Piles of magazines, check.  Vogue (and Vanity Fair, O, Glamour, Elle, Real Simple, Wired, Details, New York, Newsweek, among others like, yep, my employers - Star and Time Out New York).  I did have a sub to The New Yorker (it was a gift), but it made me irritable every time I looked at it.  As for Lucky, hell no.  Even I have standards.

Shoe rack, check.  Several of them, at least one overflowing.  Nothing in the fridge - check.  (Well, technically, it contains frozen spinach.  And a Brita pitcher.  And 5 month old "beer for guests" because I don't really drink, and when I do, I definitely don't drink beer.)

Check, check, check, check.  Every room.

Oops, not so much here.  I definitely have heaps of makeup - safely stored out of sight.  But this falls under the I'm-Scarily-and-Abnormally-Anal-Retentive clause, so ...

Check.  A teddy bear, of course.  Always.

This would be a resounding check, except that I'm allergic, alas.  But I have a small white fluffy dog which at times people mistake for a cat.  Does that count?  I think I may get double points because I dress her up and take movies of her.

Well, actually - nope.  I like things to MATCH, so all of my glasses are clear, except for one free Georgetown Alumni glass, which always annoys me, but I can't get rid of it, because then I would have an odd number of glasses.  Hmm.  Now that I put it into writing, that sounds a little crazy.  It's just ... they're all lined up nicely on the shelves in even numbers - which makes me happy.  Yeah, yeah, I know, I have issues.

Uh, CHECK times 50.  Times 500!  Times ... right ... you get the idea.  Look, to say I have a serious pink fetish is to say that perhaps Lindsay Lohan has a problem with substance abuse.  The pink fetish went dormant for the past two years (a result of having to live with a boyfriend, and after our subsequent breakup not having the cash to redo my place), but when I move to my next apartment, Bobby Trendy, watch out.

Of course.  I own four of them.  Were pillows supposed to have another purpose?

The looks I've gotten from guys after perusing my bookshelves have ranged from horror to disgust to naked fear.  Four words: HAZARD. OF. THE. JOB.  In my defense, these ... uh ... literary works are sent to me unsolicited and FOR FREE.  Still.  Currently sitting on my desk in a giant pink & purple, about-to-topple-from-the-weight-of-desperation stack: "The Rules," "The Rules II," "Having an Affair?" "How to Understand Women through Their Cats," "If You Want Closure in Your Relationship, Start with Your Legs," "It's a Breakup, Not a Breakdown," "The MANual," "You Can't Have Him - He's Mine," "I Can't Believe I'm Still Single," "How to Marry a Multi-Millionaire," "Faking It," "Get Serious About Getting Married," "The Art of Seduction," "Sperm are from Men, Eggs are from Women."  The last one's actually pretty good.

Ha!  No.  Having shelled out big bucks (WORTH IT) for laser hair removal, I am now the proud owner of a more or less hairless body. 

There's a beet/carrot juice from Liquiteria in my fridge right now because I'm too lazy to use my juicer.  That definitely counts.

How about boxes and boxes of green tea bags?  I won't put Diet Coke - or any soft drink - into my body, nor that Weight Watcher's crap.  I'll do cookie crack, but not that shit.  I don't really drink anything but water and my beet-carrot juices.

I have a magnet that says "It's not who you marry that matters.  It's who you divorce."  It makes me smile every time I walk by it.