True, I hadn’t gotten Rochelle off the hook for Marybeth’s murder, but it would take months before the case went to trial. I had plenty of time to prove my case against Marty. Pam’s testimony would certainly help. In the meanwhile, I had a wonderful new job and an even more wonderful new boss waiting for me.

Yes, I was definitely in a chipper mood when I headed back to the bathroom. A mood that lasted all of two seconds. Because the first thing I saw when I opened the bathroom door was Prozac, perched on the counter, clawing at my new dress.

And then, before my horrified eyes, I saw the sequinned spaghetti straps slip off the hanger. Before I could reach it, the dress went plunging into the hot, strawberry-scented water.

I plucked the sodden mass from the tub and wailed, “Prozac! What have you done?”

Her tail swished proudly.

I just saved us from the evil black monster from the planet Nordstrom!

Okay, no need to panic. I’d simply skip my bath and iron the dress dry.

I dashed to the broom closet for my iron and ironing board. My iron was a rusty old travel model, a treasured anniversary gift from The Blob. The last time I used it was to iron the blouse I wore to our divorce proceedings. I set up the ironing board and began my task. I soon saw that it was hopeless. The dress was soaking wet. It would take hours to iron it dry with my little travel iron. And the one patch I managed to dry puckered miserably under the heat of the steel.

Oh, who was I kidding? There was no way I was going to wear my sexy new dress. Not that night, or ever again. Even if I managed to get it dry, surely it would shrink to the size of a hanky from all that hot water.

And so, with heavy heart, I headed back to the bedroom to look for something appropriate to wear to a formal affair. But all I found in my closet were one-size-fits-all sleep shirts and elastic-waist pants. Which should come as no surprise. After all, my idea of a formal affair is the All You Can Eat Shrimp Festival at Sizzler.

And then I saw it. Way in the back of the closet. My Cinderella-on-Steroids Bridesmaid Dress. I’d picked it up a few days ago from Amy Lee’s Bridal Salon and shoved it in back of the closet, hoping maybe the moths would get it. But even the moths wouldn’t go near it. I took it out and looked it over. It was every bit as ugly as I remembered. The same puffy sleeves, the same billowing hips, the same hideous bubblegum pink color.

No way was I going to wear this monstrosity. I simply couldn’t do it.