Needless to say, I didn’t write down her number. In the first place, I wasn’t 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 wasn’t desperate for money.

Yes, for the past several months, my computer had been practically ablaze with writing assignments: I’d done a freelance piece for the L.A. Times on 24-hour Botox Centers. A new brochure for Mel’s Mufflers (Our Business Is Exhausting). And to top it off, I’d just finished 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.

What’s more, if my job interview today went well, I’d be bringing home big bucks from the Rubin-McCormick ad agency. I’d 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 he’d seen my botox piece in the L.A. Times. Or maybe he was the proud owner of a Big John. I didn’t 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 camouflage it.

After I finished 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 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.

I’m sure the gods had a hearty chuckle over that one.

Chapter 2

The Rubin-McCormick Agency was headquartered in a high-rent business complex in Santa Monica, a gleaming Mediterranean extravaganza with swaying palm trees and waterfalls out front. If you didn’t know it was an office building, you’d swear you were at a Ritz-Carlton. I drove past the waterfalls to the impeccably landscaped parking lot, thrilled to have landed an interview in such august surroundings.