The scent of a woman ... oh, I mean a horse

The anonymous author of the blog When Pigs Fly, who lives in Minnesota near the Twin Cities, writes at the intersection of old and new, rural and urban, natural and engineered, animal and human: "We all have those days that serve as a wake-up call. You know the ones. ... They force most of us to reassess the pattern of our lives. For me, that day came yesterday," in a grocery after horse work.

"It had been cold and raining. Wearing my muck boots, Levis, baseball cap and black jacket that had turned a conspicuous shade of dark grey from the hours of use around dust and dirt, I'm sure I projected frumpy hobby farm enthusiast at best, ageing unkempt hipster at worst. But, being in a hurry and obviously not caring about my appearance or previous whearabouts before embarking on an excursion through the produce aisles, I moved through the market without any thought to those I may be offending. Yes, dear friends, offending I was."

After being told bluntly that she smelled, the author realized the source was her jacket: "I wash all of my clothing and bits and pieces whenever coming home from the barn with the exception of my jacket. This article only sees the washing machine once in a blue moon, taking residence in the garage when not keeping me warm. Apparently, it has a musk and a life all its own." For the rest of the story, republished in Open.Salon.com (from which we stole our headline), go here.