Oh wow, yesterday sucked.  It sucked.  Your plucky heroine got totally hosed, hoisted by her own damn petard.  I made a judgment call that, while totally correct in spirit, was…well…a bit lacking in execution.  Or planning.  Or, really, on some level, logic.  Then I got reamed out by my boss, and in the process of trying to explain why I chose the course of action that ultimately saw me plonked me down in the interrogation jet stream, I, obviously, stumbled just a tad over my words.  Eventually, the great ship of state was righted, the rudder was realigned, and we all sailed off as happy as the little analyst clams we are.  (If clams sailed.  Or, for that matter, had analytical capabilities.  …Leave that aside for now.)  Still, I was left with a lingering “Oh the hell with this” hangover accompanied by flashbacks of cotton-mouthed, inarticulate gooberism.  So, what’s a girl to do?  Have a drink, take a shower, go to sleep, and in the morning, ask my equally mumbly friend Clark Terry if he’d accompany me to work.  Lick ’em tomorrow, right?  Right.  Tuesday, à l’attaque!