Swan Song for Summer

Dear Summer,

I just wanted to say a formal farewell to you as you disappeared Tuesday night without even whispering, "Adieu." As someone who hates goodbyes, I understand your hasty departure, but after our intimate relationship this summer I really expected more - a final barbecue, a last swim, one more hot night looking at the stars. But instead I went to bed humid and woke up with a chill to realize that the leaves were already changing, the air was suddenly crisp and the world had been repainted in hues of autumn where vivid greens had just been.

Crying would seem natural but surprisingly I'm not sad. With the same anticipation that I brought out my sandals on the first bearably warm day in April I put on my ballet flats yesterday. I realized that I'm actually sick of skirts and shorts and longing to cover my finally tan legs in pants. I'm excited to replace my "melon" and "freesia" home fragrance oils with scents like "pumpkin nectarine" and "golden apple." I want to make soups not salads. And I almost want to decorate for fall, though I refuse to do anything Halloween-specific. I just hate the black-orange color combo. And while I'm happy to see purple and green have been added to the mix, I'd much prefer taupe and turquoise.

So I suppose it was time to say goodbye, Summer. I guess our love affair had begun to wane. Hot was no longer invigorating. Bright was no longer charming. Wet just started to feel clammy. Things got stale.

But that doesn't mean we're over. Shortly after Christmas, if not sooner, I'll be begging for you to come back. I'll wet my pillow with tears at night remembering all our good times from this year and years past. I'll dream of you. I'll wish for you. I'll change my tune.

You are my season, Summer. Never forget that. But I'm not ready to settle down. I need a little Fall and Spring in my life to keep things exciting, but I love you the most. Always have, always will.

Oh, and I hate Winter. Like, I give myself diarrhea thinking about how soon that pointless season will steal Fall away. Any chance you could tell him to back off? He's so pushy.

Until next year!
Mrs. Dub

Time to Say Goodbye?

The back-to-school pic is making its rounds in the blogosphere – So-and-So’s five-year-old is off to his first day of kindergarten, That Gal’s seven-year-old is braving second grade. They’ve got their best outfits on, their brand new backpacks basically empty but ever-present (and beside them on wheels because for some reason that’s cool) and they boast smiles from here to Kudumulagumma – a city in India home to 11,200 people, none of whom I know.

They are cute. And they bring back a wave of nostalgia for me of all of my first days of school: the nerves, the dread, the sheer specialness of the day. But try as I might, I just can’t convince Mr. Dub to pose for a first day of school pic. And I dare not take one of Miss Dub because I’m sure I’d break into hysterics at the thought she’ll be leaving me in five short years. (Or is it four? How the heck do they determine the cutoff?)

There is no back to school for us here at the Dub residence, although today is the end of summer in one regard because Mr. Dub will return to normal business hours next Tuesday after a three joyous months of “summer hours.” (Translation: Working an extra hour every day so you can get off at noon on Friday.)

Summer hours have been awesome. I’ve always been one to drag out the weekend, calling Friday, “Little Saturday” and Thursday, “Little Friday.” And summer hours made this even easier because we could get in some extra Saturday every Friday. Still with me?

Because us Mormons, while happy to oblige, don’t get to use Sunday as a sequel to Saturday. We choose to treat it differently, which means there’s no shopping, no spending, no swimming, etc. So that leaves us with A LOT to do on Saturday. And balancing fun and chores can sometimes get complicated, which is why using Friday as a prequel to Saturday is so ingenuous.

So it’s very bittersweet for me to say goodbye to summer hours. On one hand, as I mentioned yesterday, there is this new strange part of me that is looking forward to fall. (I think I’m going through seasonal puberty or something.) But on the other hand, I liked having Mr. Dub a few extra daylight hours a week.

And don’t you dare tell me that summer is over just because summer hours are done or because your kids have already posed for their back-to-school pics. First, Labor Day isn’t until Monday and if people are wearing white pants it’s either still summer or still 1983. Also, I am still more than a week away from my two week summer vacation to Southern California. And while the calendar may say September, I say two week vacations are a very summery thing to do.

But what do you really think?

Is summer over? And how do you feel if it is?

Did you live it up, or are you loaded with regrets?

I wouldn’t know yet. It’s still summer here.

Seasonal Oppresion

QUESTION:

If someone told you had to choose between the following or you'd get no dessert - and I know of no greater threat - what would you pick:


A very cold winter

or

A very hot summer?


Because I used to be all about the latter until I met HUMIDITY. And now I'm thinking winter is looking better every day. Then again, it's still a humid cold.

Stupid moisture!

Just say yes

C'mon, everybody's doing it!

This post is for people who make drugs.

Cold, hard, illegal drugs.

While I’m not so much a fan of your current products – nor have I tried any – I do have a business proposition for you.

Let’s bottle summer into pill form.

Because that is a drug I could do.

As soon as you pop some summer, you begin to smell coconut suntan lotion, ocean breezes, and smoky barbecues.

You feel refreshing pool water, billowing skirts and warm sunshine.

You taste juicy hamburgers, tart lemonade and grilled corn on the cob.

You are empowered by the inspiration carried in the wind of a warm, bright night.

You are liberated by light clothing, beach hair and no makeup.

You are happy because summer is bottled joy.

And you are addicted, which I imagine is key when making illegal drugs.

Of course, you would see a dip in sales mid-May through mid-September.

And on an occasional weekend in April, like the one we just had, when the weather hit 80, people flocked outdoors and we watched the Chicago Cubs play with hot dog in hand and nay a cardigan in sight.

On days like that, I don’t need a drug; the world is intoxicating enough for me. And I sniff all the air I can in hopes that it will linger in my system and bring me warmth on a chilly day.

But when I run out of those fumes, I’m left wanting, craving some more summer.

And I need a fix – fast.

Please, please be my dealer.