When I walked by the grocery store behind our office just after sunrise the other morning, there was a woman wearing short shorts and a bra top spreading a beach towel in one of the nooks on the east side of the grocery store that’s behind our office. About an hour later when I walked over to the grocery store, I noticed the woman’s legs sticking out of the nook, soaking up the sun. When I walked by, she was putting on sunscreen and chatting with a street person who had joined her.

We always have strange people hanging around the alley behind the office. This afternoon, when Bruce and I walked out the back door into the ally, a woman passing by turned and yelled “Is that your cologne I smell?” We turned and, in unison, answered “No!” (neither of us wear cologne). She was standing right next to one of the grease bins where the restaurants throw their fry grease. Either we were emitting high concentrations of masculine pheromones that she mistook for cologne. Or our masculine pheromones mixed so well with the foul odor from the grease bins that she thought she got a whiff of cologne. She may find the foul scent of “Ode de Grease Trap” appealing. Or, most likely, she thought we stank, and it was her way of politely telling us how rank we were by asking if it was our cologne.