For a several years now, the elders of the Sweeney-Sanchez-Olvera-Fischer-Ericksen-Peña clan have taken part in an annual Super Bowl pool. Each of us select four teams from the NFL’s 32 teams (two from NFC and two from the AFC) at the outset of the regular season we feel are most likely to make it to the league’s championship game. The winner gets his or her choice of beer from the vanquished and the right to brag about their football acumen for the next year. Or two, if you happen to win it in consecutive years, like I have, picking the Seattle Seahawks to win it all last season and the Baltimore Ravens, the season before that.

As the season unfolded, something I can only call a paradigm shift in Super Bowl pool dynamics occurred. Monica really got into tracking the Super Bowl pool. She chose the Cincinnati Bengals as one her AFC teams to win it all, the only one in the eight-person pool to do so. And as the season progressed, she got downright cocky about it.

The Bengals looked to be the sleeper pick of the season through November, when the team forged a record of 8-3-1 before coming back down to earth in December and finishing with a record of 10-5-1. They did, however, earn a postseason berth in the AFC wildcard round of the playoffs.

Cincinnati had to play the 11-5 Indianapolis Colts in the Wildcard game. And the Colts just happened to be one of my pool picks. “Well dear,” I proposed, “how about a little side bet on the Cincy-Indy game?” Monica paused, then agreed.

There was no hesitation in naming her terms. “If I win, you have to clean the house. The way I clean the house,”  she said, fueled, no doubt, by Bengals fever.

Monica’s declaration put me on my heels. “Man, she’s gone all in,” I thought. The prospect of having to clean the house left me wondering how I might wriggle out of the bet but there was no backing down. I was facing the very real prospect of a date with the Dyson.

It took me a day to counter but my answer was one for the ages. “If I win,” I said, knowing how little she enjoys having her picture taken, “you have to sit for a portrait session with me.” It was a masterful response, even if it was a bit sinister. Monica nearly winced but quickly recovered.  “Okay,” she said, “it’s a bet.”

Early in the fourth quarter of the Wildcard game, it was clear the Colts were going to beat the Bengals (they did, 26-10) and Monica was going to have to grin and bear her way through a grueling photo session at the hands of her tyrannical husband. But her trepidation paled by comparison to my relief at not having to clean the house while adhering to Monica’s fastidious standards. I dodged a bullet and knew it. So I tried to be gracious when she asked when I wanted to scheduled the photo shoot. “What’s next weekend looking like for you?” I asked. We settled on the following Saturday afternoon.

Monica’s most beautiful when she doesn’t try to be. Her’s is a lovely smile; it’s arresting, really. Why she gets as anxious as she does when it comes to me taking her picture I’ve yet to figure out (and we’ve been married nearly 13 years). Our photo session was actually relaxed, though, and ran long, both indicators of a successful shoot. We even managed to coax out that remarkable smile of her’s on a couple of occasions. Surprisingly, the subject of football only came up once, when Monica said she had a feeling the Colts were going to beat the Broncos in their playoff game the following day.

And no, there wasn’t a side bet on that game.