Beaver the Cube

In the game of backgammon, when one player believes he/she will beat the other, at some point before the actual finish, they will up the ante, and throw the cube (even numbers that double up on each of its six sides), thus doubling the points if the other player accepts the challenge. If they refuse, they forfeit the game. If the player takes the cube, they can keep going at the doubled-value, or double the game again, by "beavering the cube," to quadruple the take, and hold that bet until such time they want to push it. Or at least I think that's how it goes.

For real: Beaver the cube.

And that phrase can stand in as a description for the whole Fourth of July weekend.

The core group of us, The Savior, Monsieur, Tennis Pro, and I engaged in game after game of fuel-injected rounds of backgammon. At one point, I was standing on a deck chair, throwing the dice, my stomach shoved up high under my ribcage, the rush, wanting to get a killer roll and gammon or even backgammon my opponent.

"You want some action on that?" The Savior barked, more than once, this hands gesticulating like the bats that flew among the trees, high above the citronella torches which, planted around the perimeter of the pool, smoked up into the evening sky. He kept tabs all the long weekend, how many games, how many points, who was ahead of whom.

The World Cup too. "Who do you want?" He jabbed his finger at Monsieur. "France? I'm in for Brazil." And France won. We danced around the house as Monsieur worked over the vast dinner preparations. Heck fire - that's not very Francaise of me - France is now in the finals, versus Italy.

And Wimbledon played on. Roddick lost. But our fellows won. An exhibition match at The East Hampton Tennis Club, The Savior teamed with Tennis Pro, and took down their opponents in straight sets, 6-4, 6-3, or as they say, "Four-three." We gals turned up in heels, hats, and shades. Go fellas.

And the Tour de France. I'm rooting for George Hincapie.

There was a strange Gilligan's Island moment - when we got stuck, out of gas, in a little power boat, bobbing almost helpless in the not-so-Little Peconic Bay. An old-salt, white-bearded, Sea Tow captain got us out of that potential pickle, a thunder storm harbinger on the near horizon.

Captain Pete.

Once on dry land, I escaped.

Yep: we got action. Some of the gals took over the third bedroom, sat and sipped poolside, trawled through nighttime parties, stumbling in at daybreak.

I hewed to the core group, eschewed the larger social scene shenanigans. We crashed most nights around midnight. We missed the fireworks. Who needs fireworks when I popped my own fiery cherry?

Cannonball!

Comments

[barbaros]

belıeve

u r so beatıful
pls gıve me ur msn adres

wrıte me bye bye

from ıstanbul

barbaros

[jennifer]

CANNONBALL!! Laughing so hard. Puppy girl is looking for a belly to lay on and wondering why it's curled up in a ball (like she usually is) and upside down hovering in mid-air over a body of water (puppy girl avoids bodies of water). Me likes this post! She's yelping at the screen.... "yap yap MOMMMMYYYYY make him lay down on the beach again yap yap!"