Chapter 1

ver have one of those days where everything seems to go your way, where the gods smile on your every move and good luck follows you around like an eager puppy? Neither have I. No matter how great things start out in my life, sooner or later something is guaranteed to hit the fan. Take the day the whole pantyhose mess began. It started out smoothly enough. My cat, Prozac, waited until the civilized hour of 8 A.M. before swan diving on my chest to wake me up. Morning, pumpkin, I murmured, as she nuzzled her furry head under my chin. She looked at me with big green eyes that seemed to say, Youre my favorite human in all the world. (Well, not exactly. What they really seemed to say was, When do we eat? But I knew deep down, she loved me.) When I looked out the window, I was happy to see that the early morning fog that hovers

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over L.A. for months on end had nally taken a powder. The sun was back in action, shining its little heart out. Things got even better when I discovered a free sample of Honey Nutty Raisin Bits with my morning newspaper, which meant I didnt have to nuke one of the petried Pop-Tarts in my freezer for breakfast. After feeding Prozac a bowl of Moist Mackerel Guts and inhaling my Honey Nutty Raisin Bits straight from the box, I did the crossword puzzle (with nary a trip to the dictionary) and spent the rest of the morning polishing my resume for an upcoming job interview. And not just any job interview. I, Jaine Austen, a gal who normally writes toilet bowl ads for a living, had a meeting lined up that very morning at RubinMcCormick, one of L.A.s hottest ad agencies. And so it was with a spring in my step and Honey Nutty Raisin Bits on my breath that I headed off to the bedroom to get dressed for my interview. I took out my one and only Prada suit from my closet, pristine clean in its drycleaning bag. No unsightly ketchup stains ambushed me at the last minute, like they usually do. I checked my one and only pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. Not a scuff mark in sight. I checked my hair in the mirror. No crazy cowlicks or Brillo patches in my natural curls. Like I said, the gods were smiling on me. And thats when I saw it: a zit on my chin the size of a small Aleutian island. Now Ive got nothing against the Aleutian Islands. Im sure theyre quite scenic. But not on my chin, sil vous plat.

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I was surveying the disaster in the mirror when the phone rang. I let the machine get it. Hi! A womans eager voice came on the line. I saw your ad in the Yellow Pages, and Im calling to see if you write comedy material. Im a stand-up comic, and everyone says Im hilarious. Uh-oh. My Bad Job Antenna sprang into action. People who say theyre hilarious are usually about as funny as leftover meatloaf. I need someone to write some new jokes for my act. Your ad said your rates were reasonable. I sure hope so. I was thinking maybe ve bucks a joke. Six or seven if theyre really funny. Five bucks a joke? Was she kidding? Court jesters were making more than that in the Middle Ages. Give me a call if youre interested. My name is Dorcas. Oh, and by the way, you can catch my act at the Laff Palace on open-mike nights. Im the one who throws my pantyhose into the audience. Did I hear right? Did she actually say she threw her pantyhose into the audience? Sounded more like a stripper than a comic to me. Needless to say, I didnt write down her number. In the rst place, I wasnt really a comedy writer. And in the second place, even if I was a comedy writer, the last thing I wanted to do was write jokes for a pantyhose-tossing comic. And in the third and most important place, for once in my life, I wasnt desperate for money. Yes, for the past several months, my computer had been practically ablaze with writing assignments: Id done a freelance piece for the L.A. Times on 24-hour Botox centers. A new brochure for Mels Mufers (Our Business Is Exhausting).

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And to top it off, Id just nished an extensive ad campaign for my biggest client, Toiletmasters Plumbers, introducing their newest product, an extra large toilet bowl called Big John. All of which meant I had actual funds in my checking account. Whats more, if my job interview today went well, Id be bringing home big bucks from the Rubin-McCormick ad agency. Id answered their ad for a freelance writer, and much to my surprise Stan McCormick himself had called me to set up an appointment. Who knows? Maybe hed seen my Botox piece in the L.A. Times. Or maybe he was the proud owner of a Big John. I didnt care why he wanted to see me; all I knew was that I had a shot at a job at one of L.A.s premiere ad agencies. Which was why that zit on my chin was so annoying. But with diligent effort (and enough concealer to caulk a bathtub), I eventually managed to camouage it. After I nished dressing, I surveyed myself in the mirror. If I do say so myself, I looked nifty. My Prada suit pared inches from my hips (which needed all the paring they could get). My Manolos gave me three extra statuesque inches. And my frizz-free hair was a veritable shinefest. I headed out to the living room, where I found Prozac draped over the back of the sofa. Wish me luck, Pro, I said, as I bent down to kiss her good-bye. She yawned in my face, blasting me with mackerel breath. Hurry back. I may want a snack. I love you, too, dollface. Then I headed outside to my Corolla, where

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the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and the grass was growing greener by the minute. Nothing, I thought, could possibly go wrong on such a spectacular day. Im sure the gods had a hearty chuckle over that one.