Note: We once again take a trip down memory lane and reprint a VU blog entry from a loooooong time ago....
Returning home from a short fall walk with my dogs I had just turned onto our street. I had been chuckling to myself over a recent e-mail sent to me from a Packer fan telling me that Green Bay would come off their bye week stronger than ever. I had been thinking of writing a paper to the New England Journal of Medicine showing that an indirect proportion exists between the intelligence of residents of Green Bay and proper use of sentence structure, grammar and spelling when I shivered, like one who on a country walk suddenly perceives a snake in his path. Even the dogs would proceed no further. For the house across the street from my own humble abode was displaying a Green Bay Packer table lamp in its window!
I decided right then and there that territorial dominance, of Viking over Packer, must be regained. And the plan that I immediately came upon was indeed for the venture. I must move my Viking table lamp to my master bedroom window, where this blatant attempt upon my fanhood would be avenged. One problem, though, my wife had banished all things purple and gold to the den where I could have my prized possessions and smoke a good cigar. Meanwhile she could hold tea parties in the living room without having photos of Fran Tarkenton and Chuck Foreman looking down upon her friends, scones and marmalade. I knew my wife was downstairs somewhere, and for the next hour at least she would be occupied. I would have ample opportunity for the switch.
I did not delay. Thirty seconds later I was inside mounting the stairs with Viking lamp in hand, my face set, my eyes gleaming grimly. A minute later, I reached my destination, the master bedroom. No green devil, no Martha Stewart wife aware of my intentions, stood in my path to bar entry. With lamp in hand I went in.
Most master bedrooms, like most places of married importance, contain things so magnificent to the females that they are never used. With our four poster bed and my wife's superb but rather oppressive bed canopy, the room had remained unchanged since our first year of marriage. As I snuck cautiously in, it was looking its best in the gentle evening light. But I was not in a reflective mood. I ignored the hand sewn pillow cushions, the cozy arm chairs, the pictures, the decorations, and the flowers. The starkness of the winter sky through the large bedroom window drew but a brief glance from me. Without delay I made for my wife's dressing table which stood against the window near the bed. It seemed the perfect spot upon which my mighty beacon of purple and gold light would out shine that eye-sore across the street.
The primary requisite of the dressing table being a good supply of light, they are usually placed in a position to get as much of it as possible. This one is no exception; it stood so near to the window that in the summer time the breeze from the open window will ruffle the tassels on its lampshade. Making the switch of tasseled lamp to Viking lamp my heart suddenly slipped. Now standing in the doorway to the bedroom, dogs peering around her legs, was my wife.
For an instant I remained frozen. Even the greatest men congeal beneath the chill breath of the totally unexpected. I had assumed as a matter of course that my wife was down in the laundry room, and it took me several seconds to adjust my mind to the unpleasing fact that she was up in our bedroom. When I recovered my presence of mind sufficiently to draw noiselessly away from the line of vision, my first emotion was one of irritation. This continual changing of their minds, this alteration of plans, these sudden decisions to be upstairs when they ought to be downstairs, are what make women as a sex so unsatisfactory.
To irritation succeeded a sense of defeat. There was nothing for it, I realized, but to give up my quest and go. I started to carry the Viking lamp silently to the door, conscious now of the holes being drilled into my head by my wife's eyes, and had just reached it, when across the street, there came to my ears a sound of clashing and clattering. Upon looking out the window I noticed instantly my neighbor's Packer lamp was gone! I perceived immediately that his wife had taken the upper hand in his domain and had not only removed the ghastly thing but had deposited it, in pieces, onto the driveway,.
And so, going outside, I met my now-crying neighbor who had dropped on all fours and was picking up the remains of his treasured lamp. Defeated once again by the most sinister villain of all-time, the football-widow, we shared a cigar and waited for them to let us back in.