I have lovely

fall clothes that I would love to actually wear outside, if only the weather would drop below 88 freaking degrees and, let's see--73 percent humidity. I counted on October to bring me relief, and instead it's only August, part II.

I'm done being thankful for my grocery delivery and laundry service. Every time I try to embrace them as a convenience, they screw up and leave me royally inconvenienced. My position on them will from here forth be neutral at best.

I have much work to do before the weekend. Lucy's in this stage (from about a year to a year and a half) that is my all-time least favorite season of parenting. Into absolutely everything. Oblivious of limits. Her nap time simply isn't long enough to scrub the shower, file away a two-week meat supply into the freezer, set up dinner, feed myself something besides coffee, and write anything. Yesterday her only naps were in the stroller.

So I'm playing catch-up, and hoping we don't melt in the heat while we're apple-picking this weekend. I shake my angry fist at October. I'm staying inside with my air conditioning running all day. As for my love affair with autumn, well, I'm taking some time off.