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.