God, I didn't know you had this problem with, with yelling in my face.

I'm very pleased to see that my fallback retort for any conversation, "I will cut you bitch!" is spreading like wildfire. Not only does my Argentinian co-worker spew it whenever his computer gives him attitude, but one of my boss' best friends has used it not only to sign a card, but to send me well wishes too!

Just this afternoon I received the most delightful e-mail directing me to Career Builder's website where you can send "Monk-e-mails" to all your friends, or enemies, or frenemies for that matter. The site allows you to select your monkey, his accoutrements, AND dictate what he should say.



But, by far the best part of my day was the convo that followed such a magnificent gift:

me: "You know just what to say to a lady to make her feel special! But who you callin’ “bitch” bitch?"

her: "watch yourself going around dark corners at night...sharp, very sharp, objects lurk about...click click-click...and don't look into any mirrors you never know who's standing behind you...click click-click"

me: "I know where you live..."

ah...good times, and to think, it's so easy a monkey can do it!

This is Tommy. He tells people he's named after a gun, but I know he's named after a famous 19th century ballet dancer.

I saw a very good looking gentleman on the bus this morning. Actually, I was the one on the bus and he was on the street. We were stopped at a light and I was reading about some weekly pub quiz advertised in the window of a bar-which made me think of the Office, which made me giggle-when he walked into my life. He bared a striking resemblence to Jason Statham but with more hair, and he was definately from the UK based on attire, strut and mobile phone. I asked myself "could this be love?" then watched in horror as he blew a huge snot rocket in the middle of the sidewalk at 10am.

I think not.

le sigh...

Why is the cork on the fork?

When you have a beer at lunch because no other beverage partners quite as nicely with your lamb curry and nan, you start to feel the mid-afternoon slump a little harder. Fortunately there's San Pellegrino Limonata and 30 Second bunny theater.

angryalien

Of course I'm doing real work too. Of course...

And you wouldn't be so brave if you'd ever smelled the Bog of Eternal Stench.

Dear Co-Worker,

When dropping a deuce in the office toilet, one so foul it's as if you've made a pact with the Devil-for God knows what-and he's carrying out his well hatched battle plan to slaugther everyone's olfactory epithelium's (not gonna lie, totally had to look that up), then please, please, PLEASE have the courtesy to not only use the ginormous can of air freshener purchased for just such an occasion, but it might be wise to leave the door ajar in order to air it out a bit.

Thank you kindly,

One of three employees who had to hold their breath while peeing.

Oh, I love her. What a perfectly beautiful little lady.

watch it. over and over and over again. because it's adorable, NAY, unimaginably cute and it gets me every time. we're talking major schoolgirl giggling here.

one keen observer...well observes: "mom almost smushes baby with fear and shock..."

Well I haven't exactly been the monk of the month or anything like that but I have been making an effort.

The latest RADAR magazine fell on my desk yesterday, the feature story being "Toxic Bachelors" with the head of Colin Farrell photoshopped onto some guy lying in bed with a nekkid woman. No surprise there, but what is positively scandolous in my opinion is not that they show Flavio Briatore in bikini bottoms so tiny they barely fit a nut, let alone both butt cheeks, but that Charlie Rose is listed as one of the 20 or so Toxic Bachelors. What?!?!?!?!?!?! You mean the smooth voiced, well dressed, highly intelligent host of The Charlie Rose Show who so eloquently said "The question is just as important as the answer," is really just "a straight-up horndog" according to a longtime friend quoted in the article? RADAR also assigned icons to give you a quick rundown of these bachelors warning signs. Good ol' Chuck gets dentures in a glass to signify that he's an old timer and handcuffs because he's apparently kinky.

I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

And in case you were wondering, or if it ever pops up as a question on Jeopardy, the mag also points out Rose had his mitral valve replaced with a swine's. So I guess he really is a pig.

I feel awfully happy... in a sort of sad way.

It was a bright day, a tad nippy, but the sun was shining and all seemed right in the world. I wore my pageboy cap because the morning chill of a fast approaching storm made the simple task of washing my hair seem too unimaginable.

My boss was set to attend the symphony gala that evening with the executive publisher, Margie (don't let the cutesie name fool you, she conducted my third in person interview and was hands down the most intimidating interviewer I've ever come across). I was dispatched to Neiman Marcus to pick up the dress my employer purchased earlier in the day and was having steamed in preparation for the night's events.

It was nearing the end of the day, 5-ish to be exact, and I was anticipating the crisp taste of an ice cold Heineken and shitty tv. Neiman's is just around the corner from my office and I decided to cut in through the cafe door rather than walk around the block to where the main entrance is. In between the cafe's tables and bustling display counters sits about 10 or so marble steps that lead up to the main floor of the department store. I had just about reached the top step when I saw Margie rounding the corner. She smiles at me and asks, in a very friendly fashion, what I'm doing there. I tell her I'm picking up the lady's ensemble and she jokes "she's not ready yet? We're supposed to leave at 5:30!" We half laugh, say "I'll see you later" and begin to go our separate ways.

Little did we know we would soon be heading in the same direction. Either the heel of her shoe became entangled in the hem of her pant leg, or her ankle momentarily gave out, only God knows for sure, but what is certain is that we were about to be forever bonded in this thing called "life." As her body started to shift too far forward a look of panic and confusion washed over her face. A look that I interpreted as "I will be fired on the spot if I cannot save the CEO from impending doom." I braced myself by grabbing a tight hold of the bannister and reached my other hand out in a desperate bid to catch the falling powerhouse, but there simply wasn't enough time to take a solid stance with the four inch wedges I foolishly selected to accessorize my outfit.

The sheer force of her propulsion ripped me right out of my failed stronghold...what followed next was a blur of white, partnered with a snowball effect of asses over elbows culminating in a hard collision wih the marble base of the treacherous staircase. The patrons dining around us gasped in unison and a waiter rushed Margie to get a status report on her condition. Margie was still holding onto my left hand and immediately looked at me and began apologizing profusely for taking me down with her. I told her she was being ridiculous.

After a moment to collect my thoughts and make sure I didn't dislocate anything, I picked up the blackberry I sent on a flight mission (that thing has hit hard ground from great heights so many times, I almost want to pull an Uncle Buck with the porcelain plate and see if it's truly indestructible), pulled up the lascivous blouse that had migrated to below bra level, and helped Margie back to her feet. We exchanged a few more "are you okay?, I'm fine, but are you sure you're okay's" and went on our merry ways. I successfully made it up the stairs in one piece, grabbed the item I was assigned to collect but opted to depart the store from another angle so as not to come face to face with the 15 or so patrons and employees who caught the late afternoon show...

Other than a mean bruise on my forearm right below my elbow which I keep leaning on by accident, an invisible one on my derriere, a decent sized one on the front of one thigh, and rug burn type thingy on my shin, oh and the fractured ego, I'm in pretty good shape. I think I might have a fall back career (pun intended) as a stunt woman.

And that is why that day shall forever be remembered as the day the executive publisher and the personal assistant were brought down to the same level, and helped each other get back up.

Cue the golf claps...