Jen's Column / 6.14.06

HaugenKoski's Blogski

This week's column is actually about Rochesterfest, Rochester's annual festival -- which is loads o' fun. But I didn't think most of you would be interested. So here's a column from the archives:

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Last weekend, I co-hosted a girls-only Texas Hold ‘Em fundraiser to benefit the American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life. The evening started with a “how-to-play” tutorial (courtesy of my poker fanatic friend Mitch) and ended with a four-hour tournament.

It was a casual affair — held in a friend’s basement. If you were to picture it, it would look something like this: 20 foxy women, 2 king-sized poker tables, enough ABBA to keep us rocking in our chairs, and 2 male dealers wondering how the hell they got so lucky. (Well, minus the ABBA, maybe.)

Now I haven’t been to a lot of poker tournaments. OK, I haven’t been to any. But I’m willing to bet we women played a bit differently than most men.

For one thing, the food was as important as the game. We had pretzels and beer, of course. It was poker, after all. But we also had cheesecake. Bowls of candy. Six different dips — two of which required heat. We didn’t have a table dedicated to food. We had an entire room for food.

Also, our table talk had little to do with poker. This was established in the first five minutes of the game when Julie yelled across the room, “Who brought the toasted pita bread?”

“That was me,” came a voice from the next table.

“Did you buy it or make it?”

“Made it. You just heat the oven to 350 and….”

Most of us didn’t expect to win, of course. But we did want to come away with something. The ability to shuffle our chips with one hand, perhaps. To learn what it means to have “pocket kings.” My goal was to master the poker face.

It turns out I cannot be solemn as long as I’m holding anything over a 9. Give me a card with a face on it, and a goofy grin is literally plastered to my face. And the thing is I know I look like a schmuck, but I can’t help it. I’m pinching my arm, biting my tongue, trying to relive the day my childhood dog died — and I can’t wipe the damn smile off my face. Deal me a pair and I start laughing and bouncing in my seat.

I should have spent less time practicing my blank stare and more time memorizing the values of the poker chips. I kept forgetting what the different colors meant. “You’re the big blind,” the dealer reminded me. “Put in 40.”

“Forty. That’s four red chips? No — green chips?”

Sigh. “Blue chips. Like last time.”

We weren’t all so slow on the uptake. Halfway through the night, Pat — arguably the biggest newbie in the group when we started — said, “I have aces in the hole and she beats me with a straight?!” And she knew exactly what she was talking about.

Even I came around — eventually landing in third place after going “all in” on a pair of queens. I might have gone down in flames, but I went down to choruses of, “Good game!” “Great job!” and “So close!”

And I’ll bet you two blue chips and raise you a green that most men don’t play that way.