New York is a fickle mistress. Sometimes you have one of those magical weeks where the city is a glittering wonderland of fun and excitement and success.

And then you have a week like I’ve had. First there was the Starbucks poop incident. Then today, I was coming home after a long workout, starving and dripping with sweat, just wanting the cool comfort of my apartment.

I walk up to my building door and my super stops me.

“Just FYI, you’re gonna smell something weird in the elevator…”

“Did you spill some bleach or something?”

“No,” he said casually, “a guy on the floor below you died.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Yes, the smell that he was referring to…was DEATH. THE SMELL OF A DEAD BODY. Apparently an old man fell out of bed and died and ok, I know, him being dead > me being grossed out, but this just really isn’t what I needed.

I’m need to get the hell out of here.

Just about every day, I go to the Starbucks on 36th and Madison and work on my new book. They’ve come to know me there, which is half comforting, half embarassingly pathetic. Well today I went in, tired from an hour on the elliptical and looking forward to my half-caf, iced skinny vanilla latte with soy milk (somehow, I’ve become one of those people who order ridiculously complex drinks).

“Oh goody,” I thought to myself as I opened the door, “it’s not crowded at all!”

Well there was a reason why. A very good reason. The floor was littered with poop. POOP.

It was obvious that several people had stepped in it and smeared it, because it was all over the goddamn place.

“What the hell happened in here?!” I hollered from the door way, as though I’d walked through my own front door and found feces all over the place.

“Some lady went to the bathroom on herself,” a girl said.

Now wait a minute. First of all, say that was true…how did “it” get outside her pants? I mean…right? You can’t just freestyle this kind of thing. This was planned. This was fecal terrorism.

I’m well versed in fecal terrorism thanks to my cocker spaniel. Garbo realized early on that poop was her only weapon against our tryanny and would express her displeasure at not being allowed on the couch, or me ignorning her for a new Barbie by pooping on my beanbag chair (what a wonderful surprise!) or in the kitchen where mama made her coffee.

Even more disturbing, no one at Starbucks seemed too concerned about cleaning it up. No signs, no paper towels over it, nothin. They’re making food there for god sakes!

Shit like this never happens in Irvine. And I mean that literally…shit all over a coffee house never happens in Orange County. It just doesn’t.

So today People mag ran an article online about the next Twilight installment, Breaking Dawn, which I haven’t read yet. And I guess I never effing will because they totally ruined a MAJOR plot detail.

FIVE YEARS, YOU BASTARDS! That’s how long I’ve been waiting to find out what happens and you spoiled it!

Defeated, I went to Wikipedia and read every detail about how the saga ends and…um…seriously? Are you serious Stephanie Meyer? Did you just totally abandon reason and logic for the fourth book? Ug. You, my lady, are no J.K. Rowling.

So my darling friends, this Manhattaversary is dedicated to you!! And now, for a photographic tour through the last five years. You’re welcome/I’m sorry.

When I worked for FHM magazine, I used to scour MySpace (where good taste goes to die) looking for our newest amateur models. I would laugh, cry and shudder at how many donkey faced skanks girls claim they’re models when CLEARLY they are not.

And now at last, at long long long donkey faced last, someone has made a video documenting this phenomenon. Please please watch it. You shant be sorry. But the girls in it might.

So the other weekend Nikki and I went out to the Hamptons for the Phoenix house event and stayed with her family friend, Donny Deustch. He’s that super smart guy who had that show on CNBC “The Big Idea With Donny Deutsch.” He’s also a hot older man. What do they call those? Cougars? No, that’s for women/me.

What’s the term for an older guy who likes to date younger women? Oh right “a man.” Shame that I’m only into 22-year-old athletes and teenage ferry drivers on Martha’s Vineyard (not that that happened Mr. District Attorney) (why don’t you prove it if you’re so smart) because I think I’d make a great future ex Mrs. Deutsch. Aren’t we cute together? Whatever, just pretend:

And oh look, Guest of a Guest wrote about the blog I did on why it’s better to be sick in the Hamtpons with a staff versus being healthy in my Manhattan shoebox, sans handmaidens.

Against my better judgement, I finally came back to NY after a wonderfully sunny, honey weekend in Martha’s Vineyard. My fabulous friend Grier (a former Ice Girl for the Boston Bruins) was born in Chappaquiddick so every 4th of July we go out there and hit on guys in Nantucket Reds and eat lobster rolls and sail. And drink. And make out with the 19-yr-old ferry captain. And then run into him the next day at the Chappy beach club. And then get awkward and try to burrow into the sand to avoid him.

Anyway. Here are pics from our all-American weekend. What’d you guys do?? Tell tell tell! And yes, the story I alluded to in my Vineyard blog is comin’….just you wait!

Last night Nikki and I hit up the premiere of The Last Airbender, which I was really stoked to see.

Ya know, I interviewed M Night Shayamalan a few years ago and he’s one of the coolest, sharpest, most intelligent celebrities I’ve encountered…and yet he keeps making movies that I wouldn’t show to a room full of death row inmates as punishment.

WTF was this movie about?! The action was good and visually, it was awesome. But the script was unbearable, as was the acting. Basically, you should see it when you’re high.

What’s worse, Paramount did an absolutely dreadful job of running the red carpet and, long story short, I cried. Yes, as in tear. Like a dorky weepy fussy baby. Idk, I’ve just been feeling really overwhelmed and stressed out lately, and a crap movie and a retarded publicist was the last thing I needed. At least they gave out Twizzlers.

But the evening wasn’t a total wash; Nikki’s hair looked super amazing, cheggit:

We ened up walking out of the movie half way through and getting drinks at Stone Rose next door. Evening = saved.

I used to think that Martha’s Vineyard was owned by Martha Stewart. As in, like, 2 years ago I thought that. Check out my weekend plans and why the Vineyard fascinates me so much.

Vineyard! from Shallon Lester on Vimeo.

You. Are. WELCOME.