One day back when I was a young dairyman I was tricked into attending a baby shower.

OK, so “tricked into” might be a bit inaccurate. I actually volunteered to accompany my wife to a baby shower after hearing her glowing description regarding how much fun they are and the vast amounts of goodies — specifically, cake and ice cream — that are served. She had me at “cake.”

Many dairy farm wives would agree that a curmudgeonly dairyman would be profoundly out of place at a baby shower. After my first (and last) experience with a baby shower, I heartily concur.

The first thing I noticed when we entered the venue was the aroma. The ladies in attendance were apparently in a competition to see who could wear the most perfume. Or at least the most potent.

After my eyes quit watering and I could see again, I found myself standing next to a table that held a cake the size of a Buick. Another table was heaped with presents and cards. It looked like Christmastime at an orphanage.

The second thing I noticed was that I was the only male in the room with the exception of the newborn guest of honor. I became somewhat unnerved when I noticed that all the ladies were looking at me and smiling and whispering to one another. I couldn’t tell if they were glad to see me or were plotting against me.

I took a seat at the back of the room. One of the ladies — the hostess — stood up and announced that we were going to play some games. Hot dog! I hoped that this would involve blackjack or Texas Holdem, but no.

The hostess handed out sheets of paper that contained a list of animals. We were tasked with identifying what the baby of each species was called. I had no clue, so I answered “calf” for all of them. A couple of them were actually right.

The young lady who had the most correct answers won a ditty bag of candy. No wonder we Americans are constantly struggling with our collective weight! We can’t even welcome a newborn without consuming enough refined sugar to power an aircraft carrier.

The hostess finally announced that it was time for lunch. I was starving, so I immediately got in line. The cake was so sugary, I could feel my pancreas jump into overdrive before I even took a bite. There were also sandwiches, but they were so tiny that I had to pile a dozen or more on my plate.

Next came the opening of the gifts. It would have been more efficient had they simply taken the new mom to the Baby Department of a superstore and told her, “Pick out what few things that you don’t like.” When she was done, they could have told the clerks, “We’ll take one of everything else.” It would have been quicker and got the same job done.

The presents were passed around so that everyone could ooh and ahh over them. That’s when I began to feel icky.

My wife said later that this was because I had snarfed down an outrageous amount of cake and ice cream, but I knew better. I had a severe case of PODS, or Perfume Overdose Distress Syndrome. Ladies and babies seem to be immune to this malady.

I went outside, hoping to find an antidote. The best cure for PODS is to shower in diesel fuel or roll in engine grease. Fortunately, I had a pair of grody, manure-crusted coveralls in the trunk of our car.

I rubbed the coveralls all over my arms and face. I began to feel like my old self within a matter of minutes.

I thought that it might be time for another round of cake and ice cream, so I moseyed back inside. No sooner had I started to load my plate than my wife grabbed me by the ear and steered me back outside. She seemed upset.

“What’s wrong with you?” she hissed. “It’s not enough that you act like a pig, you have to smell like one too?”

I tried to explain how I had narrowly escaped an early demise due to PODS, but she wouldn’t listen.

“Don’t give me another of your cockamamie stories about how you saved your life! Didn’t you realize that you were stinking up the whole place?

Everybody noticed!”

Hmmm. This could explain why the room had fallen suddenly silent when I came back inside.

Oh, well. I’ll probably never be allowed to attend another baby-welcoming party. But if I am, I’ll be sure to take a shower first.

— Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at http://Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.