“Ms. Austen, I’m not calling about your checking account.”

“You’re not?”

“No, I’m calling about the ad you answered in the L.A. Times. For someone to write our bank newsletter.”

I’d answered that ad weeks ago and forgotten all about it. Here the man was calling me about a paying job, and the first thing I did was yell at him. Talk about your disastrous first impressions. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hung up right then and there. But miraculously, he didn’t.

“So do you think you can come in for an interview?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Wednesday morning at ten? Our downtown branch?”

“Absolutely! I’ll be there. And I’m sorry about that checking account thing.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be sure to have someone call you to thank you, though, the next time you’ve got scads of money in the bank.”

I hung up and groaned. What an idiot I’d been. I couldn’t believe he was still letting me come in for the interview. At least he seemed to have a sense of humor.

“Guess what, dollface?” I said, scratching Prozac behind her ears. “Mommy’s got a job interview. Isn’t that super?”

Whatever. Now scratch my back.

Ever her obedient servant, I scratched Prozac’s back and then spent the next hour at the computer doing some research on Union National Bank. After my less than auspicious start, I wanted to be as knowledgeable as possible for my interview. I worked at it steadily, with just a tiny break for a quick game of computer solitaire (okay, five games of solitaire), until I heard the sweet sounds of Prozac yowling for her dinner.

I got up and went to the kitchen cupboard, where I took out a can of the diet cat food my vet had recommended on our last visit. I’d been meaning to give it to Prozac for the past several days, but I’d kept putting it off, afraid of the battle that might await me. After all, this was a cat that was used to Jumbo Jacks and the Colonel’s chicken. Extra crispy, if you please.

But I’d promised the vet I’d give it a try, and now, I decided, was as good a time as any. I opened the can and poured the contents into Prozac’s bowl.

“Here you go, sweet pea. Dee-licious Healthy Haddock Entrails.”

She took one sniff and looked at me indignantly.

You’ve got to be kidding. Surely, you don’t expect moi to eat this stuff?

“You know what the vet said last week when we went to visit, and everybody in the waiting room thought you were pregnant. Remember? She said you’ve really got to lose weight.”

I still say she was talking to you, not me.

She jumped up on the counter and started pawing the cupboard where I keep the Bumble Bee Tuna.