To which the only possible response was "Yes! Smell my cleavage!" (Well, it smelled like pie, damnit, and my hands smelled like soap.)
She did so, and pronounced it very pie-like. "Oooh! Is that the Smashing Whipped from Villainess?" "Yes!" "I gotta order some..."
From the tone of the rest of the evening's festivities, we can make the following determinations: A) everybody I know reads my damn blog, and B) an astonishing number of both men and women will smell your cleavage if it smells like pumpkin pie.*
And of course, C) that if anybody asks WHY I want to smell like pumpkin pie, I will immediately hold forth on the findings of the Journal of Neuroscience, and increased percentages of penile bloodflow by odor, which just goes to prove that a geek chick with a bibliography for her perfume is a dangerous thing, particularly to innocent bystanders. (Hey, they asked.)
This led naturally...or at least organically...or at least after the shots...("See," Joe explained to a colleague, as I downed whatever the hell tangerine concoction he'd handed me, "Ursula will generally slam anything you put in front of her, just as a matter of pride. I try not to abuse this knowledge..."**) to three of us chicks sitting in the kitchen sniffing one another. "You smell like pie!" "You smell like soap!" "Soap?" "You smell like...err...people." "Is people a good smell? Do I smell bad?!" "No! It's...um...like...person..." "Soylent Green perfume!" "Aaaah!"
This probably doesn't bode well for the future when those samples start arriving. God help us all.
A lovely evening all around...
*More women than men, actually. I won't swear that a couple of the latter didn't have ulterior motives, mind you...
**This from the man who introduced me to absinthe and Gray Goose...but to give credit where it's due, he at least always hauls me out of the bar afterwards. This actually follows the pattern of most of my friends, who are pure evil but are somehow driven to keep me from wandering into traffic anyway.