In Search of the Best of All Possible Worlds

"Life is not good or bad. Life is life."

-Voltaire, from Candide.

I have approximately ten dollars to my name right now. I'm starting to worry a bit because the new job isn't working out so far. They've been cutting me almost every shift I'm scheduled for, so I've only been getting to work one shift a week and I've cut my availability down at Morimoto in order to accomodate the new schedule. Every day I come home from work, make some pasta or scrambled eggs and settle in to watch hours of TV. It's a terrifying slippery slope.

My brother Jake sent me this text message a couple hours ago:

Jake: Hey, I'm like really really really unmotivated about life right now. Any advice?

In the middle of watching last night's episode of Top Design on DVR, I stared at my cell for a moment, trying to think of some pearl of big sisterly wisdom. I was tempted to blow it off with a flippant, breezy comment about how I'm not really one to advise these days, as my outlook hasn't exactly been sunny lately. But I ultimately wasn't ready to admit to spiritual defeat... especially to my little brother. He's about to graduate from UCLA's School of Film and Television in the spring and he's burnt out and discouraged. I know his plight all too well, and it breaks my heart that he feels so jaded. I tossed my cell phone aside in hopes that some kind of insight would come to me if I gave it a few minutes.

Tuesday morning as I sat on the New York-bound Bolt Bus at 7:15 am, returning from Philadelphia after a divine weekend trip, I tried to translate my complicated feelings into blog fodder:

"I don't think I'm supposed to continue living the way I'm currently living for much longer," I wrote.

At the time, I was a little overwhelmed (not to mention totally exhausted, having slept for one hour before leaving at the crack of dawn to return to NYC in time to work at Tabla at 10:30. And still a little drunk from the Barrymores the night before.) I was unable to further sort through the static in my head and the swirling in my heart. But I definitely felt a change...and whatever it was it felt so good.

My weekend in Philly was exactly what I needed, and not a moment too soon. I'd asked for Sunday and Monday off from the restaurants, and was pleasently surprised to get Saturday night off as well. I got off work at 5, rushed around getting my errands done (buying a dress for the awards show, bus tickets, and Vogue for the bus ride) and hopped on an 8pm Chinatown bus. Heather met me at the diner after her show, and we walked down to South Philly, catching eachother up on the past three months. As we walked, a cluster of burly former frat guys stopped us to ask where Finn McCool's was. We expertly pointed them in the right direction--I felt like I was home.

Sunday, I went into Center City early with Heather to shop for Barrymore jewelery and meet up with my old friend Andy for coffee. Having non-college friends makes me feel like such a grown-up. Andy worked at Chili's with me for one summer before he quit and somehow we've managed to stayed in touch over the years. He walked me to the Arden in Old City so I could take in the matinee of Candide that Heather had gotten me a comp ticket for (in exchange for me taking her as my plus-one to the Barrymores.)

I love going to the theater by myself. I especially love going to matinees and sitting amongst the over-sixty crowd. I feel like an insider, like I'm going undercover to watch how the patrons interact with eachother, and how they react to the show. (Plus, old-lady chit chat in the bathroom line at intermission is totally priceless. "I like it, but it's not my favorite. Sondheim is just so wordy...it goes by so fast. This is Stephen Sondheim who wrote this, right?The voices are just wonderful, though.")

As I waited for the lights to dim, I felt so inspired--and nothing had even happened yet! It was then I realized that it's been months since I'd been to see a show. I haven't had any money, so my entertainment options have been limited to the lowbrow. It was an absolute relief to be sitting there. As the overture started, I felt my heart thaw and my mind begin to open, and my whole being began to hungrily soak up every drop of creative juice that began to seep across the stage.

I always forget about the overture to Candide until I hear it. It is one of the most perfect, exhilirating overtures in the American musical canon. When I was in tenth grade, I played first violin in the Symphony Orchestra at the Etobicoke School of the Arts in Toronto, and the overture to Candide was in our repetoire that season. As I recall, it was the piece I had to play to audition for re-entry into the orchestra. As the Arden's ten-piece band played, I did miss the bravado of the seventy-piece orchestra. But the band did a commendable job with what they had, and the lush beauty of the playful, yet moving score remained in tact. I teared up the minute it started, and from then on was totally on the journey.

Heather told me that Terry Nolen, the director of the show, turned to the cast at one point in rehearsal and said "this may be the hardest musical...ever." And while the production may have fallen a tad short of its ambitions, I was still completely engaged from start to finish as I discovered the rich, poignant satire of the story, the lavish beauty of the score, and the bleak but desperatley moving philosophy of Voltaire.

"We have no choice", one of the characters says deep into the second act, as hope continues to dwindle. "The current will take us somewhere. and if it isn't nice--at least it will be new."

It reminds me of Nina in The Seagull : "And now I know, Kostya, I understand, finally, that in our business--acting, writing, it makes no difference--the main thing isn't being famous, it's not the sound of applause, it's not what I dreamed it was. All it is is the strength to keep going, no matter what happens. You have to keep on believing. I believe, and it helps. And when I think about my vocation, I'm not afraid of life."

After the matinee, Heather and I had a super cheap (but totally awesome) dinner at the Continental, where we visited our old managers from Jones, and discussed the show. We then parted ways as Heather got on a bus to go to New York for an audition the next morning, and I went home to hang out with the boys.

I think, of all the places I've lived in the last year, that the boys' house is the most comfortable, the safest, and the most nostalgic. I just feel so overcome by their kindness and acceptance of me, and so at home when I'm sitting up with them in their living room, talking about school and life. They are such lovely people, destined for so much happiness and success. I slept in until 2 pm the next day and when I got up, I realized it was the most satisfying sleep I'd had in weeks...on the boys'dilapidated couch, no less.

I realized: being back in Philly made me feel like myself again. It makes sense. Philly is where I found myself to begin with.

The next day I ran errands, bought Jamie a chocolate cupcake (it happened to be his 21st birthday) and dropped to visit Peggy, my friend Molly's mother. I adore Peggy. We've gotten to be very close over the years. She is an important part of my Philly family. Funny how the family we make for ourselves can become a more active part of our lives than our actual family.

Heather and I glammed up in a hurry and cabbed it to the Wanamaker building to make it in time for "Cocktail Hour." Within the first five minutes, we each ran into five people we knew from our various theatrical endeavors. (Let me take this moment to state: I'm totally jealous that Heather is now legitimately friends with Mary Martello.) And a lovely thing happened: even though I live in New York now, even though I was in one Philly show this season, for the first time I felt like I was a part of Philly Theater, instead of merely wishing I was. I'm so in love with the theater community in Philadelphia, and I've always felt that if it embraced me, I could be really content there. But for the first time, I realized that I can be a part of the community without living there full-time. I caught myself telling a friend that I was thinking about moving back to Philly. Truth is, this is only a thought I have when I'm there. When I'm in New York, I'm committed to it, and I'm certain that the tough times won't last forever. New York and I are starting to warm up to each other. It's been throwing all kinds of shit my way, and I've been consistently dodging bullets. I'm starting to feel like New York is accepting me as it's equal, acknowledging that I have the strength, stamina and determination to take it on my own terms. New York will never drive me away, and if I choose to leave, it will not be out of necessity or scorn, but because I've gotten what I need from the city and am ready to move on.

It's too soon. I need to stay in the thick of it for now. And in the meantime, a piece of my heart will always be in Philadelphia. I can't wait to go back for the revival of The Irish... in the winter and live with the boys again. I can't wait until my next visit. And right now, I'm trying to work. And I'm enduring.

About a half hour later, I text my brother back:

Me: Changing my location helps me change my perspective...find a new environment to spend some time in. It may help you define what's important to you.

Jake: Wow, that was really profound.

Me: Well, I try. Seriously though. Every time I get out of NYC I feel like my head clears and life seems much simpler.

I hope he wasn't being facetious. I'm a little vulnerable right now.

Maybe there is no such thing as the "Best of All Possible Worlds" where everything happens for a reason and all roads lead us to who we want to be and the ideals we most desire. But I refuse to believe in the worst of all possible worlds, where everything is painful and random and anarchy is the only path that makes any sense.

I have amazing friends and a wonderful family. I will take comfort in the love that surrounds me and the love I have for others and I will seek constant inspiration. I will defy the bleak cynicism that has overtaken this tragically messed-up country. I will maintain hope and faith in humanity. And I will strive to make art a larger priority in my life because art is what I do and who I am and it is that which makes me feel alive and connected to the universe and the greater good. Even in the darkest moments.

"Let us work without disputing: it is the only way to render life tolerable."

- Candide

"For the person for whom small things do not exist, the great is not great." - Jose Ortega y Gasset

I have always been afflicted with chronic lateness. It's a very serious issue. I'm very rarely more than fifteen minutes late, and to things that really matter very rarely more than five minutes late. Somehow, I cannot figure out how to reprogram my internal clock to run on time let alone early.

One of the nice things about working the am reservations shift at Morimoto is that I am always the first front-of-house employee to arrive at the restaurant. I cherish my alone time in the office. It's my time to drink my coffee, eat my homeade breakfast sandwich, check my email and read the news online. It's heavenly. Also, and this is both a blessing and a curse, there is no one here to notice when I'm late.

Whenever I manage to make it to work on time, or early, I feel an enormous sense of satisfaction and pride akin to, I imagine, what it must feel like to run a marathon or adopt a small child in Sudan. I realize that it's completely ridiculous to feel such a grandiose sense of accomplishment for being on time to work, but for me, it's a big deal. It truly is the little things in life that count, after all.

I desperately wish I was a morning person. There is something so divinely grown-up about eating breakfast at home, at the table, before going to work. Or having the time to take the long route to work and not having to speed down the sidewalk like a bullet train, instead having the freedom to take in the crispness of the morning air, the quietness of the city, and the twinkle of the morning sun. The energy of New York changes so beautifully from the crisp potential of the morning, to the vibrant buzz of the afternoon, to the smooth coolness of the evening, to the hazy decadence of the night. My absolute favorite days are when I am awake for a long enough stretch to experience all four stages of a New York day...and then am able to sleep through all of them the following day.

Today, I was determined to leave early and enjoy my walk from the subway to the restaurant. I was scheduled to come in at 10am, and to be alone in the office until the manager comes in at 2pm. To clarify, I'm not proud of my chronic lateness. I'm actually extremely ashamed and embarrassed by it. I wish I could brush it off, but I'm still a little too much of a people-pleaser to avoid feeling guilty about being late. And I really love my job and all of my managers, which makes it even worse. Although they won't know I was late this morning if I don't tell them and they never scold me when I do, I still feel like crap about it.

I have two main subway routes that I can take to Morimoto. I can take the D train (which stops a block from my apartment) into Manhattan, transfer to the A,C,E at West 4th, then get off after one stop at 14th street and 8th avenue and walk three blocks. Or, I can take the N train (which stops six blocks from my apartment) straight to Union Square, and then walk seven long blocks to the restaurant. Though the blocks between avenues are very long, I actually prefer to walk from Union Square for a number of scenic reasons. First of all, Union Square is one of my favorite parts of New York. It is such a vibrant cross-section of people, what with the publishing district up the street in Flatiron, the NYU campus starting just down the street, Chelsea just the the west, and Gramercy just to the east. It's all of New York coming together, professionals, artists, students, street kids, bums, and rich people. All in the same square.

Union Square (not my pic)

Fifth Avenue is around the corner, there are tons of amazing restaurants, and just as many tiny diners and cheap pizza places. The Green Market goes on several days a week in the square, with produce and flowers and fresh breads and apple cider from local vendors, and though it's maddening to fight through the crowds if you're late for work, it's lovely to stroll through on a lazy afternoon. And best of all, when I have the time to walk the long walk, I get to walk through Chelsea and dream of the day when I'll be able to afford a beautiful brownstone apartment on a beautiful tree-lined street like the ones along 15th street between 6th and 9th avenue.

15th st. between 8th and 9th

Unfortunately, since I've apparently become nocturnal and can rarely fall asleep before 4am anymore, and had to pack for my weekend in Philly this morning, I left the house 20 minutes late and had to forgo the scenic route. I spent the entire subway ride planning my post-work errand schedule in my head and trying to figure out how I could get a quick breakfast and a cup of much needed coffee for the $2 and change. I haven't been able to find a coffee cart on my route, and I was pretty sure the designer coffee kiosk in Chelsea Market would charge at least as much as Starbucks. Luckily, I wasn't as late as I thought I'd be; I reached the corner of 9th ave and 15th street at 10:08 and decided that a cup of coffee was worth an extra few minutes that no one would ever know about. And even when they told me at Starbucks that the coffee was brewing and would take another 2 minutes, I consented. I've got a long day ahead of me, after all.

"There's perfection in simplicity." Well said, Starbucks.

In the three blocks from the C train to the restaurant, I did get to see a little of the urban scenery. And it's such a clean fall morning, if a little overcast, that I couldn't help appreciating it as I sped down 15th street. I can't help finding ordinary things interesting and beautiful.

An alley on 15th st between 9th and 10th

This city never ceases to inspire me. I just love New York. As difficult as it is to live here, as much as we're all suffering from the economy crash, and as much as I feel the city has toughened me up, every time I find a spare ounce of energy in a spare second to take in the little urban idiosyncracies around me, I am always flooded with emotion, nostalgia and pride in a place I haven't even lived in for an entire year, and the same sense of awe I felt at 16, the first time I visited the city, in a simpler time when Times Square seemed like the most beautiful place in the world. And even though I now absolutely cannot stand walking through midtown, it's not the city's fault. There will always be swarms of tourists and newcomers flocking to New York, no matter how bad things get financially, because New York is still the absolute icon of the American Dream, the place where anything still seems possible, even if it no longer is in actuality. In a time where I feel like I'm systematically being robbed of all the opportunites America is supposed to offer, all the opportunites my parents had at my age to build their lives the way they wanted to without worrying about the economy collapsing beneath them and things like health insurance and social security that should be fundamental rights being abolished, I can't help feeling like New York may be the only place left in America where it might still be possible for me to find my heart's desire. Without New York, I may as well move to Canada where the taxes are higher but nobody bitches about it because the streets are clean, public parks and pools are aplenty, and everyone can go to the doctor when they're sick.

Am I being naive? Perhaps. I prefer to think of it as full of the hope that only youth can sustain.

"This is not the same country as it was when I was growing up," my dad said to me last night. Everywhere I go all I hear is it's not the same city, either. But I'm not ready to give up on New York yet. It took me 23 years to get here. I'm not leaving that fast.

And so, I will continue to look for the beauty and simplicity of the little details in my New York life. And I will cherish my tiny freedoms.

The 9th st Corner of Chelsea Market

Climbing Up the Food Chain, One Restaurant at a Time

Today I started a new job.

Don't fret, I'm still a passionate and enthusiastic Morimoto employee...after all, how could I leave the Iron Chef hanging? I am too huge a Food Network fan to let that job go any time soon. (Note: I have not, as of yet, met or even seen Masaharu Morimoto, although he's been in the restaurant several times in the past week. I was of course downstairs in the dungeon at the time taking reservations...and most likely obsessively updating my blog. Bummer.)

Times being tough, I've spent the last three months looking for secondary employment and this week, at long last, I was offered a serving job. Halleluiah! I'm now a server at Tabla's Bread Bar, owned by Danny Meyer's Union Square Hospitality Group. Hooray! Today I went in to fill out paperwork and do a kitchen trail, which meant gearing up in chef's jacket and baggy pants and hanging out behind the line sampling all the yummy food. Total bliss. And it's an Indian restaurant, which made the experience even more exciting, since my knowledge of Indian food is very limited. I enjoyed myself enormously, although the intense, exotic spices have been doing a number on my digestive system for the past few hours.

(By the way, there is totally a section in the employee handbook about blogging. I write this evening with this passage looming over my head: "It has become a common practice in our current society to use blogging as an outlet for our thoughts and experiences. Employees are to exercise caution when blogging about the restaurant and to always disclaim that the opinions expressed in one's blog are personal opinions that are in no way shared or endorsed by the company." To paraphrase. I shit you not. I'm a rebel without a cause!)

At some point in the evening, it dawned on me that the Bread Bar is no less than the eighth restaurant that has employeed me. Eight restaurants! As follows:

1. Cosi in Rittenhouse Sqaure, as a host and then server
2. Chili's Center City, by the convention center, as a host (for six weeks) and then server (for two very long years)
3. City Tavern (host...for three months. That's all I could handle.)
4. Jones (host, for 5 months)
5. Beacon (host...my first New York City restaurant job)
6. Lunetta (server, on and off for 10 months)
7. Morimoto (yay!)
8. Tabla's Bread Bar

Last night at Morimoto, one of the hosts who has been with the restaurant since it opened remarked to me that I've been doing a very good job on the floor. "We've definitely noticed. And the managers notice, too" says Aneesa sweetly. She's one of my favorites, this gorgeous girl who looks exactly like an Indian version of Keira Knightley. She's smart too, and very friendly, unlike some of the whiny divas (both male and female) I share the host podium with. "You remind me of me on the floor!" I laughed gaily and affably, then a moment later wanted to shout out: "Well, of course! I have more restaurant experience than all the hosts put together! Eight restaurants in five years!" Of course, I didn't say a word. Humility is a virtue, after all, and biting one's tounge is a necessary part of maintaining one's star status. I'm not actually bitter. Just overqualified. And I love this job, so I see nothing to gain from being sassy just because I can. Plus, again, I really like Aneesa. She's very genuine.

Anyway.

The restaurant biz is like a parasite in my life. It snuck in stealthily, without causing a commotion. Just a temporary fix to help me pay my college tuition. Then it nestled itself deep inside my stomach and waited for me to feed it. Every time I switched to a new job, or added a job, it fed on my withering soul, eating up all my creative impulses and all my physical energy. It grew bigger as it gorged itself on my life. I spent summers in the dark depths of Chili's serving enormous fatty burgers and Awesome Blossoms (which in and of itself is more calories than one should have in an entire day...2300 calories, people! I feel it's my duty to warn the masses...I cannot in good faith allow anyone I know personally to order such a gluttenous travesty) to fat, tan suburban families, visiting the city on their way to the shore for the weekend. The parasite inside me fed on french fries and the greasy dollar bills I pocketed each evening, eating and eating as I fed it more and more of my time, my energy, my youth, and never being satisfied, never fattening up my bank account, only processing my days in a never-ending black hole of desperate financial necessity. Look, I'm a smart and capable person. I know I could have had many other more fulfilling day jobs. But I chose to continue working in restaurants year after year specifically because I hated it with every fibre of my being. I knew I could never get stuck in a job that always seemed so disposable. I'd never feel guilty having to leave when lightening struck and I booked the big acting gig I'd been slaving away waiting for all those years.

Well, things have changed. And I'm not sure how I feel about it.

It was different when I was carrying enormous bowls of coffee at Cosi for $2.83 an hour and barely making enough in tips to pay my cell phone bill every month and buy new black work clothes when the old ones fell apart on my back. Of course I hated Chili's where even the salads tasted greasy, and people sitting in the lounge blew cigarette smoke in my face when I brought them that third ramekin of ranch dressing, and obese families racked up a $150 bill each ordering their own appetizer, full rack of ribs and their own friggin' Molten Chocolate Cake and then left me $2 in change. Or City Tavern, the three-star restaurant I hosted at one summer, where all the employees dressed up as colonial servants and served the type of fare our founding fathers once ate and the general manager was a coke addict who took shots of tequila out of the host stand throughout the shift and whose met his dealer out back with cash he borrowed from the register. I mean, come on. The people who get stuck working in those places are alcoholic bottom-dwellers, money-hungry lowlifes who got stuck in their adolescence and are too fucking depressed to see a way out, and too lazy to even look. Of course I'd never be one of those people. I think I always prided myself, on some level, on being better than my coworkers. I had passion and determination and spirit that was never going to be killed. I had self-esteem, for crying out loud, not to mention talent and intelligence self-control. I was more responsible at 19 than my mangers were in their forties.

When I started working for Stephen Starr's company in Philadelphia, the Starr Restaurant Organization, my view of the restaurant biz started to change. Here was a company that pretty much ruled the restaurant scene in Philadelphia, with 10 restaurants around the scene, each more beautifully designed and trendier than the last. This was my introduction to concept dining, from the inside. It's a cosmopolitan dream in a most accessible way...Philadelphia is nothing if not an accessible city. Creative cocktails, exquisitely flattering lighting, beautiful and delicious food, and an equally beautiful staff at every restaurant. I'd never worked more tragially hip people. Everyone had an interesting story to tell. And I'd never met people who cared so passionately about hospitality. Now, Jones is an extremely casual atmosphere (it's upscale comfort food, after all...you couldn't ask people to eat fried chicken and waffles in a suit and tie) so the transition from family dining was easy for me. It was nothing compared to the kind of service I'd learn about when I got to New York.

Beacon was the second easiest job I've ever gotten. (Morimoto was the first...I walked in, filled out an application, was hired on the spot and started training that evening.) I found Beacon on craigslist, emailed a resume, got a phone call forty-five minutes later, had an interview the following week, and started the day after the interview. Melissa, the GM, used to work for SRO in New York, and I'm convinced that made her favor me. After all, there were thousands of actresses and models in NYC that were way more beautiful than me who she could have hired--one of their hostesses was a Miss New York 2007 and another was a model who appeared on the first season of Project Runway. But I'm pretty damn smart and charming, so I guess that sealed the deal for me. Once hired, I was expected to look "sexy and chic" every day, always in heels. I was incredibly insecure about my wardrobe for months, especially since I was just starting to transition to the impeccably chic street-style that is the norm in New York. But I learned a lot quickly about fine dining hospitality--most importantly, how to handle rich old ladies from family money who wore chinchilla furs and had the most inflated sense of entitlement I'd ever witnessed. I knew people like that must exist, but I'd never met them in person before. Although $13.00 and hour was far more than I'd ever made hosting before, I was flat broke and in tons of debt (funny how little changes in a year) and so I took on the second restaurant job, at Lunetta.

The Saga of Lunetta is really a story for another day, it's so long and rich with incredibly outrageous stories of all kinds. For now, I'll simply say that for a while it was a God-send of a job (well, an Elyse-send...my most charming friend Elyse Ault hooked me up with the gig by talking me up to the entire staff and telling them the most likeable anecdotes about me she had from college), but when I left for Philly, I wasn't the least bit sad to go. It was time. I knew it in my gut. Three months later, back in New York and more broke than ever, I went back for a short time, until I almost got fired (see "When It's Time to Change, You've Got to Rearrange", August) and quit instead.

I'm certain that it's no coincidence I ended up at Morimoto. As previously mentioned, I'm obsessed with Iron Chef America and I can't really explain why. I don't know much about cooking, I have no culinary aspirations whatsoever. I have, however, always admired the creative nature of cooking. What they do on Iron Chef America is art. Coupled with brilliantly devised entertainment. Kitchen Stadium? Come on, that's golden. Let's combine competitive sports with food! It's that combination that America was built on, after all! No wonder people love the Food Network. My friend Jamison once told me that he has a theory that the Food Network is like porn for the pallate. There are a wide variety of fetishes to choose from: the Girl Next Door (Rachael Ray), the Foreign Sex Goddess (Giada De Laurentiis), the Big Deep-Fried Southern Momma (Paula Dean), the Italian Stallion (Emeril Lagasse... and Mario Batali, for that matter), the Big Man on Campus (Bobby Flay), the Sugar Daddy (Marc Summers) and so on and so forth.

I was watching Food Network Unwrapped the other night, where Marc Summers was going behind the scenes of the Food Network's hottest shows. Watching him behind the scenes on Iron Chef America was the most titillating TV I'd seen all week, and suddenly a strange, foreign thought popped into my head: I think I'd love working for the Food Network. Not even as a personality ('cause God knows, I'm nothing special in the kitchen), but, like, in production or something. I mean, seriously. And the thought didn't seem far-fetched. After all, I currently work in Chelsea Market, in the same building where the Food Network shoots. Iron Chef America shoots upstairs. I could be a PA or something. And it would combine both of my careers: food service, and entertainment.

Wait, what am I thinking??? I'm an artist, not an entertainer! Granted, the two cross paths very frequently, but I've always thought as a performer the minute you lose sight of art you become merely an audience whore, exploiting your talents to pay the bills. I sure as hell want to pay the bills, but I want to move and inspire people as well! I also want to write, direct, teach, paint, sculpt...I want to make a difference in the world, contribute to society in a way that improves everyone's quality of living, help people. I don't have time for a second career! I can't be developing an interest in service!

I think the root of this little thought started last Thursday when I met Joe, my old manager from Beacon for a drink after he got off work. Joe was always my favorite--he's a 24 year old restaurant prodigy, a former captain who got promoted to sommelier and then to manager. He also happens to be absolutely adorable. He's this petite little Italian-Irish New York native with a boyish grin who darts around the restaurant with a seemingly endless amount of energy in these dapper little three-piece suits, charming the pants off of everyone he meets (including me...pants are still on so far, but here's hoping.) We used to open the restaurant on Sunday mornings together, and he's been promising to take me out for a drink since January. When we finally did, we had a fantastic time, and I learned all kinds of interesting things about him, like that he went to culinary school in Paris and is planning on opening his own restaurant...and soon. "I have an interested investor already" he says. I swooned--and started to understand that for some people, hospitality and food are a passion, not so different from my passion for art and theater. Both fields are about bringing people together, celebrating the amazing phenomenon of human existence, the joy of life and family and community. This was an idea I'd never been able to understand before I really started to climb the ladder of the restaurant industry, which in New York is truly one of the most celebrated, high-profile industries one can conquer. No wonder the star-fucker trust-fund baby owner of Lunetta decided to pour his inheritance into a restaurant--opening a new restaurant is the quickest way to get New York to notice and (hopefully) revere you.

Never in my life did I ever think I'd be actually considering a career in the food service industry. But here I am, my imagination wandering...I'm a damn good employee at Morimoto. The managers love me. There's definitely possibility of advancement within the company...I could be promoted to Maitre 'D, Manager, maybe a nice job in the corporate office...it would be so much easier, so much more straightfoward than achieving success as an actor...

Of course I'm not actually suggesting that I might give up my theatrical ambitions. My heart and soul is in the theater, and it always will be. Sometimes I have to consicously stay away from it all because it hurts too much to go see an amazing play and wonder when my chance to be involved in such a feat will come. I feel the same way about watching fantastic film performances now, too. Deep down, I know I'm on the right path to wherever it is I'm supposed to go and that all the opportunities I want and need will come when it's time. In the meantime, I'm starting to find inspiration in my day job, my second unlikely and unwitting career, and that leads me to believe, again, that I didn't stumble into the world of hospitality by accident. There are things for me to learn here, too. Maybe it's the confidence I feel in my ability to charm the guests I greet on the phone or at the door and the higher-ups I work for, my confidence in my ability to climb the ladder...does this not sound like a kind of confidence I could apply to my artistic pursuits? Or maybe it's cultivating a love for the uniting power of food and wine, the way a good meal can bring people together over all kinds of circumstances. Maybe still it's developing a respect for the different passions and ambitions people can have, and understanding that one of the cornerstones of a good relationship is respecting and admiring each other's passions.

Who knows? At the very least, I'm getting lots of free food.

And certainly, there's nothing wrong with that.

Success and the City: How I Plan to Procrastinate My Way to the Top

As every twenty-something New Yorker inevitably must at some point, I find myself presently broke and almost entirely free of commitment. Luckily, I have at my disposal a large TV, DVR and an impressive DVD collection belonging to my friend Alex, whose bedroom I'm currently subletting. Amongst the many teenybopper flicks she has shamelessly displayed on her shelf (She's All That? Seriously?), I find gold: Planet Earth, the first two seasons of Grey's Anatomy, and boxed collections of the entire series of Gilmore Girls, Family Guy and Sex and the City.

TV shows on DVD are my absolute greatest weakness, greater than fashion magazines (which I hoard in great stacks), grilled cheese and avocado sandwiches (eaten regularly at 4:00 am), and cheap plastic jewlery from Forever 21 (that breaks easily and quickly thus necessitating frequent purchasing). TV shows on DVD could absolutely lead to my complete demise. For most of my life, I've lived without cable. My mother doesn't believe in cable and thus hasn't ever had it in the 14 years since she and my dad divorced. When I moved away for college, I sure as hell couldn't afford cable--though I did have one blissful albeit academically unproductive semester when a roommate's parents paid for it until she dropped out and moved back home--and having gotten used to not having it as an option, it always seemed like an unnecessary luxury. I'd rather be able to afford to eat at restaurants and go to the theater.

Sufficed to say, I got into most of the my favorite TV shows (as listed on my Facebook profile) via the glory of DVD, then taken to a new level by the advent of Netflix.

Netflix has totally enabled my TV show on DVD addiction. It's like being a coke addict and having a drug dealer boyfriend. Netflix is all, "Come on...I've got the stuff right here. It's so convenient...you know you want it." The next thing I know I haven't left the house in two days because I've been holed up watching the entire first season of Weeds...episode, after episode, after episode.

The year Molly and I were in sophomore acting studio together, taking Meisner technique classes three times a week and crying our eyes out pretty much every day, we watched the entire series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Starting in the fall, watching episodes whenever we had shared free time. The extreme teenage angst coupled with monsters-and-demons intensity was the perfect outlet for all of our raw emotional baggage that was oozing out of our acting studio wounds. It took us about a year-plus to get through the whole series...mostly because neither of us had the seventh and final season, until her mom gave it to me for my birthday.

Molly also owned the entire series of Friends, which we used to pop in the DVD player as a substitute for channel surfing. Yes, these shows on DVD ended my long-term period of television abstinence.

Though it didn't really start in college. When I was in high school, my mom started renting Sex and the City on VHS (remember VHS? My mother was definitely the last person in Canada, if not North America, to get a DVD player) and the two of us quickly became addicted. And this was after the show had already gone off the air!

SATC happens to be my all-time not-so-guilty pleasure. Whereas Buffy is near and dear to my heart but I constantly have to defend its integrity to the many naysayers who criticize my devotion to the show, SATC is more universally accepted and adored by girly girls, aspiring career women, and even some sheepish straight boys (while watching a disc of season two at the boys' house this spring, my temp-roommate Jake came downstairs, sat down on the couch next to me and after a few minutes mumbled "I hate to admit it, but I kind of like this show.")

Although I've seen every episode about 75 times, I've recently decided to start a casual marathon of the entire series. It's right there, at my disposal, after all.

Did I mention I'm broke? Not pathetic. Broke. Just to clarify.

Now, I love SATC, and like many twenty-something New York novices hoping to transition successfully into self-assured, experienced thirty-something New York career women, I frequently reference the show in everyday conversation with my girlfriends and gayfriends. But I must admit, as I grow up, I've developed a few beefs with the show. Not the usual judgments of the show that some people form just for the sake of being opinionated, despite having never seen a full episode: the characters are too promiscuous, Sarah Jessica Parker is obnoxious, Kristin Davis can't act (she gets better and better as the show goes on), etc. Molly bitches that "they're just horrible people. There's nothing redeeming about them" and I want to scream at her, "that's like saying every single one of our friends is a horrible person just because they drink too much and have casual sex occasionally!" Dude! It's the millennium, for crying out loud. And the show is not really about sex anyway. It's about relationships, the important ones that define our lives: your friends, your job, the city, sometimes romantic relationships, but that all of these are secondary to the most important relationship you can have, which is with yourself.

Anyway.

The thing is, I'm a little bitter about the effect the show has had on the women of my generation. See, the show isn't about us. It's about women in their thirties and forties. But my girlfriends and I all watched the show as teenagers and on some level we moved to New York expecting to fall into this glamorous world of fashion and parties and gorgeous men who would want to buy us cocktails. I didn't really expect any of these things to happen--but the possibility that they could was burned into my subconscious. The harsh reality is that the world of Sex and the City doesn't really exist...except for silver spoon-fed trust fund babies and socialites.

I was just reading an article about Candace Bushnell, the author of the novel Sex and the City on which the show is based, in October's issue of Elle magazine. She mentions how young women coming to New York don't realize that Carrie worked very hard in her twenties and early thirties to get where she ends up in her late thirties and early forties. You never get to see the years where she was where we are now: broke, living in shitty apartments and completely clueless as to how to get ahead financially, socially and professionally.

Now, I like to think of myself as being smarter than the average 22-year old. In conversations with my friends I've made the argument that young women don't understand or take into consideration that the iconic characters of SATC have worked very hard to get where they are. That's one of the things that I've always liked most about the show: these are career women. They are self-made and proud of that fact, with the exception of Charlotte who quits her gallery job when she gets married to the wealthy Trey. Not one of them came from money, however, and I respect that about the writing. In short, I get it. They worked hard. But aren't these tougher economic times? Isn't it harder for young women to get ahead these days? Haven't we become more jaded, haven't current socio-economic factors become even more challenging to cope with as a recent college graduate?

Determined to prove this point to myself, thus isolating and validating my own particular struggles, I do the math: if the show debuted in 1998 when Carrie is 32 (based on the fact that at the beginning of season 4 she turns 35), then she would have been 22 in 1988. I was a toddler in 1988 and have no way of remembering what the economy was like back then, so I do some quick Wikipedia research. Here's what I find out:

"On Black Monday of October 1987 a stock collapse of unprecedented size lopped 22.6 percent off the Dow Jones Industrial Average. The collapse, larger than that of 1929, was handled well by the economy and the stock market began to quickly recover. However the lumbering savings and loans were beginning to collapse, putting the savings of millions of Americans in jeopardy."


--Wikipedia, "Early 1990's Recession."

Hmmm.

From the New York Times last Friday:

"This is the worst financial-services crisis of our lifetime,” and Wall Street is its epicenter, said Robert N. Sloan, who heads the financial-services executive recruiting practice at Egon Zehnder International in Manhattan. “You have major firms that have imploded or are at risk of imploding. It is a deconstruction — and a reconstruction to follow — of the financial-services industry as we know it.”

--The New York Times, "As Financial Empires Shake, City Feels No. 2 on it's Heels"

Well, there you have it. The new millennium is just as financially shaky so far as the old one. I guess it's time to stop feeling sorry for myself and accept that success and stability in the real world, and especially in New York, takes time, patience and hard work.

Of course, patience has never been my strong point.

Maybe it would help if I turned off the TV.

My Adventures in Subletting...or, The (Seemingly) Neverending Story

When I graduated from university last year, I had no idea what I was going to do next.

If you want to be a doctor, there is a clear path you must follow. Undergraduate school. Medical School. Then you do your residency. Poof! Now you're a doctor! Simple!

What the hell do you do if you want to be an actor?

See, you don't have to go to school to be an actor. Anyone can walk into an audition off the street calling themselves an actor. Granted, without a resume showing that you have experience, you'd better be pretty freaking talented if you want to stand a chance of getting the gig. Of course, it is possible for one to be employed as an actor without any academic qualification. People do it all the time, much to the chagrin of those of us who spent $100,000 obtaining an academic pedigree only to find out that 20,000 other kids with identical degrees (if not identical training or talent) arrived in New York City at the same time as us vying for the same infintessemal shot at making a living as an actor.

I could never have been a doctor. I'm terrible at math an science and I am incredibly squeamish. I would probably burst into tears the first time I had to dissect anything. But the idea that you actually have to be qualified to be a doctor, that there is a checklist of things you have to do before you can officially call yourself a doctor, really appeals to me. If only I had known exactly what awaited me after graduation!

Not only did I not have any idea how I was going to pursue my career, but I had no idea where I was going to live. My roommate was moving to New York, which left me alone in the three bedroom South Philly house we'd shared for two years. I loved that house so much. We'd found it literally three days before we had to move out of our summer sublet, the summer before my junior year. It had been so perfect; huge, cheap, and available immediately. We'd lovingly selected a vibrant color scheme for each of the rooms: bright pink for the living room walls with lime green trim, teal for my bedroom with mint green and pale pink accents, and dark purple with pumpkin orange and lavender accents for Molly's room. We spent three days in the blazing August heat painting without air conditioning, taking occasional breaks to eat at the Melrose Diner down the street. It took about six months for us to afford furniture to fill the enormous house, but it was the first lease for both of us and we wanted to do it up right. It became our technicolor sanctuary, our South Philly haven, where we would return from our 14 hour days of classes, rehearsals, and waiting tables at Chili's. In the summertime we would fold down the futon in the living room, the one room which had a tiny, ancient wall unit air conditioner, and the two of us would fall asleep (feet to feet...sorry boys, no girl-on-girl action) watching Friends on DVD.

We moved out of the house two months after I graduated from UArts. Molly was moving to New York and I was....well, I was moving on, too. I just didn't know how or where yet.

Thus began my adventures in subletting.

My first sublet was in Philadelphia, on South Street between 3rd and 4th. I was finishing out the last 3 months of my friend Kati's lease for her, and since I was doing her a favor, she knocked fifty bucks a month off the price for me. I was also paying rent to her parents which, thankfully, allowed me a great deal of leeway in terms of paying on time. See, I was a total fool and decided that I was tired of working two or three jobs, so I just worked one: hosting at Jones, a trendy, kitschy 60's comfort-food concept restaurant.

I was making $10.50 an hour. Working 30 hours a week. Living by myself in a one-bedroom apartment that cost $600 a month. You do the math. Complete fool. Phoebe, what were you thinking getting yourself into this mess? Not to mention the ominous shadow of $30,000 of student loan debt looming over me. Jeez.

The apartment itself was fabulous. I learned that I absolutely adore living alone. I am fantastic company. I love sleeping on the couch. I love walking around naked. I love cooking for myself. I love not leaving the apartment at all on my days off without judgement. I love laying low. I love being able to invite people over at 3am (nothing scandalous, unfortunately.) I love talking to the television. For those three months, I holed up in that apartment. It was bright and sunny and the perfect amount of space for one person. It was in the rear of the third floor, so the South Street din of wasted hipsters stumbling out of the former TLA after a concert was 99% imperceptible. It was my peaceful haven. I bought groceries from the gourmet grocery store down the street and Netflixed all three seasons of The Office, becoming completely obsessed. I paid for everything with my credit card. I had a financially irresponsible blast.

I knew it was temporary the whole time. I had already made plans to move to New York at the end of October. Molly was going on tour, so I was taking over her Astoria sublet. I think the temporary nature of the sublet gave me a sense of peace. Every decision I was making seemed temporary, so I no longer felt the pressure I'd felt all through college of making the most practical decision. Like I said, I did nothing scandalous. Doing nothing felt like the biggest deviation of all. I was totally unproductive and loving it...and knowing that even being unproductive was temporary made it seem okay.

The time came for me to leave Philadelphia as I'd been planning. Having sold or given away all of my furniture and most of my household appliances, I enlisted my friend Matty to help me drive my meager belongings (books and clothes, that's all I've got left) in a UHaul van from Philly to New York in exchange for future theatre tickets, but at the last minute, he booked a show in New York and was unable to help me. He called to tell me this while I was having brunch with my friend Alee. Faced with the prospect of moving to a new state alone, without help, I promptly burst into tears in the middle of the Marathon Grill. (Fool!) Alee came to my rescue like a busty, pint-sized knight in shining armor. She devised a plan which consisted of her and I getting up at 5am on Wednesday morning, loading up the van, driving to New York, and her returning to Philly on a 2:00pm bus to get to her Acting on Camera class at UArts by 4:00. It was an insane plan. But by golly, it worked... until the MapQuest directions I'd printed out got us lost three times (once on the freeway, once in Manhattan, and once in Queens...which is the most ridiculously laid out freaking city I've ever seen. It's like Dr. Seuss was the urban planner assigned to the job.) So Alee drove and I cried and worried about her being late to class and when we finally got to Astoria, I had to send her on the subway with twenty bucks and a bus ticket and was left to unload the truck myself. She was only twenty minutes late in the end, and the teacher didn't bat an eye.

The thing is, I have a driver's license, but I'm terrified of driving. You'd never know I used to be a SoCal girl. I haven't driven a car in almost five years, and I was certain that me driving a UHaul van through three states equalled impending death.

The Astoria sublet was supposed to be 7-plus months and I was thrilled. After moving twice in five months, the idea of staying put for a while was immensely appealing. Plus, I fell quickly in love with Astoria. Everything I needed was within five blocks: the laundromat, nail salon, Commerce Bank, Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts, cheap pizza and Thai food I could have delivered to my door in fifteen minutes. Astoria park was a ten minute walk away. The N train was four blocks away. I quickly fell in love with the N train as well. If the N train was a person, it would be my boyfriend. It's so efficient and clean and reliable. It's always quick and it runs frequently. Plus that red lit-up "N" on the front never fails to emerge from the dark depths of the tunnel like a beacon of hope on those late nights after work when all you want to do is go home, eat pizza in bed and fall asleep watching TV.

For five months, things were great. I hardly ever saw the roommates and when I did we got along well. It was this lovely little melting pot of cultural diversity, very New York: Chia-Ying was from Korea, Sade was from Nigeria, and Emi was Japanese--but from Southern California. Supported by a sense of accomplishment (I made it to New York, after all!) and comfort in my new temporary home, I quickly became immersed in the city and kept myself busy for five months working at two restaurants, interning and taking classes at the Actor's Movement Studio and doing an off-off-Broadway show. Of course, the minute I begin to think I'm finally settling down, The Universe steps and to show me who's boss...and delivers me opportunities I could never have expected.

So I booked The Irish...and How They Got That Way at the Walnut Street Theatre. Which took me back to South Philly. Life is funny that way.

I hadn't intended to leave the Astoria apartment. To save the hassle of moving, I planned on subletting my sublet so that I'd have a place to return to after the show closed. But there had been some conflict with my roommates around the time I was packing to leave for Philly, and three days after I started rehearsals, I got a Facebook message (not a phone call, not even a proper email) telling me that they had had a roommate meeting and decided it was time for me to move out. There's a much longer version of the story, but sufficed to say I ended up in New York on my day off from rehearsal, renting yet another UHaul truck with Molly and moving my stuff out of the Astoria apartment while the roommates were out. I left a passive-aggressive note and some miscellaneous stuff behind, stored my stuff in Molly's enormous walk-in closet, and quietly but angrily moved on with my life.

I changed my address once again and settled into the boys' South Philly house. The boys, Jake, Jamison and Brad, are three friends of mine from UArts, who are all currently seniors. Since their parents were still paying their rent and they had room to spare, they'd offered for me to stay with them rent-free, as long as I paid their utilities and baked cookies once in a while. It was an absolute dream. Their house is just beautiful: big, bright and recently remodelled by their landlords next door, who happen to be our married teachers from school. The living room is furnished with dilapadated but comfy dorm-room boy furniture and frequently adorned with empty cereal bowls and spoons, piles of old Sports Illustrated, Time magazine, Entertainment Weekly and Rolling Stones, and empty pizza boxes. I quickly took it upon myself to find ways of making their home nicer, though they never once asked me. I figured since I was freeloading I'd better make my presence constructive. I purchased a wastebasket for their bathroom, did the dishes, put up shelves in Jamie's room that had been sitting in a pile in the corner of his room for an entire year.

I adored living with the boys. They were so easy-going, so pleasant, being in that beautiful place where school is still exciting and stimulating yet still safe from the harsh realities of the real world. I envied them--and dreaded thinking about the time when the show would close and I'd have to leave. Not that I had to leave. They would have let me stay as long as I needed to get my feet back on the ground. But as the closing date drew nearer, it began to dawn on me that I had absolutely no money, and no intention of getting a job in Philly. I'd have to make a decision: stay in Philly and work towards getting an apartment, or move back to New York right away, subletting until something else made more sense. The thought of staying terrified me--after a several months of auditioning locally I hadn't gotten as much as a callback, and there was no way I was going back to waiting tables at Chili's. Staying seemed like taking a million steps back. Philly had replaced my parents' house in the sense that my heart was there, it felt like home...a home that I inevitably would have to leave in order seek out the next challenge. Thankful for the detour, I realized there was no turning back now. I'd have to go back to New York.

Which brought me to that horrible Sunset Park sublet. I know I've blogged about it before, but I must emphasize how truly awful it was. Thankfully only a block and a half from my beloved N train, the neighborhood was the first one I'd ever lived in that scared me. I would frequently be woken up at 3 am by the ear-splitting sound of fireworks being set off right below my open window. Every single time I thought it was a gunshot, but the absence of police sirens and screaming assured me that it wasn't. Dirt covered every surface of the apartment, no matter how many times I wet-Swiffered the floor of my bedroom, my feet were still black with grim on the walk from my room to the bathroom. The apartment itself was huge and full of potential to be nice, but the boys who lived there were college boys, living there out of financial necessity. I liked them very much--I think the years of living with my little brothers has made me much more suited to living with boys--but couldn't believe they had actually lived in this filth for an extended period of time. I would kill myself if I had to live in a place like that for more than two months.

On August 31st, I moved for the fifth time since my college graduation.

The move was no picnic (it never is) but luckily I was able to leave the UHaul truck out of the equation this time. Molly was moving the same day, so together we moved my things out of her old apartment, and drove most of them to my new sublet with the help of our friends Tamara and MK and their car. I told Molly I feel destined to write our moving experiences into a screenplay for a girly buddy-flick.

Now I'm subletting from my friend Alex while she's in Philly for three months doing a show. I'm living with my good friend Matty, who is the best temporary gay husband a girl could ask for. He loves to cook and clean, and we stay up girl talking for hours every night after we get home from our respective jobs. The apartment is small and cozy, very clean and close to the subway, crocery store and laundromate. It's in Bay Ridge, in the very depths of Brooklyn, so it takes friggin' forever to get anywhere in Manhattan (I took the subway into Astoria to have breakfast with Molly, MK and Tamara last week and it took me an hour and forty minutes, no exaggeration), but it's so cheap I can't complain. Though a couple of boxes of mine remain in Molly's apartment, Matty and I were able to move the rest of my stuff from Sunset Park by D train. This of course resulted in a farcical turn of events. Picture Matty and I saddled with duffle bags, shopping bags, and overpacked cardboard boxes in arm, making a mad dash for the door the minute the train stopped at our station. My knees buckled at the moment of truth and the box fell out of my arms. We tried to push it onto the platform before the doors closed, shrieking in alarm, and the box split open, spilling books and pictures all over the concrete. Once safely off the train, we collapsed in laughter. It was like a scene from a movie.

Having changed addresses on all my credit cards and bank accounts once again, I'm feeling happy and settled--for now. That's the thing; I always feel comfortable in the places I sublet, at least on a superficial level. Deep down, however, I'm constantly plagued by a sense of uncertainty, never knowing where I'll end up the next time.

My friends think I'm insane. Truly, at this point, I feel insane. I'm dying for a lease of my own, to recreate the sense of safety and comfort I had at the multi-colored South Philly house of my college years.

When I was a kid, I went to 10 different schools in 13 years. I was always the new kid, always starting over every 9 months. I never had any control over my destination, or course. When you're a kid, you go where mom and dad tell you to go. I lived in Philadelphia for 4 years--longer than I had lived anywhere for a consecutive period of time since before I was 8 years old. This nomadic way of life is the only thing I've ever known. I often wonder if that's one of the reasons I was drawn to this craze career path to begin with. Having the possibility of travelling, of living and working all over the world, is certainly something I find appealing about being an actor. I'm a textbook Sagittarius, after all--I get restless easily. I have to feel stimulated and inspired all the time or I go insane...but with a life that is currently at the most unstable it's ever been financially, I feel like I'm getting more than enough stimulation by just trying to survive. I've been supporting myself since I was 17, but I've never had to work so hard just to stay where I am in life, let alone get ahead. I'm 22 and I'm exhausted. In this crazy, beautiful journey I've chosen to take, I need just one thing to be constant. Just one. Something to make me feel like I have a point of reference, an anchor to keep me from losing my mind. A sanctuary. On the other hand, I know the Universe has kept me in this tumultuous pattern of chaos for this long for many unforseeable reasons. I have to believe that where I am is right, for right now. And so I'm enjoying the present, cuddling with Matty while watching Project Runway together, sprawling out in Alex's big comfy bed, and trusting that when it comes time to move out, the Universe will help me find my way to wherever and whatever is right.

In the meantime, I'm thinking about downsizing my belongings...yet again.

Transcendentalism and Grocery Shopping: An Exercise in Self-Discipline

Having returned to New York with barely enough money to pay my first month's rent and half of my bills, I realized today that for the first time in several years I am unemployed, broke, and hungry. Not since my sophomore year of college when I was an RA with free housing but no time to get a job have I had to live off tap water and peanut butter, washing my underwear in the bathtub with dishwashing soap.

Totally badass, right?

Okay, I'm pretty sure it won't come to that this time. I have an interview tomorrow for a job as a cocktail waitress and a stimulus check from the government coming this week. I know I'm going to be fine. Still, it's been a while since I had to live off $50 a week or less, and that makes me a little nervous.

My friend Sarah from The Irish... lent me a book about a month ago, a lovely Irish memoir called Borstal Boy by Brendan Behan. At 16, Behan was a badass little punk whose connection with the IRA in the 1930's landed him in an English prison for three years. I'm only about halfway through (don't judge - I'm a fast reader but I get easily distracted, especially in times of chaos) but what I'm digging most so far is Behan's youthful waivering between self-pity and noble defiance inspired by deep patriotism. He lives on bread and potatoes and grumbles from time to time, but ultimately he decides that his loyalty to Ireland is worth a few years in prison: it's a small price to pay for the love of one's country.

Balancing my meager budget today, Brendan Behan popped into my head. If he can live on bread and water and little else for three years, surely I can do the same for a few measly weeks! And isn't my plight also in pursuit of an ideal? I choose a sparse, unstable life in the name of the creative human spirit! For the freedom to follow my artistic impulses, always endeavoring to reach out to the humanity in all my fellow men! To live a full, feeling life, experiencing the full range of emotion and experience, not just the fat happiness of the wealthy and privileged!

Riding high on these delusions of grandeur, I began to create a budget. I figured I could afford to spend about $30 on groceries to get me through the week until I received my little bit of money. Then subsequently, I'd have enough to live on about $60 a week for two or three weeks while I'm unemployed (though hopefully I won't be unemployed for that long.) I rationalized that if I purchased 7 items at $4 per item, I'd ring in at $28...perfect!

But could I do it? Me, of the chronic indulgences of every little craving and impulse? Sometimes I spend $20 on stuff to make guacamole! Sometimes I spend $16 on fancy natural shampoo and conditioner...just because I FEEL like it!

Gathering my wits, and doing my best to embody the spirit of Brendan Behan, I hopped on the subway and went to the Whole Foods in Union Square.

The minute I walked through the doors, I fell head over heels in love.

First of all, I've long since learned that everything is bigger and better in New York than anywhere else in America. (I've only been here 8 months and already I'm an elitist asshole.) It stands to reason that the Whole Foods would follow suite...but wow. I was blown away.

Three stories. The produce is in the basement like some kind of organic wonderland. There are 10 different checkout lines which are color-coded and television screens dictating when it's your turn to proceed to which of the 30 different registers. The lines are out the door. And I was there at 9:00pm...apparently all cosmopolitan Manhattanites do their trendy grocery shopping after their post-office workout at the New York Sports Club down the street.

I had come prepared with a cute little list of the seven items I was going to purchase: apples, peanut butter, bread, oatmeal, carrots, hummus and cheese. I selected each item carefully, saving a few dollars here and there on items that were on sale, so I splurged and threw in a cucumber and some vanilla soymilk for good measure. And I did give into buying the fresh Irish Cheddar...as a tribute to Behan and my fake Irish heritage.

Standing in line, I felt fantastically self-empowered. I could do it! I could be a trendy New Yorker and still survive on merely a few dollars! Why didn't I realized this sooner? It's so much easier to go grocery shopping than I ever imagined! And I had exercised such fantastic will power, which I tell you, is definitely not my strong point.

The total at the checkout line? $19.75

I am amazing! I am a goddess of budgeting and nutrition! I won't starve! I can live for my art and squeak by at the same time! How did I ever let myself descend into such insipid materialism when I was living here before???

I'm the modern female equivalent of Henry David Thoreau! Whole Foods is my Walden!

I am a fool.

Tomorrow I will get a job.

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

I had grand ambitions of getting up at nine this morning and running many productive errands before the matinee. Instead I stayed in bed until eleven creating this blog, then showered, polished off the rest of last night's pint of low-fat Ben and Jerry's Half Baked, and put in a disc of Sex and the City while doing my makeup. I do have to work later... I have two performances of "The Irish...and How They Got That Way".

Does my life sound fabulous or what?

Truthfully, four months ago this was my daydream. To get paid to perform, and have nothing to do all day but read books, watch movies, bask in the early summer sun and have lunch dates with friends. After three months, however, it's become kind of routine (hence the need to switch to low-fat.) I am so thankful for having had this experience, however I couldn't be more excited to move back to New York after the show closes tomorrow.

And I couldn't be in a better state, personally: I've got a good base tan, my skin is clearing up, I'm well-rested and my voice is in fantastic shape from belting eight show a week for nine weeks. And I owe it all to Philadelphia, the Walnut Street Theatre, and the three dear boys who have kindly lent me the roof over their heads.

I feel calm, cool, collected... I couldn't be more ready to take a second run at the Big Apple.

I have very different relationships with Philadelphia and New York. They are truly the two big relationships in my life. And like competing romantic relationships, each gives me things the other can't.

Philadelphia is like home, the home I created for myself and then outgrew. It's reliable, safe, predictable...it's everything a good, healthy boyfriend ought to be. We had some great times over the past five years. I grew up in Philadelphia. I had my first apartment, I learned how to take care of myself, I lost my virginity in Philadelphia. I earned my BFA. I became my own person. And I planned on staying as long as it felt right.

Philadelphia didn't do anything wrong. Our relationship grew stale. It just couldn't give me what I needed anymore. We want different things in life. Philadelphia wants to settle down, get married, start a cool, urban hipster family. And I definitely entertained the possibility for a moment...what if I married Philadelphia? It seemed like he was this close to popping the question...

But ultimately, the minute you begin to question whether or not a relationship is right, isn't that a sign that it isn't?

Which brings me to New York City. Land of sex and opportunity. New York is fuckin' hot. New York is that guy you know is too good for you...or rather you know he thinks he's too good for you. He's sexy. He's wealthy and successful and has great hair. He knows he can get any woman he wants. What would he see in me, this little girl from suburban So-Cal, who desperately wants to become a worldy, sophisticated urban woman? Would he prey on my naivete, devour me and then spit out my remains? Would he even give me a second look?

After moving to New York the first time I learned a lot about the nature of the city very quickly. Anything truly is possible in New York. You never know who is going to start talking to you on the subway, who you'll wait on at your restaurant and what opportunities might land in front of you as you walk down the crowded street. It's totally overwhelming. But the thing is, if you can keep up, the city embraces you, without you even knowing it. You become a part of the crowd, integral and yet insignificant at the same time. Just as anything can happen to you, you can happen to anything as well. Living in New York automatically makes you more desirable to others who are outside the city, and makes you an equal of those who are inside. The minute you start to settle into New York, Philly wants you back.

And Philly made a good effort to win me back. It offered me security, my Equity card, a fabulous creative opportunity with fabulously fun people, and the possibility of career advancement...in Philadelphia. I bit...for a while. But after three months, I've started to itch for New York again.

New York challenges me in a way that Philly can't. It fights with me, batters me around, argues with me violently...and I can't get enough of it. It's kind of an S&M relationship. I love how hard it is on me, and I know that the payoff when I make it through will be so much more rewarding. I have to chase after New York, even as it jerks me around, because I know that no other city will ever challenge me in this way. Success is everywhere in New York, it permeates your consciousness every minute, it makes you salivate with longing. New York rouses my ever-dormant sense of competition, it forces me to run faster and faster to keep up, while always staying just out of my reach.

We all go through this phase in our personal lives. Sure you can stay home and marry your high school sweetheart. He sure does love you a lot. But will you ever know who you could have ended up with? Who you could have ended up being?

I want status. I want success. I want New York.

No hard feelings, Philly. I'll always care deeply for you. I may even run back for a quickie now and then, when my ego is bruised and in need of a little R&R. I'm sorry if I jerk you around in the future... I may be the type of girl who manipulates all her relationships into being dysfunctional.

Maybe this is why I'm still single.