The perils of window shopping

After 40 years of wedded bliss, my wife, the Pearl or the Orient, and I treated ourselves to a little vacation.
We jumped, or should I say limped, onto a jet and headed for the west coast. After all, neither of us had ever experienced the beauty of Victoria, B.C. and wondered what all the fuss was about with the senior population of the Prairies vowing never to spend another full winter in Saskaberia.
It was wonderful. Flowers everywhere. Friendly folks—even the occasional one under 65. Sunny skies, balmy temperatures, and quaint buildings.
As the locals say, home of “flowerbeds, newlyweds, and nearly deads.”
Still, a real treat considering our stopover in Calgary featured a June snowstorm.
We wandered the streets, arm in arm, poking our noses into all the quaint little spots. As we peered into the shop windows, the Pearl noted the curious array of goods in one.
“Why look, dear, it’s a culinary shop. Penne pasta—must be a gourmet brand. Just look at the price,” noted the Pearl.
“And look at that book, ‘Men with Oven Mitts.’ Why, they are liberated here. They feel men should participate in the cooking chores. How refreshing,” chortled the Pearl, working her way along the window towards the entrance.
“And look at that, a rubber hotdog called a stress reliever. I wonder how it works?” asked the Pearl, tilting her head for a different perspective.
By now, I was a little closer to the shop window and the items in question came into focus.
“Uh … dear, that’s not ‘Penne Pasta.’ It’s ‘Penis Pasta,’” I explained, somewhat startled as I shifted focus to the next item, the cookbook.
“And those ‘Men in Oven Mitts,’ they’re only wearing one mitt and it isn’t on either hand,” I elaborated.
The Pearl took a more focused look as she fumbled in her purse for her glasses.
“As for that ‘stress reliever,’ I suppose it does resemble a hot dog. I think this is one of those erotica shops,” I concluded, somewhat unnerved.
The Pearl hesitated, but still was moving towards the shop entrance.
I considered the consequences. If my love gets in there, she may have her expectations elevated to levels I might not be able to attain.
So I sprang into action.
“Would you look at the time! If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the tour bus to Butchart Gardens,” I exclaimed as I took the Pearl firmly by the arm and steered her out of harm’s way.
This must have been the “newlyweds” part of the city. We definitely belonged in the “flowerbeds and nearly dead” section.

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