All good things begin with a breakup. Now, we’re supposedly breaking up with summer and moving onto our next rebound with a fall. Someone needs to tell this to my pits. They’re in severe denial. Though it might have to do with the bewitching Texas heat.
When I think of summer’s end, I don’t think in the arrival of tweeds and burgundy velvets, but in the details of goodbyes. Of camp buses pulling into parking lots, of a farewell to ballpark frankfurters and fireworks. Bunting.
But it’s really here. Texas tailgating. My birthday’s approach. Goblins and food served in miniature gourds. Tablescapes. November issues promising modern interpretations of classic sides. And, lest we forget, football hell.
Hell to the hell to the witch’s tit, no. I can get behind tailgating because it’s food and drink centric, but the whole, “Well, we can’t go on that family road trip today because there’s a game on” I can do without. This is the best:
“There’s this game I want to see. It starts at 1pm.” Smack dab in the middle of our day. Fine. I get it. You can’t DVR it. Sure. Then 5pm rolls around, and wouldn’t you know, “Well, that first 1pm game was fine, but the game I really wanted to watch starts in a half hour.” Fcuk off.
Ah, marital (foot)balls.