The search for a perfect Sally

Warning: Today's topic features a shopping experience that is unique to the female gender. It focuses in particular on a store whose merchandise is 100% female, yet which attracts a significant number of male customers who lose temporary yet complete control over the ability to keep their eyes in their head and the drool in their mouth.

I have had occasion to visit a store many of you are familiar with, ____'s Secret, so named because it is virtually impossible to tell, from a casual glance, what the store sells. You might easily mistake it for, say, a store selling auto parts, or computer cable organizers. I am sure the store's salespeople are tired of telling misguided customers, "No, I'm sorry, we do not carry life jackets for dogs. I can see how you might have been confused, though."

This store sells a number of products we shall call "Sally." Sally is intended for the upper portion of a woman's body, and although many other stores also carry Sallies, with this store's Sallies, you are not just getting an item of clothing. You are gaining an image. You are getting confidence. Possibly you are also spending your entire savings, but this is of little consequence.

The salesladies are all well acquainted with the store's many lines of Sallies. And so to help you find the perfect Sally and build your confident image, they ask questions that no one else asks you.

"What would you like your Sally to do for you?" is one of these questions.

Experience has taught me to be quite practical when shopping for Sallies. I do not have high expectations. So when I am asked what I would like Sally to do for me, I have a ready answer.

I would like it to fit, I say.

The woman who asks me this question looks slightly disdainful at my answer, as if she is not certain the store can meet this extravagant request. She contemplates sending me to Sears, if all I want is a Sally that fits. A Secret's Sally does not just fit. She tries again.

Am I looking for support? she asks. Do I want a Sally that multitasks?

Difficult as it is, I do not follow up on the offer of a multitasking Sally.

I just want one that fits, I insist.

And then a look of defeat starts to arise in the saleswoman's face, because the one thing the store does not carry is a Sally that comes in sizes closer to womens' shoe sizes than typical Sally sizes.

I know this. She knows this. _____'s Secret is based on the polite denial of the existence of petite body parts. But I have come here in the vague hope that somewhere, lurking in the back room perhaps, there might be a petite Sally.

I may as well have asked for car parts.

The saleswoman brightens as she thinks of another question: "Have we been measured today?"

I am not sure who "we" are, but whoever we are, we will never fit into a Sally larger than what we have worn for the past 20-some years. So we politely decline the offer of measurement.

Eventually, though, the woman does find a Sally for us. Me. It does not multitask, but it fits, and I, along with thousands of other women, can begin my journey to a confidence-building image.

And if that fails, I can always shop for car parts. Or doggy life jackets.

Have your game and eat it, too

I believe that our Creator puts people on earth at a time when they can do the most good. George Washington for the founding of our country, for instance, or Abe Lincoln for bringing it back together. For my part, He knew that if I had been born in an earlier era, my entire family would die of hunger, due to my aversion to handling in an intimate manner any wild game, or anything that looked like it did when it was alive.

I imagine dinnertime at our pioneer house:

Joe: Woman, I hath brought to thee a handsome and generous squirrel. Now cook thou it for my supper, for I am famished from hunting.

Me: These hands wilt not touch that, Husband. Where beith the canned tuna I hath asked of thee?

Of course, Joe would never have brought me a handsome and generous squirrel, and neither of us would have wanted to get dirty pulling up roots on which to survive, either.

But according to a classic cookbook Joe dug out of our library the other day, I could, if so inclined, have these types of meals at my modern table. The author is most eager to impart her extensive knowledge of preparing such dishes as tongue in aspic, lamb fries, pigs' knuckles and sauerkraut, casseroled rabbit and sausage, rabbit a la mode or jugged hare, opossum, porcupine, raccoon, muskrat, woodchuck, and armadillo.

No detail is spared in her explanation of how to prepare these for eating. There, right on p. 515, is an extremely graphic depiction of a squirrel being relieved of its outer covering. The reader is advised to do so while wearing gloves, to "avoid possible tularemia infection." In addition to gloves, the person in the illustrations is wearing heavy boots, which apparently aid in the divesting of the squirrel's covering. We are also cautioned to thoroughly cook any wild meat, as these animals may be "harboring trichinosis."

But there is no reason to let the possibility of debilitating disease stop us from enjoying such delicacies, as long as we follow some simple guidelines and have a very strong stomach.

We are advised to refrigerate brains, for they are "very perishable." This might explain a lot about brains in general.

If we wish to prepare opossum, it is best to trap it and "feed it on milk and cereals 10 days before killing." The 10 days will give you enough time to think up a good reason for explaining the opossum's presence on your property to your homeowners' association.

If it is large game one is after, we are reminded that shooting it in "an unsuspecting moment" will result in more tender meat that will deteriorate less quickly than if one has involved the animal in a chase.

Yet with all the care one must take, the author insists that "joy can prevail." And that if one is willing to apply herself and "gird up your loins for the fray" -- this was mentioned in particular connection with stuffing a boar's head for Christmas dinner -- the reader can expect a "hero's reward in gratitude from your assembled guests."

Or a wish on their part that you had been born in a different era from them.

All your beetle questions answered

We have recently become experts on beetles that bore through trees, on account of the fact that we have one in our maple tree -- without our permission, we might add. Today we answer any questions you may have about these beetles, which are very destructive and -- worse -- very ugly.

Our vast beetle knowledge comes from our own research (.05%), from discussions with an actual state tree expert (.03%), and from our overactive imagination (99.92%).

Owner of Dying Tree: We have discovered a pile of wood shavings next to our maple tree. This is not a good thing, is it?

Tree Expert: Have you recently taken up wood carving?

Owner: Um, no.

P.S. Please do not give my husband any ideas for additional wood projects.

Expert: Sorry. Well, you probably have a type of boring beetle. It is chewing up the inside of your tree and spitting out the shavings.

Owner: Ewww.

Expert: It is important to know what type of beetle it is. If it is invasive, it could spread to other nearby trees. You will need to have the tree cut down, the soil treated, and your house and all your possessions burned and buried in the desert.

Owner: Yikes. Well, how do we figure out what kind of beetle we have?

Expert: You will need to capture it and send it in for identification.

Owner: I send it to you?

Expert: Heavens, no! Why would we want it? Send it to some other tree expert.

Owner: So, I capture it.

Expert: Yes.

Owner: Uh huh, right.

Expert: Seriously.

Owner: Seriously?

Expert: Seriously.

Owner: How do we get the beetle to come out? And just so you know, we are not sticking our hand in that hole.

Expert: There are several ways to encourage the beetle to come out. You could, for instance, hurl insults at it.

Owner: Like what?

Expert: We can think of several:

--"Hey, pal, you call yourself a longhorn beetle? I've seen nose hairs longer than that!"

--"My grandmother can chew more wood than you!"

Owner: Okaaaay, and what do we do when it comes out?

Expert: Our personal advice would be to run. Or, capture it with some sort of container.

Owner: Like what?

Expert: Well, we would recommend something NOT made of wood.

Owner: That brings up another question. If the tree is cut down, should we keep the stump or have it ground up?

Expert: It is usually advisable to grind the stump, unless you need extra outdoor table space. See Martha Stewart Living, Issue XXIVXXII for ideas.

Owner: We have had a tree removal company give us an estimate for cutting the tree down. Should we be concerned that they believe our maple is a crabapple tree?

Expert: This could indicate a potential problem. My advice is to bag up the tree removal guy and send him in for inspection.

Owner: Let me guess. I don't send him to you.

Expert: Congratulations! You're becoming an expert, too.

Arrrrgh, matey!

With this blog post, tales of the Princess and Hero's vacation are officially ended. Readers, however, are warned to expect occasional vacation references to appear in future posts, such as pirate talk. This arises from the many exposures to pirates during their vacation, such as having their kayak suddenly boarded and overrun with...just kidding! No direct contact with pirates occurred in the course of this vacation.

But the Princess and Hero did visit a shipwreck museum, which, in the absence of many substantial artifacts from actual shipwrecks in the area, consisted mainly of pirate displays. The Hero, in particular, was much taken with the pirate displays, and was in admiration of the pirates' alleged democratic ways. We learned that pirates have been much maligned in popular culture; for instance, they did not, in general, make offenders walk the plank, as commonly believed, much preferring instead to maroon them on a deserted island, with no food, water, or Starbucks, and NO telemarketer block.

But perhaps we are too hasty in saying the shipwreck museum lacked substantial shipwreck artifacts. No doubt it is the only shipwreck museum in the country, or even the world, displaying a genuine Dorito bag rescued from a terrible wreck just off the shore of the Outer Banks. Blackbeard and his pirates, who frequented the waters in this area, no doubt would have gladly marooned their own mothers for the chance to raid a Dorito-bearing ship.

This vacation included many other pursuits. For instance, a conveniently located coffee house offered an oasis of rest from our exhaustive readings on pirate brutality and Dorito catastrophes. Several afternoons we sat in the cafe in calm contemplation of life, blissfully unaware that right across the street mass carnage of another, more modern type was being committed. We gradually became aware of a large crowd gathered at a stand there, and thinking that something important might be going on, such as they were offering free food, we wandered over.

There was food, alright. But this food had, not very long before, been swimming out in the nearby waters, free and happy. At this stand it was being reduced to fish parts. We had also been right about the free food. One man popped a fish part in his mouth, right there in front of us, with no benefit of heat, no cook fish for 5 to 7 minutes, turning once, until flesh flakes easily. Disturbingly, no one else but me saw anything wrong with this. Sure, nothing happened to the man then. But who knows what malady of the brain, what disturbance of the personality, may have happened upon him later. The Hero appeared much interested in these happenings and was fortunate that I was there to rescue him from a similar fate.

In some ways it was a relief to come home and escape the ever-present dangers there -- pirates, raw fish, raw Doritos floating on the open ocean. But we heartily recommend this vacation nonetheless. Aye!

Up, up, and...splat

As we have seen, a beach vacation is filled with many exciting things to do and see, especially if you have selective amnesia regarding previous boating experiences. But there is no need to leave land to experience adventure and challenge. You can have all this and more right on the beach, for just $21.99 (plus tax), as you set up your beach cabana.

A beach cabana is a larger, more pretentious cousin of the lowly beach umbrella, and announces to everyone that a) you are at the beach, where sun and wind are plentiful, and b) you want as little personal contact with the sun and wind as possible. With a beach cabana you can still have all the comforts of the beach -- sand between your toes, in your bathing suit, in your hair, etc. -- without, say, having to view any offensive Speedo events.

There is a knack to properly setting up your beach cabana. If you figure it out, let us know. Just kidding! Of course we know how to set up our beach cabana. We merely chose, for the sake of the entertainment of those around us, to act like we had no idea what to do with it. To make this illusion more complete, we always chose to set it up during hurricane-force winds. That way, as we were struggling, people could say to themselves, "Well, I'm sure they would have had it up in 3 minutes, but in this wind...." They could also say many other things to themselves about us, no doubt.

Now, you can avoid many problems in the set-up of your cabana by simply purchasing one that costs closer to what you pay for a typical Manhattan townhome, but you are at the beach. You are roughing it. You are a rugged individualist. You are cheap.

It is helpful, but not necessary, to read the instructions as you go along, which will give you helpful tips such as "Do not set up indoors, or outdoors." I actually saw this instruction on another product several years ago, and I always wondered whether it was one of those philosophical conundrums, like maybe the answer was that you were supposed to set it up in a doorway so that it was neither outside nor inside.

But back to the cabana. If for some reason you don't have the instructions, or you are a rugged individualist and you refuse to read them, all is not lost. Just start poking rods wherever you see an opening in the fabric, then scratch your head a few times, and other beachgoers will gradually start drifting your way to help you.

It is very important, as the instructions will tell you, to properly anchor your stakes into the sand. The instructions are less helpful in telling you what to do when you lose the stakes in the sand. Not that this happened to us, of course. But if it had, we could take comfort in knowing that someday, archaeologists exploring the area might happen upon our missing stakes and spend several head-scratching minutes figuring out what kind of idiots lose their tent stakes in the sand.

According to the instructions, once you get to a certain step in setting the cabana up, the rest of it should just pop into place, without much effort on your part. Theoretically at this point you should have a domed-shape tent, like a bandshell. Practically, it may somewhat more resemble a bedraggled raincoat slung over a chair, propped up by a broom.

Once you have successfully raised your cabana -- and it may take a village to do so --give yourself a pat on the back and take a well-deserved rest. You'll need it, because by the time you get the cabana up it will be dark and time to leave the beach.

But take heart. There is always tomorrow! With more hurricane-force winds in the forecast.

Please fasten your sanity

Our catamaran and kayak adventures, though fraught with danger in the form of excessive personal contact with nature, nevertheless spurred us into engaging in further boating adventures on our vacation. These included a ride on a Jet Ski, more generically known as a "personal watercraft," which sounds like something to fold up and put in your pocket to carry around for convenient, instant use: "Oh, look, here's some water. Let's get out our personal watercraft."

The Jet Ski is more affectionately known by me as the Ride of Terror.

My only previous experience on a Jet Ski, with a friend, involved a very comfortable, safe ride, as if we had been charged with safely transporting several cartons of eggs across the lake. I therefore thought it would be fun to do again and, moreover, for an entire hour. My reasoning was that we would ease into things, spending the first 52 minutes or so conducting, at a very low rate of speed, a detailed introduction to our assigned area ("This is Buoy #1, here's Buoy #2, and hello, Buoy #75").

This introduction would also involve an examination of underwater maps to check for possible obstructions ("You say a four-inch log was completely submerged at this spot outside the boundary in 1987? Has anyone checked it since then to see if it has migrated into the potential path of a Jet Ski?"). We would also perform a detailed examination of the machine itself, including all maintenance records since its purchase, and scrutinize accident and dismemberment records.

If at the end of this safety check I was assured that we had a good chance of coming out of this experience alive, we would have, oh, 7 or 8 minutes left for actual drive time, which would be conducted at about 8 miles an hour, should we be overtaken by a fit of risk-seeking behavior.

Before taking the Jet Ski out, of course, we had to agree, in writing, that we would not hold the rental place accountable should we happen to become deceased in the process of riding their machine. Nowhere on that release form, however, did it even hint that operating the machine might, under certain circumstances, such as that you are male, result in a personality change so complete as to render you indistinguishable from a madman.

Immediately after leaving the No Wake area, the Jet Ski, with Joe at the helm and me as passenger, began swerving and pitching, speeding across the waves at a rate of speed approaching and overtaking the sound barrier, the light barrier, the space-time barrier, etc., leaving in its wake all my detailed safety examinations. I began to believe that we were being attacked by some large, malevolent marine creature bent on our destruction.

It is a good idea, in these situations, to work out ahead of time some sort of communication method with your partner, so that when you squeeze his midsection so hard his life jacket is in danger of combusting, he does not interpret this to mean you wish him to a) go faster or b) turn harder. Joe was very sensitive to my communication, interpreting any signal I tried to give him as c) go faster AND turn harder, and soon I gave up trying to communicate anything except the wish to my Creator to stay on this earth a while longer. At the end of the ride I saw immediately that we should have taken the optional insurance for surgically removing a passenger's fingers from the driver's waist.

Though Joe expressed disappointment that our personal watercraft did not get airborne enough to qualify as an aircraft -- an observation about which we have some disagreement -- I encouraged him to look on the positive side. At least we were going way too fast for any nature to catch up to us.

Blackbeard and hammocks

On our vacation we took a little break from our hectic boating schedule to visit Ocracoke Island, whose name sounds like a bad idea for a vegetable-flavored soft drink. To get to Ocracoke Island you must take a ferry, which docks at an end of the island where the only sign of civilization is the ferry office and a sign that says "Ocracoke Village: 340 kajillion miles." Along these 340 kajillion miles you pass a great deal of nature, which presumably you are expected to appreciate and feel some gratitude toward the U.S. national park service for, but which pretty much all looks the same.

Along the way to the village there is also a pony pen, where you can view a large herd (17) of formerly wild ponies said to be descended from horses brought to the island by Spanish explorers in the 16th century, possibly for the purpose of establishing a polo presence in the New World. As far as we know, the ponies have neither confirmed nor denied this widely spread report.

Ocracoke Village is a cute little town on the island that has many attractions, including a coffee shop where the wait is so long that you could step out of line, go play chess, visit some nearby shops, get married, start a family, etc., and come back to find that it is still not your turn to order.

There are also many restaurants and shops in the village, and many places of accommodation, where the abundance of hammocks on the patios moved Joe to envy. These hammocks are rumored to be descended from wild hammocks brought to the island by sailors in the 18th century...er, maybe not. In any case, the hammock abundance may have played a not-insignificant role in Joe's statement that he believed he could satisfactorily stay on the island for an extended time.

We also visited a small museum dedicated to Blackbeard, who was considered one of the fiercest pirates of all time despite the fact that he sometimes wore his trademark long, black beard in a series of braids tied with little colored ribbons. These braids, while striking fear into the hearts of Blackbeard's enemies, nevertheless must have endeared him to the ladies, as he is rumored to have had about 14 wives. Fortunately they all lived at some distance from one another, and even Blackbeard appears to have taken care not to live near any of them.

On our visits to several shops, Joe passed the time by striking up conversations with the local shop owners. These conversations generally began with a comment about the weather. Through these exchanges Joe found that the weather varies amazingly widely on such a tiny island:

Joe: Does it stay warm here in the winter?

Store owner #1: Oh, no! It's definitely cold.

Joe: So, you get a lot of ice and snow, then?

Store owner #1: Well, not ice...and we had an inch of snow once that lasted for about two seconds...but, you know, in the winter here you have to wear, like, shoes, and a coat...and socks...

Armed with this newfound knowledge of the brutality of Ocracoke Island weather, Joe began a conversation with the owner of the next store we went into:

Joe: So I hear it gets pretty cold here in the winter.

Store owner #2: Nahhhh, it stays warm all the time. Don't even need a coat.

Joe: Ahh! I see my wife is ready to leave.

Me: No, I'm -- ouch!

One of Ocracoke's claim to fame is that the restaurants stay open past 9:00 p.m., which is not true of neighboring Hatteras Island where we were staying. You do, of course, need to keep track of the time you'll need to drive the 340 kajillion miles back to the ferry so as not to get stuck on the island overnight. Despite Joe's secret hope that we might not make it to the ferry on time, and we would therefore be forced to rent one of those enviable hammocks for the night, we managed to get one of the last spots on the ferry.

Others were not so lucky. They are still waiting in line at the coffee shop.