It is so stupid of me not to write something every night. Now I have so much to write that it's pointless to begin: I would like to compare two memoirs, Kevin Roose's The Unlikely Disciple and Nathan Rabin's The Big Rewind; write about the community garden at the elementary school down the street; give the annoyed grown-ups' version of the Victoria Wants A Pet saga; tell car-shopping stories; express my disappointment in Lee Whittlesey's Deaths in Yellowstone; rave on and on about Dead Like Me; brag about my grill some more; and rejoice over the discovery of a sweet bike path.

What I will not talk about is Brian's big, secret project that he is "working on", meaning he sends imperious email after email with constantly changing specifications and ridiculous time strictures while I assemble the thing completely.

What I will talk about is digging a hole. I was reading a book about vegetable gardening, but there were a lot of extra u's in the words and the odd hedgehog here and there so I hope this trick works in the New World. The book recommended that I toss incompletely composted organic matter into a hole, fill it back in and use that patch for growing beans. Since I had two cans half-full of incompletely composted organic matter as well as a shovel, I thought I would try it.

The hole was square, four feet to a side, and eighteen inches deep. We had a nice rain two nights ago so the sod wasn't hard to break through but it took longer than I thought it would to make a nice Virginia Lee Burton-worthy hole. Plus--thanks to the project of which I will reveal nothing--a crummy song was stuck in my head the whole time. I started late in the afternoon, so I couldn't spend much time admiring the empty hole. I filled it back up, washed my hands, and made weird pizzas out of leftovers.

So. I dug a hole. Glad I got to tell you all about it.