Yesterday I got an email entitled URGENT MESSAGE FOR JENNIFER WEINER. The crisis? My Polish translator wanted to know what "whiskered biscuit" meant. She was nonplussed. Even native spakers weren't sure. Did it mean moldy biscuit? Or a person who causes a lot of trouble? Or something else entirely?

So I explained that it was slang for a woman's special private area, and that they could also consider "bearded clam" or "fish taco" as acceptable substitutes. Now I'm thinking that might not have been much help.

But seriously. Isn't life great when the urgent emails are about stuff like this?

Vacation continues to be wonderful. Lots of beach time, lots of barbecue and drive-in movies and long walks with the girl. The other day we made our first public appearance at the Brewster Bookshop.

It was fabulous. There were four generations of Frumin/Weiner women on hand -- my Mom, my Nanna, me, and Lucy, who slept very nicely through the whole thing. I was astonished and touched by the number of people who came from far away to meet me. Robin, of Reading with Robin, came all the way from Providence. Amazing.

And Adam and I got to see "Pirates of the Caribbean," which was extremely entertaining and which, better still, gives me a chance to give you my all-time favorite pirate joke.

Did you hear about the new pirate movie? It's rated Arrrr.

I don't know why, but that cracks me up completely. I suspect that my sense of humor might be permanently arrested at around age seven. I say this because we had an eight-year-old houseguest over the Fourth of July, who had interesting sleeping gear.

"See, it's a quilt that folds up into a pillow," he said, demonstrating. "It's called a quillow."

"Neat," said I.

"The lady who makes it also makes a beach towel that folds up into a bag," he said.

"Is it called a bowel?" I asked. And then I laughed for, like, fifteen minutes while he stared at me, backing away slowly, and finally said, "No, it's not called anything."

Oh well.