Dr. Smelly-Good

You know what smelly-good is, don't you? In case you don't speak Backroadsian...it's cologne. At least according to Hick. Who fancies himself an expert on smelly-good. A connoisseur, if you will. As if he graduated summa cum laude, with a doctorate in smelly-good.

Last Friday, it dawned on me that Hick would be attending his high school reunion on Saturday, and he was sure to wear cologne! That might not be cause for alarm with your everyday run-of-the-mill generic male reunion attendee. But with Hick, such an event could be cause for an Air Quality Alert in the red zone. Like Tina Turner singing "Proud Mary," Hick never does anything nice and easy. After he has applied his smelly-good, the house smells like an explosion in a French wh0re factory. For days.

I knew that measures must be taken to prevent me from succumbing to anaphylactic shock. I don't have a diagnosed clinical allergy to cologne. It only happens when Hick is around. My eyes water, my nose runs, and I feel like I can't breathe. So, sitting on the short couch while Hick marked time in the La-Z-Boy, waiting to bolt out of there at the stroke of 6:00 to head to the Friday night auction, I broached the subject.

"Do you think you could go out on the porch tomorrow, to put on your cologne before the reunion?"

"Why?"

"I don't want the whole house to stink. It chokes me."

"Val. I just splash it on."

"THAT'S THE PROBLEM! You need to DAB it on. I can't breathe for days after you've put on your cologne in the house."

Hick gave me that look, barely refraining from twirling his crazy finger. He also did not suggest that I shared DNA with our crazy back-creek neighbor Bev. He was quite reserved, actually, in his dismissal of my concerns. In fact, he didn't say anything at all.

Like sands through the hourglass, this day of our life flowed into Saturday. Hick was in and out, gathering things for the reunion, helping decorate the school gym. I didn't see much of him, and was down in my lair when he left for the big event. He came home about 10:30. I heard him stumping around upstairs, and heard the La-Z-Boy crank back when I went to my OPC (Old People Chair) to watch TV.

I had a bout of phlegm-hacking while in my OPC, but didn't actively think of its cause. Until I went upstairs to bed around 3:00, with the smelly-good odor growing stronger with each step. Hick was already sawing logs, which you would think might be hindered by his breather. But no. I lay awake for over an hour, unable to sleep, my eyes watering, my nose running, wheezing, and coughing up phlegm. I mentioned my dissatisfaction to Hick on Sunday afternoon.

"But Val. I went out on the porch to put it on."

"I guess you put on too much. I sat in your La-Z-Boy while I was warming my supper after you left. My hands smelled like that stuff all night. And that's AFTER washing my hands and slicing an onion! I guess it was on the chair arms, and the remote."

Hick had no further explanation for how just splashing on cologne on the porch could make the house reek.

Here's the thing, guys. It's called MODERATION. A little can go a long way. I suppose that's a foreign concept to some of you, judging by how you regard boobs. So let me try to be more specific. Enough is as good as a feast. You don't have to put the entire pot roast from the pan of vegetable beef soup into your bowl, piled high above the edges. A couple of beers will give you a buzz, you don't need the entire 12-pack. See how that works?

I'm pretty sure I'm sounding like Charlie Brown's teacher...