Maybe he'll plant a new j.o. tree in his yard.

Instead of unpacking my books this weekend, I instead bought more and more things and brought them into the house. It's like all of the boxes in the basement became intimate with each while I was gone and spawned more of themselves. So my boxes of books are now combined with my boxes of nightstands and dressers from Ikea, and all of them remained unopened while I frolicked about the northern suburbs with the Good Doctor this weekend.

On Friday, Liz and I went to Huie's, the small, small, somewhat dirty-with-scary-plants Chinese restaurant across the street. This was after a 2 hour shopping trip at Ikea, wherein we bought rugs, curtains, and nearly everything else that could be purchased. The food at Huie's, as I feared, was delicious. This means that I will have to go back. This means that when I want to go back, all I literally have to do is cross the street, say "lemon chicken, please" and it will be handed to me in a brown paper bag. (Thereafter, I will run home in such anticipation to eat.) Do you realize that this takes away a horrific step in take-out Chinese? Those 10 minutes in the car when you sit with the food on your lap, warming your thighs and making the entire car stink of sweet and sour?

On Saturday, the Good Doctor and I planned for a parade of homes. We got coffee. We looked at three houses. We got lunch. We went to the bookstore, to Pier 1, to a Holiday gas station were we realized we could get a free buyer's guide and not be as frustrated while looking at the homes. We went home. Then we went to a movie. The Good Doctor had gotten an unfortunate call from his real estate agent, one who claimed that his dream house in Minnetonka may not be his. Because a Minnesota Viking wanted to rent it. The Good Doctor was sad, and needed to be alone to mourn his house-to-Viking. So I decided to spend the night with my family in Albertville. And on Sunday, I spent the day with them. Went to church. Had an amazing run outside in my favorite fall weather. Then came home and convinced my brother to take the puppy on a walk with me, to the park. We went on the swings and tied the puppy to the chair, while the puppy hunted and demolished innocent grasshoppers. I decided to go home and finish unpacking.

But on my way, the Good Doctor sent me a text about pizza, which of course was irresistable, so I strayed from my path home and found myself back at his house in New Hope. It was here that he updated me on the Viking situation: the realtors, of course, both disuaded the owner about renting his home to a Viking and his two children. Of course, you don't want to rent your house to a Viking. You would come home to purple vomit everywhere and dead hookers in the basement. This is what Vikings do. And so, the owner reconsidered the Good Doctor's and his boyfriend's offer on the house, and after 1 month of fighting and second-guessing and reconsidering--and after a night of sadness and margaritas on the GD's part--it looks like he has a house. A dream house.

So, the news was good. Over pizza, I complained about my cell phone and lack of service. The GD convinced me of the great service with his phone and that it worked in my house. (My phone does NOT work in my house. My phone roams in my own bedroom. You can imagine how calm and okay-with-that I am.) So, after an hour and a half of trying to understand a new plan, I got a new phone, new number. The plan has unlimited texting. The phone has a full keyboard.

The GD and I went to my house to try out the new phone. Decided the weather was perfect for a walk. Walked. My house is in his old neighborhood, so he gave me the historic childhood tour. The schools he went to. The church. Where his best friend lived. Where they played football. Then we climbed a perfect, giant pine tree in the park. The branches circled around the tree, each a bit higher than each other. Like a spiral staircase of bike spokes. I climbed as high as my adrenaline would allow, and the GD climbed higher. While he looked down at me and I looked up and we spoke through the spokes of thick branches, he told me how he and his friends used to climb the tree all the time. And he told me that when he was a teenager, he used to climb the tree to masturbate--while looking through the branches, smelling the pine, feeling higher than the park, dangling his feet.

I said: You made me climb your jack-off tree? You tell me how wonderful this tree is, and I climb it, and you tell me it's the jack-off tree? This is disgusting.

The GD laughed. He said other people used the jack-off tree as well, but mostly it was just for climbing and not for masturbating.

Still, I really like the tree. And I'll climb it again. And "jack-off tree" could be the name of a book of poems.