<span class=”dcap”>I</span>t’s becoming dark out too early.  I’ve stopped ordering my lattes iced.  In November “Fourbucks” will have gingerbread lattes again.  I don’t know of anything better.  Yesterday I wore boots instead of sandals and devoured an apple crumble with the girls.  We’ve come up with a new ritual, meeting on Sunday evenings for drinks, which always turn into dinners.  Then we disperse, to have second meals with our significant others who’ve been waiting for us to eat.  We lie and say we haven’t eaten, but we have.  “Gosh, I just don’t have much of an appetite lately.”

We’re approaching noctober which makes me want to grocery shop and build a nest.  I want to cook up pots of things.  Lamb stew.  Hearty earthy meals.  I sleep more in this weather.  Today, I slept until noon.  I was up ’til 3am watching The Notebook followed by 13 Going On 30.  I adore movie days, and this gloomy weather inspires me to movie hop.  Little Manhattan, In Her Shoes (saw it and loved it), Elizabethtown.  I love the hop, especially when I smuggle in a bottle of Jack Daniels to spike my enormous diet coke.   Though I only do this on a date, and by our third movie, we need to go home and not watch a movie in bed.

I need to reorganize my closet and donate bags of it away.  I cannot find anything anymore.  I need more sweaters.  Those damn J. Crew leaflets have been arriving in my mail every day.  I want to wear knee highs and preppy clothes, to mix up some Maker’s Mark with hot chocolate.  To play in leaves and eat walnut honey’s from Young’s Farm in Old Brookville.  Instead, I’m here, in this city, in my room, writing on a tight deadline.  Riiight.  Back to it.