Saturday is my birthday. I know exactly what I want: a necklace, more specifically, a choker whose charm/stone whatever will rest directly on my trachea. This necklace will have a unique quality. When I roll my head back onto my shoulders and turn it side to side, an exact imitation of the Chewbacca roar will be emitted.

Naturally, there will be a volume control.

Can you imagine sitting in a boardroom, 90 minutes into a meeting on how to make a bigger widget when at that exact moment when most people are asleep with their eyes open or reaching the 12th level of whatever game it is they?re playing on their blackberry?I let rip a Chewbacca groan?

Awesome.

I?m thinking there will be no limit to its usefulness. In the grocery line when faced with a snarky cashier, waiting on the sidewalk for the red velvet rope, when a credit card company calls you during dinner time . . . god, I want someone to invent this STAT. I will buy one in every color.

So do we have special plans for this weekend? In fact we do. We are headed to the Cape to partake of one of Tara?s bacchanalian romps. I believe the words ?wild? and ?dance party? were used to describe what awaits us.

Tara and I have already explained to T that his dance doppelganger is the woman who is hosting the shingdig. Her name is Nancy and I met her for the first time last summer at Tara?s birthdayfest and damn, that woman dances all.night.long. T is a wild man on the dance floor, but I am truly looking forward to seeing if perhaps, there is someone else who can keep up with him.

I?ll be too busy making sure my mind is thoroughly numb and that I have begun as many insane conversations as possible in order to offset the week that awaits me when we return home.

The following Saturday is T?s birthday and he is off to see family in Florida and then meet up with this chick and this chick among dozens of others at this event where he and his buddy will be hosting a carrom booth.

If you think the issue that concerns me is his proximity to hot booty, you would be wrong. The problem with his 10-day absence is I will have 3 dogs to care for (oh yes, we are dog sitting), a mile long road to plow, woodstove to keep lit, solar power system to not fuck up--- in a word--- damn, I?m gonna be like one of those hard-faced, wind-blown creatures in a Clint Eastwood movie who steps out onto the porch with a sawed-off shotgun in hand.

Heaven help me.

photo taken by T, Saturday morning

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