Just call me... what you will.

Just call me the office cow.
Miraculously, sitting in a cubicle all day has increased my metabolism significantly, to the point that I am constantly scavenging the kitchen for free-for-all food. Yesterday, for instance, when the fashion interns caused a stampede toward the freebie table for their closet rejects, I was busy picking at left-over sandwiches and cake from our editor in chief's birthday party. Hmm. Somehow that image makes me resemble the bag lady I saw picking through Broadway's trash at 2 a.m.

Speaking of street sightings, I am almost positive I saw Luke Wilson on the way to work this morning. Although I wasn't wearing my glasses, I could tell he was wearing his, sunglasses actually, paired nicely with a green and white track suit. In his hand was a cup of coffee, no doubt Starbucks since there is a franchise on every corner (also green and white). My eyes could have been deceiving me, or maybe I just had Legally Blonde on the brain (I'm still trying to get cheap tickets to the musical), but I'm going to believe it was he. Here's a pic of him in a different track suit, so it's not too hard to believe:



Finally 6 p.m. clicked over and the Hearst girls and I headed for the Hudson to a welcome party for all unpaid employees magazines like to call interns. I know I wasn't hallucinating, but I'm pretty sure I saw Rob Schneider pass me within a two inch radius, right on the corner of 58th and 8th next to that falafel stand I've been eying hungrily. The guy I saw looked just like this, wearing a hat and everything:


All of this was probably caused by left-over delirium from Monday morning. I'm trying to take advantage of all the training the company gives us and go to all the meet-and-greet lunches with the Hearst execs, so last week when Julie sent me an invite to an intern breakfast hosted by "two higher ups," of course I RSVP'd "yes!" The only problem was, come Sunday night, I couldn't remember which morning this week it would take place. "It's Monday the 16th; I know it," I told myself while setting my alarm for 7:30. "I distinctly recall seeing a 1 and a 6 on my calendar. The 16th." So when I showed up all alone to the office Monday morning, it was a surprise to see not the 16th, but the NINETEENTH typed into Thursday's itinerary. Whoops. Apparently you should just call me dyslexic.