To September

31 Aug

Have I mentioned I hate August? Yeah, I think I have. I hate August with a passion that burns like 10,000 yeast infections. Summer is not my friend. I have tried to break up with August several times, but he always shows back up, all hey, baby, if you let me crash at your place I’ll bring September next time. And I get all, NU-UH, August. And he gets all hey, girl. You know how I do. And finally I’m just like, okay, come in. Do what you have to do. I’ll just close my eyes and think of England.

August wears a mullet and jean shorts and is fond of the lip-hugging trash stache. August loves Night Ranger and Quiet Riot. August wears tube socks and Velcro-closure vinyl sneakers from Dollar General. August’s idea of foreplay is a nudge to see if you’re awake. WHICH YOU ARE NOT because who can stay awake when it’s swamp-butt hot outside? August’s idea of lube is plastic seat sweat.

But September? September gives me hope. September is good cop to August’s bad cop. In Memphis, it might not feel like Autumn in September, but it smells like it. Granted, the smell mainly comes from the Arkansas farmers burning off cotton, but IT’S A FALL SMELL and I shall be rejoice and be glad. Even as I gasp like an emphysemic trucker and writhe around like a fish out of water trying to lay my hands on my inhaler so I can get one more lung full of burning herbicides because THEY BY GOD SMELL LIKE FALL AND I WILL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET.

The light in August? Pfffft. One, you know how I feel about Faulkner. Two, September is purdier. And tomorrow? Tomorrow it will be September, finally. Tonight at 11:59, August will pack up his El Camino and leave out for…well, I don’t know where August goes when he leaves. A place where there’s a Chuck Norris marathon playing at the drive in would be my guess. Doesn’t matter. I don’t care where he goes because I don’t have to deal with him for another year.

September SEC football and pot roast. August’s bug bites and antibiotic ointments pale in comparison to college football. Yes, tomatoes are bountiful in August. See, I CAN say nice things about months I hate. But if August is a tomato, September is the bacon to go with that tomato.

I’m not promising I’ll be a kinder, gentler sarcastic wench tomorrow, but I won’t be any worse. And, hell, I’ll prolly be right giddy by the time October shows up. No, I won’t. I know. But that’s the thing about September. It gives me hope.

Do not spoil this for me.

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10 Responses to “To September”

  1. Anneliese July 30, 2012 at 3:20 pm #

    You should come check out August in western Oregon…. it’s like the Ben Taylor of seasons (all smooth and sweet and buttery-voiced and James Taylor/Carly Simon omg I could slice bread on his cheekbones love-childy), where apparently your August is like the… I dunno, I’m seeing Joe Dirt in my head? of seasons.

    • Susan July 30, 2012 at 3:30 pm #

      YES! That is exactly the image I had in my mind! I’ll just pack my bags and live with you next month.

  2. debbie August 31, 2011 at 5:55 pm #

    August made me break up with summer altogether. What a disgusting jerk.
    (http://willcooleyfanclub.blogspot.com/2011/08/open-letter-to-summer.html)

    • Susan August 31, 2011 at 6:04 pm #

      I read that earlier today and decided we were separated at birth.

      • debbie August 31, 2011 at 7:38 pm #

        You flatter me. Go on!

  3. Desi August 31, 2011 at 11:54 am #

    I love summer…

    • Susan August 31, 2011 at 12:15 pm #

      I know. It’s your fondness for short britches.

  4. Jamie August 31, 2011 at 11:12 am #

    I absolutely love reading your blogs! Don’t go “we are on a break” with your writing–it’s too good!

    • Susan August 31, 2011 at 11:23 am #

      Awww…Thank you! If I go on hiatus it’s usually brief and because I need my meds adjusted. So…yeah. But thanks for reading!

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  1. As I Was Saying… | Yeah And Another Thing... - June 9, 2013

    […] just want to say that I hate spring. I mean, I hate summer more. Especially August. But summer is at least honest. You know you’re going to be miserable in summer. You know […]

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