Someone needs a makeover

My newspaper did not arrive today. My disappointment knew no bounds. *** Don't you hate it when you think you're looking pretty stylin' and then you look down and, hello!, cookie crumbs on your boobs. Smooth. Although my smidgeon of cookie crumb is nothing compared to one of my old supervisors. The woman was a wreck. Completely brilliant, but lacking in the social graces. Hell, grace in general had given her a pass. She had like a zillion cats, and she brought them with her to work in spirit through the pounds of cat hair that sloughed off of her during the day. I mean, she'd be helping me on a project and I'd be coated by the time she left my cube. At least cat hair was better than, say, ketchup, or various other condiments or offal that ended up on her blouse. Which, really, we can't call a blouse because sweats are not blouses. And she wore sweats every dangdiddly day! Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of sweats. Come by my house anytime after 6 or on the weekends, and that's what I'm wearing. (The horror!!! Don't tell my grandmother. Please? And don't just come by. I've already talked about how I have to spray air freshener and frantically clean when you do, K?) But for work? And I'm sorry, but I just can't get into the problem with her glasses. It's just too... disturbing. No, really. I can't be budged on this. It's atrocious. Oh, ok! I can't resist. Her glasses were perpetually smudged and they were those enormous face-swallowing glasses. There, I said it. Now I have to go huddle in a corner and moan.