Low Level Panic

There's a play by that title, written by a woman named Claire McIntyre. I once did a monologue from it, which I can hardly remember now, except for the first line; Sometimes I come home, go upstairs, take off all my clothes, climb under the sheets and masturbate.

Or something like that.

There's actually no correlation between the play and the subject for today's post, except that every so often I like to pretend this blog has something to do with acting or the theatre, and that the title of that play happens to perfectly describe the relatively mastabatory state of self-induced anxiety in which I find myself languishing.

The end is nigh. I know I've been saying that forever, but now it's really, really nigh. As nigh as it's ever been. And I'm sure everything will be fine - unless one night I lose perspective in the wee hours, and jump off the nighest bridge.

Actually, my general state of anxiety is at such a constant buzz I hardly notice it anymore. The list has been the same for the past three months. Hell, for the past three years.

Finish all coursework.
Build strong auditioning portfolio.
Learn all my lines for showcase.
Find a way to be so fabulous in three minutes that the best agent in New York wants to sign me.
Sublet apartment so can afford to go and earn regional wages upstate for three months.

And finally...

Find mum and dad alternative New York accomodation, since heretofore reliable and charming Broadway Inn on 46th Street, where I know Otto the porter will take care of them, is showing possible signs of having closed down. (Hints include a disconnected phone, re-directed website and boarded up doors and windows).

Since most hotels that might otherwise meet my parents standards of cleanliness and spaciousness seem to be quoting prices in the $500-$600 range, and since my parents have their own list of demands and quirks (including, but not limited to, my mother's strict standards about her cups of tea, involving ideal temperature, strength, milk quantity, and importantly, what she is prepared to pay) it feels like it might be time to venture out and find them an apartment of their very own.

Fortunately there's a little tool called www.craigslist.org, where you can pretty much find anything your heart desires, from a couch, to a live-in-nanny to a one- night-stand. All I need on this occasion however, is a vacation rental, preferably on the Upper West Side, which I figure with its brownstones and its homogenous ye olde worldy charm is about Mama and Papa's pace.

With a little hunting, digging and refined searching, it seems like I might have found it; a delightful duplex, available my exact dates, belonging to a Canadian performance artist with impeccable taste, a king size bed, two big screen TVs and (drum roll....) a roof deck! (Summer cocktails anyone?)

Now, New York real estate is not for the light hearted. You get to step in, do one quick walk around, sniff for bad energy, try to impress upon the owner/broker that you won't break or steal stuff. Then you probably have about three hours to decide whether or not you want it. Three hours that don't coincide with daytime in Melbourne.

So I try to stretch it out. I go to class, I turn off my phone. I avoid the broker for a little while. But sure enough, the message comes as soon as my phone's back on. A professional courtesy from Jon, telling me a bunch of much mythologised 'Harvard Boys' want the very same apartment. And they want it for the whole summer. Now he will honour my 'first dibs', but I need to come up with the deposit. Now.

So I find myself in the heart of Times Square, in a non-airconditioned Ben and Jerry's, sticking to the plastic furniture, clinging to $300 cash, willing mum to wake up and tell me I'm doing the right thing.

Just before Jon arrives my phone rings again, it's a very sleepy mum. I whip through the details. She hmmms and has... and eventually tells me she guesses I know best.

I come home later that night, elated, dying to get on Skype and send the pictures through. "Look at the TV... Look at the bed.... Look at the roofdeck!"

"Is that bed king size? It doesn't look king size..."

"Yes mum, trust me, it's king size".

And then,

"Oh..."

"What?"

"Well, I thought it would be two bedroom".


I choose to take this as a sign of love and desire for me to be around as often as possible, rather than any sort of slight on my clearly impeccable apartment hunting skills. Hopefully, once she sees it in person she'll be sold.

In the same vein, let's hope her in-person assessment of the now not-so-new man in my life is less exacting. Past experience suggests it's a slim shot. Certainly, between now and their imminent arrival, the only thing left to do is to work on his tea-making skills.