Yes that's me. Yes, in a bikini. Yes, in June. (I know for Australians the sun without the Christmas presents and New Year's Day hangover can be a difficult concept). Yes, I am the whitest person you know. No - despite Nicole Kidman's best efforts - porcelain is not the new black.So this shot was taken a couple of weeks ago at a pool party at the shoe mansion. I know... it makes my summer look like a never-ending par-tay, in manner of reality TV shows Laguna Beach, or Girls Gone Wild. In fact it was more like; Foreign girl goes to Long Island overnight to escape increasingly disconcerting stench infiltrating the streets of Manhattan - but that doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
Summer looms ahead. Another three months, and for the most part an amorphous, unstructured inconceivable amount of time yet to be 'gainfully employed'.
To alleviate acute withdrawal I am putting in as many hours as bearable at the admissions office. A windowless, unairconditioned room that has the dubious distinction of being the one space in Manhattan smaller than my apartment. It's days like these I dream of being a Trust Fund Baby. Still my friends are there. The internet is there. And the paycheck I receive every two weeks largely depends on my being there every now and again.
Every other now and again I escape for an audition, or to the gym, or to a new babysitting job at an apartment on the Upper West Side that has the actual distinction of being a gorgeous, air-conditioned, obscenely large, cable-fitted, help yourself to anything in the fridge type apartment in a building inhabited by New York royalty types, where I do nothing but eat leftovers and catch up on Law and Order: SVU.
I had been warned about the New York summer. Words like unbearable, hideous, and pungent were oft bandied around in April and May, but as a bona fide summer lovin' Aussie I wondered how bad it could possibly be. And the truth is, not that bad. Except, occasionally and often without warning, for the smell. And that it has only been 13 days of said summer.
In regards to the smell, it doesn't help that I live in the west village, which suffers a daily hangover from being party central (just the other night, as I wandered home from babysitting, the window on a stretch limo in front of my building slid down and the male occupant oh so temptingly shouted, 'Hey you! Wanna party?'... how could I refuse? Very easily mum - I promise!). Ahem... it also doesn't help that Zay's place in Bushwick is opposite what is euphemistically referred to as a 'Transfer Plant'. Fortunately his loft is on the other side of the building, but the walk to and from the subway requires some serious alternative breathing methods.
Speaking of Zay (though that was probably not the most auspicious segue I could have dreamed up)... I seem to recall promising a photo. So here goes:
This was taken at 'Drama Proma' - end of school year celebrations. Open bar. Enough said. He leaves for a summer teaching job in California on July 5th, so there is some talk of my visiting La La land this summer. As a carrot I have been promised roller coasters and the Pacific Ocean. Now that is tempting...
