A few weeks back, Tara began her annual campaign to get us to come down to the Cape for Oysterfest. And, as in years past, I nodded as she described the stand-out weekend events: disco party Friday night, beachcombing Saturday morning, wandering the streets of Wellfleet eating oysters of every shape and size ?til your ears ring (girls) or ?til your pecker is stiffer than a Yankee?s upper lip (boys), lounging on the deck with a glass of Riojo in your hand as the sun drops into the sea?you know, typical Truro fare.

My nodding head indicated only, yes?sounds fun, it was in no way a sign of affirmation that yes, we?re in! Au contraire, as T had just driven round-trip to Richmond, VA the weekend before and I have been steadily racking up the commuter miles in no small way, the idea of driving ANY where was slim to none.

And yet, the drumbeat grew louder. Finally, I just said to her, ?all you have to do is convince him to go,? and handed the phone to my husband.

I will admit to you now, I fully expected that to be the end of the matter. Ah, but that would not be the first time I have underestimated the Lord of the Dance. In the eleven seconds it took Tara to explain there would be an all-night disco party where some of his favorite dancing partners would be waiting for him, the man who had just completed 26 hours behind the wheel of a car, shouted, ?we?re there!?

No regrets, of course. It was a great weekend.

One highlight for me was seeing the dogs react to the ocean for the first time. All you Ollie lovers out there would have laughed out loud to see him try to body surf.

He. Loved. It. I have truly never seen him happier than he was chasing waves on Saturday morning. Of course, Daisy found out the hard way that the water was SALTY and most unlike the lake water she is accustomed to lapping.

But all too quickly the sand slipped through the hourglass

and we headed home with three, exhausted, briny dogs and a pocket full of seashells.

got 2 cents?