The ticking clock is the only sound in the house. It’s cold. I put on some socks. The gingko trees are turning gold outside, and this makes me happy. Autumn makes me very happy.
When I first moved to Illinois, I pictured meeting the hot guy who didn’t know how hot he was, as described in Anne Friedman’s essay. I forgot that this supposed guy would be a long drive from the north, where the quiet suburbs are spread out generously, where restaurants close at eight in the evening. There are no late night deliveries in the burbs, shocking my midnight snacking burger-and-fries-while-marathoning-Gilmore-Girls-on-a-weeknight New York self.
It’s the middle of the coldest month of the year, and I’m indoors, wearing three layers of clothing (including a down jacket). For two weeks, Vera, my beloved laptop, has been in a coma. The one time I use my laptop as a tray. But today I learned that her brain is still working, I just need to hook her up to a different screen in the meanwhile.