Baked Takes
I never asked to be a New Orleans Saints fan I Promise
Thursday!
I would say happy Thursday but y’all can look up the Saints/Falcons score from Sunday to know why it’s not happy. Here’s the highlights:
I attended the 47th annual Denver Film Festival last week (and heard a rumor that Sundance might permanently relocate to Boulder? Can anyone substantiate this or am I just delusional?)
Elephant in the room, and a big reason I disappeared for so long: Trump won the election. France is looking real nice right about now.
I am officially a CannaCutie Ambassador! Use my code eevee10cutie for 10% off your order, I’ll be posting my gift box from her soon💕
Now, onto the content
I sat down to write on Sunday, and immediately had to call my mother because I had officially become her, the same way she became my grandmother: I pulled the Saints’ game up, of my own volition, knowing I would be upset after. There comes a time in every woman’s life when she sees her mother’s traits in herself, and I guess my time has come. Trust, if I was actively choosing a sports team to follow, I’d bandwagon wherever Joe Burrow plays. As it stands, my heart yearns for disappointment every fall/winter Sunday.
Judee Reeves, my brilliant, fabulous, hilarious, and late grandmother had a routine: every Sunday, before asking Grandaddy to turn on the ball game, she would put a paper bag over her head. Grandmama knew following the Saints was not for the weak, and she was one of the strongest women I’ve ever known. Same with my mom, and my aunt Julia. Something about growing up with weekly horrific disappointments sets you up to be a strong and resilient adult. Maybe I should’ve been sat in front of the ball game every week growing up and I wouldn’t need therapy now.
Their only Super Bowl win that will ever happen in my lifetime happened when I was in sixth grade. I remember during my language arts class, the Friday before the Super Bowl, the principal coming on the intercom to announce that, if the Saints won that Sunday, we could have a no-uniform day as long as we dressed in black and gold (I also vividly remember hearing the school counselor hysterically laughing in the background). They won. We all showed up in a flood of black and gold.
People always compliment my resilience, so it’s not surprising that I’ve followed in the footsteps of the women who came before me in being a Saints fan. Maybe all the therapy I’ve been doing set me up to handle whatever football season throws my way. All that said, I’m kind of praying for them to have a bad season this year. As awful as that sounds, the land upon which New Orleans is built physically cannot handle a hometown Super Bowl with Kendrick Lamar performing halftime on Mardi Gras fucking weekend. Pray for that city. They’re gonna need it come February.