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Seeya blogspot.

Hello StacyTasman.com

Okay landlord, turn my heat on.

With tomorrow’s forecast of 55 degrees, it’s officially the dead of winter for a Florida girl like me. To be totally correct, it’s today’s forecast. It’s 4:43 in the morning, and I’m too alertly frozen to sleep. I’m also feverishly expecting a text, call or rejection letter, and the anticipation is killing my shut eye.

About a month ago, my favorite neighbors were on the hunt for a new apartment and were (me and them) hoping to find one in our same area. On one day’s ordinary stroll about the ‘hood with Leah, we saw two boys sitting outside a building with a for rent sign. I had two thoughts behind my initiating talk.

“You boys know anything about this for rent sign?”

“Sure don’t. I just moved here, actually, and he’s from Israel,” one answered.

Two new thoughts: a novice and a Jew. Pure screams of attractive vulnerability.

“Well, welcome. From where dost thou hail?”

I maybe didn’t say it in medieval manner, but he answered, “Texas,” and we exchanged some other basics. He worked at Morgan Stanley, and was transfered to New York recently, enjoying the city since.

I told them of my neighbors’ eviction. They asked why they’d want evicted tenants in their building. I told them it was a soft eviction and that an older, uptight couple had recently moved in, making much ado about nothing in frequent noise complaints. My neighbors had lived on this uncontested noise level for a year and a half before the haggard duo’s hearing aids went bust.

Within reason, I gained back the two boys’ trust and though they didn’t offer an apartment, they did invite us to The Standard at evening time. It was a pre-historic invite –no number exchange attached, just a bank on the hope we’d run into each other.

Well, Leah and I ended up not making it. Such is the life of a busy socialite. A few days later, I was walking home from Washington Square park, on the phone with Leah telling me of a same-sex couple offering her unsolicited relationship advice at work.

“It will just happen. Someone will walk into your life totally unexpected, and it will be the best thing ever. Trust us, girl”

At that conviction, I spotted him – the kid from the stoop. (Not this guy from Hey Arnold, but remember him?)

I was thoroughly intrigued by its coincidence, and flat out hung up on Leah as I approached the hello.

“How are you! How was The Standard on Friday?”

“We actually didn’t end up going. Did you make it?”

“Yeah, we didn’t go either, but great guy, thanks for standing us up…”

“You’re one to talk, no-show…”

Street corner flirting at its finest. We shared a few activities from the weekend before the awkward silence.

……

“Well, have a good day… I’m sure we’ll see each other around!”

No number exchange, again – just another elusive hope.

A month later, I thought the serendipity would have repeated itself by now, us being 3 streets away. No luck. I even committed my running route to curve toward his block. Our friendship was over before it began, though I’d been writing up a movie script in my mind, my own fairy tale plot.

I kept joking with my boldness, daring it to leave a note with my number on his building door. That’s silly. Seriously, that’s silly.

And I kept suggesting the idea to friends, secretly hoping for their support. That’s silly. Seriously, that’s silly. You silly girl.

But after a few glasses of red wine, last night, and a habitual plate of Mexican food, I was feeling inherently silly. And so were my friends, Beth and Hayley.

Beth, “Do it, just do it. What do you have to lose?”

Hayley, “Here, here’s paper, write it.”

(oh God, okay, Oh God- now you've really done it, Stac)

Me to waiter, “May I please have a pen? I’m writing a love note. I need a pen. May I please have a pen. And some tape please.”

Morgan Stanley from Texas,

Let’s try drinks at The Standard again? Sincere apologies for “standing you up”

Best,

Your neighbor Stacy

941-544-76XX.

I did it. I taped it to his building door, and then I ran and giggled like the brave girl just out of puberty I was.

(And I didn’t actually XX the two last numbers. But who knows who reads this ol’ thing)

God, he’s probably married. I’ve probably responded to his wife’s babysitting ad before. It’s not that he seemed that old, it’s just… he’s from the south, and that would be my luck.

So wide-eyed and cold I lay – hoping no vindictive building mate pulled down my note, hoping no freezing winter weather shriveled it up and really hoping no wife-zilla is plotting my death in my own fairy tale.

To be continued...(again with hope).

My boyfriend thinks I'm fat.

It’s time to release the official statement. I’m out of a job.

I know I never spoke much about what that job was in the first place, and I will continue to not speak much about it. It’s not that I was doing something largely under secret. I wasn’t. And it’s not that I was doing something I wasn’t proud of. I was. I was just doing something that perhaps wasn’t exactly me –whoever “me” may be, but she certainly didn’t belong there.

Wait, was she stripping? No, fantasizers. I was working at a startup company, doing PR and Social Media. The break up was seamless –no drama, no hard feelings, nothing vindictive and we’re certainly still friends. I actually had coffee with a co-founder on Monday, lunch with a VP today, and like good ex-boyfriends, they’re still picking up the bill.

My CEO also left me with this, “keep writing your blog - it'll be a movie one day.” My fingers are crossed that his fortune telling follows his (beyond admirable) track record. Will keep you updated on its unraveling.

In the meantime, you ask, I ask, the world asks – what’s next? The answer, as many are, is left open – an openness that I am, once again, excited to pick apart.

HERE. Enjoy.

I still keep listening to this song on repeat, every so often picking up my own guitar to give Ace of Base a go. Right around the 2:20 mark is when I get especially obsessed.

Anyhow, I’ve never been to Chicago, but on my run yesterday, I swear I felt like I was there. The wind was doing a number on my ponytail’s sleek perfection and my untamed hair was relentlessly sticking to my Chapstick. Not my favorite running conditions, but thank God I didn’t leave the house in my usual running attire.

Eek.

I do have a friend that lives in Chicago, a few actually. I was helping one of them write copy for her Wedding Planning Web site and I needed another word for romantic. The thesaurus suggested “impractical”. Touché, thesaurus, touché.

In more workout news, I [finally, fatass] joined the gym on my block- decent weights, decent machines, decent eye candy. Pretty content. Now, if the mirror would feel so content…

Kidding, and of course my spandex already won me a quick friend. Luke is his name. When I say big guy, I mean BIG guy. I was using the foam roller and trying so hard for my facial expression not to communicate the pain, grief and misery the roller was causing my tight, beaten and under-stretched muscles. But my obvious sour face became the conversation piece as he shook my hand with pity, “You new around here?”

(PANIC, I refuse to be the New York Sports Club chump)

“Yes, just joined this week. You come here around 7 every day?”

“Most days.”

“Well then nice to meet you, trainer.”

L'Shana Tova

A few days ago was the Jewish New Year, and since I’m a New Year’s baby (born on January 1^st), a part of me considered a few days ago my birthday.

Regardless, I’ll use any excuse to reflect, but am happy to have Rosh Hashanah reinforcing the habit. The day is a large cultivator of introspection, with an emphasis on your most recent year.

So, here goes.

365 days ago, I was in my senior year of college. My sorority house was the center of my being- that or Gator City on Wednesday's Ladies Night. My face was painted every Saturday, I most looked forward to Pi Phi Taco Bar, I ran stadiums more than Tim Tebow, rode the Frat Row bus more than the frat row boys and studied more than, well, no one really (but school was free Dad, so no money wasted). Life was easy, other than the impending truth of its ease dwindling at the short semester's end.

225 days ago, I was pedaling the back roads of Cambodia, coming near death by monkey in Thailand and writing off 11-hour bus rides in Vietnam as a breeze. I met someone new every day, learned something new every day and loved something new every day. I saw the world as a revolving door- indefinitely open, so long as you push yourself through and closed only when you give up your strong arm. With might, my permanently inquisitive mind wandered to places, both physical and intangible. Experimental was my nature; nature was my eyes’ constant bliss; bliss was every step of my journey.

150 days ago, I moved to New York City, a dream turned to realization dangerously fast. I sleep along an exposed brick wall, my saunter to work is robotically second nature, my check book is dedicated to a heavy monthly tab, my closet screams for scarves and boots and my head can’t decide if this is, in fact, what it’s all about (the “real” world, not the hokey pokey). In the past few weeks, most of my Floridian (and also freezing) friends moved up to NYC. Combine that rambunctious round-up with the new friends I’ve made in the city (similar in unyielding energy), and it’s no wonder the lonely bone has yet to strike.

At the culmination of my year, set on three distinctly opposing stages, I feel wonderfully full (bursting at the seams), but insanely torn (bursting at my dreams).

I feel like this confused light, stay or go?

My lease ends in December, just saying.

I, I gotta new life. You would hardly recognize me, I'm so glad.

First off, I’m obsessed with acoustic covers of Ace of Base's I Saw The Sign. Second off, this post is not timely whatsoever, so when I say today, I actually mean like 8 days ago...and then I’ll write about the in between 8 days… probably in…3 days. But, no promises.

So, "today" was a beautiful day – relentlessly clear blue with a mesmerizing sunset raising curtain to a sharply-lit skyline. A few friends gathered on the Hudson after a long day at Central Park, as the sun tucked behind the chiseled outline of the city, and cotton candy became of the sky. No doubt a delicious-looking sunset. Coupled with a delicious order of garlic fries and hummus wrap, feeling full is not the word.

The girl I split the fries, wrap and horizon with was Leah, and since she moved up to NYC a few weekends ago, I feel like life has been go, go, go-with the very frequent over-analysis of where it is we are actually going?

My dad sends me e-mails pretty regularly, and usually the e-mails have links to articles that mostly detail how to save the money I barely make in the first place. His most recent e-mail spoke of no such broke-dom, and instead, spoke of a girl he'd seen on TV, who reminded him of me.

“It was a travel program with a dynamic young trekker, writer, travel enthusiast....I thought of all your skills and passions and how this was you!”

It's annoyingly weird that, as I approach the 6 month anniversary (I know, nuts) of my “permanent” move to New York, I'm so not that girl on this day. As beautiful as the day was, let's get some perspective. I've been ooh-ing and ahh-ing at a man-made skyline and sipping on a twice overpriced Corona. It was no pure-nature-warms-the-heart day, which inarguably, garlic fries in no contest, puts me at my fullest.

I’m a huge grass is always greener thinker-- torn between its value of creating inspiring thirst, and its plague of creating unsettling anxiety. My set up in this town is peachy k(gr)een and I'm working on accepting such color as is. I try not for the sentence to read “When I’m here, I wish I was there," and more so, for it to read “When I’m here, I wonder what is there."

Though I'm fully confident that I'll hit each wonder that I dream up, I need t0 make sure I don't colorblind myself from the green in the days leading.

Okay, so I said this post was so 8 days ago, and it was. I'll show you this in effect next time. Get excited.

I was almost at bar two, right?

Okay, we’re skipping down the street, keeping up the song, crossing our fingers for white boy Rob’s safety and still pissed at Sax man for the 30 minute runaround. Alas, we arrive at Baramundi where we meet an old face and a few of that old face’s friends. Schmooze schmooze, booze booze and we’re on our way. Old face was in the mood for dancing, and no one was about to stop him, so the caravan moved to Pianos, a nearby swanky establishment that I’d been intending to hit. Again, schmooze schmooze, booze booze, groove groove.

At some point we decided it was time to go. It was probably time to go well before that point, but it’s too easy to get caught up in the New York step.

We all shot our hands in the air for a taxi- no luck, all taken. We got separated from Old face and friend, walked God knows how long and in God knows what direction...though I was sure we were heading west. Well, God knows when later, we wound up facing the Manhattan Bridge...which is as east as the city grid gets:

At first we had no idea what we were looking at, and Hayley swore we'd reached Washington Square Park. This place (basically in our backyard):

But again, that park is way west, and we were way east. I mean it totally looks the same, especially to three girls who'd been havin’ a night. Anyways, thank heaven for Charles, our knight in shining armor slash Prince Charming slash the most strapping man we'd ever seen- yes, he gave Sexy Saxy from earlier in the night a run for that money he'd earned pissing on George Clooney's face.

Anyways, with his good looks came also good luck, as a vacant taxi finally rounded the corner. Leah, Hayley and I piled in, all reassuring each other that Charles was in fact the best looking man any of us had ever seen. Our chauffeur was about to peel out to the West Village when out of left field, little Hayley Lynn grew a pair of balls, ran out of the cab and told Charles in the frankest of manners, "You need my number." Go girl, go.

Getting back into the car, our shrieks were that of a 12-year-old Justin Bieber fan- as if none of us had ever been kissed by a boy, and as if screaming, crying and hyperventilating would make dream-boy Biebs stop in his tracks and take our never-been-kissed virginity.

Mid-freak out, Old face called questioning our separation. "Whatever, whatever, no time for that. We're excited and hungry- join us, Old face, for a late night binge." He suggested a diner, which sounded like a delicious mess of sobering food. Perfect, see you at 14th and 9th. Next thing you know, we're on a wait list (at 4:45 am, mind you) to get into THE Diner, a posh restaurant in the middle of the Meatpacking District (New York's hottest of hot spots). This could do too.

By the time we were finished hoarding our comfort food, the sun had come up and the collective scent of the New York bagel was diffusing through the streets of our walk home.

Leah spent the "night," and we had a few hours of sleep before heading to the Frying Pan- been there, done that, told you about it. It's that bar of a boat on the Hudson:

After FP, Leah and I went on a wild goose hunt for din din. We both had our hearts set on the same carb-friendly dish: a cheesy, greasy, disgusting, full plate of pasta. We circled my neighborhood in search of, though living in the West Village hardly calls for a grungy food selection. In the hour of scour (heehee), there were so many times one of us wanted to quit, but thank God we had each other to keep afloat our dream, and alas, we found our spot-a pizza joint that also had a full menu of pasta- baked ziti, lasagne, alfredo, a la vodka, you name it, Alfonso's cookin it. I got the ziti, Leah got the alfredo, the world got two extremely satisfied eaters.

In our gluttonous state, we had one of our common heart to hearts. Leah and I have been friends since this:

Leah is a remarkable friend, well aware of her selfish, princess-ness, but remarkable. I count the blessings I have in my friends often, and Leah is no stranger to those blessings. I have no idea what I did to deserve such purely, good people as friends. Seriously, no idea. Whoever is responsible for this phenomenon, I owe ya one, man.

On that cheesy plate of pasta, and note, I leave you.

p.s. I'm planning to embellish on my feeling of being surrounded by angels as friends. I'm just not in as mushy of a mood as that calls for, and more in the mood for a second round of mushy pasta. LEAH!?!