Sending up the White Flag.

My day started out bad so I knew today would be more fuzzy than peachy.

I overslept and had no time to shower (oh, relax, I'm not stinky or anything - so please don't come at me with an industrialized-sized can of Lysol) so I run into the bathroom, thunk down in front of the mirror and try to get a brush through my thick hair which has decided to revolt and stand up in bushy waves all over my head.

Great.

I then have a cat drooling on my knee, trying to get attention from me when I'm knee-deep in concealer, foundation and enough eye-shadow to make even the Olsen Twins swoon.

Getting out her "boyfriend" (my old favorite paddle brush) she makes nice with it while I tackle the dark circles under my puffy green eyes.

We chat awhile. I talk about the "Smallville" episode of last night (Oh- goodness - Tom's in his man panties - oh - SWOON!) and she purrs. I discuss the thrills and chills of my beyond boring book "The Bergedorf Blondes" and she purrs. I take the brush away from her and she tries to bite me.

Works for me.

I leave for work and hop into - no - scratch that - I wedge my large posterior into the grey velcro-like seat and then scooch around until both butt cheeks are in proper placement. Joy.

I then get to work and delve into the gossip of the office: all the attorneys are scattering for a weekend retreat by mid-afternoon. All but one. So what's wrong with this one that was so obviously uninvited? Is this attorney so repugnant that one does not wish to get too close in fear of convoluted conversation or an extreme case of halitosis? No. Does this Legal Eagle have hygiene problems that could only be rectified by a dip in boiling bleach. No.

She has boobies.                       

And there you have it folks - two very perky reasons why I'm glad my career in law is now limited to phone conversations that end in "No, sorry, but may I take a message?"