Hiding upstairs, at “the Tahoe house”. Devon’s parents are in the midst of sloooowly moving from Berkeley up to Incline Village. This is something like year five of the process; the floors and kitchen are done, but they’ve not yet cut Karen loose to do the interior decorating that she loves. I don’t tend to notice these sorts of things, but she’s good. Sees something that looks like scrap metal in a thrift shop, says “Hey, that would look great over the fireplace!”, and damned if she’s not right.

Keeps buying me clothes too. I used to resist, but after a few years of it, I realized that the stuff she finds here and there – “Oh, I bet this would look great on David” – fits better and looks a lot better than anything I could pick out for myself. I’ve pretty much given up trying to do it myself anymore. Sad thing is that I don’t make good use of her talents. I’ve got five beautifully-tailored stockbroker-ready suits in the closet – she just saw them somewhere and thought they’d fit me (of course they do), three of which have never been worn. Pity the poor fashion hound.

Anyhow – we’re up at Tahoe, having spent a couple of days camping with neighbors of friends. Kids running around, trying to set fire to each other. Andy upped the level of lethal sophistication, crafting a bow and arrow out of string and found wood. Spent most of the time practicing on trees, but I’m thinking that Jem’s going to be a little more cautious turning his back on her from now on.

Overall, was a good time. I brought up the guitar, and became the de facto evening entertainment. Got to steamroll our way through the RUS litany of Woody Guthrie, Peter, Paul and Mary and the inevitable Raffi.

Dragged the kids up to bag their first real mountain – Hawk’s Peak, 7729′ – and managed to stifle dissent with creative use of sea shanties:

And now we’re climbing up Hawk’s Peak
John Kanaka naka tu ra yea
It’s just three miles, but takes all week…

Keep them singing, and they won’t whine. Or at least that was the theory. Worked somewhat.

But we’re back in civilization. Three days of family is all I can usually handle, so I’m hiding in the guest bedroom, nominally catching up on work email while Devon feeds the kids lunch. Yes, I’m going to daddy hell, I already knew that a long time ago. There’s a phrase for it, isn’t there? The comfort of the damned?

Hmm, now that I think about it, whatever that is she’s making smells awfully nice. Have I no shame? Like you have to ask. Besides, I always do the dishes afterwards….