Perpetuating stereotypes for snarking is too easy. It's lazy, if you think about it. I told myself I wouldn't light upon the "hungry models" and "they served low-fat air at this party" and "scent of weight management" joke -- but Friday's party made it impossible since the lovely Moves magazine hosts must have thought we were all trying to fit into that size 00, thus saving guests the pain of turning down party food by simply not providing any. Or, maybe it was a clever tie in to their support of the Food Bank's "Hunger Awareness" campaign.

Leading up to last night's event I lathered myself up into a stomach-curdled, head-exploding, cesspool of anxiety. Why? Because I don't usually do fashion events -- 90% because that's not really the theme of this column (although really, it's pretty flex these days), 10% because the fashion crowd intimidates me (I have no style and I can't walk in stilettos). This year I thought "Cripes! I could be dead tomorrow and I've never taken advantage of these Fashion Week-themed invitations, what if I regret it wherever it is I land in the afterlife?" Yes, I have these conversations in my …

Oh, Labor Day, I waited so long for you and now you are gone. So many things happened before Labor Day, launching everyone (at least evetryone I follow on Twitter and am friends with on Facebook) into an Earl-induced tizzy before heading off to something resembling rehab, or even sticking around for a little homebound happiness (I refuse to use that word that rhymes with vacation, but employs the antonym of go). I don't know about you, but I needed the run-around respite, and now I am back, excited to tumble face-first into autumn.

Town & Country magazine reminds me of my early childhood in Mentor, Ohio, where my family lived in a perfect new house, in a perfect cul de sac with perfect neighbors with perfect children. Softball games, block parties, running for cover under shrubbery at the bus stop when flocks of Canadian geese flew over - bombing us with whatever they ate earlier. The works. Comfortable living. Of course, then my parents got the perfect divorce and I ditched Town & Country living for Sheep Fancy. It looks like Town & Country is still aiming for the crop and polo crowd, …

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.