This post is rated R.

Mom and Dad, that’s fair warning. You should probably go back to watering the cactus garden.

Fine, read what you will. So, Saturday was quite the night. Nia and I started out at a friend of a friend’s apartment-warming party on Wall Street. This apartment was all too debonair, and the wine and cheese was all too perfect a compliment. Nia and I spent the majority of the party attached to the cheese platter, and befriended those like-minded people who loitered round the hors d’oeuvres as well. Good people.

Coincidently (really it was a coincidence), we headed out as the cheese dwindled. Another friend of a friend that I’d met a few weeks back had tickets to an 80’s cover band at Canal Room.

Here’s why I love Nia: I was taller than the two boys we met there, and that’s always just plain awkward. So with no sigh or rolled eye, Nia traded her flats for my heels.

So, an hour in to the jumping and jamming, we had to give up. The energy level of the band, and these boys, was too much for our old souls. Winding through Soho to get back home, we ran into a distressed-looking guy, heavily concentrated on his Blackberry. Of course my curiosity (some call it nosiness) was peaked, so I asked him what was up with the face and the phone. Here comes the Rated R part, though it's still censored…

He says to us this: “A girl I know is in Mexico and she sent me a sexy text message asking me to send her a sexy picture of myself, what on earth do I do?”

(Bahaha) “Take a picture, bro”

“Really...well, uh... will you take one of me?” (as he sticks the phone in Nia's face).

“Uhhh… sure...smile…”

And just as Nia is about to snap, the kid rips his shirt off!!!

There we are, standing in the middle of a Soho street, with a half naked man asking us to take a picture of his half naked body to send to his… half naked girl.

And here it is.

One in the light...

Long story short, he’s a personal trainer with not many friends in the city (…couldn’t imagine why his friend-keeping capabilities are lacking). After the photo shoot, he was eager to grab a drink with us, but surprisingly, something had turned us off about him, so we continued on our way back to my apartment.

The kid was relentless. He kept walking with us as we headed north, pointing out potential bars for this undesired drink. Eventually I pretended as if my “boyfriend” was calling me, freaking out for me being out on a Saturday night. We thought the whole "big bad boyfriend" scheme would scare him, but instead, he says, “No one should treat a woman like that… let’s talk about it over a drink.”

Oy, kid. Come on.

Nia and I were pressed for escape options, so we decided to be mature women about the situation and on the count of one, two, three we just cold sprinted up 7th Avenue, leaving him and his pornographic phone in the dust.

Though we’d lost him after the 2nd block, we ran the rest of the half mile back to my place and up my 3 flights of stairs. Adrenaline at an all-time high and with such a good story behind us, we stood at my door catching our breath. Mid breath-catch, a few other building dwellers were on their way past my floor and invited us to join them on the roof. At any given time, there are a handful of people on my roof- it’s a building of young professionals, I love it. Expecting a few people to share our story with, we popped open the rooftop door.

200 people and a legit DJ. On my roof. So crazy, and so fun.

I LOVE New York.

You are what you eat.

Last summer at Central Park, I made friends with Travis. He had a football, and I wanted to play football. It was a seamless friendship. So since I've moved back to the city, pretty much every other weekend, we'll meet at the park and one of our overly outgoing of personalities will recruit two teamfuls of players. I'm usually the only chick so I plea to be taken easy on, but the second I start mouthing off about Tim Tebow, the mercy fades.

This weekend was football-less, however. Instead it was Nia-full. Nia is my college roommate (so if anything, she'd join in the Tebow rant), and she moved up to the city last Thursday. Her Gram lives in Brooklyn so she parked her belongings there, and then headed into Manhattan Friday evening for what would be one of my favorite weekends in a while.

We didn't actually make it out on Friday, just caught up and binge ate Mexican food around the corner from my apartment. Yes, we'll take a refill of chips. A second refill? Sure.

The next morning we were baja fresh and ready to hit the concrete. We headed down to Soho to tease our high taste and wound up on my new favorite street. I don’t know what it’s called, but every door opened to a different interior designer’s gallery. I dare say I’m so much more into interior design than fashion design these days. This may be the start of a horrible decorating habit.

We headed back uptown to meet a few friends for lunch. On the way, I stopped for a pair of sunglasses and a cell phone cover at one of those one-stop shop street vendors where you can get umbrellas, fedoras or iPod accessories (or weed). Ugh, I’m a week too late on the cell phone cover though. I totally shattered the glass on my brand new phone last Sunday in the middle of the night. I wish it were a good story, like the time I almost got eaten by monkeys in Thailand, but sadly it was a case of sleep walking/sleep checking my e-mail, then sleep knocking my phone off my night stand.

Anyways, so we went to lunch, and ordered Mexican, again.

Then it was time for Hard NYC, a music fest featuring MIA. Most of the folk there had probably stopped by that one-stop shop street vendor…but not for umbrellas… or fedoras… or iPod accessories… Not us though, we just kept up the Mexican weekend with some Jose Cuervo. Nia and I danced our hearts out, and Scott kinda just bopped right to left. That flower child part of me was definitely running wild, or maybe it was the Mexican child in me. Either way, it was a rockin’ change of scenery.

Sunday morning, we woke up and like every other Sunday, headed to brunch with the gang. Surprise, surprise when the breakfast burritos came out. The Frying Pan was next (that boat bar on the Hudson River). We sat on the top deck, and our entire conversation basically surrounded how each second we were dripping more and more of sweat. It was a unanimous decision to head back to my place for air-con, and then a unanimous decision to go to Caliente Cab for dinner (yup, Mex.) My downstairs neighbors joined us, and then introduced us to an awesome neighborhood dive bar for some ping pong and pistachios. I’ve never seen anyone 360 in skill as quick as Nia did on the ping pong table.

She became like this:

And that’s that. Nia’s first weekend in NYC.

In 11 minutes, it will have been exaclty a month since my last post.

So I have a cat (don’t tell my landlord) and his name, before we adopted it, was Spot. Now it’s Tiger, but my friends call him Scoop. And most times I call him…her. So a few minutes ago, I curled up next to my purple wall, on my ever so cement-like mattress, and began to write this:

“I’m locking myself in my room, and not coming out until this blog is posted upon.”

And then I heard crash, boom, bang.

Dang it, Scoop.

I somewhat understand his rampant freak outs. Heck, if I had so many identity changes and lived in a tiny New York apartment, I’d flip out too. Oh wait…

But really, sometimes I feel like we’re one in the same, Spot/Tiger/Scoop and I. I know I don’t get called eight names or the wrong gender, but I’ve totally led 3 different lives in the past year- sorority girl, traveling (wannabe) hippie, working woman.

I’m not about to break all my kitchen dishes over it though, so someone’s gotta teach this cat how to deal.

Anyways, now that the broken glass from my favorite dollar ninety-nine cup is cleaned up, I’ll get back to this here post.

Up until last week, my room was only 42% done. Now it’s at around 90%. The remaining 10% will most likely never get done. What’s to note here is the stimulus behind that 52% increase: My parents! They came up to visit this past weekend! Hallelujah and a half.

I talk to the folks too many times a day, and I share basically all my stories with them, so it was great to show them what on earth I am ever talking about. The first night I hosted my first “rooftop party.” My parents had a few ol friends come, and I had a few new friends come. I love, love, love these new friends so I was all too excited for them to meet the Tasmans.

Their conclusion: You look just like your father, but you ARE your mother.

Oy.

The next few days and nights, we did the usual touristy stuff-Central Park (and the zoo!), Broadway Show, the High Line, yadda yadda. And OF COURSE, I picked up a few new outfits along the way. I also had three regal sleepovers in their hotel, and managed to steal a year supply of shampoo, conditioner and body lotion from the maid’s cart.

It was the perfect “staycation”… though I shouldn’t have tempted my body with such a comfy bed. It’s pissed at me now as I’m back on the brick box.

Over a bagel and cream cheese before work on Tuesday, it was a tearful goodbye. Such a great weekend, with such a great mommy and daddy! I miss them tons already.

And I missed this blog. I’ve got way more, but working woman’s got work in the morn.

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.

Get Physical

"DONUTS!" yelled Adam, as he fast tracked through the doors this morning, bearing two dozen Dunkin Donuts as a free for all to the office. Not the first time DD has made its way through the OpenSky front doors, but definitely the first time to barge through with such fly off the shelves, get em while they're hot enthusiasm.

"I see your ploy, but I'm not falling for the bait," said the second Adam of the office. To differentiate the two- we'll call the first Adam, Adam, and the second Adam, Saks.

Here's the background (not on the Adams.. but on the Donuts, and on one Adam (Saks) not falling for the other Adam):

On Tuesday morning, Adam sent around an e-mail with two fitness programs: effective immediately. The first was a 6-week training program to reach 100 push-ups. The second was an OpenSky 5k dated June 23rd. Let's go back to the first: 100 push-ups... impossible, one would think. But we're on this: www.hundredpushups.com, and this looks promising. We had initial testing the same day-no stretching, no warm-up, little fair warning. 10 of our rough and toughest men (and a few who proved more rough and tough than predicted) got on their hands and knees- or to be more correct, palms and toes- and gave it the good ol OpenSky go. Very impressed...especially by those less predicted roughy toughies. Not to much surprise, Saks was the winner with a whoppin' 60.

Saks: Big man (size wise) around OpenSky, recent Wisconsin Badger (09 Grad), Green Tea Addict, sourcing guru, and would bet his life on running back John Clay.

Pre-testing, Saks talked the talked, but post-testing, walked the walk, so no one complained... Except for Adam, who subsequently made a bet with Saks that another OpenSky team member would outdo him, come the end of the 6-week program. So the following morning, in walks the donut plot, though Adam denies such a scheme. Saks declined the double dozen of deliciousness, insisting no temptation would ruin his aspired push-up victory.

Anywho, the reason (I say) behind all this fitness madness: The OpenSky team has just GOT to stay in shape to keep up with all of our insanely amazing tech innovations... Launched today...Check it.

I'm team Saks... for the record...

Hi, I'm Back.

This is the last time I'll apologize for my absence. Either I'll just keep writing on the regular, or I won't be sorry for being way too completely out of my mind busy.

I babysit a little boy and a little girl, and can't believe I've yet to share their crazy antics. The boy, Zach (zachy), is three and the girl Leah (Leah), is 6. They are Upper East side kids. So yes, Zachy is the next Chuck Bass, and Leah is the next Serena Van Der Woodsen (forgive the Gossip Girl reference, it's the only show I watch).

My dad's business partner's daughter is the mom (reread to uncomplicate), and she is married to an extremely successful man, to say the least. They have a beautiful apartment that gives me a breath of fresh air- and brings me back to all the luxury I once knew and loved pre real world struggle (I wish reread was the answer to life's complication).

Before dispensing two darling babies, the mom was an actress- musical theater her forte. The kids are never too shy, too tired or energyless to show just how closely they follow in mom's musical footsteps. Leah is lead vocals, accompanied by Zachy on the guitar (acoustic or electric, sometimes a switch mid-song as he sees fit). There are literally 9 mini-guitars in his collection, all out of tune. For a three year old, Zach's actually got some pattern to his strums and for a 6 year old, Leah's got some oomph to her do rei me. They do a great "We're Not Gonna Take It" and for reals... I just can't take it. I want to squeeze every ounce of babyness out of them and squish them into little nothings.

The other day, Zach and Leah got in a bit of a tiff. Leah called Zach a baby, Zach started crying hysterically- really proved her wrong. I tried to calm him down by telling him he is not only a big boy, but my favorite big boy. That didn't work. He ran into his room, grabbed a framed photo of him as a newborn, ran back out and sternly put Leah in her place. "This is a baby (pointing to the ol pic)! This is NOT a baby (pointing to himself)! This is NOT a baby! That is!" he cried, he bawled.

My last story of such children (this post anyway) is again more about Zach. If Leah could read at a more mature level, she'd be pissed that it's not all about her. We were all watching some kid movie, and a fair-skinned girl with blonde, short hair entered set. Zachy points and goes, "Stacy, you look like him." For one, dear Zachy, I don't look like a pale blonde chick (who wasn't particularly cute). For two, that girl is not a "him." He's lately been having trouble with his pronouns- I try hard to not let it offend me everytime I get called him, he or his. I felt a lot more sure of myself, and less sure in Zach's discretion, after a little African American boy entered set, and my Jewish American Prince (jap) pointed and said, "She looks like me."