough of students of any stripe. No, I’ve got a better idea. It involves assigning duties to the two of us in a more equitable manner.”

“Is this,” I said, “where you tell me what to do and I meekly say, ‘yes dear?’”

“We could do it that way,” she said, “but that wouldn’t be fair either.”

“I’m glad you realize that.”

“No,” she said. “I propose we make a game of it.”

“A game? Of doing chores?”

“Not exactly. I’m proposing a game of deciding who does which chores.”

“Okay,” I said, suspecting any game Marge might invent would end badly for me. “Tell me more.”

“Here’s the deal. We’ll each write specific chores with their appropriate schedule on three-by-five cards, one chore per card, then we’ll play hands of poker to see who is responsible for which chores through the coming year.”

“I don’t follow…”

“It’s like this. Once we’ve listed all the chores, each on their own separate card, we’ll shuffle the cards and deal them out face down, so we each start with the same number. Then, we’ll use the cards like poker chips to bet on specific hands of poker. Say, five-card draw, nothing wild, to keep it simple. The loser of each hand takes the pot for that hand, and those chores will be his or her responsibility for the entire year.”

“Sounds a little elaborate.”

“Come on, John, you’re a betting man. You’ve certainly played a lot more poker with the boys than I have. It’ll be fun, and I promise I won’t nag you to do more around the house for the next twelve months. Just those chores that you ‘win’ playing this game.”

“Assume,” I said, “that we play this game, and you end up with a job you don’t want to do. What incentive do you have to do it, at the prescribed schedule?”

“That’s another aspect you’ll enjoy, domestic discipline. I’ll promise, if you will, that if one of us slacks off and does not do their chores, the other can take the miscreant over their lap for a bare-bottomed spanking.”

“What? Are you kidding?”

I’ve been wanting to engage in a little friendly spanking play with Marge since… well, since forever. She’s never been interested, and I could never talk her into it, either as the spanker or the spankee. This new domestic discipline plan might have an upside! I would love to get her glorious ass across my lap for a little domestic discipline now and then. And believe me, even in her late sixties, Marge still has a great ass. Not the ass of our wedding day, it’s spread some, but still, a first-rate female ass.

“No, I’m not kidding,” she said. “I’ll spank you, and you can spank me if we do not do our chores as promised.”

“Your proposal has possibilities, but can I make a suggestion?”

“Sure, as long as it still gets the assignments made and the jobs done.”

“I like the basic idea,” I said, “and I guess we should even things out a bit, but how about, at the end of the game, we’re allowed to trade chore cards if we mutually agree?”

“That works,” Marge said. “Anything else?”

“No, I’m good, but be ready for a real shellacking at the card table.”

“We’ll see. Here’s a stack of blank cards. You write down every chore of yours that you can think of. Include the frequency or the day of the week or month each chore must be done. I’ll do the same and let’s meet after dinner to go through the cards and play our game.”

I spent that morning and afternoon writing down the chores I usually do, even if rarely. Periodically, I’d go do something else and when an additional chore came to mind, I’d run back to the cards and record it. There were the obvious, like mow the lawn in summer, shovel the walks in winter, take out the kitchen garbage when the bag was full, drag the can to the street on Wednesdays. And a few less obvious, like change the furnace filter once a month. Well, you get the idea. Given enough time, I’m sure you could think of as many individual tasks as I did.

After dinner, Marge asked if I’d help clean up the kitchen and put away the leftovers so we could play our game. I know what you’re thinking, “That’s women’s work,” but I pitched in and helped. When we were done, we both went to retrieve our cards. I’d come up with a total of thirteen tasks, but I was really scraping the bottom of the barrel to invent that many. In fact, I would have included, “scrape the bottom of the barrel, monthly,” if we had an actual barrel that could use a good scraping.

Marge came back with twenty-three cards. I laughed when she told me her number, so we went through each card and threw out the ones that were just silly. I was down to eleven. Marge held steady at twenty-three.

We mixed up all the chore cards, and I dealt them out, face down. Each of us had seventeen. I sorted mine into categories:

1. Typically Performed by Husband;

2. Could be Either;

3. Women’s Work, and

4. No Way a Husband Would do This.

To give you an example, Taking the Car in for Service would normally be done by the husband (Cat-1) because women do not have a head for automotive maintenance. Mow the Lawn has been my task, but with power mowers, it really could be done by either of us (Cat-2). Doing the Dishes is clearly women’s work (Cat-3), and Hand Washing Delicates? (Do I need to spell this one out?)

Of the seventeen cards dealt to me, five I judged to be Cat-1, four Cat-2, six Cat-3, and the other two Cat-4. My planned approach was to bet with the Cat-4s when I had a strong hand, sure to win, and hold on to the Cat-1s until I’d managed to stick Marge with all the rest.

A vindictive soul might want to stick their wife with all the jobs, even those the husband normally performs. I am of a much more benign nature. Oh, I’d play the cards the way they fell, and pass all thirty-four chores on to Marge with no regrets, if the game went that way, but my real goal was to come out with no more than the eleven that were already mine. I was comfortable with the status quo, and would not have agreed to Marge’s plan, except she did have a point. Looking at all those chores she wrote down convinced me she worked more around the house than I did. But then, house work is women’s work. And after I won her game, she’d have no right to complain for a whole year.

Marge was right about one thing. Over the years, I’ve played a lot more poker than she has. She’s never played for real stakes with the big boys. As far as I know, she and her women friends never played for anything more valuable than toothpicks.

We cut for high card to determine the dealer. Marge won, but of course there is no skill involved with cutting cards—as long as you’re not palming cards. So, I didn’t take this as an omen.

“Ante up,” she said as she threw a chore card face up in the middle of the table. I did likewise and judged both chores to be Cat-2. I watched her shuffle and deal each of us five cards face down. A little clumsy, but I pretended I did not notice.

I fanned out my hand and saw immediately I had zilch. “Check,” I said.

“I’ll bet one chore,” Marge said, and tossed a chore card into the pot. I did likewise. Hers looked like a Cat-3, mine a Cat-1 I wouldn’t mind getting stuck with.

“How many cards?” she asked.

When I said, “Four,” she smirked and dealt them to me.

“Dealer takes two,” Marge said.

I discarded all but my high card, a ten of diamonds, added the draw and saw that I now had a pair of threes. Not much to bet on when she only drew two, so I checked again.

“I’ll bet three chores,” Marge said, and put three Cat-3 chore cards in the pot.

“Fold,” I said, not wanting to contribute further to my future workload.

“The pot’s yours,” she said, and watched me rake in seven chores. Those went into a separate pile on my side of the table. I was committed to perform those chores throughout the coming year. Since I hadn’t called her bet, Marge did not show me her cards.

I dealt the next hand, and once again, the cards were cold for me. Marge checked. I heaved a sigh of relief and also checked. After the draw, I was holding nothing with a Jack of Spades as high card. Marge took three cards on the draw and bet one chore. I saw her bet, and when we showed our cards, she had nothing to the 10 of Hearts. Marge claimed the pot of four chores. All of them were Cat-2.

Marge dealt the third hand and won it with three sixes to my pair of nines. I raked in another eight chores.

I dealt the fourth hand. When I fanned them out, I saw the Four of Diamonds, Seven of Spades, Nine of Clubs, Ten of Clubs and Jack of Hearts. I had the makings of a straight (7,_,9,10, Jack), but I’d have to fill it from the inside on the draw. The odds were 10:1 against making it, but I could feel my luck changing. Plus, I knew I was the better card player. It was time to challenge Marge’s nerve.

“I’ll bet two chores,” I said and threw two of my Cat-3s (Women’s Work) into the pot.

“I’ll see your two,” Marge said, and added to the pot. With the ante, it was up to six chores.

“How many cards?” I said.

“I’ll take three,” she said.

I dealt her the three, then said, “And the dealer takes one.”

“Oho,” Marge said. “I think somebody’s trying to fill a flush or a straight. Must be feeling lucky. Could be four of a kind or two pair, but I don’t think so.”

I discarded the Four of Diamonds, and almost didn’t want to look at the card I drew. It would have fit my mood to just leave it lying face down on the table, and bet as though I knew it was the card I needed. Bret Maverick might have done that.

I lifted the edge of the card and peaked. It was the Eight of Hearts, filling my straight. I did not display the grin of triumph I felt inside.

“Your bet,” I said. Marge only had three chore cards left to bet. I had six.

Marge examined me from across the table. I sensed her uncertainty. You’re going down, Missy, I thought.

After a long pause, Marge tossed her remaining chore cards into the pot. “I’m all in,” she said.

“All in,” I agreed, and slid my six remaining cards into the pot. If we were playing for money, I would have more at risk in this pot than she, but in a sense, we were playing for anti-money. It was in my best interest to put more into the pot than she, if I knew she was going to lose and take the pot. When I won this hand, I’d be ahead in the game overall, with fifteen chores to Marge’s nineteen. That’s more than the eleven chores I’ve been doing, but not bad. Could be worse.

“What have you got?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve a pair of aces,” she put down the Ace of Spades and the Ace of Clubs.

I was about to reveal my winning Jack-high straight when she said, “And a pair of eights.” She laid down the Eight of Clubs and the Eight of Spades.

 “You know,” I said, “two pair, Aces and Eights, all black cards, is known as the Dead Man’s Hand. According to legend, Wild Bill Hickok was holding that hand when he was shot to death at a poker table in Deadwood in the Dakota Territory. And it appears that hand is no more lucky for you than it was for him.” I fanned out my hand on the table. “Because a straight beats two pairs.” I shoved the pot in Marge’s direction.

“But then,” Marge said, “I did draw one red card.” She lay down the Eight of Hearts. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but a Full House, eights over aces, does beat a straight. Doesn’t it?” She shoved the pot back to me.

“You drew three cards. How could you possibly end up with a Full House?” I’d have suspected cheating if it were not me who dealt that hand.

“Yeah, I kept the Ace and Eight of Spades and drew the rest. Lucky, huh.”

And that’s how I ended up responsible for thirty of thirty-four household chores this year. Marge took pity on me, agreeing to trade off the meal planning and fixing, and she also agreed to exchange Shoveling the Walk for Handwashing Her Undies.

It turns out she was serious about applying domestic discipline when I failed to complete a chore on time, though. This past weekend, the floors looked clean to me, so I figured Marge wouldn’t notice if I put off the sweeping and vacuuming for another week. Wrong. That woman has eyes like an eagle. Who would guess that one little dust bunny would place me, stripped to the skin, over the knee of my loving wife?

SMACK!!

“Hey,” I exclaimed, “nobody said anything about hairbrushes when we made our deal.”

“True,”  SMACK!!  “but then, nobody ruled them out, either.”  SMACK!!  “Dealer calls the game, my dear.”  SMACK!!  “And I’ve been dealt the winning hand.”

SMACK!!  SMACK!!  SMACK!!

THE (painful) END.

Copyright © 2023 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.

Register to never miss a posting!