More Milo on his first car ride

The loves of my life

Some Advice About Honesty

I'll never forget the time I told my parents I was going to Taco Bell and had to call them four and a half hours later to get picked up from Kyle's squad car-filled driveway. Would it have been better just to tell them that K-man's "p"s were out of town and we were going to throw a rager at his place? Maybe I should not even have gotten that far - good sense should have set in when Kyle gave money to his ex-con buddy (an old friend of the family) to pick up the beers. I'll never forget waking up sloshed and alone on Kyle's bed to the sound of a police radio and someone vigorously knocking on the door. I eyed the second-story window and thought better of it. They sent me downstairs with the rest of the busted, and we lined up to use the phone. The jig was up; it was time to come clean.

A few years of complete and Christian honesty later, I partook in a little gag with a group of friends. We called it the Senior Prank. Jamie stole a key to the school from an oblivious janitor that had left it hanging on the roll-a-garbage-can when she went in to clean the ladies' loo. We also broke the lock on a window just to make sure we would have a way in. Then, at two o'clock in the morning, we climbed in through said window and proceeded to douse the hallways with a few cases of ice-warm Miller Genuine Draft. We had planned well enough that we were unburdened by the task of opening each individual can; we stored the beers in lawn chemical sprayers, with the pumps - you know, the backpack thing. Then we spraypainted the lockers: Seniors '97. I know, not the most creative tag for a group of college hopefuls also hoping not to get caught. The next day was a stressful one, as the administration put the pressure on to catch the culprits. They announced that all seniors would take finals, which were usually waived in the final semester of senioritis, unless the perpetrators turned themselves in. We made it through a tough day of cutting diatribes by some of our most respected teachers ("I am personally offended by this act of utter disrespect..." - you can imagine), but had a big powwow after school in which it was determined that some, but not all, of us would turn ourselves in. Some students just had too much at stake. Allow me to assert that I, and the others that courageously but stupidly turned themselves in, am no longer in touch with the aforementioned. Cowards. But I shall let bygones be bygones and get to the point: we never should have told the truth! We had them by the nuts. We were all smart kids, had covered our tracks, and had not told even our closest friends; we had even raised our hands during that grueling day and pretended to express our outrage at the morally defunct individuals that could have done such a thing. The deans roasted us on a spit. We got mugshots, went before the judge, did all kinds of community service, and paid restitution. In the end, I got a hot girlfriend and the last ten days off of school.

So, if you see your neighbor's cat munching on your weed plant, do you call the dude? He could call the cops! Gray constitutes the many beautiful shades between indigo black and pearly white, and I am not sure that people who go spitting sensitive truths all over the place are much better off than those who guard and mete out the truth parsimoniously. After all, since you know he's gonna be fine, might it be funny just to watch kitty enjoy himself for a while?

Summer of the Nest

Though a glutton for free time, I have never been one for sitting around. I like the idea of lethargy, and I enjoy the first few minutes and even hours of spreading myself out slothfully on the day bed; however, my mind is constantly planning ways to wear out my restless body. As a result, this summer of domesticity has found me digging (you'll understand the pun later) into a few memorable projects that have long been on the to-do list.

My proudest home improvement effort thus far wrapped up at the end of June when I cut the ribbon on the Man Room. Some may take issue with the name, but I have yet to hear an apter title for the smelly garage turned ultimate masculine music room. One of the more hilarious measures I took to pimp out the space was when I changed the hinges on the mini fridge to allow a sedentary couch user to open the door without obstructing his beer view. It's nice enough for in-law stays yet equipped for band practice. Bring your special friend for a romantic evening or just stop by and pick a while; it's all possible in the Man Room.

Behind the structure formerly known as the garage is an earthen hemisphere that has risen from the clay. I've always wanted a pizza and bread oven, and after helping repair earthen ovens on the Zuni reservation in southern New Mexico last summer, I decided to make one of my own (interestingly enough, the Spanish actually taught the Zuni how to build their "traditional" ovens, but civilizations all over the ancient world had some version of the earth oven - tandoori ovens, for example). I borrowed a book from a friend and followed the directions. I dug a deep hole and filled it with substrate. The dirt from deep down in the hole was a rich clay, which I would later use to build the oven. I built a brick and mortar base from old red pavers I had laying around. I created an insulating floor layer with old beer bottles, hamster bedding, and mud. I bought a few yellow fire bricks (hard to find) to make a hearth and archway (what a pain). I made a dome of wet sand, covered it with a layer of newspaper, then began packing on a four-inch thick layer of clay mixed with sand and water. A few days later, I tenuously dug out the sand (touch-and-go) and lit a fire to harden the walls. I added another four-inch layer of mud and hamster bedding and I had myself an oven. I have cooked two delicious meals in it, and I have yet to burn down anyone's house. Pizza and sourdough bread are next. Add that to your reasons to stay a night in the Man Room.

Lastly, the vegetable garden has been going off this year, and especially the zucchinis. Someone remind me to plant only one zuc plant next year, because I have a plethora of squash that likes to go gargantuan overnight. As I brainstormed dishes to help consume my zucchini, I eventually came to pickles. I consulted the comprehensive Joy of Pickling and a more accessible source: my mother. I ended up making a beautiful batch of zucchini pickles that she and my grandmother, Babi, used to make many moons ago. Family recipes are indeed precious - this may be the only one I have - but I don't have any proprietary notions about it, so please shoot me an email if you have a zucchini explosion and want some tips. You may want to wait to see if I get boccholism.

Gotta go, as Leila is starting to have back pains, which could mean something!

Piddling Around

I am waiting, waiting, waiting. I sleep (badly, barely) sitting up. I look out the window for inordinately long. I write thank-you letters. I read the Twilight series despite my scorn for popular literature. Though I cannot really bend down to tie my shoes, I hike miles daily with Sammy the dog in Tilden. My acute sense of smell is driving me crazy: Sammy always smells like maple syrup after running through the underbrush in the hills of Berkeley. The birthing tub smells like a pool. The kitchen smells like chicken because my wonderful husband/chef is making stock. I am waiting.

An Etymology of Summer

The final weeks of school robbed me of my desire to read or write; most of my "free" time found me tied up with a hammer in one hand and a spatula in the other - not to mention the tens of hours I spent writing progress reports. Nothing saps a writer's creative impulses like obligatory creativity. But hark, there was a light at the end of that tunnel, and I have arrived at that warmly familiar state of boredom and inertia that can only be described as summer.

In my newly-won free time, I did some research on this word summer, and what I can tell you is that Old(e) English (sumor) and Proto-Germanic (sumar) etymologies suggest that summer has been around for a really long time. Now this was not in my research, but I think it is safe to infer that people thought it was cool even back then. Shit grew. They ate the shit, fermented the shit that was left over and later drank the shit, then ran around naked drunk on shit because it was nice outside. They made love, had babies, and now you exist. It's all because of summer, really.

So this morning I woke up after eight, made a giant press of coffee, read the New York Times, and watched some YouTube videos. My coffee is cold now, I'm updating this blog for the first time in months, and I feel a few hours of guitar practice in the Man Room coming on. Stay tuned for a blog on the earth oven I'm building in the backyard and an invitation to christen it with a wood-fired pizza party.