​The Washington Nationals and the World Series — perfect together — if you are a Nats fan.

But for a Philadelphia fan, it is particularly tough on me. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to the not being there part. In 40-plus years of phandom, I can almost count World Series/Super Bowl/Stanley Cup/NBA Final appearances on one hand.

No, it’s the proximity.

Situated as I am between the Pittsburgh, Baltimore and D.C. markets, most of the time when the final game of the regular season has been put out of its misery, I can go on my way pretending everything is wrapped up for the year. 

While others are planning Super Bowl parties, for example, I’m usually mildly surprised they are still playing football in February.

I really don’t have anything against the Nationals. Harkening back to the Montreal days, those glorious days of my youth, the Expos were a rival. Steve Rogers, Charlie Lea, Tim Raines, Andre Dawson — I always enjoyed those early 1980s throwdowns. 

When they first came to D.C., and you could snag cheap tickets at cavernous RFK Stadium, it was a fun night of baseball you could take Metro (the subway) to, as opposed to having to drive to Baltimore to see the Orioles.

But, having worked for a decade in D.C., and having lived there for a sizable chunk of that time, I can’t help but be reminded every time I pick up a newspaper, turn on the television news, or check my social media feeds about each and every moment of the Nationals’ run.

Plus, since homegrown talent Bryce Harper jumped ship in free agency to join my beloved phightin’ Phils, it’s gotten personal. They’re still a little bitter. It’s almost like they have completely forgotten they did the same thing to us when they signed Jayson Werth... but I digress.

Look, I understand it isn’t easy being a Washington sports fan right now. Sure, the Caps won a Stanley Cup a couple of years ago, but the Wizards haven’t caused much excitement recently and the football team, once one of the crown jewels of the NFL, is a disappointing shadow of its former greatness. I don’t begrudge the excitement.

But it isn’t all cheesesteaks and soft pretzels being a Philadelphia sports fan, either. We don’t do dynasties. When we get our championships, we have to savor them, because never seeing another in our lifetime is a distinct possibility. We always seem to find ourselves in the giant shadow cast by New York, and all the while having to carry the stigma of being the “Philly” image. We boo. We’re haters. We threw snowballs at Santa, yada, yada...

All I’m saying is, when the expansion teams win the big ones, or when the Dodgers or Patriots put another notch on their belt, or even the Cubs and Red Sox put their curses to rest, I’m thankful for my ability to tune it out of my misery.

But on the heels of another year of disappointment, when spending “stupid money” still found the Phils playing golf in October, and with the Birds seemingly adrift after a thumping in Dallas, having to take a front row seat to a Nationals’ postseason hardly seems fair.

In fact, I’d call it downright foul.

​Yesterday was a sunny, if a bit chilly, fall day. Still warm enough that we ventured out with the top down on the convertible, but we wouldn’t have tried it without fall jackets.

Today was the kind of gray, rainy day we get out here that signals seasonal change. By the time the front moved through, the wind had kicked up and likely won’t stop until April.

That’s the way it tends to happen in these parts — suddenly.

One who isn’t complaining about the weather is Sochi, our Great Pyrenees. She revels in this kind of weather, content to lie out in the yard with the wind blowing through her hair all night. But not me, I know what’s coming — they recorded snowfall out at the ski resort tonight. Yes, it’s in the mountains, and yes, it’s two hours away, but...

My better half revels in the fall, happy to rush into the season. She’ll order pumpkin spice in August if they let her, and she can barely restrain herself from breaking open her bins of fall and Halloween decorations before the summer is officially over.

Those who know me are aware I’m not a big fan of spiders. I know the statistics, I’m mere feet from dozens at any time, but we have a general agreement. I know they do good, you see. So we coexist. I don’t see you, no smashie.

So, it’s only natural, I guess, I’d find myself with someone who would fill the house with eight-leggity paraphernalia. In a normal year, she’d have the house covered in faux spiderwebs with creepy crawlies everywhere. This year, much to her dismay, with our house on the market, she’s had to keep it to a dull roar.

That’s a shame, honestly, she does an amazing job with it. By the time the kiddies come around looking for the loot, she’s got the place properly decked out with ghosts and ghoulies. Still, she managed to get enough out for the wind to get ahold of. Another annual tradition... the chasing of the Halloween decorations.

Cold, wind. I’m just not ready. I’d like a few more nights relaxing in the yard with a nice drink and smoking my pipe. Now, I know what you are going to say. It’ll warm up. Indian summer, and all that. Sure, it’s possible.

I remember plenty of Halloweens sweating to death under those plastic masks with the rubber bands we used to wear. The ones that came from the Jamesway with the character aprons you tied around you that were supposed to make you look like Bugs Bunny or Batman. Kids, you have no idea how good you have it with the costumes nowadays. 

But I remember just as many Halloweens freezing my tookus off. Trying to catch a little of that indoor heat before the door closed, and hightailing it around the neighborhood while I could still feel my nose... and toes.

No, as far as 2019’s warm weather goes, this is the endgame. Before I know it, we’ll be traipsing around a Christmas tree farm felling a 9-foot giant for the living room.

Eeesh... I hadn’t thought about that. Christmas. I can only hope will be in our new digs by then, because I can see some go-arounds with the real estate agent when my partner is ready to transform the place into Santa’s workshop. 

Seriously, after compromising this Halloween, I’m not sure she’s going to restrain herself. It’s the only holiday that has more bins than Halloween.

​Like a comet, a total eclipse, or an old friend, it has returned!

No, not the pumpkin spice latte, which, all apologies to Bond villain Hugo Drax, has appeared with the tedious inevitability of an unloved season. 

No, I mean everyone’s favorite 1980s-menu-flop-come-legendary-limited-time menu item —McRib!

McDonalds is actually calling it “McRib season.” Sip on that with your PSL. Seriously, is “PSL” an acceptable term now? It keeps popping up in things I read, but one place I didn’t read that was in my style manual.

Anyway, McRib. Made of some sort of pressed pork and shaped into a boneless rack-shaped patty, drenched in a neon-red barbecue sauce, topped with onions and pickles and served on an oblong bun, McRib has made periodic and more infrequent returns to the menu in select markets over the years.

Those of us obsessed with the strangely “McRib-flavored” sandwich — who I now will officially deem “McRib Nation” — will climb mountains and swim oceans to find it.

Well, maybe not all that, but we’ll drive a few miles. Maybe not as far as Homer Simpson, but a few miles.

Yes, even “The Simpsons” paid homage to McRib — sorry, Krusty Burger called it a “RibWich,” but we all knew the special sandwich Homer craved.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the McRib was born in a lab, the result of a National Pork Producers Council effort to get pork on fast food menus. The patty that emerged looked like a pork chop, NPR reported in 2011, Mickey D’s came up with that infamous rib-like shape.

In all likelihood, McRib would never have attained its coveted status had it not been pulled from the menu. In my experiments, and I’ve run a few, one McRib will do the trick for a while.

But through the ingenious marketing tactic of only making it available for short, relatively unpredictable periods, it creates a feeding frenzy among the crazed, McRib starved masses.

Even by McDonalds standards, the McRib furor on social media was overwhelming. There are websites dedicated to “finding McRib near me” that seemingly popped up overnight. The official one is called “McFinder.” What, you thought it would be called something else?

Stories were posted news outlets nationwide — my iPad was inundated with breaking news alerts following the announcement of McRib’s return. I mean, this is big stuff! Some idiots even write columns about it!

And it works! For me, nowadays, McDonalds is a sometimes treat. I can’t take the calories, I can’t take the heartburn, and I spend a lot less time behind the wheel of my car, throwing down a value meal before covering something.

But dangle a McRib out there, and I’m right back in line. Like Michael Corleone, just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in!

Obsessed? Maybe. But before you go blaming this kind of thing on men of a certain age, who spent Saturday mornings watching cartoons and knew who the “Fry Guys” were, I will point out my significant other dragged us around to every McDonalds in New England on her desperate, fruitless search for a McLobster Roll last summer. 

We won’t even mention Shamrock shakes.

McRib isn’t even some silly regional specialty like McLobster, it’s nationwide and only available for a limited time at select locations!

Yep, that’s right folks, if you don’t get one now, McRib goes back in the vault until next time. Just like that timeless Disney classic on VHS, it may be years!

Seriously, I think they actually do that. I’m pretty sure the stuff doesn’t go bad. That sauce is probably some sort of government lab mega-preservative.