I have this rule for myself to keep sane, or at least to maintain a consistent level of manageable insanity. And that rule is: the weekends are my own. This probably seems logical to those of you that don't party every night for your jobs, which is what I do. I should have put job in quotes there, since what I do doesn't suck. Sometimes you have to break the rules though because when NYC exposes itself to you, it would be rude not to take a little peek.

Last night, I covered an adult party.

What's your morning routine? Does it involve a quick nude 5K? Perhaps a singing-into-the-toothbrush karaoke competition with your reflection? Or do you roll out of bed angry, hair frizzled, clumsily grabbing blindly for the coffee machine, eye crusties flinging wildly as you fight the morning? Are you a walker, a driver, a strap-hanger? Or do you get to wait, as many people I know have, for the LIRR, wondering if maybe, just maybe, today is the day they forgot to send the train out? Well guess what, Long Island, now you have something to read while you wait.

After a bunch of weeks to melt your brain here in NYC, we're currently being soaked by back-to-school-style fall weather, but I like it. Due to the MediaPost office move, my current office looks out into the courtyard that separates the backs of East Village buildings and I've been enjoying the sound of the wind that precludes the rain and then the rain falling to the ground. The brick I'm staring at is wet and maroon and the smell is wonderful. For now, New York smells clean. While the office move has relocated where I perch my tush, it hasn't …

Rarely do I find myself at one of the many white open art galleries in Chelsea. It's not for lack of interest. Maybe it's for overflow of apathy -- and overall intimidation? See, I'm not one of those people who folds my fist up under my chin, cocks my head, squints, and asks, "but how does it make me feel??" I'm more of the type that titters at a canvas covered in butts. Not because I disrespect art, but because I think butts are funny. Well, guess what? Last week, I went to an event that has rendered the above …

If Sterling Cooper Duckman (or whatever the name of the agency is now, I stopped watching out of pure boredom) put five recent grads in a paid-for apartment for six months, it would no doubt be a revolving door of the infamous "tackle and check the panties" game. MRM chose five of the best advergrads from the best adverschools to live together, work together, and compete for one "real" position in their six-month program "The Apartment." Rumors of dual lives, rampant marital infidelity, and irrigation of the pants can not be confirmed.

Because I couldn't make it to the Janelle Monae show, I thought, "why not give Just An Online Minute readers the opportunity to live it up and write it up?" Noelle Cleary of ScanScout was instantly receptive and was a cool cucumber fielding questions and last minute switcheroos. Big fat musical thank-yous for giving readers the opportunity to party and listen in on some new and very buzz-heavy music. After reading these summaries, I was cranky that I missed it...

Living in a metro area makes it difficult to disconnect, slow down, and relax. This weekend I finally felt that true relaxation - where the only sounds are the weeping willow leaves tickling the salt-tinged pale lavender air and the only blather is coming from the end of the dock as the neighborhood swans belly up for their bread fix. And the only mouth noises come from the bluefish as they smack their fish lips against the hook lodged in their gums.

I wrestled with publishing this because, if you check the #marthablogger hashtag stream on Twitter, it would appear that I am the only one who didn't fall all over myself with glee about the event. Maybe because I wasn't hoping for Martha fame or hard selling myself as the next amazing new hire, or maybe because my soul is the color of poisonous mold and I hate pink things and sweet treats. Or maybe I just feel like I'd be a false jerk if I wasn't honest with you about my experiences out and about. So here it is.

Did last night really happen? Was I sipping on fermented grapes with people with monikers like "The Frisky," "IMattMyPants," Pegshot, NewTeeVee, and OMGBLOG.com while watching other people tweet!? And not just any "other" people, these tweeters were the wild women of Oxygen's Bad Girls Club past and present, some chilled by time, others hyped by Oxygen's dime. Wrapped in burning hair.