common scents

My charming husband (really, he’s very charming and here’s a picture to prove it) and I spent last weekend in California. On Saturday we went to Napa to have lunch on the wine train (yes, I’m very spoiled, and yes, there is really a wine train, yay!) So we went first to the station, because that’s what you do to catch a train. We stopped at will-call for our tickets (and a pin that you have to wear if you’re going on a winery tour, and of course we were definitely going on the winery tour and wanted our server to know, so we had to wear unscheduled jewelry.) Now, look back at the charmer – see where his pin is? How weird is that? I teased him, but he liked it there. Mine was, more appropriately, pinned discretely to my sweater on my left shoulder (well, above my boob kind of.) Anyway, we’re now pinned and ready to board the train; we just have to wait at the station till they call our boarding group. So we did what everyone does while waiting to board a wine train – first we window shopped, then we got a drink. It was morning (later than the 10:00 a.m. that my fellow traveler on Southwest was drinking) but still pre-noon, so I ordered a mimosa. Don’t want to appear the drunk or anything. The bartender says sure, they have those, but maybe I would prefer a fuchsia? Hmm. First, do you know how hard it is to spell fuchsia? I didn’t think about it at the time, though I was pretty far off. But I digress….the very nice bartender explained that this is made with champagne and cranberry juice rather than champagne and orange. That didn’t sound so hot. It was a lovely color and all, but uh, no. So she proceeds to pour a couple of swigs of champagne into a glass and I think I’m getting the world's weakest mimosa, but it is morning after all, when she grabs the cranberry juice, pours in a splash and hands me the glass “to try while I mix your drink.” Ooh, free booze, this is going very well already. So I take a sip prepared not to like it much, I mean cranberry juice is lovely when mixed with pineapple and vodka in a bay breeze, but I’m not thinking I’m going to like it with champagne. Okay, I’m admitting it, in writing, I was wrong, way off base, this stuff is lovely, and now I’m bumming cause she’s nearly done mixing my mimosa. Lucky me, right before she pours the OJ, my new friend turns and says, “would you maybe prefer a fuchsia?” Heck yeah, my kind of woman, please yes, thank you very much! I went back to our table, very pleased with myself (and the bartender of course, giving credit where it’s due) and hand the glass to my husband. He seems to like it, but not so much that he hogs the glass or anything, so this is going to be a very fun day for me. Now a woman with a microphone comes out, introduces herself – I have NO idea who she was, nor even her position and I’m sure I should be ashamed to say that, but I’m really not so much. She proceeded to talk about the train; it’s remodeled to look old, but uses some super-green (any Fifth Element fans?) fuel, blah, blah, blah. I like the environment, I recycle, turn off lights, you know, I’m a good steward, but hey, I’m on the wine train, not an environmental lecture. Fortunately she moves along to talking about how to do a tasting. This is much more like it. Tasting is drinking. Good – I was a little afraid they’d make us spit out the taste, which just doesn’t seem right. It may be the snooty correct thing to do, but we don’t waste good booze where I come from and I don’t want to taste anything that isn’t good booze, right? She starts to explain about the bouquet of the wine when she mentions that you shouldn’t wear too much perfume or cologne. This makes me paranoid enough to ask my husband if he can smell me (nope, whew, dodged that bullet.) Our servers now come around with trays of wine for us to try – and WHEW, whiff, what the heck is that? Uh oh, our server is wearing enough cologne for three rooms of teenage girls (if you’ve ever been around teenage girls, you know what I mean.) She’s very nice and all, but seriously, I can smell her coming. And while the quantity shouts teenage girl, the scent itself is very much little old lady. She went onto the train with us, and I could tell when she was behind me – cause the smell actually creeped around me and announced her presence. EWWWWE. Pete even whispered that they (the woman with the mike I guess) should say something to her. So we had a scensational waitress, yep, I made that really bad joke. She was actually fine as servers go – but we literally couldn’t get away from the smell. Made me really glad to stick my nose in the wineglass. That was last weekend, and it was just lovely, but I was forcibly reminded of the experience today at work. I’ve got a few co-workers who are apparently having cologne wars (yep, went there too.) Seriously though, I can smell one three doors down – he wears A&F Fierce if anyone would like to know, I’m sure you’d recognize the stuff, you can’t walk past certain stores in the mall without coming out smelling like that too. The woman he’s competing with drowns herself (or her natural body odor) in Obsession. Ugh. I can’t stand that odor. Is it just me, or can you taste it too? Ugh again. I can even smell where these folks have been – and I don’t think that’s ever a good thing.
And that’s not good, though it’s not a sin,
I should never smell where you’ve been,
not in the john, not on the lawn,
not in the rain, not even (wait for it!)
on a train.