FRIDAY, I don't remember. Something about talking to government agents all day, and then not being able to sleep, and working on my crappy novel for the first time in months, and then it's all a blur.
SATURDAY we headed over to Shauna's parents' house for a barbecue. Li'l' Duce ran wild, as she is wont to do, and kebabs were eaten. A stranger asked me for my French potato salad recipe; having someone you don't know ask you for a recipe is a very gratifying experience for some reason. We watched some of The Wire, unless we didn't, and discussed particulars of the move to California.* Dr. Headache & the Cranial Thrombosis Band arrived to do a six-week residency in my skull; then sleep.
SUNDAY the three of us packed up and headed out of our brazenly lawless neighborhood** for a trip to Three Rivers Park, where we went to the "swim pond", a cutesy term for a fake lake in which local youth gather to eat Spongebob Squarepants-shaped quiescently frozen novelty treats. A discussion earlier in the day, in which I admitted (in defense of the frankly insane accusation that I don't like fun) that I do not, imminent move to the Pacific shore aside, like swimming, was given a spin when it turned out that I actually do like swimming as long as it is done in the company of a delightful and incredibly enthusiastic kid and a beautiful woman who is actually your girlfriend and not just some lifeguard you're ogling from the men's room. Home, then I cooked an authentic beef tagine with homemade harissa sauce of which I was stupidly proud. I seem to recall there being a saucily horrible documentary about former Peruvian president/crook/self-flattering scumbag Alberto Fujimora mixed in there somewhere, and the whole thing ended with me having to go back to work the next day and interview produce wholesalers, but it was okay, because, man, what a nice weekend it was.***
*: Oh yeah, we're moving to California.
**: In the last two weeks, there have been cops up and down our street (which is pretty much the biggest and perhaps only concentration of freewheelin', drug-dealin', car-stealin' neglecterinos in the otherwise tidy and quiet northeastern suburbs of Minneapolis) every single day, and the bookends were (yesterday) some sort of meth-lab/hit-and-run/TV explosion fiasco in the house across the street that resulted in many fire trucks, paramedics, and a handful of cops blocking the driveway and (a few weeks back) a shoutin' match among non-inner-city youths that escalated into a shovin' match and, eventually, a shootin' match and finally resulted in every cop in Columbia Heights plus a few imported in from Wisconsin taping off the whole block and doing an evidence sweep to see if any slugs ended up in a baby head. Strange but true: I will almost certainly feel safer in Los Angeles than I do here in Minnesota.
***: So how's by you?