No, it wasn’t an old hockey coach griping about my lousy shot, but another person of high esteem. My wife, Hun, pinched her nostrils while Kate sprang for the Lysol®.
“It’s bad. The dogs howl and the cats hide when you’re around. Birds no longer visit the feeder. You’ve become a smelly, middle-aged man. You need to do something, especially if you wear that tattered, reeking ski gear. You’re killing me with your 1990s era long-johns. I don’t want to live with a malodourous, old man.” Continue reading