We went down and hung out on the field of the local high school. Had picnic dinner with friends (Jeff & Alice, Tom & Heather, Karen & Thomas, Chris & Rose). We made gazpacho. Greg made tasty brownies. And there were lots of cherries, because apparently there's a bumper crop this year. We managed to not sit anywhere near the sprinklers, which was a nice change.
Yesterday we had brunch with Greg's mom on her way back through town. saintpookie is definitely his mother's son. She's a lot of fun.
Saturday was running errands and relationship maintenance (the rule for complicated relationships like ours is: communicate, communicate, communicate) and Ghostwalk. We killed the dragon, huzzah! Jerry grilled little people-shaped burgers beforehand, which was a hoot. And tasty.
Friday, of course, was birthday G&C for the Pook. We had marble cake with fudge frosting (courtesy of Karen) and we sang "Happy Birthday" in the key of Q-flat minor and about nine different tempos and rhythms. Afterwards, the coffehouse-performer-du-jour felt compelled to sing Happy Birthday harmoniously over the partition at us. Almost played some Ninja Burger -- enough to decide that it seems like a fun game.
I had a dream this morning that was a pretty coherent little science fiction story. I probably could have written it out and had the start of a serious piece of fiction. Except that it was, like, a scifi story that would have been written in the 60s or 70s, and it wasn't really very good.
(Short summary: about a guy reminiscing over societal rejection of him and his lover as he prepares himself to take a bunch of barbituates and other pills in a scuzzy little hospital room, except he's not about to commit suicide, it's actually a combo that was accidentally discovered to put you into suspended animation -- he's taking a one-way trip to a future time where he'll be accepted.)
Even as I was dreaming it, I was thinking "wow, this is dated".