Contributing Writer

Even a workaholic like me has to take sometime off during the year for a

vacation; to rub shoulders with the common folk, to be at one with nature,

to find myself again. Yes, it's very magnanimous (The Wife spelled that

one) of me to take a weeklong vacation with The Wife so she can enjoy my

company, unimpaired by all that silly work. I'm such a good husband.

Now you people out there in newspaper land, don't despair. You won't

miss out. I'll send my column to the editor this week by the wonders

of e-mail.

A lot of preparation must be done before one can leave town for a week of

rest and relaxation. First, you must cram two weeks of work into one, which

is fine if you're a workaholic like me, er, recovering workaholic. We

got a friend to feed the big black dog in the backyard. We got a friend to

feed the two kitty cats in the house. We got a friend to drive by and get

the mail. We ran out of friends so we sent The Boy off to football camp for

a week.

The Boy went on a team bus to South Georgia where it will be 95 degrees

in the shade with 95 percent humidity. Up before dawn each day, he'll

be running, hitting pads, and doing drills in the first of three practices

under the steamy Georgia sun. He's gonna sweat a bunch. It'll be

a rough week.

In the morning The Wife and I will catch a plane to Provincetown, Mass.,

where the highs for the week are to be in the low 60s with zero humidity.

Up before dawn each day, we'll walk the cobblestone streets to the quaint

coffee shop down from our cottage, shop at every art gallery we come to,

eat hand-dipped ice cream with hot fudge in the afternoon. At the end of

each day we'll dine at one of the many five-star restaurants that overlook

the bay and then have a nice relaxing walk on the beach