I *heart* my gambling problem.

It’s time to come clean.

I have a problem.

It’s not that I play the lotto, or that I spend countless hours fritterin’ away my babies’ kibble funds at the casino. No.

I make stupid bets with Mr. Wonderful.

Case in point: The Barf Bet.

Our gym is next door to a bar. And on New Year’s Eve, a bar patron evidently had too much fun. And barfed on the side of the building.

It was gross. And chunky. And we walked past it every time we visited the gym.

When, after about a week, it became obvious that no one was going to clean it up, we started talking about the half-life of vomit. Just how long would it take for the barf to break down?

A wager was made. I figured that with the western-facing building, the vomit would be washed away well before April 1. On the line? Dinner. Because what’s more fitting for a bet about barf?

And so, my gambling problem is only a problem because I lost the bet.

I know. It’s been three months and there is still chunky barf residue on the building and the sidewalk. Three months! Who knew? I thought this wager was a sure thing. But now? Now, I’m stuck taking Mr. Wonderful out to dinner. And stuck listening to him singing “We are The Barf Bet champions, my friends” over and over and over again.

And did I mention that there’s a dance that goes along with the song? Yeah. It’s great. It involves a lot of raised arms and then pointing. Martha Graham, eat your heart out.

Of course, we had an impromptu dance-off the other night and I totally handed him his ass with my Jennifer Beals-inspired performance. But still. Even my superior gloating abilities are no match for Mr. Wonderful. And that, in a nutshell, is the core of my gambling problem.

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