A Brief Essay

So I’d like to talk to you about women’s underwear. I’m of the feeling that it just doesn’t have to be so darn complicated. Men have three choices: boxers, briefs, boxer-briefs. Women have so many choices, including briefs, bikinis, hi-cut briefs, boy shorts, thongs, with lace, without lace, cotton, nylon, and v-cut, not to mention crotchless and edible – it’s mind boggling! How is a woman to choose?

Then we have the upper body. Bras can be underwire, wireless (kind of like radios), low cut, full cut, minimizers, pushups, padded or not. With flowers, lace or little pearly things. Then there’s full coverage or sheer. And that’s another thing. What’s the deal with “full coverage?” Some of them actually have little flower-shaped extra padding so the nipples don’t show. Hey, we have nipples. So do men. So do apes. Who cares?

Then there’s a whole selection of lingerie. Teddies, bustiers, baby dolls (I’m not even going to go INTO that) and camisoles. A friend of mine sent me an email letting me know his wife received a sporting catalog that included a selection of camouflage lingerie. Now exactly what do they camouflage? (If it’s hips and thighs, I’ve gotta get me some.) But explain to me the point of camo lingerie – exactly what are you hiding and why? I mean, if lingerie is supposed to get your lover excited, what good is camouflage if it actually works? Let’s say you decide to have a tryst in your backyard, and you don your camo lingerie, and then your boyfriend can’t find you? I mean, how frustrating is that? What do you have to do then – whistle? My friend suggested perfume. Apparently he’d given the matter some thought.

Men make such a big thing about Victoria’s Secret (I still say Victoria’s secret is her older, fatter sister) and women’s undergarments. I say let’s give women a break. While it’s nice to have choices, ultimately, granny panties or g-strings, whatever comes between us and our Calvins isn’t that big a deal.

Timmy's in the Well?

(Published originally in the New York Times Long Island section, Sunday, Sept. 14, 1997)

Saturday, 6 P.M. I head into the backyard to replenish our rabbit’s food and water. I call to him, expecting him to hop to the front of the cage. No response. In fact, he’s nowhere to be seen. I circle the hutch and discover that the back wall crumbled in last night’s storm leaving one side of the cage completely open. Ariel is gone!

Our yard holds chipmunks, raccoons, squirrels and crows; our fluffy friend doesn’t stand a chance. Then I notice that one of my dogs, who was previously darting around the perimeter of the deck, is no longer in sight. Now I search the property for both the dog and the rabbit, but to no avail. What if Sybil has defeated the invisible electric fence and is roaming the neighborhood? Two pets lost in one day!

I hear rustling beneath the deck. The fact that the underside of the deck is inaccessible except through a shallow area behind thick evergreen bushes has me doubting that Sybil, a large apricot standard poodle, could have secreted herself there, but it’s possible. I position myself flat on the ground, my face inches from dirt, peering into the darkness. Can’t see a thing.

I go into the house to get a flashlight and again lie facing the deck, moving the beam of light from side to side. The deck is long with deep supports that separate the sections. I can’t see the dog, but there are sounds coming from the darkness and then I glimpse tiny tufts of white rabbit fur stuck to the evergreen branches just inches from my face. Ariel must be under the deck, and Sybil must be with him!

I call and call, but get no response, so I return from the house with a box of Milk Bones. I sit just beyond the deck shaking the box and offering biscuits to DooHickey, the terrier. Nothing.

Heavier ammunition is needed, so this time when I return from the kitchen, I’m carrying a package of fresh roast beef. DooHickey is delighted as I hand-feed him tidbits of roast beef and lavish praise for his being “such a good boy.” Jealousy is a powerful tool with dogs.

Not powerful enough. Ten minutes later I’ve exhausted the supply of roasts beef and all the enthusiastic affection for DooHickey I can muster. Another search into the darkness yields nothing. There hasn’t been a sound from beneath the deck, and I am beginning to wonder if I’m delusional. Maybe Sybil chased Ariel off the property and they’re both gone and the sounds I’ve been hearing are figments of my hysterical imagination. I ask my husband, Aaron, to search the neighborhood by car. I know that if Sybil is out there, the longer we wait the farther away she might be.

Suddenly, there’s rustling. And panting. I throw myself on the ground. Ariel comes hopping toward the light, and peers at me, nose twitching, then quietly returns to the darkness. I am bubbling with glee when I hear Sybil’s “yip” as she goes after the rabbit. Hallelujah! Both beasts are found! I call Aaron on the cell phone and relate my discovery.

Forty-five minutes later, we’re growing hoarse from calling Sybil’s name. I’m able to locate the sound as coming from the deepest corner of the deck, closest to the house and farthest from the opening. No one has been rescued, and now Sybil is crying. Any minute I’m going to burst into tears.

Where’s Lassie when you need her? All they had to do was tell Lassie to take them to Timmy, who had, yet again, fallen in the well, and she would. “Hickey!” I say, enthusiastically. “Sybil’s in the well! Go get Sybie!” DooHickey appreciates the attention and licks my knee.

Time for desperate measures. We’ll have someone come tear up a part of the deck and rescue Sybil from above. I call the SPCA, the Humane Society, my contractor, his assistant and my father, none of whom are home. I call my sister, who suggests the fire department. “They save cats up trees, don’t they?” When I offer this plea to the Melville fire department, the man laughs and says, “In my thirteen years in the fire department, I’ve never rescued a cat.” But he’ll check into it and call us back.

While I’m waiting for his call, I remember there’s a window in the basement that looks directly into that corner under the deck. I go down to the storage room, wade through cartons of books and winter clothes and perch precariously atop a cooler I’d forgotten we have. I’m able to remove the glass, but there’s a window-well I cannot move or see beyond. I call to Sybil, coaxing, pleading, sending kisses into the darkness. I’m hoping she will move close enough to see me, and then decide to jump into my arms. I am aware this will probably seriously injure us both, but I’m willing to take that chance. It isn’t necessary. There’s movement and breathing, but no appearance.

Back upstairs, Aaron informs me the fire department is on its way. I breathe a sigh of relief, but Sybil is crying again, and I decide to try, one more time, to lead her to the opening. Flat on the ground, peering into the long, empty spaces, I search for the dog. My flashlight catches the gleam of Sybil’s eyes. “Come on!” I cry. “You can do it!” For the first time I see her face and she seems so far away. In the background I hear sirens, as I coax Sybil toward me. The encouragement in my voice eggs her on. She crawls on her stomach, maneuvering under long, low beams, toward my cooing and clapping and kissie noises. She slithers past the opening, through the bushes and into my arms just as the fire truck, sirens blaring, stops in front of my house. A firefighter in full regalia – boots, turnout coat, helmet and ax – heads toward the backyard.

Mortified, I have half a mind to shove Sybil back under the deck. Another man in civilian clothing pulls up in a Jeep and steps onto the driveway. “Is that the dog?” I nod sheepishly, as if I’d falsely pulled a fire alarm. (I didn’t expect sirens and fire hats! Just Dudley Dooright shouting, “I’ll save you, Nell!”) The firefighter turns without a word and goes back to the truck. I pull a $20 from my pocket and offer it as a donation. I’m embarrassed, but grateful they responded. There is kindness in the world after all.

Ariel comes out of hiding first thing Sunday morning. My father and I buy coated chicken-wire to cover the opening behind the evergreens that leads to beneath the deck. It is nearly impossible to move the bushes away from the opening. It takes quite a while, but after much tugging and hammering we are done. My father gathers his tools to return them to the tool box while I check to make sure the edges of the barrier are secure. “Hey!” I yell, stopping my father in his tracks. I point, and we both stare in disbelief as Sybil’s nose pokes through one of the chicken-wire holes from the other side. We have securely enclosed Sybil under the deck. At least this time I know how to get her out.