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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.