’Tis the season.
Each year I make resolutions about how I’m going to handle each NFL season. I should think that by year six, I should have it under control. But such is not the case.
Last year I vowed to not let it get under my skin. That lasted into week three. This year I’m already 0-2, much like the Viking’s current record.
But I digress.
Each week Hubby invites me to his football outing and each week I say I already have plans so he leaves the house promising to return when the game is over.
It’s a little blessing from heaven really. No sounds of whistles, crowds or Hubby screaming at the television set.
For the past two weeks I’ve enjoyed the freedom of being by myself until early evening. First, I turn on all the lights in the house (something Hubby frowns upon), then I turn every TV in the house on the same channel. That way, as I’m moving throughout the house I will be able to catch a glimps of the program I’m watching while still being able to be busy. At the very least I will be able to hear the television program from any point in the house.
I’m sure this is something Hubby would have an opinion about, but he’s gone–so he can’t.
It’s liberating, really.
So what’s the problem, you ask?
It’s that eventually he comes home–still fueled with chest-beating testosterone from watching football and drinking beer. He’s all fired up for more and I’ve already put football to bed (about 30 years ago).
It’s like Betty Homemaker meets Caveman.
He wants to continue watching football and answering in grunts while I want to turn the TV off and serve a seven course meal by candlelight on my best china and talk about how we could solve the world’s problems.
This past Sunday when he returned home from his chest-beating-howling-at-the-moon-fest I took offense at his observation that it didn’t look like I had “done much that day.”
Looking back, it probably appeared I hadn’t since he found me lounging comfortably in my pajama’s in the same chair he’d left me in eight hours earlier.
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“Let’s see. I prepared two meals, took a shower, talked on the phone, made a shopping list and put together a menu for a week’s worth of evening meals,” I said. “Did you expect more? Perhaps a shoulder rub from your rough day?”
His reply: “You have a bad attitude.”
Admittedly I did, but that fact alone didn’t stop me from uttering words that any sane wife of a Minnesota Viking’s fan wouldn’t even have dared to think. In the heat of the moment I threw caution to the wind.
“Ya know what?” I sneered. “I’m GLAD the Viking’s lost in the last 10 seconds of the game against Chicago.”
Silence settled all around me.
Uh-oh. Too late to take it back. The words were already out before I realized how badly they tasted in my mouth.
Hubby grabbed a knife and suddenly I watched scenes of my life flash before my eyes. As I braced for what I thought was going to be a life-ending argument he brushed past me.
“I’m going to make salsa and pretend I did not just hear you say that,” he said.
After several moments of tense silence I apologized for the low blow.
“Ya know what I think would make your attitude better?” he asked after accepting my apology.
“If you planned yourself a girls weekend.”
For a brief moment I had hope for this season. Then the realization hit me that he probably already has a Viking’s weekend with the boys planned that he hasn’t had the courage to tell me about yet.