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

Ode to the Midtown Diner (and Philly Diners in General)

It's 10:45 pm and I made it to Philly in one piece. I must say, it's been like 3 or 4 years since I took the Chinatown bus, and wow did I forget how ghetto it is. Like, three of the overhead reading lights on the whole bus work, the seats are tiny, the whole thing is dirty as hell, the TVs are covered in graffitti...and dear god, the bathroom shouldn't even be spoken about. All I can say is, thank goodness for the hand sanitizer I keep in my bag at all times.

At least they make good time. I got in at quarter to ten. I'm staying with my friend Heather this weekend who is currently crashing with my beloved South Philly boys while she's performing in Candide at the Arden. The show is like 3 hours long, so I figure I've got a while to kill before she can meet me. (Actually, I suppose I could've gone straight to the boys'--I still have a key to their house, after all. I'm not sure if they realize this, though, so I decide to lay low.)

Unfortunately, if Philly were a person it would be a seventy year-old man with bunions and bad eyesight who sits in the park and yells at people and goes to bed at 7:00. There is a serious shortage of establishments that actually stay open past 9pm...even on a Saturday (bars excluded of course, and they only stay open 'til 2.) So Starbucks is out, as is the bookstore. I can't really afford to go somewhere and be waited on as I always feel guilty ordering less than $20 worth of stuff at a restaurant--a sum that seems so indulgent to me now. I miss the days when I could afford to take myself out to a $50 dinner at a decent restaurant.

Pondering what to do as I walked down 11th st., the answer suddenly presented itself.

Midtown Diner!

So many memories of drunken post-party grilled cheese sandwichs at the midtown run through my head and I feel a warm sense of comfort and familiarity wash over me. One New Year's Day post-sleepover, a large group of us trekked across the drunken chaos of the annual Mummer's Parade on Broad Street to drown our hangovers in coffee and oj and pancakes. Last fall while I was subletting Kati's old apartment on South Street, I locked myself out of the apartment and didn't realize until returning home from work at 1:00am. So I went to Midtown and waited for Kati to return from Delaware so I could crash on her couch and drop by the real estate office in the morning for their extra key. Shivering in the early fall AC (that seems unnecessary to me) and miserably sipping hot chocolate, I felt safe in the fluorescent glow of the Midtown.

The diner hags at Midtown are the best. No one compares to authentic Philly waitresses. With their flat nasal accents, peroxide-fried hair and trademark smoker's coughs, they're the friendliest gals you could ever hope to meet.

"Yous ready to order, Hon?" Love it.

They let me plug my dying phone into the outlet at the service station and brought me decaf and apple pie with ice cream which I ordered in hopes of soothing my cramps with sugar and carbs. I desperately needed to use the restroom and realized as after the fact that I'd left my bags at the table unattended without thinking anything of it. Cell phone on the table. It seemed perfectly safe to me. I was as comfortable as in my own home.

Yeah, yeah I know it's Philly, I should never leave my stuff unwatched. I do know better than that. There's not much there to steal, I figure. My point is, I wasn't even conscious of it. There truly is so much comfort in familiarity.

New York diners just aren't the same. They're cleaner and sleeker and the food is better and the owners are all immigrants. There is something so distinctly American about Philly diners. At Philly diners the food is generally bad, often the service is worse, but there is so much charm in it all. Plus they're always open, the only places in Philly that you can always count on to be open when you need it most.

Mmm. How've you been, Philly? Did you miss me? I hate to admit it, but I've missed you. You know I always do. You're my first love, after all.

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.

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.