New Site

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!?!

Sax is Sex

It’s pouring, my windows are open and the rain's tune is competing with a playlist of Tracy Chapman-a peaceful competition leaving me wholly happy. Clam happy. Happy, happy hippo. Or is that hungry, hungry hippo?

Either way, it’s an entirely happier state than my previous Sunday when I, stupidly without tissues, saw Eat, Pray, Love- sleeves are in the wash. In recollection, I opened up my version of such a diary, Two Girls, One Backpack, and compared notes, tissues alongside.

I’m no Elizabeth Gilbert (author of). I’m not in my thirties, not in any sort of marriage (happy or unhappy), not a renowned writer (yet), not facing the age of baby poppin’ (fingers crossed), and most importantly, not blonde (these days). But I do know if I were Elizabeth Gilbert, the stunning Julia Roberts would be the appropriate actress to tell my story. And I also do know that in a heartbeat, a taxi honk, a New York minute, an “I’m at your door, buzz me”, I’d give up anything and everything to be on an introspective wander among rice fields and linguini.

Anyways, that was last weekend. This weekend, on my part, was a ton less tearful.

A few friends from work are in a band called Bad Man Yells. They are jazzy, soulful, way talented, and I’ve been meaning to go to a show of theirs. I finally came around to it on Friday. They were playing at a bar in the Lower East Side (New York’s trendiest of slums) so I went fishing for a posse. Leah and Hayley bit, and so began my unending evening, night and morning with the tiny two.

So there are 5 boys/men/whatever in the band. I work with 3 of them (drums, guitar, bass), had previously met the 4^th (keyboard/vocals), and shook hands with the 5^th (sax [is sex]) pre-show. Live music is one of New York’s most abundant gems, though I’ve shamefully been slow to pursue its’ remedial energy. I’ve really gotta start doing all the things I say “I really gotta start doing…” Hopefully, Bad Man Yells and their genius set was the catalyst to a volume crank of New York’s intended noise, rather than its’ candid sound of honks, sirens and street crowd. We’ll see.

And if you’re wondering what this sax is sex line is, I’ll tell you. Playing the saxophone is sexy. Straight to the point, bottom line, no questions asked, no further detail. Don’t get me wrong, Kevin is originally a fine looking man, but put a sax to anyone’s lips and you’re basically pissing on George Clooney.

Leah, Hayley and I were having a fab time jamming, and continued having a fab time jamming post-Bad Man Yells, though the following band was absolutely horrible. By song two, we were the only ones left in the bar, but I refused to leave until their set was over…I couldn’t make them feel as bad as they sounded, and plus- their clank was a doozy to break it down to.

At 11ish, a $5 chicken wing sign seriously challenged any self-control that had once been added to that “I really gotta start” list. Brought me back to Gainesville Mondays, a favorite night of mine at Mothers joined by 25 cent wings and my strapping MBA boys. Any Gainesville habit reappearing in New York is not a sign of progess, but with Gator Football in two weeks (heck yes) strengthening my inevitable relationship with chicken wings, I figured why not have some pre-season fun. And so the order was placed. And gone in 60 seconds- take that Nicolas Cage.

Not the only slightly less classy act of the night. Around midnight, we received an invite to a venue change. Leah and I made the initiating step outside, but a few of the stragglers were taking sweeter time. In musical spirit, the two of us began belting familiar ballads of Boyz II Men, perhaps giving headache to the window of people who yelled some snarky comment from 3 floors up. To save us, Boyz II GarbageMen rounded the corner. The perfect out for two slightly less classy and slighty vodka-inspired ladies. We put on our citizen badges, ran over to a nearby collection of trash and took turns slinging the bags into an abyss of New York's dump. When we'd slung the street clean, we hopped aboard the garbage truck and down the block we went. Rollercoaster of love, add stink.

After our spin around, we found the nearest restaurant and sprinted to their bathroom. As if the bathroom was waiting for two stinky girls, there was a fresh bottle of febreeze, of which is most likely empty from the excess we sprayed.

With a fresh start, we rounded the gang and headed to bar two of the evening. Sir Saxophone happened to live on the bar's block so he confidently led the way. While gallivanting, I asked him if he intentionally played the sax to attract the ladies. Rethinking that, his talent definitely couldn't have happened over night. He had to have picked up the instrument pre-puberty, and dear Lord, I hope sex appeal wasnt in his thought at that age. Anyways, I got over tooting his horn (ha, ha...get it?) when someone realized we were going in the complete wrong direction. What should have taken us 4 minutes, turned into 30 (literally guys, I timed it off my text messages).

In this whole "we're not lost, it was the smallest of detours," we ran into Rob, a completely passed-out-on-the-sidewalk southern boy, just asking to be mugged. As fellow southerners, we felt compelled to help the sorry chap up and get him to safety. Mission failed as he disappeared into the sea of traffic-jammed taxis. So long white boy, we did what we folk could.

Carry on.

Actually, coinciding with our night, this post is getting too long. There is a second chapter, but because you all probably have some form of self-diagnosed ADD, and lord knows I could write a bible, I'll cut it here.

Ciao for now.

I told you it was coming. Here is the Sarasota weekend in review:

My Delta flight on Friday was a connecting flight. NYC-ATL-SRQ. I got to the airport well on time, but my aircraft did not. It was delayed, and delayed so much that I would miss the second leg (nightmare, as there were no more flights to SRQ from ATL that day).

Livid, I studied those schedule screens for an understudy flight. I saw a direct flight to Tampa (45 mins further away from Sarasota) departing in 15 minutes and thought- THAT'S MINE. I scanned the terminal for the friendliest-looking Delta rep. And by friendliest-looking, I mean most easily persuaded by a smile with a side of dimple. I'm not usually a Delta fan (and actually distinctly remember telling my dad in the brattiest of tones, "remind me never to fly Delta again" after a miserable flight to LA a few summers back) so my hope was far from high. This man, this little Hispanic Delta man though, oh did he turn my frown upside down. In a matter of minutes, and a few fervid punches to his keyboard, out popped my new boarding pass to Tampa. "ALL YOURS," he said. Victory, home here I come, 4 hours early!

My sister picked me up from the airport and we met Mr. and Mrs. Tasman at our favorite Asian restaurant- Pacific Rim. Pineapple fried rice with brown rice please. And a boat of Sushi-again, please.

Happily stuffed, I fell asleep before you could say, “Pineapple fried rice with brown rice please. And a boat of Sushi-again, please.”

My sister’s excitement to graduate from college that Saturday morning (the reason I went home) woke me up at 6:30 am. So much for kicking exhaustion in the butt.

She walked across the stage so effortlessly, though her college years were far from that manner. Alyssa’s dedication is with notable excellence, and I admire her perseverance and commitment to that now proudly held diploma. Graduating is one of those compound, “phews!” You’re certainly glad that’s over, but in that same breath of accomplishment, NOW WHAT? Who knows what is to come of her future, just as who knows what is to come of mine, yours and our neighbors’. But, I know that if one route fails, Alyssa will re-navigate until she’s found her perfect way (temper tantrums to be expected….love you!).

After the graduation, we went to lunch on Longboat Key via boat. Welcome back, tan.
On full stomachs, we pulled out the new water skis and gave them a run around Skiers’ Island.

Then it was roller derby time. My parents have owned a skating rink for some 15 years, and just in this past year did roller derby find its way to our floor. A team of rugged, rugged women take their anger out as they pound and pummel eachother. Men onlookers wish they were in the middle, and most of the women onlookers do too. It's an interesting crowd, with lots of tattoos and even more illegitamate children running around.

Post-derby, my dad and I showed face at a family friend's graduation party. She was graduating from Physician's Assistant school at the University of Florida (Go Gators, love the new haircut Tebow). Her dad also took the Med path and is a cardiovascular surgeon. This family was the first we made friends with when we moved to Florida from NY (yes, Nia, I was born in New York). We met in the buffet line at Applebees. The story goes something like one family was admiring how well behaved the other family's children were. I can't recall which kids were God sent, maybe grad girl Laurie as seen below:



That IS a 24 year old, soon to be prescribing your medicine, doing a keg stand. And the man on the right is totally her dad, been cutting you open since 1998.

Sunday was back to celebrating Alyssa's graduation. In December, for my grad, my parents took me to a chain restaurant for lunch. For my sister's graduation, my parents rented a yacht for lunch with 30 of her friends...I'm not entirely bitter, only because I had 3 of my friends join as well:

-Beth of "Two Girls, One Backpack"
-Jeff of "We met at an arcade, she was impressed by my sword so I took her on a date, but now were just friends"
-Billy of "Is the ping pong tournament biz cash?"
(final score: 21 to 2 don't matter what you're wearing boy)

Jeff and Billy are both in the MBA program at UF, are incredibly hilarious (Billy more than Jeff), have wonderful teeth (Jeff more than Billy) and are two of the best boys I know. I would take either of their hands in marriage, though to Mommy and Daddy Tasman's bewilderment, I would never, ever date them.

Here are the lovable goons:

Monday was another boating day, skiing day and tanning day. My body's already poor condition is that much worse, as every muscle in me feels overworked and underpaid- they are screaming to be gifted with some yoga.

And sitting on the plane home didn't help the spine either. The second leg of my connecting flight brought back that original hate I felt toward Delta. I boarded a sweltering hot plane and sat at the gate for over an hour waiting for maintenance to fix the heat and "just a handful of other issues." Not a good word choice to a plane full of sweaty, impatient passengers (from Atlanta...).

But alas, New York sweet New York.

From the land of exhaustion.

The Sand Man and I aren't on speaking terms these days. He says I don't pay him enough attention. I tell him I'm busy, take a number, boy.

That being said, I guess it's no surprise that when the plane shoved off from New York to Florida on Friday, I was hit with an onset of exhaustion. It was an exhaustion build-up that kicked me in the face the second New York and I parted ways. I thought this weekend in Sarasota would cure this non-alcohol-induced life hangover (Let me be more correct and say not-entirely-alcohol-induced life hangover), but here I am again, back on the plane, stressed out, heavy-eyed and energyless.

Such lack of strength can be a compilation of too much work, too much play, too much running on top of shin splits, drinking on top of hangovers (this time I do mean alcohol-induced) and dancing on top of bars. Kidding, but I couldn't think of another "on top".

(real life interjection: I totally just had the flight attendant deliver me a single dose packet of aspirin)

Anyways this just goes to show how easy it is to get caught up in New York City. I'd been going and going, more reluctant to stop than the energizer bunny, and like that same energizer bunny, didn't realize what a disruptive toll the going and going was taking. It was only until I hard stopped the noise that I realized how loud it was in the first place.

And three days in paradise is no band-aid.

This weekend was supposed to reunite me and the Sand Man, but no such luck. We are still on the outs, but for good reason (summary weekend post to come, stay tuned). And though I'd like to say I'm going to make an honest attempt to quiet down, my company is on rapid fire and my entire address book is making their way to the city in the coming weekends for either a visit or a "permanent" move. Btw, did anyone look into a group travel discount?

Either way, I welcome all with open arms, weak arms, but none the less, open.

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."

Goodbye my lover, Goodbye my friend

"Sad news today. Dadg1rl is gone"

He wrote the words so effortlessly, that father of mine. I'll tell ya something, dadg1rl would have put a lot more thought into an obituary than that, had roles been reversed. I just know it, that car-she was good to me.

A lot of memory is attached to dadg1rl. In honor of the passing of dadg1rl, I will recount such memories.

Most ancient of memories (year 2003, it had to be) was the day after I taught my dad to text message (what a dinosaur he was). I was in first period French class when I got my dad's first ever text:

"I backed into your car, Sorry."

Thanks dad.

Memory 2 was taking dadg1rl around mean curves without giving the speedometer a chance to ease up. Shantel, a high school bud of mine, would always soundtrack the high speed turns with "weeeee." We thought for sure one day the "weeeees" would stop- that the fast curves were a product of my first year driver inexperience. 6 years down the road (no pun intended), Shan continued to "weeeee."

Disclaimer: dadg1rl kept me safe, regardless of my behind the wheel habits, and such habits never resulted in any sort of accident (except dad's mishap).

A third mem, oh this one is a beaut. Me, Beth (of 2 Girls, 1 backpack), Leah (my mentor of all things sassy), and Meredith (lord knows what I'd insert here) took dadg1rl to the campfire. 4 girls piled into one baby dadg1rl, en route to Lake Lanier, Georgia. It was senior year of high school, and we were packed like sardines (I use this idiom, yet I have no idea what it actually means…). We spent 9 solid hours of cramped-ness to reach our campsite. Best story (or attempted story) of the trip: Beth and I made a soundtrack of animal noises, particularly bears. When we arrived, I sneakily went to the Park Ranger and told him our plan to scare Leah and Meredith (the sissies of the bunch). He came by our site an hour later, and deserved an Oscar for his performance. Even I was beginning to wonder if there honestly was a black bear sighting, and that we really should tie our food up in the tree as he suggested. So in the middle of the night, I got up, went over to dadg1rl, turned on the music (bear noises) and waited for Leah and Meredith to pee their pants. They might be sissy girls, but I will give a hand to their wit. They realized too quickly that it was a digital bear, and basically told me I’m so annoying, they’re sleeping, turn dadg1rl off with those ridiculous noises.

The idea had potential…

Last, though I’ve got loads more- I don’t want to take up too much internet space with this recollection, was in college with my two roommates, Nia and Kelly. Kelly, Nia and I were attached at the hip. If Nia was at Ladies Night at Gator City, the world would be surprised if Kelly and I weren’t enjoying the same free drinks and getting our butts kicked (by Nia) in trivia. Being anything but creeps, we got in the habit of stalking Frat Row- our Sorority house was practically on Frat Row (instead of across campus on Sorority Row). Now you see why I lived there all of college…

Anyways, we’d drive through the Frat Row parking lots checking to see who was home, who was partying and who was doing the walk of shame the next morning. It wasn’t an everyday stalking, but it happened more often then not- and no we’re not ashamed. I’d never want to take dadg1rl stalking. I would get too nervous that people would recognize her, so I made the argument NOT to take dadg1rl anymore on these stalking excursions, and after being asked to justify such an argument, I overconfidently insisted,

“PEOPLE KNOW DADG1RL”

I will never live that down.

Dadg1rl, you will be missed. People will still know and love you, and all the fond memories you are good for. I hope for you the best as you dedicate yourself to the new luckiest driver on the highways of America.

By the way, dadg1rl was my dear car’s vanity plate, to clear up any confusion. I’ll fight any criticism, so leave your sneers to yourself.

Please feel free to leave your fondest dadg1rl memories, or any last words you’d like to share.

I sea food, I eat it

I swim (and pee) with the fish, I don’t eat the fish.

That is always my one liner against the whole sushi trend. I’m just
inexplicably freaked out by slimy bite size bits of Ariel and
Sebastian's best friends.

In my entire life, I’ve had a few pieces of shrimp, (I’ll go with around 8, tops)one piece of a tuna roll (in honor of my die hard sushi fan of a
roommate’s birthday... and I had JUST gotten back from Asia, so I was
feeling adventurous) and a breast (amateur word choice?) or two of
salmon. A filet or two of salmon? Either way, I hated my mom on the
nights she made salmon and lazily “forgot” I didn’t eat seafood. I’ve
forgiven, but have not forgotten, mom.

Anyway, I get into these “F it all” kind of moods every now and again. And last night was one of those now and agains. I had tuna and salmon and yellow tail and sweet shrimp and… octopus! That’s right Ursula- Gotcha.


The companion to such bravery was Judah, who, because he thinks I’m the greatest person he knows, has probably checked my blog every hour for this post. Judah knows his sushi stuff, so I felt in the hands of a good man. Judah also knows his wine stuff, so more importantly, I felt in the hands of two good bottles of red wine. Judah is a role model of a man-extremely accomplished as a son, dad, businessman and now as my friend. He used to direct marketing for Sharp (now he is running Panasonic's E-commerce business), and was my friend's boss- that's how we met a few weeks ago. I really took to his imparted wisdom and have been excited to get together again for great advice, a good heart share, and some hefty laughs. There was not a silent second between our 7 o'clock reservation and our shutting down of the place at midnight. The 5 hour spread made for my best conversation since Asia- thank God, I was missing that human side of human beings.

The last two hours were spent discussing how Judah is going to change the world (but like actually change it), and how I may or may not help him do so. He's no Iron Man, but he's got an amazing idea and an amazing heart behind it, so I've got no doubt that the next time you read about him- it won't be on my blog.

But back to the sushi eatin. It didn't kill me. I'm turning over a new seaweed leaf and hopping on this Japanese train.

Sorry Nemo.

Man, Iron Man

Last Thursday (chill out, I’m a busy girl, so last Thursday was basically yesterday for me), my whole office got an e-mail saying “all-hands meeting tomorrow (Friday) at 2:45, clear your schedules.”

All hands does in fact mean that every set of hands at my company, whether they be tech hands, marketing hands, or CEO hands, had to attend this meeting. These are my favorite hours at work- the hours spent in our freezing ice box of a conference room hashing and rehashing our failures and successes, unveiling those pivotal “ah ha’s” and handing out tickets to the 3:30 showing of Iron Man 2.

I truly was excited for this meeting (they’re led by geniuses, really), but when the office field trip to the movies was proposed, my excitement found itself wandering in a whole new direction. Robert Downey Jr. is a glorious mess of a man, and though my office as a whole is particularly good looking (if I do say so myself…), I couldn’t have been more excited for some added Friday afternoon eye candy.


Candy.

I’m no movie critic, but if it means anything, I’d spend my entire days pay on seeing it as many times as those earnings allow. So, okay that’s like twice…maybe three times. Movies are sickly expensive these days…Whatever, Iron Man 2 was damn good.

After the movie, I went from cloud 9 to cloud 10- with the act of one UPS man. Fine, it really wasn’t the man, it was his package. Sorry, THE package he was delivering…ha ha, maybe I’m still in fantasy land from R Downey J… Anyways, to me, the brown cardboard “box” (mangled out of shape because of how over stuffed it was, god love you dad) looked more like a treasure chest of jewels. I hugged and kissed every dress that poured out of my pot of gold.

And then the weather rained on my parade, yes, literally. My Floridian wardrobe-in-a-box definitely did not bring with it the good weather. This weekend started off cold and windy. Marilyn Monroe is the only woman that looks sexy taming a windblown dress. The rest of us look like idiots trying to keep our hemlines out of our faces as the gusts roll by. So those dresses have yet to make their debut. What weatherman do I have to speak with to get this whole Summer thing on the forecast?

On a brighter not, this weekend was Mother’s Day, and while I was sad that my own mommy wasn’t with me, I had another one on loan. Or share.

My ridiculously dear friend, Hayley Apfel (my first ever college roommate -completely random, and completely a blessing), was apartment hunting in the city with her Momma! On Friday night, we wined (Sangria’d?) and dined at one of Momma Apfel’s favorite Spanish restaurants in the West Village, joined by big brother Josh. This Apfel family is amazing. It felt absolutely wonderful to be in the arms of such loving, inspiring and true friends. Our Mother’s Day brunch on Sunday was even more wonderful- the Eggs Benedict I practically dissolved played a big role, but nothing comparable to the big hearts sitting around the table.



Hayley officially moves up next week. Next week, I will officially be on Cloud 11.