Fall in the south is awesome. And by “awesome” I mean “nearly nonexistent, what with the summer temps well into October save for a few moderate days when we fling open every window in the house and scream ‘IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY, QUICK, BREATHE IN THAT TEMPERATE AIR!'”
As I slide into my
third fourth (math is hard!) Fall here, I find myself experiencing so many of the same emotions I’ve had in the past few years: The giddiness at the first chilly morning; the urge to bake again, now that it’s cool enough; and the justification of “sampling” the cornbread I made for dinner just to, you know, make sure it’s okay.
And then, of course, as I peek into my crock pot, bubbling away with hot and hearty food, I inhale a mixture of spices and the breeze, and my gaze drifts out the window, and once again, there’s an overgrown rodent chomping on my deck. Apparently Fall is time to EAT MY HOUSE. And for me to become irrationally angry about it.
The next time I see him (I chased the offender away, slotted silicone spoon in hand in case I needed a weapon), I’m letting Licorice go after him. Maybe she can gum him to death, teaching squirrels everywhere a lesson in… um… NOT DOING THAT.