Poker night at our house bears absolutely no resemblance to the Tennessee Williams version in "A Streetcar Named Desire." Not so much as a wisp of cigar smoke discolors the indirect lighting over our well-polished dining room table. There are very few swears and no fistfights. Rather than torn and sleeveless undershirts, the men wear the same chinos and oxfords they came home in from their business-casual offices. Conversation drifts as the men slap down cards, and the topics range from an upcoming vote on new soccer fields for Carlisle, our town, and the advantages of VoIP technology over conference calling. Yet I have to admit -- sheepishly but honestly -- I love my husband's monthly poker games. I love knowing that no one is going to need anything from me the whole evening long. I love going to sleep early to the sound of good-natured male laughter. Although there was a memorable episode of "Seinfeld" in which Elaine's poker group figured into the plot, I don't personally know any women who play the game. When my female friends and I get together in a prearranged fashion, it is either for a book discussion or to take part in one of the ever-popular home-hosted "trunk shows," at which we pore over some visiting vendor's collection of jewelry or stationery or bath oils. ("It's not about the shopping!" the hostesses always say. "It's just for a girls' night out! We'll have wine and catch up. It will be fun." It's fun, true, but it's really a shopping excursion masking as a social event.) Other times we get together for "Project Parties," at which we work on our scrapbooks or photo albums. Some of us even knit. But get together to play a game all night? We'd never do that. We're much too industrious. How I envy this male group's ability to kick back and do something so fruitless with their time. Like most women, I ordinarily spend a lot of energy worrying about whether everyone seems to be mentally occupied, well-fed, and having fun. Whether it's a play group for 3-year-olds or a dinner party for eight, there are few occasions in which I don't play cruise director, making it my personal responsibility to make sure everyone is happy. Poker night is the big exception: I take no responsibility for any of it. And somehow they manage just fine without me.
That goes for the food, too. I've heard that there's another monthly poker group in town at which the wife of the host serves a hot dinner of lasagna or ribs halfway through the evening, but I made it clear from the outset that this was not going to be my bag. I cook for my family nearly every evening; I make Thanksgiving dinner for 16 once a year; but for poker night, the guys are on their own.
My husband is no cook, but even he can manage to pour salsa into a bowl and mix up a batch of onion dip; his friends pick up pizzas on the way over. Although I sometimes wince to see my kitchen sullied with such non-gourmet offerings, I remind myself of my pledge: Poker night isn't my bag. Let them manage it on their own. Feeling like a kid cadging sips from the cocktail glasses at her parents' dinner party, I sneak in to load up a paper plate with chips and dip on my way upstairs, savoring the salty junk food I'd never eat on a night when I was in charge of the menu.
And then I simply hibernate. Other nights, I stay up late putting away dishes, sorting mail and balancing my electronic checkbook. But on poker night, my goal is to be unseen. I put on my glasses and change into sweats so I'll be too dowdy to even consider making an appearance, and that leaves me with no options other than a cozy evening of reading in bed.
My husband would say this monthly event is his special night, but I think I look forward to it as much as he does. I hide. I retreat. Surely not what Stella Kowalski was doing while her husband and his friends smoked their cigarettes and cast aspersions on Blanche Dubois' reputation. But it's the one night every month when I can count on serenity for myself all evening long.
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