One would think being first is a good thing. For this past year, first has been a series of painful moments for this family. Today…July 5, marks the first anniversary of the death of my brother Ron.

Our family has spent the last year with all the “firsts”. The first day, the first week and month. His first birthday, our birthdays, the holiday season, Valentine’s Day, St.Patrick’s Day, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. These were all the first times we did not have him with us. Some of these days were more painful and difficult than others. These days affected each of us in our own way. And then there were the days with no specific meaning, just a day the reality of his loss snuck up on us and whacked us in the head.

On the 4th of July last year, I was spending the night with my bff MC at her home in Worcester. She had suffered her own devastating loss in February of last year. In the 6 or so weeks prior to the 4th, I had not spoken to Ron. Our last conversation prior to the 4th had not gone well. He was in a drug rage, out of control, unable to be rational, nasty. I ended that conversation. I was not interested in dealing with this behavior. So on the evening of the 4th, around 730-ish, my phone rang and the caller ID indicated it was him. I hesitated for a moment…what would this conversation be like? But I answered anyway.

He sounded wonderful. Really wonderful. I was so surprised…but happy. We did not discuss our last conversation. This family is GREAT at avoidance. Anyway, he was calling to ask me to come to NH in late July to photograph an event at Epping Speedway. Our cousin John was coming from New Mexico for this event. I told Ron I was not sure what I would do. For me, being in the blazing hot sun at a race track for a day was not appealing. I hate the heat! But he was persistent and it was clear he really wanted me to come. I still would not commit but I said I would consider it and decide when it got closer. We didn’t have much more to say…because yeah, avoidance. But the call ended the way all of his calls did with him saying “love you”. I never said it back to him. It wasn’t my thing…still isn’t. But I don’t feel bad because I know he knew I loved him…and always would. I am glad I answered that call.

He died in the wee hours of the morning on July 5. I think as a family, we always knew this was how it would end. I think we all felt a considerable amount of anger at some of the circumstances surrounding his death. The Covid pandemic did him no favors. As a person in recovery, he relied on his meetings and connections with the recovery community. Covid took those connections away and isolated him. He was also dealing with a lung cancer diagnosis and subsequent treatment. He was in remission. But most difficult was his penchant for surrounding himself with less than desirable folks who used him for money and drugs. And in turn, he used them. It was a recipe for disaster. His story is no different than so many addicts…and his end was also no different.

He was a son, a brother, a father, a grandfather, a recovery Dad, a cousin, an asshole, a friend, a biker, a lover, a sentimentalist and a phenomenal breakfast cook. He was many things. But most of all, he was ours. And we miss him.

It is July 5th…the end of the first’s.

I’ve been meaning to write about this for a few weeks now…finally sitting down to tell this story.

A few weeks, back, I had been to a late lunch/early dinner with a friend. It was a perfect Spring evening, warm with a nice breeze. It was after 7pm but the day was still bright as the sun was starting to set.

I had the roof open and all the windows were down as I was driving. It felt so good to shake off the winter cold and let the wind whip thru the car. I had the stereo on of course…I mean isn’t that what you do when you are driving along? I know I was singing along to whatever was on the radio!

As I was driving along, I noticed a white SUV driving next to me on my right side. I didn’t pay much attention to it…except maybe I stopped singing as loud! I looked over at the driver and saw a young man at the wheel. And when I say young, I mean young! He looked about 12 but was likely around 20-ish….if that! He was cute….for a kid! Blonde hair…looked like he just jumped off of the cover of GQ. He was by himself in his fancy Audi SUV. I shook my head a little thinking “it must be nice to have a fancy ride at that age!”

We were coming up to a traffic light and as we approached, the light turned red. We both stopped. There was that moment when you just know someone is looking at you….so I turned and for sure, this young man was looking right at me. And then it happened….

His window was also open. I turned and looked and suddenly, he simply smiled and waved at me and said “hi”. I seriously did not know what to think. What was this little kid doing? Why did he do that? Did he really just do that? Was I seeing things???? And then the light turned green and we were off again, driving side by side down the road.

And then we came to another set of lights. I had this feeling he was going to punch it and scoot thru the lights and keep on going. But he didn’t. He stopped and again, was right beside me. I could have ignored him. I could have kept looking straight ahead. I could have…but I didn’t.

I turned and looked at him and simply asked why did he wave and say hi? I wasn’t mad or mean or confrontational….I was just so curious. And he smiled again, looked right at me and said, “I was just saying hi” And really, you could tell this was exactly what he was doing. Nothing more, nothing less, just a young man smiling at an old lady and saying hello. What could I say to that? So I said that was really nice and I told him I hoped he had a great evening…and he smiled.

The light turned green…and I turned left as he drove off straight ahead. And all I could do was smile thinking what a cool thing it was that just happened. And how more people should just smile and wave and say hello to a stranger. Because it would make the world a better place.

As I make my way on the back roads to the various farms I like to visit, I often see the same folks every week out doing what they do. The walkers, the dogs, the horse riders, the bicyclists. And then there is the Mayor of Lincoln.

For awhile now, even pre-pandemic, I would see some folks gathered in the yard of a home in Lincoln. It was usually just 3 people. In the warmer months, they would sit in chairs in the yard, ostensibly discussing the news of the world. I wondered who they were and what their story was. And then the pandemic hit and the weekly Sunday morning gathering changed to accommodate the need for social distancing. I would drive down the road and see a gentleman and a lady, standing along the roadside while another lady stood in the yard…all of them wearing masks, holding coffee and keeping distance. This went on most every Sunday morning…usually between 9-930. As the months went on and I passed them each week, they would wave or nod and acknowledge me as I drove by. I would nod or wave in return.

A few weeks ago, there they were once again, solving the ills of the world. I decided to stop and say hello. As I pulled up, I put my window down and said “Every week I drive by, I always wonder what the topic of discussion is today…” They chuckled and were very outgoing. The gentleman told me they had seen me pass by many times and asked if I lived nearby. I said I did not but that I enjoyed the scenery along this country road and took it home every week after my farm shopping trips. They invited me to join them! The gentleman went on to tell me that the lovely lady up in the yard was “The Mayor of Lincoln”…and she chuckled.

We chatted for a few more moments and then I wished them well. They told me they were really glad I stopped to say hello. I drove away with a smile on my face and feeling glad I stopped to say hello. So today there they were again BUT in a different location. Rather than being on the road by the side yard, they were a little further up toward the front of the house. The mojo was all wrong! So of course I stopped….

I told them this was all wrong, they were in the wrong spots and that the world was on it’s edge because of it! There was lots of laughter and plenty of excuses as to why the location had changed today. They asked how things were on the farm and I said all was well. And then a discussion was sparked on why the area was called “Nine Acre Corner”….and that Mrs.Wheeler had owned all that land and that if I was interested, I could Google “Nine Acre Corner” and learn the history of the name. Then I was informed that last week was the annual bird count and that the Mayor had led this annual tradition. It was fun. I introduced myself and learned that the other’s were Bill and his wife Pat and the Mayor is Gwen. Lovely people. They said they looked forward to seeing me next Sunday. They are very welcoming and do not fit the stereotype of stodgy Lincoln-ites. I’m glad that I decided to stop a few weeks ago. If I had driven on by, I never would have learned their names, been invited to join them or have known when the annual Lincoln bird count was.

Let’s just get this right out in the open…Blood Farm is a slaughterhouse.

Knowing what goes on here and the visuals you conjure in your mind can be uncomfortable. So for the sake of this writing, the term “processing” will be used.

To know me is to know that I am a fan of locally grown and sourced agriculture. I make it my business to research local farms and stores that sell locally grown fruits, vegetables and meat products. To me, local means fresh and keeps families and farms in business. I like that.

This year has been a challenge for everyone. The Covid crisis is real. And it has impacted farms and families and people everywhere. In the Fall, we were staring down a holiday season that would look very different for most everyone. We were urged to stay vigilant and not to gather in large family or friend groups to help keep Covid at bay. For me, this meant having the holidays at home, alone….like millions of other people around the world. So I had a choice, I could be miserable and have the “poor me” attitude, or I could make the best of it.

Thanksgiving came and went and turkey was cooked, consumed and made into lots of soup. Christmas would soon be here…what to do for dinner??? I know of many local farms but none that really specialize in good quality meats. I had heard of this place called Blood Farm. I knew it was in Groton, Ma., about 45 minutes northwest of here. I’m always up for something new so I did a little more research on this place and found that it was a meat processing farm. It specialized in beef, chicken, pork, lamb and goat. They processed 50 different cuts of beef alone…never mind all the rest of what they cut. I was very intrigued by the idea of having a very fresh cut piece of beef. It would be nothing like what you could buy in the local grocery store.

So a few weeks before Christmas, I convinced my friend T to take a little road trip with me. She is always up for a farm adventure with me. So off we went to Blood Farm with my intent of ordering a special roast for my Christmas dinner. If I was going to be home alone, I wanted a special meal with quality meat. I was willing to pay for that quality. We got there and went into the little office/store they have. There were large cooler/freezer cases with lots of different cuts of meat. We could see through the windows where the meat cutters were doing their work. We could not see the processing section of the farm. We spoke with a very helpful meat cutter who happily guided us through the order process. I placed my order for a 3 plus pound boneless prime rib. T ended up ordering the same, only larger as she has more people to feed! We left there thinking about how cool it was going to be to have this amazing roast for dinner. And yes, we fully understood how freshly “processed” this meat would be.

So on Wednesday before Christmas, T and I once again took the trip out to Groton to pick up the roasts we had ordered. When we arrived shortly after 1030, there was a line waiting to get in. Remember, the office area is small so social distance meant waiting outside. We parked in the rear of the main building and got in line with about 35-40 people in front of us. Thankfully, it was a warm sunny day as the wait would be long. Soon the line behind us swelled and we knew those behind us were in for a much longer wait. But we made the best of it. A young guy was in line behind us. He was a firefighter….you could just tell. And behind him was an older woman wearing flip flops as she trudged across the muddy parking lot to get in line. She clearly had been here before as she made it clear she had never waited in line before. Our fire guy was also a regular. As more people were arriving, there were questions about how long we had been in line. One person responded “not long”. Ever the comedian, I responded “4 hours”! Everyone laughed. Really, lets have some fun while we wait.

And then it happened…..a very large truck pulled down the driveway to one of the side barn buildings we had passed as we stood in line. This was the rendering truck. T and I immediately decided we would not look back as this truck backed in ready to take on it’s load. Some things don’t need to be seen. I felt bad for those in line behind us that were much closer to this truck. So the chatter in our little section of the line continued and we had some more laughs. That is until I made the mistake of turning briefly toward the truck and saw one of the dumpster-like bins being lowered to the ground after it’s contents were dumped in the truck. It was unpleasant. As was the odor now emanating from the truck. Flip Flop lady began to describe things for us and at that moment, I could have vomited on her flip flop feet. I wagged my finger at her and advised her to stop…followed by plugging my ears while “la-la-laling” to stop her. There were chuckles…and I advised those around us that I was serious! By now, we were close to the front of the line, which now snaked all the way down the driveway and around the back of the building. I offered my spot in line to a new arrival for a price! And then it was our turn and we went in to pick up our order. That only took a few minutes and we were out again! People clapped. We really did make the best of the wait and had some laughs to help pass the time.

On Christmas Day, I cooked this roast to perfection. I can not begin to tell you how good it was. As Streisand would say….”it was like buttah…” And for those who are wondering….there is a HUGE difference in quality and taste in a piece of beef that was freshly processed.

I would do this again in a heartbeat….

The cake???? Chocolate with creme de menthe mousse filling, buttercream frosting topped with chocolate ganache!

Merry Christmas to me!!!

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything. It’s been a very long, very difficult year with the Covid 19 pandemic. But I will talk about that another day…

Today, it’s about stuffing. Thanksgiving is upon us and this year, nothing is the same. Families are being advised not to gather to celebrate unless you all live together. People are planning outdoor meals, which may not be a bad thing because it’s been a very mild Fall so far…in fact, it’s hard to believe December 1 is just days away. My usual plans for the holiday were cancelled, just like so many other people. But I wanted to make the day as “normal” as I could. So it was time to make stuffing. Mom’s stuffing.

Mom always made her stuffing from scratch. No Pepperidge Farm or Stove Top for her! She would reach deep into the cabinet and pull out the old meat grinder. I’m not sure but I think when I was a kid in the 60’s, that old grinder was 100 yrs old….and I’m pretty sure either my sister or my brother has it now, complete with the falling apart shoe box she kept it in.

She would attach the grinder to the counter and run a couple of pieces of bread through it just to make sure there was no left over rust on the inside. And then in would go the onions and celery. By the time she was done grinding, she would be weeping tears from onion fumes but that was all part of the process. Out would come the cast iron frying pan and she would drop two sticks of butter in and melt that down. In would go the onions and celery and the aroma filled the house. It was wonderful. And then of course she would add a significant amount of the famous Bell’s Seasoning. Everyone uses that, right?

In a Revere pan on the stove, she would boil the turkey neck and gizzards and set it aside for later. She had a big yellow Pyrex glass bowl (I still have it!) and she would take “stuffing bread” and tear it into small pieces in the bowl. I always helped tearing the bread. Stuffing bread is really just plain white bread that is not sliced…but is marketed as “stuffing bread”…and yes, I buy it. Once the bread was ready and the onions and celery were soft, she would pour that over the bread and start to mix it up. That water she had that was flavored from the turkey neck would be used a cup at a time to moisten the bread and help mix the vegetables in. She would sprinkle some more Bell’s in as necessary. Can you smell it? I can….

It was a an art to get the water/bread mixture just right. You can’t have too much and you can’t have too little. But you just knew when enough was enough. I watched Mom make this stuffing every year at Thanksgiving and again at Christmas. And then that old grinder would go back in the box for another year.

I made stuffing today. I don’t have a grinder so I chopped the celery and onions by hand. And I weeped over the onions, just like Mom did. I have to confess that I make the stuffing a little different than she did. I add sausage and apple to the mixture. Other than that, it is the same. I tore the bread by hand and boiled the parts, just like she did. She would probably not approve of the additions I make but she would approve of me making it by hand, like she did.

So much is different this year. But I will have turkey, stuffed with Mom’s stuffing and it will feel a little more normal. I hope you can find a little normal in your holiday. And eat stuffing!

I’m feeling a tad sentimental today as this date marks 15 years since my Mom passed away. She was 74 at the time of her death and had succumbed to the ravages of throat cancer. She was diagnosed in February of the previous year and went through hell for the next 11 months. But there were some victories along the way and we celebrated those moments.

She was born in November of 1930, the 4th and last daughter of Esther and Maurice Costello. Her older sisters were Rita, Roberta and Katherine (known as Kay). She had no brothers. She grew up in Watertown and graduated from Watertown High School in 1948. She met my Dad while they were both in Junior High School….and they remained sweethearts throughout school. They married in April of 1951.

She wasn’t good enough for my father…or so his mother always said. Don’t all mothers of sons say that about the girl their son marries?  They went on to have 3 kids…Cathy, Ron and me. They led a good life for many years but then life got in the way and the good times were not always so good anymore. But that was their life and they rode the ups and downs like any other family would have. My Dad died in 1980 at the tender age of 50. Mom turned 50 later that same year but never dated (maybe once) and never married again.

She was an interesting woman in many ways. She loved to dance, and she and Dad could jitterbug like there was nobody watching. One of my best memories was having both Mom and Dad participate in a 50’s concert when I was in High School and seeing their picture in MY yearbook, dressed in their finest 50’s costumes, dancing across the stage. Really…who get’s to say their parents are in their yearbook. I always thought it was cool.

She wasn’t the best housekeeper but she did make sure we always left the house with clean clothes, clean bodies and a full stomach. She made the worst beef stew. You couldn’t call it stew…it was really fat riddled chunks of beef, carrots and who knows what else in a broth that tasted like dish water. It was gruesome. She knew it but made us eat it anyway. Apple Pie was not a specialty either. It always looked great until you cut it open to find lots of crust and maybe some apples.

But she made the best chocolate bread pudding with hard sauce. And she could silence a leg of lamb like you read about. And I don’t care what anyone says, her’s was the best turkey stuffing in the world. No argument. But she did always forget to put the fancy salt and pepper shakers on the table for holiday dinners….

She has a sense of adventure, particularly in her Pontiac Bonneville nicknamed “Black Beauty”. She had rules. Don’t ever call her “Ma”. Don’t even think of putting your feet on the rungs of the dining room chairs. And don’t slam the screen door as you dashed out the back door.

She and I struggled in the later years. Mostly because when my father died, we were forced to be more like roommates and less like mother and daughter. She did her best but struggled with boundaries as I got older (late 20’s into 30’s and beyond). I had to push back and put my foot down and that was not easy. She resented me and I resented her interfering in my life. I came to realize it was the only way she knew how to hold on to me. But when she got sick, none of that mattered. I did what needed to be done for her. And so did Cathy and Ron, albeit from a distance as they lived hours away. But they rose to the challenges when it was necessary. We did the best for her that we could.

Her funeral service was a little different. Thelma and Louise sent a lovely tropical floral arrangement. As we processed out of the church after the mass, the music playing in the church was “When the saints go marching in”. As we said our final goodbyes at the gravesite, the song “Rock and Roll Part 2” was played from a boombox in the back of the family limo as we tossed handfuls of snow in the air. She would have loved it.

She was proud of the three of us. Through circumstances that really don’t matter, she did not have a relationship with her granddaughters. If she had lived, she would have. Just because she did not say it did not mean she did not love us. She wasn’t the demonstrative kind. But we knew…

Fifteen years have passed and I miss her, sometimes more than I care to admit. Sadly, there is no snow on the ground here. If there was, I would have been throwing it up in the air this afternoon as I went to visit her at the cemetery. She would have liked that.

 

When I woke up this morning, the score was still the same and the season was still over. It hurt and I was not prepared for it to end that way. For twenty years, we here in New England have been privileged to witness some of the most exciting moments in football history. All of it was brought to us by the the greatest coach in history working with the greatest quarterback in history. Deny that if you dare…

Six Super Bowl rings. Six Duck Boat parades. Six.

But even though we never liked to think of it, you always knew that it would end someday. But is today that day? Nobody really knows. We are just over 12 out from the abrupt end of this football season. There is plenty of time to reflect on this season and where it went right…and where it went wrong. The big question is what with TB12 do? Nobody knows. The amount of speculation this season has been incomprehensible. The talking heads are just that, talking heads. They know nothing. The only one who knows is TB12 himself. He did say he was not inclined to retire. But if and where he plays next season is a mystery not even he knows the answer to. It’s a waiting game. There is pain and angst in Patriot Nation today.

And today there is pain and angst around the world. There are countless homeless people in our own back yard. Children are hungry. People are dying from drug addiction and gun violence. The man who leads this country is certifiably crazy and extremely dangerous. We could be on the brink of another war in the Middle East or with North Korea. ..or both. Australia is burning. Climate change is real. I could go on but I’m hoping you get the point.

A football season is over. So what. Let’s keep things in perspective.

 

Tragedy…it’s a word used often but rarely used correctly. Take a moment and think of all the times you’ve said something was “tragic”. Was it really? In the last 3 days, we here in the Boston area have experienced true tragedy.

Just after noon on Christmas Day, a 40 year old woman drove to the top of a 7 story parking garage and “allegedly” threw her 4 year old daughter, her 16 month old son and herself off the roof of this garage to their death. I can not imagine the layers of this tragedy. Let’s stop and think about it for a moment…

One can suggest that the 4 year old woke on Christmas morning to the magic of Santa and all that comes with that. Can you see her wide eyes as she looked at the tree and saw all the things she asked for? Can you hear her shriek with joy over the Frozen toys, Minnie Mouse, the princess dress she wanted? And what about the little boy. Was he really understanding the magic of the morning or was the box with the flashy truck what caught and kept his attention? Or maybe there was nothing….

At this point, we really don’t know what happened here. We don’t know the life this woman was living. But what we do know is she had to be so seriously mentally ill to think that this action was the ONLY thing she could do to end the pain…and it pains me to think this is what happened. In my time, I have been sad, unhappy, distraught…and at the end of my rope. But NEVER did I think throwing myself off the roof of a parking garage was the best thing to do. But I am not her and I am not judging. I am simply sad that this was the only way out for her. And I’m hoping that her decision and the tragic results will be a wake up call to anyone feeling hopeless. There is always hope and there is help out there.

But this woman and her children are not the only victims of this tragedy. There is a father and husband. There are family members and friends. And then there are the first responders who raced to the scene to try and help. Let’s think of them for a moment…

Imagine working on Christmas Day. Many first responders work this day so that their co-workers with young kids can have the day off to be home with their families. Many of them work for the extra money earned for working on a holiday. Whatever the motivation, always know they work for the love of taking care of people. So when the radio tones went off and they raced to the scene, imagine how they felt on arrival to see this family splattered on the sidewalk. I know the paramedics and emergency medical technicians did EVERYTHING they could to try and save these children. I know that in the back of their minds, they knew these people were beyond help but they tried and continued to try as they raced to the trauma center, only to have them all pronounced dead. I know that the police officers and investigators who arrived on scene put aside their gut reaction to begin the process of determining what happened here. And I know that when they went home at the end of a very long day, they will never be able to get past what they saw. Some things can never be unseen. But there is hope for them. Because there are teams of trauma experts that will be there to help these people work through this tragedy as best they can. It will be a long and painful process. And it will forever change the lives of these people. Never forgot that.

And then today…we had another “tragedy”. A mansion in the town of Concord Ma burned to the ground. The home was built in 1897 and was a 13 room, 5 bedroom, 6800 square foot mansion. It had a massive in ground pool, tennis courts and a lawn/yard that meandered down to the Sudbury River. Rumor has it that relatives of President John Quincy Adams lived here back in colonial times.

The home belonged to a prominent malpractice attorney and his wife, also an attorney. They were not home at the time of the fire. Nobody was home except a caretaker who did get out of the home. Hopefully no firefighters were injured. The home is on a very remote road, on top of a hill. There are no fire hydrants nearby. This made fighting the fire impossible. The only was to get water to this fire was for numerous fire engines to relay pump water into cisterns (look it up) for the firefighters to draw from. Many people commented on how negligent the town was not to have hydrants…but really, when they built this home in 1897, there was no such thing as a hydrant. And for the town or the property owners to install one, the cost would be astronomical. But as they watched this home disintegrate, would the cost of installing water mains and hydrants have been worth it? We can not know. And we can not judge this town and these owners for not having a hydrant system on this remote road.

So what makes this fire “tragic”?

Photos are courtesy of @jenyp (capturegirl) from Boston25News.

The tragedy here is the loss of an exceptionally beautiful home. Imagine the contents…imagine the family heirlooms, the antiques, the history. Sure, there is no doubt this property was insured. But no amount of money can replace what has been lost here. So this wealthy family that would appear to have it all, now has nothing. And that is tragic in it’s own way.

Two different tragedies, very different in scope. But still tragic. What an awful few days this has been. If you are suffering, seek out help. And with loss comes the memories you had of the place you called home. Nothing can take those memories away. Be thankful nobody died in this fire. Walls can be rebuilt. From the ashes of these two events, people will rise. There is always hope.

For the longest time, I thought it was me. Were my ears super sensitive? Was I just being an old fuddy duddy? (Isn’t that a great term?!) But it became clear to me that many people feel the way I do. Restaurants are just too LOUD!

When I go out to eat with friends, I want to sit at the table and have a conversation. A conversation that everyone at the table can hear. A conversation that takes places without YELLING. But for many years now, this is almost impossible. I used to love going to certain restaurants for their fabulous food. But I don’t go now because it’s just not enjoyable anymore. Sure, the food is still great but the atmosphere…not so much. Everyone seems to need to be heard. And they need everyone within the restaurant to hear them. So they talk really LOUD. And more annoying is the laugher. You know, the guy that finds everything to be funny and has to let everyone know he thinks it’s funny by laughing really LOUD. And then his friends join in and everyone is really LOUD. And then there are the groups of women who scream to be heard, like fingernails on a chalk board. And all of this gets worse with every beverage that is consumed. And my head wants to burst from the NOISE.

There is no question that some restaurants are designed to enhance the noise…places like the Cheesecake Factory that have really high ceilings. I get it, there are places that should be LOUD. Places like a sports bar with 75 Jumbotron TV screens all around. And if I want that atmosphere, I will go to the sports bar and I will be LOUD like everyone else. But when I go to my local pub or to places like the Colonial Inn or Wayside Inn, I want it to be charming and peaceful and QUIET. I want to have a conversation, not a screaming match.

When did we become a society that lost control like this? Where did our manners go? I beg you all, please use your inside voice when you are inside a restaurant. Leave the outside voice at the door!

And don’t get me started on the parents that let the little ones run freely around the restaurant because they can’t sit still in their chairs….

Everything in moderation. At least that’s the idea, especially when it comes to the use of perfume and cologne.

Last evening, friends and I attended a local production of the musical “Funny Girl”. As we filed into the theatre and took our seats, we settled in with expectations of a great show. And then he arrived. A seemingly wonderful gentleman and his wife (that’s an assumption but probably correct!) settled into the seats directly in front of us. He was in front of me. Within moments, I was caught in an invisible cloud of some seriously strong cologne. I was stunned really…this was some powerful stuff! And every time he moved, the cloud refreshed itself and settled over anyone within a 1/2 mile of him! Honestly, this was a hazmat situation.

I don’t know what brand of toxic chemical this was…but I’m sure it was expensive. And I’m sure he thought it made him more attractive. His wife must be used to it because she seemed unfazed by it as she occasionally snuggled up to him. Within a few minutes, the toxic cloud had permeated my nostrils…and it was only a few more minutes before I could actually taste this stuff. Really, it was that strong. There were times during the 3 hour evening when I pulled my shirt up over my mouth and nose in an attempt to filter the air. When the show was over, we could not wait to get outside and breathe fresh, cool air. But the fragrance lingered…

I got home and gave serious consideration to taking a shower before going to bed. I thought it might help wash away the toxic fumes. I was tired so I just went to bed. And I woke up this morning, still tasting and smelling the remnants of this guy’s cologne. I wondered if there was ever a time this guy thought maybe he was pouring it on too heavily. Did the designer that created this crap have any idea of how strong it was and how people in general use far too much? Does anyone realize just how bad this can be for some people? People like me….

I have asthma. It’s pretty serious and I take 3 different meds daily to keep it under control. Things that trigger my asthma are extreme heat and humidity, inhaling very cold air, breathing around the use of strong cleaning products and strong perfume and cologne. So today I spent about two hours dealing with an asthma flare up because this tool last night bathed in whatever expensive cologne he thought made him more manly.

Ladies and gents, please use whatever fragrance you choose sparingly and please consider the rest of the people in the world that can truly be harmed by your desire to smell fancy. Less is more…

Next on the blog topic list…..Use Your Inside Voice