It was bound to happen. The space-time continuum would suggest that it was inevitable. Like the full moon, the rising tide, like me being late for carpool over and over again, it was written in the stars. The men in my life were going to meet one another and when they did — it wasn't going to be pretty.

I should mention, by the way, that the MRI was fine. Nothing suspicious, they said, or rather, nothing more suspicious than the last time they looked at my breasts which meant that I would (oh, goody) have to have another one next year. There was some added discussion in there about genetic testing, family history, that sort of thing and I told my doctor (younger than me, blond, female, gorgeous, completely unfair) that I would think about it. In truth, I was scared shitless about the prospect of finding out I had some deadly gene floating around my body and decided to put the test off as long as possible. Not that responsible of me, I know, but anyone who has ever called me responsible (at least when it comes to my health) does not even remotely have perceptive in their vocabulary. I thought of calling the boob technician and telling him to save a date for us for the following year, knowing how fond he was of me, but then, realizing that he actually might be there when I went back, I thought better of it.

In celebration of the "all clear" I decided to throw a Star Wars birthday party for Mr. Handsome, who unbelievably, is turning seven this year. Or rather, Jeffrey and I agreed to throw a Star Wars party after Mr. Charisma himself told me he was going away on location for a month and I reminded the shit head it was his son's seventh birthday. He was all apologetic and agreed he'd fly in for the day and then whipped out his check book and said, "How much?" He's such a gentleman. (I should tell you here that Jeffrey, aka "Mr. Charisma" got his name after we were out on a date many years ago and an old girlfriend of his saw us together. She got this look on her face — I'm not sure if it was disgust, or glee, but anyway, she grinned at me and said, "Oh, look. You're with Mr. Charisma." At the time I thought she was just being cute but of course now I realize she was trying to warn me.)

Anyway, he whipped out the big one (and I am not referring to his penis, he wears a size seven-and-a-half shoe, if you know what I mean) and I gave him some ridiculous number that he didn't even question (guilt is like the gift that keeps on giving) and then I called this company called "Sword Play" that is based in the Valley and that re-enacts Star Wars scenes at your very own home. (For a nano-second I consider their name and hope they're not a front for porn, but then I figure, hey, we all have to make a living, as long as the swords are clean and I move on.)

I know, I know, the birthday party thing (see: the bouncy house debacle with Roo) but when it's your own child and by the way your marriage has just fallen apart all common sense flies right out the window. So the big day arrives and I've ordered all this kid-inappropriate food from the City Bakery (smoked fish, quiche, I don't know what I was thinking) and Mr. Handsome couldn't be more excited. He's wearing his Obi Wan Kenobi costume (not the cape, because he says the hood falls in his eyes and he needs to see the Sith — God help me) and his little friends are all there dressed up like Princess Leia, Storm Troopers and Darth Vader. (Roo is Yoda, with the cape and the huge ears and if I do say so myself, he couldn't look more adorable.)

So I'm waiting for the Sword Play guys to call. The plan is they park down the street and let us know they're here and then they come in, in costume and start re-enacting this whole Star Wars thing. And because they're actually stunt men and actors (who isn't, out here) they throw in some sword fighting and tumbling and at the end of it, they find a "hidden" treasure chest of light sabers, induct the birthday boy into the order of the high council or whatever the hell it is (I just made that up, it's some kind of Star Wars thing, like he becomes a Jedi Warrior) and then they sing happy birthday to the party boy and call it a day.

Well, the kids are getting more and more excited. They know something is happening but they don't know what. So when I hear a noise I turn, but it's only (only!) the HBPD and his twins. Now I invited the twins because our kids have been hanging out together lately (I wonder why) and also because...well, you know. The twins aren't in costume (the HBPD pulls me aside and says they have all the stuff at home but they couldn't make up their minds) and as soon as they get into the back yard they see Mr. Handsome in his Obi Wan garb and they start to cry.

So this is going really well and I look at the clock and suddenly realize it's almost an hour past the time that the Sword Play dudes were supposed to be here. I panic. I've got a back yard full of Star Wars freaks who are amped up on salt (the smoked fish) and sugar (French toast Annabelle brought from her favorite Japanese run French bakery) and I start to think we are headed for a kid birthday party debacle of historic proportions. The HBPD touches my back (okay, I'm not thinking about sex during my seven-year-old's birthday party) and says, "Thanks for inviting us. Sorry about the twins. They'll recover in a second. They're just bummed they didn't wear their costumes now."

"Oh, no problem," I tell him, "Crying fraternal twins are the least of my problems." I am suddenly hit by a wave of panic and before he can say anything else, I whip out my cell phone. "Gotta make a call," I burble, "Awol sword guys..." The HBPD looks at me, thoroughly confused but I just laugh, nonchalantly, and then I try to find out what the fuck is going on. Oh, yeah. And then I find out and I scream. It's just a little scream, hardly anything in the annals of my past behavior but the other moms all turn and look at me like, oh yes, we don't need to be reminded, this chick is out of her fucking mind.

The HBPD pulls me aside. All the moms are staring at him too, like he has horns, or at the very least, he has a penis and that in and of itself is enough to get them all hot and bothered. Plus he's the only "Dad" at the party and that's always good for conversation. I want to tell them, "Oh, he's kissed me. And actually, I'm going to fuck him at some point in the not too distant future," but realize this is neither the time or place to lord it over them. "Betcha wish you were getting divorced too," is another thing I want to hurl at them, but you see, now I am kind of out of control.

"What is it?" he says, under his breath, "You look like your head is going to explode." I narrow my eyes. "The sword guys aren't coming," I hiss. "Jeffrey's check bounced. They say they never got paid so they booked another party in the Palisades. They're not even available right now."

I want to cry. Mr. Handsome is so excited about this and has told all his friends that Darth Vader is coming to his house to play. I look at the HBPD, a little wild-eyed. "I could do it, right?" I whisper. "I could...I don't know. Put on a black sheet, a helmet, I could be Darth Vader!" He looks at me, a little oddly. "Do you have a black sheet and a helmet?" "Well, no...I don't!" I wail. "That's just details! I can do it, I know I can, I acted in plays in college! I was good!" The HBPD takes my hand. The other moms are whispering and looking at us but I don't even care. Meanwhile, all the kids are starting to climb trees and throw fruit at each other (I have a fair amount of citrus in my back yard.) I can see more than one mom texting furtively on her phone. This is bad.

"I'll be back in a minute," says the HBPD. "Keep an eye on the twins, will you?" And before I can say, "You've got to be kidding me! I am in the middle of a fucking disaster here how can you leave me with your two children who I barely know and who I'm pretty sure hate me because I'm not their ex-model mother" he's gone. Okay. I take a deep breath. I walk up to the twins. "Um...your Dad had to do something, but he'll be right back. Uh...really soon." The twins fix me with the evil eye. "Where's the party?" says Stella. (She's the meaner one.) "This is the party," says Mr. Handsome, who I didn't realize is standing right behind me. "This party sucks," says Zach and I can see Mr. Handsome trying to hold it together but I can also see he really wants to cry. "If you don't like it, leave," he says calmly and then, under his breath, "Their mom went to live on an Indian Reservation and changed her name to "White Thunder Woman." It kind of pissed them off." I look at my seven-year-old, shocked into a weird state of calm. "How do you know these things?" I ask him. He shrugs. "They told me. They're really not so bad." "White Thunder Woman?" I wonder aloud. "An oddly ballsy name." Mr. Handsome nods, knowingly. "She told their dad the problem with their marriage was she wasn't loud enough. Then he looks at me, considering. "You make a ton of noise, mom. I think that's good."

Okay, at this point I am thinking how did this happen? How did my kid, that small person who was just yesterday a baby, how did he get to be so wise? But before I am able to go all crazy with that space time thing again, the kids starts whooping and hollering and I look up and Obi Wan Kenobi is slinking into the back yard. He goes over to the kids, who are just so excited they can't stand it and suddenly, right behind him is Darth fucking Vader and they start doing their light saber-y Star Wars thing. I don't know how this happened and because I am maybe hormonal today, or because I am maybe just overwhelmed, or maybe because Jeffrey the shit head is supposed to be here and he didn't even have the decency to show at his own incredibly wise child's birthday party, maybe because of all of these things the minute Darth Vader appears I realize what this must be all about and I start to cry.

I walk up to Darth Vader, sniffling. He peers down at me, probably six-foot-seven with the helmet. "The force is strong in you," he intones (his helmet has some kind of microphone voice-box thing inside which makes his voice sound really deep and scary.) "Sorry," I say, "But I want to kiss you." Darth Vader makes what sounds like a choking sound and then, in a more regular voice says, "It's not me you want to kiss. He's over there." I look at where he's pointing and see that indeed, Obi Wan is actually the HBPD. I don't know why I didn't see it before. He's wearing some kind of bad Ewan McGregor hairpiece on his head. And he's on his knees in front of Mr. Handsome and seems to be teaching him some kind of special light saber thing. Mr. Handsome's eyes are fixed on him like he is a magic being and in this instance, I am sure that is exactly what he is.

A little later, after the jousting has finished and the hidden light sabers discovered (I bought them all myself, so at least they were there) I manage to pull Obi aside. "How did you to do this?" I say to him. I am beside myself with happiness. From one extreme to the other, I know, but at this point, we've had the Star Wars cake that said "May the Force be With You" in yellow icing and the sugar has kicked in. "Where the hell did you find these people?" He shrugs, all Obi-like. "No big deal. These guys are my pick-up b-ball game on Saturdays. I knew where to find them." "They're basketball players?" I murmur. "No wonder so tall." He laughs, "Yeah, I hate to admit it, but I was a Star Wars geek when I was a kid and I kind of bought this stuff at auction. Fiona didn't want anything to do with it when she left, so we have it all in the garage."

I want to put it out there, right now for the record, if I ever say anything mean or snide about Star Wars geeks again (and I have been known to do so) I will donate lots of money to some geeky favorite charity. "You're gonna get a reward for this," I say, about as suggestively as I can muster. (Did I mention that my hair was all twisted up in those Princess Leia braids in honor of the occasion?) "Well, I assume so," says Obi Wan. "That's why I did it, you know." And kind of forgetting where I am for a second, I lean over and kiss him on his Jedi lips. "Ewww, Mom..." I hear from Roo, somewhere in the background. And then, perhaps disregarding the trouble I will most likely get in to, I go back for more.

"What the fuck, E?!" I hear this and think I am hallucinating. I think this because it sounds like Mr. Charisma. I turn and there he is. He's staring from me to the HBPD. "Who's this?" he growls. I look around. I see the other moms kind of lurking by the food table, sneaking bits of cake and smoked salmon surreptitiously into their mouths. "Oh, you managed to get here, I see," I say, calmly. "What do you want from me, the plane was late," he hisses angrily. I nod, all understanding. "Your check bounced. More hookers?" I say under my breath so that no one except him can hear. The HBPD walks over to Jeffrey and holds out his hand. "I'm Brad. Nice to meet you." "Nice costume, Brad," snaps Jeffrey. "You almost don't look gay," and he walks away. The HBPD stares after him. "Huh," he comments, after a minute. "Very classy." "Oh, that's nothing," I sigh. "You should catch him on a bad day."

I look across the yard. Jeffrey is tossing Mr. Handsome, all seven years-old of him, into the air. It's a pity he's such a rotten father, I think, a little sadly. I look at the HBPD. "You couldn't be cuter in that costume, I'll have you know." "If you're nice, I'll wear it again," he says. "Is that a promise or a threat?" I ask, happily. "It's whatever you want it to be." I nod, considering this. "You know you saved the day, Obi Wan," I say to him. "Well, I may not have mentioned this yet," he says, looking almost serious, "...but the truth is, Esme...you're saving me."

And we're just standing there, staring at each other as the party is dwindling. I should be saying good-bye to people (people who, I might add, are going to make this party the main topic of their dinner table conversation) but instead I feel like the HBPD and I are surrounded by this giant, otherworldly force field. Suddenly, no one — not White Thunder Woman, not Mr. Charisma, not our age or the time-space continuum or Wookies or Boba Fett — right now no one in the universe can come between us. "May the force be with you, Obi," I say with great conviction. The HBPD looks out at me from under his Obi hood and hairpiece. "Easy enough," he says. "It already is."