Me, Ms. Rabbit, and all that jazz...



Okay, so I know I said I was done with updates until Christmas but I'm too excited to let this go.

I have to take a moment to record the fact that last night, I (and let's quickly review; birthplace permanently inscribed on my passport: Moe, Victoria. First performance space: mound of dirt in parent's backyard). Yes that very same I, performed at a jazz bar in New York City's Greenwich Village!!! (www.sweetrhythmny.com)

The 'gig' was my cabaret class final. I wore a red dress. I wore red lipstick. I had a snifter of scotch to calm my nerves. Then I sang. First Sinatra's 'Lady is a Tramp' as a duet, and then (**drumroll**) in an unabashed homage to an animated sex goddess, I cooed 'Why don't you do right?' to a packed house. Twice.

Even better, I got paid! The door, split between 13 class members and 4 band members, made my share a whole $25. First official New York City performance pay check.

It was what they call, 'a defining moment'.

Unfortunately there are no official reviews, but I can report that at the end of my solo number in the second set, an unidentified male voice rang out through the darkness, "Marry Me!"...

Sweet of course, but as anyone who remembers the movie will tell you, this lady might look like a tramp, but in actual fact, 'she's not bad, she's just drawn that way....'

Okay. I'll stop now.

Yes - Update!


This may well be the last update I manage before I journey back to southern shores for what is neutrally referred to in this city as 'The Holidays'.

It would seem that 'The Holidays' (or, what I suspect is actually the retail industry's euphemism for 'start spending mother f%#!ers!') begins at Halloween and ends at 'Kwanzaa'. However at the New School for Drama the holidays don't begin until December 23rd, so I suspect I shall be a bitter disappointment to the retail industry this year.

The 'Year of Yes' project has been both fruitful and now tempered by the fact that the thing I most often find myself saying yes to is school, and between now and when I collapse into my seat on the aeroplane and cry out for a gin and tonic that will have to be the case I'm afraid.

However, had I had more time to keep you up to date, here would have been some of the headlines:

The Curse of Crobar
How I got an industry card to the biggest nightclub in New York, and why I pray I will never use it.

Thanksgiving in the Building
How my life came to look EXACTLY like an episode of 'Friends'.

Thanksgiving at the Shoe Mansion
Why sometimes even unlimited access to designer shoes is not enough to make some people thankful... no, really, WHY???

Four Plays in Five Days
Free tickets and why they are ace.

What Alan Rickman and Helena Christensen have in common
Eleanor updates her list of New York City star spots.

My Date with the Fifty Million Dollar Man
Or... Really, how much can a personality possibly cost?

The Domestic Anti-Christ
How my one and only cooking effort for the semester very nearly resulted in a fire.

Are my Niece and Nephew the 'Cutest Children Ever'
The New York glitterati discuss at length.



The Indian Dialect
And why acting in it could potentially be a harmful career move.

And finally,

Passports
100,000,000,000 reasons not to lose them.

For the full articles you will just have to catch me in person between December 25th and January 15th.

Until then much love, peace and commerce to you all for 'The Holidays'.

XO

There's No Place Like Home

Just a quick note to let you all know my wonderful mother has clicked her ruby heels together and organised me a ticket to Oz for Christmas!

I will be arriving Christmas morning and staying in town until January 14th.

Fire up the barbies, chill the chardy... this marks my fifth Summer in just over two years!

Can't wait to see you all xo

The Year of Yes!

"That woman speaks 18 languages, and can't say 'no' in any of them." - Dorothy Parker

In surfing the web recently, I came across a novel by Maria Dahvana Headly, a New Yorker who decided her romantic life had been too bleak for too long, and in an inspired move decided for one year to date absolutely everyone who asked her out. A very bold move in this city of bold men. (And women!)

From her website:

Over the next 12 months, Maria ended up dating most of NYC: a homeless guy who thought he was Jimi Hendrix, a subway conductor, a mommy-obsessed millionaire, a guy who wanted her to bite his…well, you can guess, a woman who asked her to have her baby, an ice cream man who gave her a free cone – no euphemism here, he really did, a 70-year-old salsa dancer, a Playwright, a 30-year-old virgin,a Colombian Cowboy/Handyman, a Player King, a matched set of Princelings, a reincarnated dachshund owned by her mother in the early 70’s, and more. She fell apart. She fell over. She fell into a few beds. She fell out of a few beds. And most importantly, she fell in love. Twice.

I haven't actually read the book. I'm not even sure how much of it is true. But I'm intrigued by this idea of saying yes to the universe, at the very least to come up with more material for this blog.

And so, since Halloween eve marked the anniversary of me unexpectedly becoming a single New Yorker, I have decided to embrace Headly's spirit and start saying yes to EVERYTHING I get invited to do. Not within reason, not that I can fit in. Just everything. All the time.

I should point out that this is not about me and Men. This is about me and New York.

#1 HALLOWEEN

So here I am as Betty Boop. (I didn't say this experiment would be without embarrassment.) The costume actually caused more confusion than you might imagine given she's a classic American icon, but I guess these hipsters were more your Jessica Rabbit generation. (One guy saw me standing next to Edward Scissorhands and asked if I was meant to be from 'Beetlejuice')

The party was at the private home of a friend of a friend from school. (Madonna, pictured below). That friend is a doctor and lives in a huge 5th floor loft in Soho. It was fully catered, fully DJ'd, and perhaps just little too fully attended. However, besides the usual vodka cranberry spilled down the front of my dress and some girl's vomit dangerously close to my shoes (300 people, one toilet does not for an efficient bathroom dash make) it was shaping up to be a pretty happening shindig. Then the 4th floor neighbours arrived to report their roof was cracking, and generally showing signs of giving way, so the DJ relaxedly reported we might want to finish off our beers and head out. This officially goes down as the closest I've ever been to 'bringing down the house'. (Lame perhaps, but seriously, when will I get another chance??)

#2 THE WILD DUCK, BAM, BROOKLYN

One day I need to write an entire blog devoted to the benefits of living with a Finnish movie star. For now it's enough to say that Finnish movie stars date Norwegian movie stars who work in the Norwegian theatre, and are able to get you free tickets when the National Theatre of Norway comes to New York to perform Henrik Ibsen's The Wild Duck.

Even better, is that as well as seeing a great show, in great free seats, and as well as getting a tour backstage in perfect timing for the champagne toast to close out the season, we also got invited out to dinner with the entire company. (And by invited I mean enticed to the point of kidnapping!)

I learned two things that night; Norwegians LOVE to toast! (I must have raised my glass to join in 'skoll' at least 18 times) and the Vikings know how to treat the ladies. Jenni and I were fully treated to a three course dinner at "Queen" restaurant in Brooklyn Heights, (voted #1 Italian in New York City 2006.) The $115/bottle wine flowed so freely the only way to stop it being poured was to leave a full glass in front of you. Sacrilege in any language! Then we were put in a car and delivered safely back to Manhattan.

It was one of those magical, spontaneous New York evenings that reinvigorates the creative spirit... but that could just be the good wine talking.

Here is a picture of Jen and I with Harvard, the Sound Designer and our chaperone, looking a bit tired after Halloween the night before. I think Harvard may actually be experiencing an allergic reaction, after I insisted he try my shrimp appetizer. Apparently I was so overcome by how delicious it was, that I completely forgot Harvard had not ten minutes before told me he was allergic to shell fish. He thought I was testing his manhood, and so rose to the challenge. Ah... the Vikings.

Same Old, Same New....

I think I started my first 'dear diary' type attempt at documenting life at around age ten, when the idea of a book with a padlock my brother couldn't open held more appeal than actually documenting anything of worth within it. As such over the years, I have collected many half-assed attempts at writing about my life. Lots of beautifully bound books without approximately10 - 15 pages filled with ramblings long forgotten or torn out and burned.

It is often pointed out to me however that the life I am currently living is not only surreal, but much coveted, and as such it behooves me to pay a bit more heed to giving updates to those who are interested.

So in the interests of not breaking the weak Kmart lock and burning this blog prematurely... please indulge a DRUM ROLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am an auntie! Fourth time round. I went back to Seattle for a very quick visit, exploiting the long weekend for the Jewish Holiday 'Yom Kippur', which from my limited knowledge is all about fasting to atone for your sins. I chose to honour it by eating red meat and raising a glass to the arrival of 'Veronica Amira Handley'. She arrived September 10th. 8 lbs 10. Amira is arabic for Princess. And now Handley for perfect. She's very, very adorable.

In vastly inferior news, school is back in session. Busy, 'discombobulating' (new favourite word), but ultimately productive. Of all people, the stage combat teacher gave us a lecture in recapturing the joy in the gift of doing what you love to do each day, rather than whining about how tired you are.

In a show of inspiration and motivation, I thus joined the 'Y'. Yes, the very same 'Y' made famous by the lads of the Village People. I have not actually been in to exercise yet; believing that signing up burned the requisite amount of calories for this week, and the rest I can catch up in the steam room.

Really, there's not much else to report. The rains began today, as a gentle lead in to the snows I'm sure. I still live above a bar and a sex shop, but sadly neither are particularly enticing these days.

I added Liv Tyler and John Stewart to my star spot lists, and just for good measure got into an argument with the crew member who barred me from crossing Washington Square North while they were filming the new Will Smith movie... so yes...

All in all it remains the same old, same New York.

Less is More

Okay, so my self imposed 40-day stint 'on the wagon' ended after just 72 hours.

I will say however, that those 72 long hours were useful for proving a number of things:

1. I can go days (plural) without alcohol. A special skill not tested since 1998.
2. I can survive parties in NEW JERSEY absolutely, painfully sober.
3. Regardless of one's relationship to the devil drink, I still believe it to be sacriligious to toast the arrival a brand new baby (Niece number 2: Veronica Amira Handley, 10 September 2006 - check me out!) with a latte.
4. At restaurants, my friends NEED me to perform the pretentious wine testing ritual. Really, they were lost without me!

But the really sobering revelation that came about during my abstinence is that I have without doubt entered a world of busy, and the journey back to the land of lazy champagne filled afternoons seems to be a protracted one.

So, in the interest of my sanity and not having to make any more grand AA style pronouncements, I am contenting myself with a the following.

There will be vino, as there has always been vino. Just less. Which I think is more than enough!

40 Days and 40 Nights


I once joked (over a chardonnay no doubt) that I would never allow my drinking habits to reach alcoholic proportions, because with my luck some well meaning friend would take it upon himself to stage an intervention, and I'd be forced into rehabilitation - a fate that seemed worse than saying no to the ninth drink.

Well, yesterday one such well meaning friend sabotaged me over a Friday night out at one of my favourite restaurants in the Village. ("Voyage", check it out, they do a great White Cosmopolitan). Now I think this turn of events probably has more to do with the change in my living arrangements than in my drinking habits. I now find myself in the grand old US of A, and I think our cultures have slightly different definitions of what actually constitutes a drinking problem. (For example, for Mr. X, it's a problem that I don't always remember everything everyone says. For me, that's a bonus.)

So while I'm not overly perturbed, it happens that the sermon I received over dinner (and my fifth glass of wine) last night, coincides with a sharp increase in the amount of productivity and output required of me over the next five or so weeks. The first week back at school has left me with a list of reading and rehearsing that requires some sharp focus, something vanilla vodka tends to inhibit.

And so, I thought I would try an experiment. Now that I no longer have the excuse of the tedium of life in Laconia for keeping my BAC at a solid .05, and now that I no longer have access to my brother's fine wine cellar in Seattle, and now that the shoe budget is completely diminished, it seems prudent to assess what may reasonably be defined as an 'essential' part of the daily ritual.

In light of all these things, I am electing of my own free (if extrememly frightened) will to take a walk through the liquorless desert of Manhattan for the next forty days and forty nights.

As I write, it is the end of day one. I just survived 4 hours at a housewarming in NEW JERSEY (where the alcoholic beverages were both chilled and free!) with nothing to drink but iced water. Side effects as yet don't include the more traditional shakes and sweats, although there was certainly some glazing of the eyes during the afternoon of sober conversation.

Wow, stay tuned. I can tell this is going to be one wild ride. (Yes, I can see your eyes glazing over... you might want to bring a bottle of pinot to the next installment).

Four Sleeps (extended edition)


When I was younger, much anticipated events were measured by how many sleeps away they were. It was a good way of containing the sometimes overwhelming excitement that might erupt at any moment. Christmas, (back when Santa still existed), Easter (back when chocolate contained no calories), Birthdays (back before I started lying about my age. Incidentally, the 15th August marks my 25th yet again!).

Today, I find myself counting the sleeps 'til I am back in New York. Or perhaps, more accurately, when I am no longer in Laconia. To bring you up to speed, I write from New Hampshire, where I have been acting at the Winnipesaukee Playhouse for nearly seven weeks. This has not been without its charm. Working as an actor (even working very hard as an actor) seems to still hold much appeal, which is comforting given the two years of grad school which loom ahead. And spending my summer in the tourist populated 'Lakes Region' seemed also to hold much appeal. Laconia even seemed a good omen. I have oft heard Australians described as laconic. And I like Australians.

Apparently, as well as describing men of few words, laconic can also mean 'short and terse'. This has played out more than once, from the first day when a local yelled at me for walking on his 'private road', to the librarian who kicked me off the 15-minute email terminal in an empty library. Not to mention the old man on the bench, (no doubt his private bench) who, instead of choosing from some of the more popular greetings like, "hello there ma'am" or "Good Day to you, young lady," informed me rather gruffly and loudly that I was "WEARING A MAN'S HAT!"

While the theatre is in the much more lively 'Weirs Beach', my accomodation here in Laconia has been quite eye opening. It's the sort of town where the Thursday special at the 'Soda Shoppe' is 'Cheeseburger Soup', and the consultation rooms at the local medical centre have wide open bay windows that look out onto Main Street.

While not rehearsing or performing, I have found much solace at the Gym. A lovely, modern facility with a big pool, multiple machines, a locker room far less crowded than the one bathroom eight of us share at the condo, and a regular Yoga class that has helped me keep my sanity. Still, the gym is not without its own cast of characters, like the large naked lady in the locker room who is usually on for a friendly naked chat, and the 'Step Combo' instructor; a man named Janine.

The three productions have gone very, very well. I particularly enjoyed the first one, in which I got to play the title role in A.R Gurney's "Sylvia". The reviewer seemed to like it too. So much so that she has made reference to it in the reviews for both the subsequent shows. My mention for this final production ('Polish Joke') simply said, "Joining him on stage in multiple roles ... is the ever adorable E. H. (‘woof’!)". (Sylvia is a dog, in case that seems particularly offensive.)

Now that we have made it to the run for the final show I have found some time to have a little fun. Yesterday I spent the afternoon throwing myself down waterslides at 'Surfcoaster USA'. The sort of activity that catapults one instantaneously back to pre-teens, and inspires the use of words like 'bodacious' and 'righteous'. There has also been much lying by the lake, catching up on reading, and as many times as possible, eating at 'Lago' (the one restaurant that will serve you dinner after 10pm. Or at least, the one that I've found.)

Regrettably, my only romantic prospect came in the form of a shirtless 20 year old lad who used the time-honoured technique of hitting me with a wayward football as I was innocently sunning myself on the near-empty beach. Cutting to the chase, he asked me to join the game, followed quickly by my age, my phone number and, to seal the deal, if I'd like to take a ride in his friends car to experience the wonders of his new 20 inch rims. I looked at him as blankly as he looked at me when I told him I was 'acting'... 'IN A PLAY'. And while I have since gained at least a cursory understanding of what indeed 20 inch rims are, I'm yet to verify whether he has made it into a theatre. Ah well, another unhappy end for an unlikely pair of star (or beach football) crossed lovers.

TV - Land

Last night I went and saw Neil LaBute's new play off-broadway. It's called "Some Girl(s)" and is playing at the Lucille Lortel theatre, about three minutes walk from home. I was in the third row.

The cast comprised of -

Will - from Will and Grace
The Nanny - from The Nanny
The Nurse - from Scrubs
The Nurse - from ER
The chick down the well - from Silence of the Lambs.

Seriously, who needs cable?

Small Things

Around 5.15pm, I know I have to take a break from work. Otherwise there'll be no getting through til ten. I spend eight minutes dreaming up exactly what it is I want to fill my empty stomach.

Chai latte and a muffin. Perfect.

The sun is still bright and warm as I round the corner to my favourite coffee place. I saw Julianne Moore here twice. Once buying soup (non-vegetarian).

At this time of day the smell of bleach overpowers the coffee beans, and the only person sitting at the tables is a barrista on a break. I am just in time. A man I've never seen before serves me.

Medium Chai, extra hot. Please.

He doesn't say anything as he takes his time heating the milk. Then he fills a large (New York LARGE) cup with my latte.

Is that for me?

He gives a friendly shrug and charges me for a small. I also get the last muffin, but it's low fat which is not so much fun.

I'm just about to leave when suddenly;

Is that perfume Samsara? I nearly miss it, with the accent.

Oh, yes! How did you know?

Now he smiles, from a long time ago.

It's one of my favourites.

He just nods. Still smiling.

In three weeks today I will be finished the first year of my MFA. Until that day, I will be rehearsing every night and sleeping very little.

In fact, my work-life balance is so skewed, that in some of the more delerious moments of my tedium, I have seriously considered pursuing a few of the following self destructive diversions:

1. Recycling past dates (in the absence of any fresh romantic prospects) including the New York director who made Woody Allen look like a secure, emotionally mature, self actualized human being, and the party guy, who when I asked for a cigarette (to distract me from one of our less than enthralling conversations) offered me cocaine (in hindsight, probably much more useful!).

2. Taking up residence in my new living room (otherwise known as the bar at the bottom of my building), which as well as fueling the delusion that my apartment is suddenly six times bigger, is populated with a cast of colourful and extremely friendly bartenders, who I have come to think of fondly as annoying brothers. Except for the Irish owner, who is Irish, and by default sexy. Am tempted to make the economically rational dating decision of trying to ramp up a flirtation with him, but given he already gives me my drinks for free, this could be unwise. If things turned sour I could be down a local watering hole... and a living room.

3. Emailing ex-boyfriends... who live uptown.

I'm hoping the act of writing these things down will snap me back into some semblance of rationality. And following that, some semblance of a work ethic.

Yep, back to it.

See you May 16th.

So, okay, New York...


Every so often in New York, you are abruptly reminded you live in THE city. The city that songs, poetry, legend and sitcoms are made of. Most days, it actually feels quite normal, quite real. And before you know it, you've become one of those head-down kinds of people, no loose jaws marvelling at the skyscrapers, no fold-out maps and digital cameras. You're busy and important, there's no time for the dally or the dilly.

And then there are those nights when odd things happen. The universe might even give you a hint that something is in the air. Let's say it begins with you being invited to the Upper East Side, to hang out at the brand new pad of an actual working actor. An actor who's just secured a soap opera contract, and can now afford to live ''just off Madison''. So, he's cool, but not too cool to contemplate being part of one of your projects, and he invites you over for the initial script reading, providing food, wine and all sorts of metrosexual appetizers as part of the package.

Flash forward three glasses of wine. It's just hit the witching hour, and you are walking from Union Square back to your very downtown, very loveable shoebox. The journey takes you through Washington Square Park (think famous white arch), notorious for satisfying the extra curricular cravings of NYU students. Tonight, they are shooting a movie. There are huge floodlights, and vans and white reflectors, but this is part of the every day now, so you keep your head down and walk on through it.

A good looking and affable black man is suddenly beside you. He's on for a chat. He tells you Robin Williams is such a lovely man. So this is a Robin Williams film. My companion tells me Robin is remarkable. All that talent, but still so grounded. We talk easily, then about two thirds of the way along the path, we see a young couple bailed up against the fence. The young man is being accosted by another man, it's the traditional fist-collar grip, and something about the night is so surreal anyway, it's hard to place immediately what's wrong with the picture.

It is enough to register as odd however, and something in me feels the need to react. I don't know whether it's the wine, or my new companion, but in an unwavering voice I ask,

''Are you guys okay?''

The girlfriend looks at me wide-eyed (more deer in headlights, than deer in Disney), 'No... he's bothering us'

It's hard to explain the choreography here, but completely boulstered by a false sense of my own power, I step around beside the girl and look the assailant in the eye. My companion takes his cue and steps around the other side of him.

I say, ''Man... leave them alone.''

(When I started using words like 'Man' I'm not entirely sure. I guess around chardy number two. Anyway...)

He looks at me, he looks at my friend. And he lets go.

We stand there and watch to make sure he doesn't move as the young couple regroup and head off in the other direction.

Like I, personally, own Manhattan, I tell them to have a good night.

Then we head off again.

It's only now that I find out my new friend's name is Gregory. He tells me he is just divorced, and is homeless. He asks me if I can help. I think about what just happened. I wonder if he might be Jesus disguised as a homeless, black man. A modern retelling of the best seller.

By the time I actually walk away from him, we have hugged three times and convinced ourselves there is indeed goodness in the world.

At home, I stop in at the pub at the bottom of my building. I hope the owner, Denver (who knows me only as ''love'' and who refuses to let me pay for my drinks) will be there, so I can down a Cosmo and tell him my extravagant story. Alas, the pub is busy, and Denver is nowhere to be seen.

And so I write it here. Because I'm sure tomorrow I will be convinced it was all a dream. Man.

A few of my (new) favorite things.


1. The Times: The Times. The Times. If I only had 3 dollars and 50 cents left in the entire world, I would spend it on the Sunday Times. That and a grande chai latte make for the perfect Sunday brunch date. (Sadly my front runner for 2006 anyway!)

2. The Laundry Service: Moving into an apartment building with no laundry, and not convenient to any DIY laundromats I discovered a most marvelous thing; there are women in this city, in tiny shops, who will wash your clothes for 60 cents a pound!! Drop off in the morning, pick up in the evening. Washed, dried, folded. Works out to about 8 dollars a fortnight. Brilliant - once middle class guilt at having someone wash your clothes subsides... happened quicker than I expected.

3. The Gay Boyfriend: Certainly not a phenomenon exclusive to New York, but on the advice of a friend I have acquired two (just in case). Perfect for seeing movies, plays, listening to diatribes about the sorry state of dating in this city, and cooking meals utilizing actual stoves and ovens. Something I'm yet to experiment with.

4. The Bartender: Specifically, Brian, the bartender at my local 'gin joint'. They have half price happy hour all night Sunday through Tuesday, and until Karaoke begins on Wednesday. (That's right, you heard me!). Half price happy hour means five dollar martinis... which makes aforementioned Karoke far more appealing and likely.

Stay tuned... in this city the list is set to expand by the minute!

I couldn't help but wonder...

Having lived in New York six months now, and having spent four of those six months most unexpectedly single, I am forced to wrestle with the following, deeply philosophical question for the ages (or at least for women, ages 18 - 35); In 2006, is it possible for four girlfriends to gather in the name of a martini, without being asked, "which one of you is Miranda?" (Miranda being the redhead from Sex and the City, for those of you not of this planet. For the record, nobody is ever Miranda. Every woman, everywhere believes herself to be Carrie.)

'SATC' (as it is referred to by the sort of fans who threw final episode parties complete with pitchers of cranberry juice and vodka) without doubt set new standards for dating, fashion and female friendships the world over. But what about in the microchosm of Manhattan itelf, where not only does a single white female explore the same themes, but she has the whole themepark in which to do it.

From my recently acquired position on the inside, I can report that it is, just as they say it is. The same restaurants, clubs, taxis, cupcake shops and unaffordable footware. I can also report that it is a world peopled with characters, and that most of them are indeed only worth a single (dating) episode.

My cast to date includes:

The Actor (Actually 'The Acting Student'... important difference, and not a good idea when you're bound to the same institution for at least the next three years.)

The Director (AKA the 'real New Yorker', in other words, one who has lived here long enough to hate everything. Being from the land of sarcasm this initially had some appeal. The novelty wore off much more quickly than expected.)

The Performance Artist (what exactly that means I'm still not sure, except I know he spends a lot of his time dressed up as a large bear, and sometimes a 'glow puppet', and that neither make particularly good conversationalists.)

The Porter (actually, not so much dating, as 'avoiding his phone calls'... not because he is a porter, but because of a text message received two nights after initial meeting informing me that he 'loves dick'. Can only assume one of his well meaning mates thought it would be amusing to share the happy news, but have cut off all contact so as not to run risk of having to spend time with said mates.)

I am yet to analyse the official demographics, which may shed some light on this strange and frenzied world of dating I find myself in, but if there's not something in the numbers, there's got to be something in the water. Maybe it's just the scale of everything. The compressed space somehow manages to compress time as well - how else would so many dates and introductions be squeezed into those infamous New York Minutes?

If I had to take a guess, I'd suspect it has something to do with the fact that very few people in New York are actually from New York. We all leave families, friends and loved ones to come in search of something bigger and brighter than the world we once knew. To become someone bigger and brighter than the self we once knew.

But no woman is an island, even if she chooses to live on one.

And so we beat on, to door lists at clubs with names like 'Crobar' and 'Bed', and invite lists to exhibition openings at galleries with four white walls and free wine and cheese, and opening nights of plays, and birthday parties at Karaoke bars, and dinner parties at sushi restaurants... and every once in a while when you need to catch your breath, to anywhere that will serve four girlfriends a cosmopolitan without judgement.

Sex and the tennement.

It's the fourth time I hear them having sex in five days. And I'm hardly ever home. I say them, it's really only her I hear. As far as I know it's a different him every time. I'm actually not complaining. You'd have to say that anybody who moves into a 300 sq ft apartment above New York's most famous sex shop relinquishes her right to become indignant at the nature of the noise transfer. Besides, there's part of me that gets a secret thrill at any reminder that here I am, pulsing along with the beating heart of Manhattan - the bars, the clubs, the cabs, the theatre - and the thin walls.

I can´t believe I'm already half way through my sixth month in the city (I just counted). All the way from the land down under ("I've always wanted to go to Australia... but it's SO FaRRrr"). Off the boat, chasing the bright lights of Broadway, but for now, safely protected within an acting institution, which means I can breathe, step outside and take a look around.

Last night my roomate (by all reports and as evidenced by the few indecipherable DVDs in our apartment, a Finnish movie star) and I threw a 'Housewarming'. Which meant jamming everything we own into cupboards, pushing all the furniture up agains the walls and requiring that our 15 guests hold their breath all night, so as not to take up too much space. Actually it was the perfect soiree, and as if by magic, the apartment does feel warmer, and more expansive.

Good timing, as the snow has been coming down since yesterday evening, and now the world is covered by a most beautiful blanket of the whitest white, best viewed from the inside. I haven't even made it downstairs to buy the Times, or a 'caawfee', but it's nice to hide inside for just a day. Manhattan is a city that demands life be lived full throttle on the streets, which is good for your figure, but sometimes taxing on your soul.

Still, out there on the streets there's quintessential New York fun to be had... like managing two dates in one night. But more on that next time!