Oh my stars, September is here!
It’s time. Time for crisp, sunny football afternoons and newly sharpened pencils, corn mazes and pumpkin spice lattes [which I never drink, but get simply dizzy with bliss smelling]. It’s time for leather boots that crunch on golden brown leaves, and soft sweaters to sink into on frigid nights, with a mug of apple cider by flickering firelight. It’s time for fall.
It’s time. It is! And so why the devil is it still so hot!?
In the wee hours of the morning on September first, I seriously contemplated wearing boots and a sweater to stage an indignant, sweaty protest against the heat. It was upon hearing that little story that my boyfriend, who for legal purposes I will call Stan, informed me that fall isn’t officially here for another twenty days.
The utter dismay that washed over me was something akin to what I experienced the day that I was informed that Pluto is no longer a planet.
These are dark times.
Stan escaped with a mild decapitation. I’ve decided to ignore the calendar. It’s September, after all. It’s fall! Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar and a socialist.
If I could design the world, the intoxicating smell of pumpkin spice and apple cinnamon would waft through the air from September to February. While I sadly cannot control the smell in the great outside world [though really, it would be perfectly lovely if I could!], I can control what my house smells like. Enter my pumpkin spice Yankee candle, stage right. It smells divine around here- you really ought to come over! We’ll conspire as we sweat by the fire.
Which brings me to my next point: is it Christmas yet?
Life at the frat house has added a new twist to my usual cast of fall characters: fantasy football.
Which, as I understand it, entails a gathering of a group of normally responsible, rational men [and women that are much more well-rounded than myself!] from all walks of life, who drink beer while they play pretend football and bet real money.
I think the whole thing is just adorable, really. If Stan likes it, I love it-and that’s all I have to say that.
Fantasy football was one of two rather polarizing subjects of conversation during my lunch break at work the other day. It was, as I recall, “bring your pregnant wife to lunch” day-and sadly, I hadn’t gotten the memo.
There I was, wide-eyed and innocent, munching on my fruit-and-granola-parfait and nodding seriously whilst the boys prattled on about which players they wanted and which teams looked good. I even punctuated the conversation with neanderthol-like grunts that suggested that I was equally concerned about the status of so-and-so’s such-and-such.
Their wives, undeterred, were in the throes of an intense conversation about the perils of where you can and cannot breast feed. Indignantly, they ranted about being asked to take their “business” out of the public eye, and queried how “the public eye” might feel about eating their lunch in the bathroom.
There was something about “nursing blankets”, something about “designated nursing areas”, and something, [brace yourselves,] about a pump that sounded absolutely. barbaric.
Help me, Rhonda.
I had nothing intelligent to add. The conversations were exclusively devoted to fantasy football and breast feeding: and my knowledge of both was equal.
After the alleged pump was introduced into the conversation, I decided to recues myself, and went back to my cubicle to pour boiling lead into my ears.
And they all lived happily ever after.
A happy fall to you, too. :)