Law and Order rules!

So last night I discovered that the hottie Chris Meloni from Law and Order SVU lives on the next block! I tell ya, that Google is a bitch. If you want to stay anonymous, don't ever register your own name for an apartment or car. The guv'ment and financial institutions that check to make sure your Visa-dependent behind will pay the bills track your every move.

Why is it that Bee can find where ex-boyfriends have lived for the last ten years but can't find the address for Milk and Honey?

Oh by the way, those black gaucho-style knit pants that have been the rage all summer? Bee finally found a pair at Rampage in Soho. The rest of the roommates should follow suit.

Bee

And now, meet Bee:

Petite, 5 foot 2, curly hair. Cute in a Cameron Diaz way, but not as smoldering hot. Dating no one, by choice (last guy she dated was the Next Door Neighbor. Didn't work out. Now she can't go to the corner deli without full makeup.)

Number of guys she's escorted into our apartment since my arrival: none
Number of purses: eight
Number of trips to the gym in the last week: four
Number of times she walks me throughout the day: four
Number of drunken nights spent outside of the apartment in a year's time: none (although tends to call three days of drunken evenings elsewhere "vacation.")

Smart, driven, determined. A talented editor for a book publisher. Works late, parties hard. Able to dance until dawn, come home, change, go to work and write two freelance articles without fatigue.


Best Bee moment--July 4, 2002. Takes bottle of champagne off of W Hotel bar and chugs. Burly bouncer comes over and says "you can't do that." Bee replies, " You're right," and proceeds to pour champagne on his shoe. "Forgot to pour out some liquor for my homeys."

Women

I'm watching Oprah with my master, Bee (she came home at three after writing one story and jetting for the day). Did you know women in Mexico don't work out? That means if we lived in Mexico, I'd get more time with my wannabe Flo Jo, sports bra wearing master. The girl spends two hours a day at the club, while I chill out in the crate with nothing but a few pork flavored bones to keep me company.

Women in Hong Kong make bank! Chicks in Malaysia make loot too, and only pay $250 in rent for a 3 bedroom apartment! Sheet.

In New York City, I could probably fetch that much to rent out my crate for the weekend.

Late night

Thursday.
Number of roommates sleeping here: four
Number of boxes of Columbian chocolate on kitchen table: one
Number of doggies I humped at the dog park: one

I would expect my owner would be out on a Thursday night, but obviously that broad can't buy a life. Who am I kidding, she's been gone three nights in a row. 'Bout time she, as her mother has often said, "stopped running the streets."

Good example of how Aye's job is the best racket in corporate AmericaÂ?she went to work for the first time in three days. Left the house at eleven, back home at four. Watched Oprah. Took company car to Target. Came back at ten. Tomorrow, she'll take the day off to go to the beach, you know, because she needs to "unwind" after a hard work week.

Hope she brings me. I like salt water.

Contradiction of the day

Wednesday.
Number of roommates sleeping here: two
Number of beers in the fridge: one
Number of months that the same Corona has been in the back corner of the fridge: 13

Since I've been on Earth the least amount of time, people assume that I don't have my paw on the pulse of pop culture. But I do. Oh I do. And I'm the first to call out when someone has misrepresented hip trends with his or her interpretation of fashion, music or style. And so from time to time I will bring you the Contradiction of the Day, where someone or something has slapped something known as innovative and culture-creating with a healthy dose of what-the-hell?!.

Today's contradiction: flat-assed chicks who wear Nelly's Apple Bottom jeans.

Apple Bottoms are supposed to curve around ample rear ends like blue Saran Wrap--even Oprah Winfrey touted them as her favorite pair of jeans a few years back. They make butts look tight, taught, touchable. The apple design stitched on the pockets are supposed to entice ooglers to take a bite. But how can you take a bite of something that's not even petite, but downright flat?

I witnessed a twentysomething upper east side preppie wearing white AB capris and a Polo Shirt, carrying her Dior purse and wearing Havaianas. The back view was as flat as day old soda. Nothin jiggled but the nickels in her wallet. Nothing is enticing about a saggy booty in AB's.

Any butt-appreciating bloke will tell ya, if she ain't got back, she can put the Apple Bottoms back on the rack.

Freedom

Hmm...my owner's got me locked up in this new crate thing in the back of her room. Maybe she got a little pissed at the fact I was chilling (and relieving myself) on her bed while she was out. Eh, the new digs ain't bad. I've got room to stretch my legs, plus a little wee wee pad in case I can't hold it until she gets home.

I spent most of my day in the crate while my owner, Bee (whom I'll introduce to you in a bit) was out gallivanting around the city. Rumor has it she went to a movie preview after a full day's work, then hit her ex-boyfriend's birthday party. I don't think I'd ever go to a party where a bunch of people were celebrating how great the guy who broke my heart is. But my owner says she's made amends. And she claims all of his friends are cute, so she likes to keep herself in their company.

Well, if they're good-looking, then I can't blame her for wanting to stay close with the ex. He's so conceited, he thinks she's tolerating his presence just for his friendship. Little does he know she's got a more complex strategy.

Anyway, she stumbled home with disheveled hair and a toothy grin in time to walk me, so I can't talk smack about her tonight. I'm not sure if she behaved herself, but I'm confident that she'll have some bedroom company in the next few weeks.

Who I live with

Let me take this opportunity to profile one of the lovely ladies of the apartment. Today's tenant: Aye (pronounced "A").

Tall , blonde, 5 foot 6. Hot. Like classic hot blonde hot. Dating some dude in banking. Think he's loaded, or so I get the impression of since she brags about the summer house, the sailboat at the shore and "our trip to Aruba." If the girl makes it past Jersey, I'll be surprised.

Number of guys she's escorted into our apartment since my arrival: four
Number of purses: ten
Number of trips to the gym in the last week: one
Number of times she walks me throughout the day: twice
Number of drunken nights spent outside of the apartment in a year's time: ten

The best thing about Aye——she's in sales. So we get a lot of time together. She's home in time for her and I to catch Oprah at four in the afternoon on her busiest days. Means I can escape the apartment to frolic with my furry boyfriends while the sun is still high.

Aye is smart enough to know the best things in life are expensive but often has cheap taste (I saw those fur Ugg-esque boots from Mandee that you claimed you got from Bloomingdale's... who are you kidding?!). Depsite that, she's my fave.

Today's adventure brought Aye and I to Duane Reade, where we spent twenty minutes in line waiting to pay for a box of tampons. That means I lost the equivalent of six months of my life in a drugstore. I will never understand why Duane Reade is the most consumer unfriendly establishment. The pharmacy is in the farmost corner of the store, there are never enough cashiers, and there's always a fight between some disgruntled patron and an unsympathetic store clerk. If I were in need of tampons, I'd rather buy them at the corner deli where although the selection is few, the efficiency is unparalleled.

Plus I get to lick the lettuce, potatoes and other selected vegetables the shop guys store on lower hanging shelves. Tasty.

Welcome!

Dog owners often look at their furry companions and wonder, "if you could only talk." The truth is most dogs can, it's just you humans are too busy picking up our poo to listen closely.

Well, now's my chance to voice my opinion for all humans to understand. I see a lot living with four women in a Manhattan apartment whose lives are just as involved as any Hollywood starlet. The mingling of their distinct personalities produces constant mayhem. These women work hard, date plenty and party late (don't tell 'em, but one time I got a contact high when they lit a doobie during a barbecue). I've met more than a dozen male suitors that have come and gone. I've witnessed tiffs over trivial issues like who left crumbs in the peanut butter. I've eavesdropped on heated conversations between jilted roommates and "evil bastard" ex-lovers. I've seen more boobs than I prefer, but I'm sure the general public wouldn't mind a description to create their own visual. And since I'm a canine, I have enhanced sensibilities. I can smell sex, even if the sex happened in Brooklyn.


In Lucy's Speaks, you'll read my real thoughts on the shenanigans that go on in this place. It's one thing to read about how "ohmigod, I SO totally like this guy I met at Crobar last night" from their online diaries, but you'll get the gossip that girls wouldn't disclose to anyone but sweet, unassuming me.

Heh. Dem bitches won't know what hit 'em.