I hope puppy heaven is as fun as growing up Tasman

Aside from last weekend being incredibly fun, it incredibly sucked.

I already said one long distance goodbye (to DadGirl, my precious baby car). A subsequent second long distance goodbye seemed far from likely, and Sunday brunch with my favorite of NYC friends, seemed far from a tearful morning.

But mid Eggs Benedict, daddy called with the bad news. My precious baby puppy, Spunky, who at 13 (or something) is actually not much of a puppy, had to be put to sleep. I’m so unbelievably and incredibly upset/pissed/sad/mad/regretful, and all I want to do is back track one week and go freaking home.

My sister’s best friend got married this past weekend too. In the weeks coming, I debated going home, but ultimately picked the city over the wedding, and unbeknownst, the passing of my puppy. I’m a fucking moron, and I hate to curse, but I’m a fucking moron- and I’m kicking myself for it. Anyways, this isn’t about me, or the physical self-abuse I plan to conduct.

It’s about my sweetheart of a pup. Nothing bothered Spunky, nothing brought her spirits down, and nothing kept her tongue in her mouth (mind out of the gutter). She’d be kissing me to no end right now if she knew my tears. Spunk was never quite potty trained (oh a Tasman trend…), was always fatter and bigger than her older sister (another Tasman trend), and her big brown eyes always spoke of some of kind of trouble (course, a third Tasman trend).

GOD, I love that thing and wish more than anything anything anything, that I could have given her a last kiss bigger than any kiss she’d ever given me.

Well, tears are no friend in trying to write, and I fear I’ll get electrocuted by my computer if I continue, so I’ll quit while I’m ahead.

To my darling, huge-hearted, over loving, beloved puppy- I love you :)

Sweet dreams, Spunky baby.

Hey Guys, long time no talk. Hope all is well.

This whole blog is honestly, and unfortunately, becoming a chore. But we knew that day would come, when New York would suck the life out of me and drain every free minute to be had- for good or bad.

I’ve found time to write because the kids I babysit are one with the sand man, and I’m couch-lounged in my favorite Upper East Side dwelling. In a twisted, hopeful way, I could somewhat, sort of say I’m getting paid to write right now? Dream fulfilled!

Not quite.

So, I rarely take the Subway these days. Mostly because (which is big news as of recent) I got me off Lauren’s couch, and into me own (amazingly located) apartment (details below) (sorry for all the parenthesis). I do, however, take the train to babysit, so clearly, I’ve recently been aboard train. And this evening, I came to SUCH a conclusion aboard said train. I am so completely beyond the fascination of New York’s underground traffic. I used to be the girl pursuing eye contact, exchanging smiles, admiring fashion (or lack thereof)—basically eagerly seeking interaction. Now, I’m head down with a different mantra: “Bother me and I’ll stab you.”

Okay, I haven’t turned entirely that bitter. Yet.

In fact, what I am far from bitter about-so, ecstatic would be the word- is the new ‘hood and the new apartment. Wahoo, I am now a proud resident of the West Village. Neighbors include Hayley (my gf from college!) a few work friends and Sarah Jessica Parker, who I saw the other day walking her little one to school. I got slightly excited when I thought paparazzi were chasing me down, but when I realized the excitement was over a slightly more famous Manhattan babe, I got slightly pissed. Thanks for the overshadow SJP.

It’s such a great neighborhood, the West Village, and such a great apartment, the one in which I reside. It’s a three-bedroom. I found it on Craigslist. My roommates are sisters- from Florida, totally cool girls. There is exposed brick, a dishwasher (NYC scarcity), and high ceilings. It’s near the Hudson River, surrounded by sexy men (though a good majority crush on sexy men, too) and there is a cat, included in price. I’m not usually a cat person, in fact, I usually hate/despise cats, but Tiger is a character, and we’ve grown into a very loving love/hate relationship.

Last weekend, I painted an accent wall purple. Painting is one of those things that sounds super fun and all the things leading up to it are super exciting, but the actual act of painting- super sucks. It’s like shaving your legs. You beg and beg (and beg) your mom to let you shave and there is so much build-up around your legs looking as sexy as 12 year old chicken legs could look, but the minute you start, you regret the idea immediately. It’s tedious, and annoying, and hard to make perfect, and I’m about to hire someone to do my second coat… and do my legs while they’re at it.

More to rant and rave: A good number of my friends have been by to check out the apartment, and I get the same reaction, “Wow, your room is huge.” Before your mind gets lost in the room’s enormity, this is all relatively speaking. My guestimated ratio is: 3 Manhattan bedrooms, to every 1 non-Manhattan bedroom. My room is literally a third the size of the room I grew up in--no walk-in closet, no room for at-home yoga, or pre-run stretch—and still, it’s impressing by the dozen.

These are the taxing tolls of life in the big city. Teeny, tiny “huge” rooms, few and far between “free” minutes, blood-stricken train rides (if you piss me off) and the Sarah Jessica Parkers of the world, raining on your fame parade.

But, with all that being said, I still say “I love New York,” and leave you with an open invitation to visit. Come one, come all, bring your paint brush, and/or your razor.