This weekend, Alabama plays Auburn.

Apparently this is a Very Big Deal. People around here care. They care a lot.

The good news is that the impending collective madness prompted a local to give me the best piece of newcomer advice I've heard yet:

By the way, if you want to do any Christmas shopping at our malls, the prime time to do it is this weekend during the Auburn-Alabama game. The entire state will come to a screeching halt for that, and if you do run into any people, they'll most likely be in the electronics departments of the stores watching the game on TV.

So yes, I'll be donning my turkey applique sweatshirt on Saturday and heading to the Summit. Goddamn right.

The other weekend we fearlessly strode on to the U of A campus in Tuscaloosa at the end of a home game. We were supposed to do something called "tailgating" with people from Todd's work. We're good sports, right? But we neglected to wear crimson, or anything with the word "ALABAMA" on it for that matter, and were thus subjected to angry jeers from the fans pouring out of the stadium. A grim lot they were: Bama had lost to Mississippi State (my dad's alma mater, incidentally). You'd think these people had witnessed Bear Bryant's execution or something: the tear-streaked faces, downcast eyes. Until they caught sight of us in our various shades of black, that is. Grief gave way to anger, as it will. I took a pom-pom in the face. Todd got swatted by a bleacher cushion. Both of us were pelted by koozies.

"That'll teach ya to wear some...some...jean jacket!" a lady shrieked.

"Roll TIDE, or get the hell outta here!" her husband boomed.

"Roll tide!" squeaked their fat child, who threw his Chik-fil-A cup at me.

We scurried to the nearest magnolia tree and took shelter under its branches. Once we'd regained our composure, I dug a lipstick out of my purse and painted big slimy As on our cheeks, and we ventured into the tent city of tailgaters. People had rallied a little. They had their Lites and plates of barbeque and clumps of potato salad. They had their plasma screens set up so they could watch Tennessee get the shit kicked out of them, too. They ignored us.

We never did find Todd's company peeps, alas. But we heard the twangy opening notes of "Sweet Home Alabama" eight times, and caught an impromptu karaoke performance of "Thank God I'm a Country Boy."

Party on.