And how is YOUR week?

Sometime late last week, the Big Man Upstairs was a little bored and said, "You know what? I think I'm gonna have a little fun at M's expense."

You think I'm kidding? Let me backtrack a little here. I'm not exactly the most graceful person. Friends and family are smirking because they would say that's an understatement. My body is a map of scars, broken bones, and wierd angles thanks to a lifetime of slips, trips, and mishaps. I once broke my little toe by walking into a wall as I stepped away from a staircase. And because I needed to even things out, a year later I broke the one on my other foot taking a shower. Don't ask.

If you shaved my hair off right now, my head would not only look like a map of the United States from all the lines of scars on it, but the hills and valleys would be there too. This is thanks to the lumps and bumps I've acquired over the years.

Gorbachev has nothing on me

And don't think my propensity for bodily harm is limited to myself. Oh no. No one within a five foot radius of me is safe. Maybe even ten. After "I love you", C's most frequent sentence to me is "OW!" Which is why, as a kid, my parents had to really think things through before sending me out into the world. Not for my safety. Other people's.

My first day of fifth grade

So why do I bring this up now? Because if you sum it up, in the past week:

1) I've singed the tip of my eyelashes trying to light a match on Saturday night, thanks to an errant spark that decided to bounce back into my eye.

2) A friend's Rottweiler peed on my leg yesterday. And when a Rottweiler decides to pee on your leg, You Let Them.

3) I fell asleep waiting to empaneled during jury duty today, only to wake up to a roomful of eyes staring at me. That would be because the court officer, instead of tapping me on the arm, decide to make an announcement on the PA about not falling asleep during jury duty.

4) Oh yeah, because having one bad eye isn't enough, I nearly took my eye out with a baster while making chicken. For absolutely no other reason other than that I'm a complete and hopeless spaz.

C is in the Bahamas today for work right now, the same Bahamas that has a date with Hurricane Ernesto coming. But make no mistake: he's a hell of a lot safer there than he would be with me right now.

3 am revelation

Zach Braff and Butthead - from the same gene pool.

Some weird headlines today

The day's only just begun and there's some wierd headlines turning up today. I'll update if the fun keeps up...

From Yahoo: Kangaroos given contraceptive pills to curb population in Australia - Making the phrase "shtupping like bunnies" so yesterday.

Brits Kick 'Toon Butts Off Tube - A british kiddie network announces plans to stop glamourizing tobacco by banning any episode of a Hanna Barbera cartoon depicting their characters with a cigarette. Said cartoons include Tom & Jerry and Scooby Doo.

(Raising hand) Um, hello? Kids today are getting off easy with the cigarettes. Are we not ignoring the obvious here? Did anyone think to protect my generation from the legacies of Shaggy and the Scooby Snacks? Nyuh-oooooo.

Seriously - what were in those Scooby Snacks???

Industry groups announce smoking ban is hurting Scotland's pubs. Excuse me, they pay people to figure this out? How about this - I predict the outcome of the next country that has a smoking ban for free. No, really!

From 1010wins.com: Today's college freshmen say "Google" was always a verb and have only known two presidents in their lives. With this, I mourn the loss of my youth by playing a Rick Springfield LP, while wearing my Benetton rugby shirt and Wig-Wam socks.

Psycho Killer Racoons Terrorize Olympia Oh yeah? Twenty bucks says our New York City roaches can take on your Psycho Racoons any day, any time!

More from Yahoo: Paris Hilton says her new album makes her cry What about making her ears bleed? Does it do that too?

New York’s oldest bartender still serving at 90 Aw, bless him.

She who has the most bags, wins!

I have seen into the eyes of evil. And it happened at the Prada sample sale.

The words "sample" and "sale" together in the same sentence will cause most grown women (and some men) to be reduced into snarling, red-eyed beasts. The pupils dilate and the hands take on a claw-like manner, ready to scoop out the heart of anyone who dares even look in their direction. Die-hard devotees show up with their battle plans, wearing unitards so they can save time by not having to run to the dressing room. ”Gotta limber up for that sample sale!”

But since sample sales have become a dime-a-dozen in New York City, the allure and appeal have faded away over the years (for me, anyway) into a understanding that the words "sample sale" do not preclude exclusivity. Not when there's websites and a weekly column in the New York Post devoted to publicizing them.

In most cases, you must be prepared to accept whatever is at hand, as the goods are probably something you never even considered owning until you walked in. And that's after the best bits have already been picked over by fashion editors during the private portion of the sale. But this is where the grade school math kicks in and in assessing the chasm between retail cost and sample sale price, Budget Amnesia kicks in. As a result, my past (and unfortunate) acquisitions have included:

- Wedge sandals in yellow. Not gold. Yellow. Let's not even discuss that they were also crushed velvet.

- A shirt that said "Socialite" in rhinestones. The irony was lost within the first minute I wore it.

- Gucci sandals. Absolutely nothing wrong with that but as much as I tried, I couldn't convince my feet to shrink two sizes smaller.

Let's not even discuss the humiliation of having to try on an item in the open plan dressing room. Although if you've got a dressing room at a sample sale, then you're lucky. It just makes the whole operation seem more like Loehman's without The Back Room. I'm sorry, but standing in the back of some overheated loft, watching sweaty, half-naked women (men: it's not like you think) pick over the same designer skirt, from a pile of clothes on the floor that have been trampled on countless times...remind me just why I'm here again?

So I stopped doing the sample sales, convincing myself that unless I camped out in front of the site eight hours prior to opening, there was nothing worth scoring. And I love my sleep way too much to be doing that.

There's only two exceptions I'll make: Showroom Seven's sale, because they have awesome stuff, and the Prada sample sale, because it's invite only. And I get invited because one of my oldest friends works there and can get me in there the first minute after the press gets their pickings. And today was that day.

So many people who attend the sale dress up for this sale, like it's a coming out party. It's as if they don't really need this sale, but they're going to dress up to the nines and then sneer at everyone else for shopping discount. Well, I don't buy it. They're all mutton dressed as lamb. I saw Helen Lee Schifter roaming around in search of bargains, her eyes homing in on the clothing racks like heat-seeking missiles. This tiny, much-photographed woman could easily take on the entire Jets defense as long as you dangle discount Prada before her. Next time you see her sporting a designer ballgown in the pages of Vogue, just know she took someone's eye out for that dress.

As for my mom and I, we made off with a few bags, relieved that we were there early enough to snag something that wasn't tasselled to death, overtly floral, or so in the moment, by the time I walk out the door it's passe. I'm just not an "in-the-moment" (air quotes! air quotes!) kind of girl. And all this was accomplished without too much bodily harm. Although I can tell you that when they're the scary-skinny kind, those elbows are like pincers.

Having joined us, C had surveyed the fray and deduced - mistakenly - that the feral shoppers, the sweat on delicate foreheads, and the women dropping trou in public to try something on immediately, he assumed that all this was indicative of the Prada-obsessed. But no, darling, this is a sample sale we're talking about. It's a jungle out there and only the most fashionable survive.

Motivation: It's not just Tony Robbins

As I now work in corporate events, I get calls from sales reps who want us to book their clients to speak at our events. These are mostly comprised of motivational speakers, emcees, and marketing "gurus" (if you're such a marketing guru, why do you have a sales rep doing it for you?).

This is not exactly what we do, but nevertheless the links to the marketing literature and bios I receive make it. All. Worth. It. Here, I pay homage to the God of Bad Decisions. In case you're wondering, they are all real.

Would you choose this guy with the "right back at ya" pose?

Or maybe the guy who looks like the head waiter at your sister's bat mitzvah?

And then there's Tim Dagget, who's been a motivational speaker since winning his Gold Medal in 1984. He's so motivated, he hasn't updated his photo since:

Somebody in Market Research needs to exercise a little more discretion with their findings:

This one's one of my favorites. I have it framed on my desk already:

"I'mma motivate you! Or else!"

Deepak Chopra, watch out for his bad ass:

And he's motivating you like it's a root canal...

Then there's this throwback:

"You gotta motivate and sigh-hignnnn that Declaration of Independence!!!"

Winners, they're all winners.

ETA 2/11/07 - If you're reading this because you're one of those nuts who ab-so-LUTE-ly lurves John Paul Warren, read this post and kiss my a-haaaaaassssss!

Futons, schmutons

The futon. Let's discuss.

The futon is by no means a foundation upon which you sleep. What is it then? A modern day torture device. The secret to Berlitz’ success? The futon kept hidden away for the "difficult" cases. Photo posting issues with Blogger (sigh, again) prevent me from showing you what a futon looks like, if you don’t already know. But maybe it’s better that way.

The possession of many a college student, futons are the cheap alternative to sleeper sofas - they function as a couch and a convertible bed rolled into one. For adult homeowners, however, they are also a preventative measure to ensure that their guests don't become unwelcome ones. The futon is ideal for when you are taken with the idea of having guests sleep over, but don't foresee them parking themselves on your couch for ten days, littering your sofa with Doritos while your dog looks on, offended at losing their real estate. (Trust me, I know, which is the only reason I would even consider buying one).

Putting it shortly, if your host has a futon, don't get too comfortable. And if it's in a floral pattern, they hate you.

But the dislike goes both ways. If I'm staying over your place, you can welcome me in, serve me a mimosa, and make me feel right at home. But show me a futon and the back of me is out that door lickety-split, dialing up the nearest Econo-Lodge.

Cue Saturday night when I had no choice but to stay over a friend’s place in NJ, because after a night of merriment driving home would have been unwise. Therfore I didn't notice anything until the next morning, when I wondered who rammed a metal bar across my back in the middle of the night. Turns out no one did, just I had been sleeping on a futon. J, if you're reading this, I will be sending you the bill for my chiropractor.

Until Sealy or Serta decide to get in on the cushion action, the shadow of my ass will never darken another futon, not if I can help it! Because no matter how cute or convenient the futon appears to be, let's get real. It's not comfortable. Those mattresses fool you for the first half hour, but then you sink to the bottom and start shifting around, trying to restore blood flow to that particular region of your tusches.

I highly advocate a law requiring this: to purchase a futon, you must show ID or bank statements proving you are either under 21 or still paying off those student loans. Otherwise, futons should be sent to the hallowed depths of Furniture Hell, along with Lava Lamps and Pottery Barn.

I am so not feeling futons.

Big day today

Today, I touched a black Amex card for the first time. I'm too tired after a whole day of working an event and schmoozing with CEO-types on a golf course in Connecticut, who would have no clue that touching a black Amex card would be a significant moment in my sad, humble existence. But it was.

More importantly, C is safely esconced home as I type.

Now I can go to sleep.

I'm a logical and calm adult...I think

I'm just barely out the door this morning for work, when C gets a text from his fom his friend in the UK: "Did you see the news?"

Don't you just love messages like that? My mother's a pro when it comes to leaving vague and ambigious messages like that, implying gloom and doom. Then I'll call back in a panicked frenzy to find out she wanted to chat about Pam Anderson getting married to Kid Rock. Actually, that is pretty tragic.

Anyway, those kinds of messages? They're enough to give me a heart attack given the world condition these days. So sure enough, I zoom in with C onto the Internet and try to flick the TV on. He reads out loud the morning headlines about the terror threat to NY-London planes to me and then I am ready to have a heart attack. Because he's supposed to fly out to England tomorrow.

This is where my inner thirteen-year old self wants to hurl myself onto the ground and wrap myself around his ankles, begging and pleading for him not to get on that plane. Throw myself onto my bed and pummel my fists and feet into it, until he gives in.

But I can't. As he is an airline employee, I know it would be unprofessional for him to not at least attempt to get on his scheduled flight tomorrow, all because his wife can be so easily susceptible to media-induced hysteria. Even though said wife knows and has posted the philosophy that we're all probably safer now that it's plastered all over the news, than we were three days ago. But this is not just media-induced hysteria. And besides, I'm allowed to contradict myself - I'm a woman.

Seriously? Keep your fingers crossed not just for C, but for everybody these days.

Beam me up, Scotty...

Our gal Lindsay Lohan spars with her trainer in a string bikini. Which makes sense. I rollerblade in my cheerleading uniform from junior high. With the pompoms.

But no one told her the next hour is fencing.

Hey, hey, HEY!

I have a confession to make. Deep breath, exhale...okay...I am a Kelly Clarkson fan.

I know. I knowwwwww. You don't need to tell me. I don't understand it myself! That American Idol biotch just kind of snuck up on me when I wasn't paying attention and zapped me with her sunny smiles and happy, happy singing, no matter what she's singing about. And trust me, had I known it was her, I totally would have shut the damn radio off.

But I didn't. And now I'm sucked in like David Hasselhoff to the nearest happy hour. I can't stop listening to her album. This is embarassment on the "I'm a Celine Dion fan" scale. Which I'm not, by the way. And I find it very hard to accept a singer who - despite having beaten Gwen Stefani for a Grammy - is in the company of Ruben Studdard and Fantasia Barrino. And let's not go there about Clay Aiken, 'kay? That's like off the scale.

The poster boy for the latest MAC makeup campaign

This is all just as bad as liking the New Kids of the Block, and yes, I liked them too (ducking tomatoes). But that doesn't mean I can stop myself from listening to Ms. Clarkson's album, even though she's just so darn happy all the time. She could be singing about being in a car accident and she'll be positively thrilled about it. And I'm eating it up like Star Jones before her gastric bypass surgery.

Kelly Clarkson - Just about as rock 'n roll as Cindy Brady

Of grave concern to me is the desire to be like the people in Kelly's "Walk Away" video. In spite of her poor attempt at street cred, with the faux-hawk and awful Hammer pants (tucked into boots!!! hello fashion Babylon!!!), I love not only the song, but the video. I wanna be pointing my finger in the air like those people, bouncing around to the "Hey, hey, HEY!" part. Even those two guys with the bowl cuts like Shaggy from "Scooby Doo". I am them. They are me. I am so feeling that. If wanna-be Williamsburg hipsters can be jiving like that, then sign me right up!

Aspirational happiness in the form of a Kelly Clarkson video. I may have sunk very, very low in your eyes, but there's nothing you can do to stop me.

1st hangover diary at my new job - yay

9:12 AM I broke the seal. The "I'm going to behave for the first month of my new job, not go out, and not come in with a hangover the next morning" seal.

It was over 100 degrees out yesterday and I was thirsty. Can you blame me?

10:39 AM You know how if you stare at a word long enough, you question whether it's really a word anymore? You take it apart in pieces and start pronouncing it in different ways. Hence my befuddlement with words like "corrode", "dichotomy" and "befuddlement".

Be-fudd-leh-ment.

11:19 AM I think I should refrain from any form of speaking today. My co-workers keep looking at me like I'm speaking the language of the pygmies and it's making me a bit paranoid.

12:07 PM Random serious moment: I'm a little obsessed with the Mel Gibson story, especially now that he issued his "apology". I understand alcoholism is a disease, but I'm not as forgiving as some other Jews who are accepting that excuse. Andrea Peyser said it perfectly in her column which I was reading during my lunch break: "Mel can't hide his Anti-Semitism behind a bottle."

Serious moment over.

1:32 PM Tickets to Gnarls Barkley at Summerstage are mine. The feelings of elation that I snagged them, before the eBay vultures got to them, supersedes all previous feelings of dehydration, achiness, and complete blankness where my brain used to be. I am giddy, giddy I am. For the moment anyway.

2:45 PM Apparently, I called my mother last night? And of course, she doesn't want to tell me what we discussed.

Me: "Refresh my memory what we talked about?"

Mom: "You know what we talked about."

Me: "Not at this moment, I don't recall." (See, I told you I'm talking like a pygmy.)

Mom: "Just how happy was this happy hour?"

Me: "Gotta go. Love you, bye." (click)

5:05 PM That door is not hitting my ass on the way out of here, trust me.