Tuesday, December 08, 2020


A friend expresses how creepy he finds it when men hit on women substantially younger after they've grown up. Especially if they knew that person when they were already adults and she was still a child. And I can only agree. It's creepazoid personified.

Some men have disturbing self-images.

It can be immensely flattering when a nice young thing pays attention to an older man, but it isn't common, and is ab initio comment-causing. And despite the fact that I am somewhat presentable, I do not expect it to happen to me, would probably not know how to react if it did, and would ascribe it largely to the fragrance of my old man pipe tobacco.
Yeah, okay, I flatter myself that my keen intellect or sparky mind still appeals. But reality tells me that the pipe tobacco is prompting fond remembrance of someone long dead who was avuncular or grandfatherly. When not doddering

I'm comfortable with reality.

Few people actually remember the smell of the tobacco that the old fossil that they were sort of fond of smoked in any case, because puffing a pipe at family gatherings or in front of a class full of impressionable tykes in grammar school hasn't been part of the programme since the late seventies, so it's almost a guarantee that if she recalls that, she's older than I am.
Or absolutely loathed the old bastard.

The Mummy in the Brendan Frazier movie was vibrant, dashing, commanding, a memorable presence, and distinctly evil and long-time dead. Probably reeked of aged Virginia Flake tobaccos when he wasn't robbing people of their eyes and organs.

Oh, and James Bond was in most movies a sexist pig you wouldn't want to know, as well as a creep and an alcoholic.

There are limitations. I do not ask people out, nor do I invite them in. Holding a door or letting them get on the bus first is seldom misconstrued. Consequently I am easy to get along with.

I'll gladly share my tobacco with someone older than twenty one, but that's because I take delight in tempting people and leading them to the dark side.
Where there are cookies.

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Lady Ignatia J. Reilly said...

I remember my Zayde smelling distinctly of 4711. He quit smoking before I was born. I remember him quite fondly and this is probably why I wear it; my Bubbe's chosen fragrance of Elizabeth Arden's Red Door was too feminine for me (I was a tomboy) and my mother's chosen fragrance of Shalimar is too sultry for a confirmed spinster of a literary bent.

The back of the hill said...

One of my friends wears Shalimar occasionally as an ironic statement.

Which is probably too subtle for many people.

The back of the hill said...

4711 Is very nice, btw.

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