“Do you want to go to the Outdoor Show?” 

This was my husband, who makes time every February to work a booth at the Great American Outdoor Show. 

OK. You clicked the link. And probably drew some conclusions. 

That’s fair. Because let me tell you something. 

I was drawing all sorts of conclusions wandering the booths at that show. 

But you and I are better than assumptions. And I have so many things to tell you.  

And my husband is only there to preserve public lands. 

I swear. 

Now, I recognize the incongruity here.  

An outdoor show. Held indoors. 

Um, OK. 

To me — and I’m sure to you as well — holding the Great American Outdoor Show, I don’t know, outside feels logical. 

Except Harrisburg in February refuses to guarantee a week’s worth of hospitable weather.  

It’s like the time I called that hotel in Alaska and they told me my reservation didn’t guarantee their game freezer would have room for the caribou. 

Wait. You guys don’t know that story. 

Well, another day perhaps. 

So Harrisburg is quite uncooperative in February. 

Wait, what’s that? You want to know why the Outdoor Show isn’t just held another time of year? 

You’re cute.  

See, February is largely an outdoors dead zone. Much like England in January has few working elevators, February has few outdoor activities. 

So the Outdoor Show is held in February. Inside. 

I usually join my husband in Harrisburg at the end of the week, as the Outdoor Show is packing up.  

But for some reason, this year my husband invited me to spend an afternoon at the Outdoor Show with him. 

“Trust me,” he said, taking my hand and leading me into the show. “The column practically writes itself.” 

I mean, I don’t think he likes it when I write about him. He’s long threatened to post his own column — a counterargument to everything I’ve ever said about him. 

But then he invites me to the Outdoor Show and says things like, “I might have to stop at the cabin on the way to pick up the chainsaw.” 

Guys, I didn’t even think twice when he said that. Thanks to the people in my life, I have driven around with everything from my uncle’s ashes to my dog’s diarrhea to a few dead squirrels in the trunk of my car. 

Not at the same time. Let’s be real. Have you never read The Mangler by Stephen King? I’m pretty sure ashes, diarrhea, and dead squirrel mixed together turn your car into Trucks — aka Maximum Overdrive — or Christine or something evil like that. 

But my point is that driving to a weekend getaway in Harrisburg with a pit stop for a chainsaw is just, like, how my February goes. 

The Outdoor Show is held in the Pennsylvania Farm Show complex. 

Yeah. The Farm Show is held inside, too. I just can’t even with Harrisburg and its indoors outdoors shows. 

The complex is massive. Row upon row of booths, each with coonskin caps and hunting camouflage and spools of thick rope. I had to orient myself at the taxidermy elephant to keep from getting lost. 

Sorry. One of the taxidermy elephants. The one with the thing that reminds me of an okapi but I don’t think is. 

Not the other taxidermy elephant, near the door we used to enter the complex. What am I, some kind of weirdo? 

“See anything you want?” my husband asked.  

Well, I have been looking for a new blush and a good pair of nineties jeans. But I think that booth was on the other side of the food court. 

Instead, my husband offered to buy me a legendary milkshake from the Pennsylvania Dairyman’s Association.  

I hesitated.  

I wasn’t sure I wanted the dairy bloat during a romantic quasi-anniversary weekend at the Outdoor Show. But I already had a conversation about chainsaws under my belt and a text chain with my mother-in-law about the cane toad purses at the Outdoor Show.  

So a little dairy bloat didn’t feel like a problem. 

No, I don’t have a picture of the cane toad purses. The guy who made them charged for pictures.  

I will say the craftsmanship was remarkable.  

Picture a cane toad. Next, remove his organs so you can use that space for the blush you didn’t buy at the Outdoor Show. Now add a shoulder strap. 

That was the cane toad purse. 

The more I think about it, the more I want one. 

Except I read a story once about a taxidermy pet dog that basically killed people. I’d be terrified to pass my dining room closet if the cane toad purse was in there. 

So we did all the things at the outdoor show. Milkshakes and taxidermy animals and coonskin hats. 

The next day, I was dressing for dinner with friends. Freezing rain was supposed to hit just as we sat down to our reservation. We were texting about meeting earlier. 

“What,” my husband said. “You don’t want to be outside in the ice?” 

But I had all the outdoor time I needed the day before, at the Outdoor Show.  

“That wasn’t outdoor time,” my husband scoffed. 

But I saw an enormous fish tank in the middle of the show, stocked with huge fish swimming through that thick green underwater vegetation I will in no way touch when I swim in lakes. 

So yes. That was my outdoor time. 

It just happened to be inside. 

And that is not my fault.