SIX FLAGS: New Awesome

The thing about being an actor is that more often than not it describes something one can't help but be, like an Australian, or a schizophrenic... rather than something other people might actually pay you to do. So that when you find you are in the rare position of being involved in the commerce of acting, and turning up to a theatre (or tent) six days out of seven to act, for money, you feel obligated to an almost religious practice of gratitude. To say often, and with a huge smile on your face, that you are lucky, and privileged and so excited to be able to do the thing you love to do.

All that is true. But it’s also a job and just as for any lawyer or teacher or ice-cream truck driver who works a full time week, it’s exhausting.

And so I did something I don’t often do. I took a day off.



‘Six Flags: New England” land of the roller coaster and the water slide and the over priced arcade game. In short, land of awesome.

I can’t really remember the last time I went to a bona fide theme park. There was Disneyland in 1995, and Dreamworld on the Gold Coast sometime around 2000, but I think that’s it. I’d nearly completely forgotten how much pure, unadulterated fun they are. How much fun it is for the biggest stresses of the day to involve choosing between the ‘Mind Eraser and Batman’ (let’s do both!), and trying to remove the abject horror from your face just long enough for the photo on the descent of the award winning ‘Superman’ roller coaster.

Not to mention the fun and utter humiliation of being drowned by the 'Blizzard'... a white water rapids ride where you are at the mercy of where the spinning raft lands... in this case, with me directly under the waterfall... twice.





Mostly though, how much fun it is to spend a day yelling and squealing and laughing, instead of networking, budgeting, rehearsing, auditioning, or strategically planning my next move. I feel as if I’ve unclogged something.

Last night I slept. And I slept well.

A thousand words...

I have been lazy, or absent, or maybe just scared off by the fact that on the very first day of rehearsals, for my very first New York professional gig, the Artistic Director announced that he had "really liked that photo of me in my bikini." (So much for semi-anonymous blogging.)

So here it is, my laziest update ever, or perhaps we could call it a tribute to Dan's exciting new job as a photo editor at Wall Street's favourite journal...




After three years, I graduated with an MFA from Manhattan's New School for Drama. Here I am with one of my most lovely classmates, also my scene partner in the agent showcase.




At the same time, Dan 'met the parents' and gained official security clearance for forthcoming Christmas/New Year travel to Australia.



Then, Mum and Dad met Dan's mother Betty-Jo. No major international incidents occurred, despite much time voluntarily spent together in high pressure tourist situations, including the Circle Line Tour (pictured), the Staten Island Ferry and a long, hot walk over the Brooklyn Bridge (both pictured below).







Once all parental units departed, quick check revealed relationship still in tact. (Author acknowledges this is a completely unnecessary picture in terms of story telling... I just really like the hat.)




Next came the trip up to the lovely estate in the Hudson Valley for the opening of the festival. Pics below depict opening of Twelfth Night, in which I have a bigger part, and therefore a fancier opening night dress.








In short, life (in the pictures) is grand.

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.

REMUNERATION... WITH A VIEW

This is where I'll be spending my summer.



That is, this is where I'm getting paid to spend my summer!!!!!!!

Yes - the mandatory post-graduation waitressing job has been put off for at least four months, since my first audition for work post school was successful.

I've been employed by the Hudson Valley Shakespeare festival (www.hvshakespeare.org) to be part of their professional company for the summer rep season, which includes 'Cymbeline, Twelfth Night and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)'

'Twas a three part audition, the final stage of which was filmed by PBS for a documentary they are doing on the festival from auditions through to opening night. (I only agreed on the condition that I could sign the release AFTER the audition - in case of a worst case scenario crash and burn).

Beginning April 29, we rehearse in the city until June, then we'll be shuttled to accomodations in the Valley, where we'll live for the three months of the festival. Presumably while being followed around by PBS cameras.

Beyond that, I have no idea what to expect. Right now, I don't even know what parts I'll be playing. But I do know I'll be getting paid to act. And I do know I won't have to be in Manhattan during the stinkiest parts of the summer.

However if I do happen to miss Manhattan's unique hot-weather aroma, the Hudson Valley is only one hour upstate of the city and therefore an easy train ride back to the gorgeous Grand Central Station.

Between now and then there's two more productions, agent showcase, graduation and a much anticipated visit from mum and dad to get through. But it certainly feels like lucky first step into (or at least a scenic way to delay the reality of) life outside of grad school.

"I am Google-able, therefore I am."

I'll admit it, within the modern dating landscape, I am highly dubious of anyone with no Internet profile. If a Google search for a prospective suitor turns up nothing, he immediately becomes a suspect individual. In fact, I may begin to seriously question his very existence. And I don't think I'm the only one. Anecdotal evidence garnered around a bar table at least, seems to suggest that "googling" prospective dates is not only no longer something to be ashamed of, it is recommended and standard dating procedure.

Perhaps paradoxically (perhaps not), I'm extremely nervous about exposing myself on the Internet. Unavoidable though it would seem to be. Initially, I even went to great pains to make this blog completely anonymous, which didn't stop the chair of the Playwriting department at school (who just happens to be Sarah Jessica Parker's brother) from coming across it. Highly embarrassing given the thinly-veiled origins of the site.

However, as graduation looms and my attempts to enter 'the industry' become imminent, the current man in my life (who judging by his passion for all things cyber-connected may be a founding investor in Google) is keen to help build my professional profile via the establishment of a 'web presence'. I guess the theory is, if you can't beat them, at least control the information.

Thus the counter on my newly imposed 'Google Desktop' tells me that I have 61 days to complete 'Project Over-Exposure', which includes my own website, facebook, flickr, myspace, youtube, wikipedia and any number of related groups through which I may 'aggressively market myself via the web'.

Now, call me old fashioned, but I can't help but cling to the notion that retaining a bit of mystique adds to an actor's allure, and ultimately to her effectiveness. I buy Helen Mirren, and I buy Emma Thompson, and I buy Jodie Foster as pretty much anything they choose to play. I don't buy Lindsay Lohan as anything but Lindsay Lohan... and to be frank, I'm not lining up to buy much of that.

Now, I realise that a bit of savvy self-promotion is a far cry from setting yourself up to be snapped panty-less upon arrival to an LA nightclub, or from getting arrested while driving home hammered afterwards, so I will comply and be very grateful of the assistance. But if I have my way, we will construct the dark sunglasses and floppy cap e-version of myself, rather than the Paris-Hilton-sex-tape version. That, I CAN control.

PUBLIC RELATIONS - CHAPTER ONE

In the first week of February, I sent the following headshot, accompanied by what I hope was a pithy, non-crazy cover letter to approximately seventy agents and casting directors.




It's supposed to be my 'I'm a serious actor' shot.

As of today I have been contacted by a total of zero agents and/or casting directors.

Just before school began in August, I went to lunch with the Chair of the school's directing program. Sitting across the table at the Bus Stop Cafe in the West Village, she told me the story of a well-known graduate of the program; how two months before she was cast in the role for which she would ulitmately be 'Tony-nominated' she'd been crumpled in a heap on the Chair's living room floor weeping and feeling completely lost.

I have pre-booked my appointment on said floor for approximately two weeks after graduation. Just in case.

CURTAINS

On February 16th 'TALK TO ME LIKE THE RAIN AND LET ME LISTEN' - my last major thesis project - came to an end, producing the weird sensation of somehow - though not quite - being done with school. Worst, being six days shy of completing the drinking challenge, I couldn't even mark the occasion with a stiff drink. (My apologies to Mr. Williams.)

While I still have classes, something pretty catastrophic would have to happen for me not to graduate. So that's it. Done... Sort of.

If it were a film, you might say my degree is in the can. Now all that's left are the rounds of interviews and walks down the red carpet to sell the shit out of it.

"I THINK NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME FOR A BEER"
- Franklin D. Roosevelt, upon repealing Prohibition laws in 1933

Let me paint you the picture.

It's Sunday evening, shortly after 8pm. I'm sitting at my computer wearing a floppy woolen beret, a grey blanket draped over my knees and a hot cup of 'Yogi; Breathe Deep' tea drawing next to me. I have been inside all day. Enjoying the moody grey blanket draped over the downtown skyline, and the occasional impressive swirl of snow outside the window.

Partly, I am being overly conscious of a vaguely sore throat that threatens to derail my big performance this week, and partly I'm only vaguely conscious of what I might otherwise have been doing, in a former lifetime, on a New York Sunday night...

I'm twenty days into a one-month sobriety challenge. Of course those of you even vaguely following this blog might remember that I tried that once before, and it ended after a rather pathetic 72 hours. But this time two things are different.

1. I have not only a pseudo-sponsor, but a partner in temperance, joining me on the crusade, and staring me down in moments of weakness.

2. Most importantly, this time, the challenge has been laid down by my father. In fact, it was almost more like a dare. And so, it has become a matter of pride, and more importantly, a matter of competition.

As one who likes to think I can do anything to which I set my mind, and who would firmly hold that my consumption of alcohol has always been well short of intervention-worthy, more horrifying than trying to live in Manhattan sans martini, is with what overwhelming pride (and perhaps borderline shock) my father has responded to hearing the news of my success. At the one-week mark he even forgave a speeding ticket I incurred in his car on a recent trip home to Australia. (Unfortunatley when the second ticket arrived in the mail, much of that sheen seemed to have worn off).

Having never been a smoker, I can only imagine trying to quit induces similar pitfalls. It seems to me it's the habitual associations that are the hardest to conquer. Great pizza without cheap red wine, the Superbowl without an icy beer, the pool hall without a strong vodka... Brooklyn without anything you can get your hands on. I mean let's face it, without a cocktail, Friday night happy hour becomes nothing more than one hell of an overrated hour.

On the other hand, drinking water all night in its various creative forms (iced/boiled/soda/seltzer/tonic) is an interesting sociological experiment. We get to watch, as others not only fall off the wagon, but knock over coat racks, kick over garbage cans, fight with their partners, stumble into taxis. Even more benignly, we get to walk through that uniquely alcohol-infused 'wet breath' expelled into the air and faces of passers-by in crowded bars. We get to enjoy the voices of fellow pool players become louder, and louder and finally dissolve into squeals and shrieks. And not mind so much, as realise that most weekends, or even most nights, it's probably us.

All that said, my interest in the social sciences have a definitive time limit, and that limit is exactly one month. No more, and (because I can't thing of a clever way out of this stupid challenge) no less.

So I will make it to February 22nd if it kills me. And it well might.

As if my father were the devil himself running around planting apple-martini trees in this dry, dry garden of Eden, I received an email last week inviting me to hear an Irish poet read at something non-ironically called the 'Global Nomad Poetry Salon'. It's sponsored by Jamesons. It's at the SoHo loft. Cocktails start at 6.30pm. ON FEBRUARY 21st!

Five hours from the finish line stands an Irish man, in downtown New York City, holding a free bottle of Jamesons. And while I suspect not even God himself (and certainly not my father) would be able to resist such temptation, I'm determined to make it.

Because when midnight comes, I will be ordering the biggest Big-Apple martini I can find, and announcing that while yes, YES I CAN go a month without drinking, I would never hope to be in the distasteful position of having to do so again. For if nothing else, I think we can all agree that listening to Irish poetry while sober is just plain bad manners.

HUNDREDS AND THOUSANDS

For two and a half years now, I have had the good fortune (or better, small fortune) of living at one of the trendiest addresses in Manhattan; the West Village. (Also known as 'Hollywood's New York')

Once upon a time, not so many decades ago, 'The Village' was celebrated for affording a renegade, beatnick, bohemian lifestyle; speakeasys, coffee houses... both the cool Dylans. Now, it affords very little to very few. And most of those few work on Wall Street.

However, if you're prepared to live in a cupboard. And sublet half that cupboard to a Finnish movie star. And enter into negotiations with a heavily accented Italian man named 'Tony' when it comes time for the annual rent hike... Then it's what you might consider 'doable'. It's all a matter of perspective after all. As the broker pointed out when showing us the place, 'The West Village is your living room!'

As it turns out, he was telling the truth. And not a bad living room at all. A great Irish bar at the bottom of my building, the best tapas in Manhattan across the street, a laundromat full of non-judmental Korean women ninety seconds away... Best of all is school, a mere ten minute stroll down one of Manhattan's rare tree-lined and winding roads.

Unfortunately, if not planned with the utmost care and focus, that stroll can land you smack in the middle of couture central; the Paris end of Bleeker Street. Coach, Juicy Couture, Cynthia Rowley, Marc Jacobs, and the scene of my latest fashion accident, Ralph Lauren.

By way of background I perhaps need to explain that little dresses, or cocktail frocks, or 'numbers', are my personal Achilles heel. Or, if you will, my crack habit.

Initially I was just a social user, but then the social occasions became more and more frequent, until eventually I was buying dresses at will, in anticipation of the next event, and the next. Of course that led to a small shoe-purchase abuse problem, and had I not been smacked into submission by a return to the student lifestyle in one of the most expensive cities in the world, frivolous purses could not have been far too away.

On a strict 'Sex and the City' repeats 'methodone program', I have managed to stay more or less on the wagon for the past two or so years, with only the occasional slip here and there. (Surely sample sales are considered entrappment?)

Until last Friday.

I don't want to overstate it. It was just a little black dress. Slinky. Knee length. Silk. Not so much in the window of Ralph Lauren, as on a svelte mannequin just inside the brass-handled door, saying 'buy me... buy me'. The word 'Sale' was stencilled on the window in muted tones, engendering the smallest cause for hope.

I resisted for a full 24-hours before dragging my most grounded, yet gentle friend David along to watch me try it on. I needed someone there to tell me I was being insane, without embarrassing me in front of the Waspy, and highly judgemental sales girls.

They had only one. It was my size. I took it into the dressing room and scrounged for the price, which was nowhere to be found on the tag. Great. The only other thing I know to be 'Price on Application' is the sort of Real Estate for which you submit tenders. In short, if you have to ask, you probably can't afford it.

But I did ask, and Kent (not a made up name) went off to check in the computer. I probably had a total of 45 seconds to float around in front of the full length skinny-mirrors before she came back with the verdict,

"Twenty four ninety eight." (The decimal point is deafeningly silent.)

I can't help but smile a little at how the high-end masterfully manage to eradicate words like 'hundred' and 'thousand', and with such transparent devices. Take the the non-sensical irregularity of the price tag - it's not actually intended to trick us is it? They don't expect that we'll blithely hand over the credit card, and be too embarrassed to come back when we get the statement and realise the dress was not in fact sold to us for the bargain basement $24.98?

It's as if to acknowledge it would be crass, or dirty. As if saying out loud that this finely crafted piece of black silk will set you back TWO THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS, would betray some silent code, or break the magic spell of couture. Would a very human, mutual acknowledgement of the extravagant price tag really ruin the fun of the extravagance? Would it really hurt us to be a little more real about the whole thing - after all, Ralph Lauren began life as one 'Ralph Lipschitz', a young lad from the Bronx, who sold ties out of the trunk of a car. So tell me, when did common sense become just plain common?

But Kent is not done. While the dress is unfortunately not part of the sale, the strappy four-inch heels she has grabbed for me to try on 'just for effect' are. More than that, Kent informs me, 'they are a steal'. Even level-headed David has to acknowledge that the reduction from $590 to $144 is fab-u-lous, and I'd be mad to pass them up. (For all my intentions, I can't help but feel I subconsciously took a gay man with me for this very reason.)

So I don't pass them up. I hand over my credit card and sign some form and Kent promises she'll have my size in from interstate before the off-broadway opening of Lynn Redgrave's new show I'm due to attend next Monday. Of course, with what dress I'll wear them (as clearly the little black number went back on the rack) or indeed what business I have wearing strappy satin heels in the middle of winter in Manhattan I have no idea, but I have some drying out to do before I can even contemplate that next (well-heeled) step.

WEEK ONE

22 January 2008

3:00pm
First class of the last first day of school, ever.

3.31pm
Heath Ledger is discovered dead by a masseuse and housekeeper in his SoHo apartment, naked, face down on his bed.

I get the news as I come out of class at around 6pm. Patrick's mother has sent him a text message. She lives in Ohio. At the moment we hear the news the paramedics are removing his body, in a bag, from the apartment. Tmz.com are running a live video stream for your viewing pleasure. Although if we wanted to, we could probably run over in about fifteen minutes, and watch it in person. I don't want to. I'm more shocked than I would have imagined. If I could have imagined.

It makes me think of Denver, my lovely irish bartender, who died March last year in much the same manner. Except with Denver it was a West Village apartment. Around the corner from mine. And I'd been inside it. I'd managed not to think about him for a while.

7.03pm
At 'Automatic Slims' I refuse my first drink for the 'month of sobriety', a post new-year challenge set by my concerned father. Later at 'Tortilla Flats' I pass on drinks 2 and 3. Turns out to be a most inopportune time as in meeting with production company discussing potential remounting of 'Limonade Tous Les Jour' with Austin Pendleton. Everything crossed by Fall I'll be legitimately employed in an equity 'off-Broadway' production.


23 January 2008

4.30pm
Meet with 'Director of Professional Development' to choose headshots. Good time not to be feeling insecure about physical appearance. It helps if you can think of person in photo as someone else.

'We' decide on two.

The 'Seriously Serious' actress, and the 'I want to work with this chick, slightly "whacked-out" (?) commerical shot'.

These will be sent out to the mysterious 'industry' in two strategic mailings.

After the meeting I refuse drink #4 at Slims, and instead share a goat cheese salad with Andrew and head to the East Village for first rehearsal of Tennessee Williams' 'Talk to me like the rain, and let me listen'. Opening February 14.


24 January 2008

Second rehearsal for 'Rain'. We do a physical improv and another read through. The play basically consists of two long monologues. I feel boring though trust the play is not.

Send the photos through to the photographer to organise touch ups and prints. Must do first mail out by Monday.

Having trouble sleeping. Can't decide whether it's the million things buzzing around my head, or lack of alcohol in my system.


25 January 2008

11.08am
Check in at ISS (International Student Services). This is my half yearly reminder that (despite all that hard work on a convincing neutral american accent) I am a foreigner and tolerated in this country only under the strictest of conditions, also with a definite expiry date.

3.00pm
First read through of 'Scab' a new play for director's full length festival happening at school in May. This will be my last project at school. Ever. I'm playing a 22 year old history student, beginning grad school.

10:00pm
Dan and I head to Amsterdam pool hall (where Jerry Seinfeld spent the best part of every week for 18 months working on his pool game after the show had finished and he came back to New York with a pocket full of serious cash and no responsibilities). The hardest part is waiting at the bar for our table to be free. Dan has 'tonic water' and I have a 'soda water'. The bartender gives us a look that screams 'The fundamentalist Christians have arrived!'

Probably avoid about six drinks over the course of the next two and a half hours. Watch with mild curiousity as others around us become increasingly intoxicated. Certainly no judgement, just curiousity and mild horror that that's usually me.


26 January 2008 - AUSTRALIA DAY

Drinks avoided: 6 (conservative estimate).

THE TIMES, THEY ARE A'CHANGIN


And with that nostaligc (if gramatically incorrect) headline, I'd like to announce a new era for New York Minutes.

2008 - THE YEAR OF TRANSITION

So dubbed by my family, who developed a slightly bizarre penchant for labelling each year some time around 2003 ('The Year We Had to Have'). I think it's both supposed to reflect a realistic acceptance of the yearly outlook, as well as some kind of 'Secret'-style manifestation of what we'd like to have happen.

Regardless, whether I like it or not, 2008 will be the year of much transitioning.

In May, school is finished. Forever.

That's twenty years of my life (count them!) spent in one institution or another... and that's not even taking three-year-old Kindergarten into consideration.

I will finally be let loose in the wilds of New York City. No longer protected within the confines of 151 Bank Street, Manhattan. No longer heavily scheduled, no more imposed timetables, no longer micromanaged, and most horrifyingly, no longer consistently gainfully employed.

On the brighter side, it occurred to me that a much more interesting part of this little New York story is about to emerge, one that demands more attention than the sporadic and largely inconsequential letters home to date. In short, the minutes are hotting up. And let's face it, in this, the era of 'Facebook', there's nothing about the general day to day that a quick 'status update' can't fill you in on.

So I'm going to shift focus, and in 2008 keep you up to date with the minutae of this Australian's quest to become a working New York Actress. In fact, let's go all out, a SUCCESSFUL New York actress.

In the dramatic structure of this narrative there are a number of formidable obstacles:

1. The number of actresses already in New York.
2. The number of new actresses about to graduate with me.
3. The Writer's strike.
4. The fact that I'm considered an 'alien' in this country, with all its unpleasant connotations.
5. Time; there are 18 months left on my visa before either they kick me out, I 'make it', or I marry a gay friend... start your watches!
5. The odds of anyone, ever becoming a successful actress anywhere - let alone New York.

Please note, I am purposefully choosing to use the gender specific 'actress' for the purposes of this tale, as I believe there is something uniquely humiliating about the fledgling female actor's experience of being introduced to 'the industry'.

Other than that, I have nothing to say except that I promise to tell it all. Even the crash and burn bits. Especially the crash and burn bits.

In that way, this blog becomes like my insurance policy; the bigger the disaster, the more entertaining the story. (Screenplay rights, anyone?)

quiet time or sugar crash?

This morning it's just Ana (5) and Xavier (4) and I, for about three (3!) hours. I'm officical caretaker while their mother (my sister) is off collecting the newly arrived cousin (with the American accent) and visiting the great grandmother.

All is grand as we set off on our much hyped 'coffee date', which both charges have been very excited about all morning. Even to me, it sounds a very grown up and sophisticated thing to do with their much-hyped 'New York' auntie, and I'm rather proud of my inspired suggestion. Ana and Xavier even want to leave half way through Justine (their favourite playschool presenter) reading about some mud loving, ever increasing in girth, backyard pig.

I've chosen Torquay's hottest little breakfast nook 'the Nocturnal Donkey', which is 'just around the corner'. By the time we've crossed the road, Xavier asks 'where the corner is?' When we actually reach the corner, home to Torquay's pub and one stop gambling shop, Ana asks if this is where we will be having our coffee date. A few more steps, and Xavier is hot and wants to know if the hardware store is where we get the coffee.


To kill time I begin a lesson on the meaning of the word 'nocturnal', which seems to distract from the already formidable heat at least long enough for them to decide they will order the very gender-obvious 'one strawberry and one chocolate milkshake'. 'But I thought you wanted something with froth, like I have with my cappucino?' They stare at me like I'm an alien and shake their heads. Apparently, just a milkshake, and then maybe an icy-pole... tres chic.


Except the Nocturnal Donkey doesn't serve milkshakes. Only iced/hot chocolate, or iced/hot coffee. Xavier may be swayed with the promise of marshmallows, but Ana is not having a bar of anything but a strawberry milkshake.

So, we go to the take-away bakery next door, and grab cartons of flavoured milk out of the fridge, which the obliging waitress back at the donkey pours into proper cafe glasses, and serves with silver spoons and straws.

Except the straw is a little high for Xavier, and the glass a little heavy, so a third of the chocolate milk lands in a puddle in his lap. I ask the waitress for a napkin. And the biggest coffee she's got. She brings a pile of paper towels served with a knowing, if not entirely sympathetic, smile, because 'you can never have enough'.


We manage some conversation about favourite kinder friends, and what's best about the beach, and I try to describe the difference between the maple syrup and what they are convinced is actually honey on the Dutch pancakes. Despite any faux European cache in the labelling of our breakfast, they are only interested in the icecream, the syrup and the icing sugar dusted around the egdge of the plate, which Xavier cleans off with a freshly and repeatedly licked finger.

Before the bill has arrived, requests for the next course of icy poles, or maybe ice cream have begun. This time I pull out the old faithful 'I Spy' to distract, and learn that 'Aunty Elle', begins with the letter 'L', and that 'Rebecca' is a legitimate answer for 'something beginning with R', even though this presumed real, but perhaps fictional being was not even on the Bellarine Peninsula, let alone dining in the 'Donkey.

By the time we leave, a dusty-wind of Dorothy Gale proportions has blown up, and I'm out of games. The kids shield their eyes agains the debris as we round the corner once more, and before too long crash on the couch in the airconditioned living room resorting to whatever 'abc kids' has to offer. (I have to confess to being oddly drawn into the will-they won't-they love affair between the blonde, french equestrian rider, and the simple but honest Aussie stable hand on 'Saddle Club'.)

By the time Cynthia is back it is time for lunch. There is still much talk of icy-poles, which Cynthia deftly ignores in favour of one ham and one cheese sandwich. Then it's nap time. From what I can tell there is only the standard amount of protest before the kids crash out.

So, while my rather feeble attempt at introducing my niece and nephew to cafe latte culture was perhaps premature, and while a later quiz on the definition of the word nocturnal was met with blank stares and the pronouncement from Ana that she was 'not good at anything and should be thrown in the bin', and while I can't be sure whether the kids were genuinely tired, or just crashing after being jacked up on flavoured milk and fried batter covered in sugar, I do now strongly suspect I am an aunty better suited to happy hour than brunch, and henceforth plan to do all my parenting as I do my cooking... with a glass of wine in my hand.

All I want for Christmas...



A couple of weeks out from the looming festive season, the questioning begins:


'What are a few of the top things on your wishlist for Christmas?'

'What would you be upset about not getting for Christmas?'


And finally, desperately;


'What is it, specifically, that you want for Christmas?'


The first present buying occasion in any relationship is always fraught, particularly if that first occasion happens to be Christmas, when, let's face it, gift giving is kind of a competition. (If not to see who loves who more, then at least to see who is the better listener.)


The thing about my ghosts of Christmas past (or at least the past three years) is that the day seems to come and go in a blur. School screeches to a halt on or around December 23rd, I get on a plane, December 24 gets sucked into the Space-Time Continuum, Christmas morning I emerge from the plane dazed, confused and in need of febreezing, varying kinds of roast meat get eaten, varying qualities of wine imbibed, jetlag crash lands, and the whole thing is over for another year.


As might be evident from the lack of updates, the lead up this year was no exception. In fact, if possible, it might have been the busiest semester ever, and one particularly loaded with a sense of finality; last Fall, last year, last degree.... unless of course this acting thing doesn't work out and I decide to study medicine. Suffice to say, the last three months induced the kind of nauseating, weight-loss causing stress that made my Christmas wish list pretty short.



1. Sleep.


(Please!)



With just 48 hours between finishing classes and getting on a cramped plane to clean my apartment for subletters, pack, Christmas shop, take in Broadway's latest, hottest offering and catch up with some very dear Irish friends in town for a short visit, it seemed a tall order, even for Santa.


Then, something amazing happens. Due to 'weather', and the craziness of Christmas time, our plane is almost three hours late getting out of JFK, and thus lands at LAX fifteen minutes after the ever faithful QF 94 is due to depart for Melbourne. Fifty-two disgruntled passengers suddenly find themselves being rebooked on QF 108 to Sydney, and in the blink of an eye, losing their respective Christmas lunches. Instead of arriving at 9am, we will now arrive into Tullamarine on a domestic flight from Sydney at 1.30pm, Christmas Day.


According to my body, it's about 5am, and all I want in the world is a window to pass out against. The lady handing out boarding passes, is, however, decidedly lacking in Christmas spirit, and hands me my non-negotiable ailse seat ticket on the now packed flight 108 to Sydney.


I walk away with my tail between my legs and as I go I hear the two Australian gents behind me ask for 'the manager'. When I finally return from making a rather pitiful phone call back to the only person in New York who will abide my 5am whimpers, the announcement comes that those passengers originally bound for Melbourne should wait behind as the others boarded. Irrationally I feel nervous, like I've just been paged to the principal's office - though I was never in trouble back then, so why now should be any different I'm not sure. The same two men seem to know what's going on. They stand right by me, not saying much, yet filled with the tension of a secret, as if holding tightly to the Christmas wish that dare not speak its name. I don't say anything either. If what I think is going on is indeed going on, I don't want to be the one to break the spell.


Then, without much pomp or ceremony, in fact, I would say almost begrudgingly, we are called up in groups of three and handed brand new boarding passes - that is we are handed BUSINESS CLASS boarding passes. I snatch mine and run onto the plane, before they can change their minds.


As I huff and puff with my overstuffed carry-on luggage up the narrow stairs to the top section of the 747 (orignally designed and utilised as a bar/happening nightclub for international jetsetters) an impossibly fresh air hostess looking down from above informs me with a wide smile that 'it's worth the climb'.


And it is. As I settle myself into front-right window seat 11K, and take out my phone to put in yet another (this time elated) status report to Manhattan, the gifts just keep on coming. First a glass of non-vintage French champagne, (before even taking off, business class passengers get to celebrate the achievement of, I suppose, just managing to be them.) As I sip, I ponder the myriad of choices for breakfast, and tick the appropriate boxes on the form (so I won't be disturbed during the 'evening').


I almost giddily accept my complimentary Morrissey pajamas and sleep socks, as well as the toiletries' pack including the four-part organic herbal extract high-altitude skincare regime. It's now nearly 6am, so I can't say I'm hungry, however I also seem to have lost my power to say no.


I choose the recommended 'healthier choice' Sea-Bass for dinner, with the Margaret River Chardonnay, and for dessert a Baileys on the Rocks and a screening of 'No Reservations' on my private TV. (Not sure what it is, but something about the thin air seems to diminish my capacity to choose quality films.)


Then, the most magical part of all, with clean teeth, glowing skin and in my 'jammies, I press the button that indicates my chair will coordinate itself in a 'horizontal' fashion, climb under my natural fiber blanket, secure my eye mask and lay my head down on my soft, soft pillow.


And I sleep.


It's the first time I've ever found myself wishing the fourteen hour flight home were longer.


Renee Zellweger has a line in the movie Jerry Maguire:


'First class; it used to be about a better seat, now it's a better life.'


I'm not sure that's true. I'm pretty sure the best of life is still that which you get to spend with loved ones on either side of the epic journey across the Pacific. I will say however, that Business class most definitely represents a better sleep, and that perhaps I arrive a better (certainly better smelling) person in time for a most lovely and far more conscious Christmas dinner.





I should finish by saying that a few days before I left, unprompted, I received the entire series of 'Sex and the City' on DVD, neatly packaged in a hot pink velvet case for Christmas... so I think it's fair to say, he wins.

all about me

It was pointed out to me very recently that I have not updated this once optimistically prolific blog since July. So, it has gone the way of most of the journals in my life. (Much to the dismay of my irritatingly disciplined father who has kept a faithful diary, every day of every year of his life since 1964. Evidence below.)






That same irritating father also likes to wax lyrical about 'writing tomorrow's history
today'.... so in the spirit of that. Here I go again.

Tonight, I write, from the east. East Village, that is. I have been nominally 'housesitting' for Dan (see below) while he has been visiting family for a belated Thanksgiving in Kentucky.

By housesitting I mean enjoying having an apartment to myself that has food in the fridge, vodka in the liquor cabinet and (in recent times) Sex and the City recorded on the DVR every time it pops up on television.

Dan's apartment is a twenty minute walk from mine. Almost the same latitude, but a
long way away from the west village. A whole mindset away.

'Tis an interesting thing shifting neighborhoods in New York. For such a tiny island it manages to engender strange loyalties and comfort zones within very small radii. In fact, my friend Jane and I, who for most of the last two years lived three minutes from one another, had different coffee shops, different laundromats and different pharmacies. We did manage to come together, however, at the same bar.

Day five into housesitting, I did have to see about some laundry. An almost traumatic experience, as today, rather late in the year, marked the first snow of the season. And in my limited experience, the first snow is best enjoyed in pajamas, inside. I have however, ventured out once or twice. And here are the differences I have so far noted about the Village de East.

1. Laundromats are bountiful, and are predominantly self service. They are only marginally cheaper than the lovely korean ladies on my block, who both wash and dry for me, however, it did give me a perverse sense of satisfaction to do my own laundry for the first time since December 2005.

2. Manicures can be achieved in the East Village for $6. ($2.00 less than I am yet to achieve in the West).

3. Nail salons are very conveniently located to laundromats.

4. Bars have pool tables. And fewer wankers.

5. Sidewalks (footpaths) are wider, but on a Saturday night can just easily become overcrowded with wankers.... presumably heading west.

Five is probably enough for now. Hopefully this anthropological migration will last long enough for me to manage some actual insight.

Meanwhile the end of school looms. New heashots have been taken. (Sample below). Agents are being targetted. Commercialism and 'Schmoozing' have become part of the common parlance.

Hopefully you will hear again before May. But if not... that's when the sun rises over the new world. Whether it will be in the east or west.... or indeed northern or southern hemisphere... remains to be seen.

QF 94

I love airports. There is something timeless about them. And I don't mean timeless like Audrey Hepburn and Carey Grant. I'm talking about 'in the moment' timelessness, in that at any moment it could be any time at all. No one knows where you have been or where you are going. Whether forty-five minutes ago you jumped in a cab from Manhattan, or if you are eight hours into a thirty-two hour journey from Toronto to Melbourne. In practical terms, no matter what time of day it is, in an airport you can always plonk yourself at a bar and order a drink without fear of retribution, on the very solid basis that it is always happy hour somewhere in the world. This makes airports particularly good for introspection. (If particularly bad for drinking problems).

I write from Melbourne, having recently navigated the twenty-four hour trip home for the second time in six months. The flying visit was a whim of my mother's, and a very timely one. General good sense has it that Manhattan is a city to be loved from afar over the summer, and while two weeks of the Melbourne winter should be more than enough to ready me for my final year of grad school, I have to confess that mum's special brand of red wine, open fires, clothes shopping and green tea and sympathy for the soul, will be hard to leave. (Not that she really approves of the green tea... only tolerates it, barely).

In fairness, summer and the city are not without their charms. A day trip to Coney Island, a private jet for a long weekend boating on Lake Squam in New Hampshire, Romeo and Juliet in Central Park really just a few of the highlights in a very long list of the joys of having some time to enjoy Manhattan without school. (Of course, I would also include a trip to Home Depot to buy supplies to build shelves very near the top of that list, so perhaps I am not so very discerning.)

However the last few weeks also brought the end of romance, which seems most unfair since all the good love songs tell me summer is exactly the time for enjoying love and all its accoutrements. In this way, it is appropriate that I have abandoned summer in New York for the much more moody Melbourne winter. Much like happy hours, somewhere in the world, there can always be found a season to match your internal weather forecast.

In spite of its source inspiration, I think I'll resist the urge to turn this update into a relationship column - it seems to me 'Facebook' does a much more clinical job of filling people in. At the click of a button you can update yourself from 'In a relationship' to 'Single'. If only.

Oh I guess that means I am now on Facebook. It is very bizarre. And very addictive. I am convinced it is Big Brother's way of watching. Nonetheless. More regular, and believe it or not more banal, updates can be found there.

Eau de 'New York'


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...

Thursday Night

At Melbourne University I took a creative writing class called 'Journals, Diaries, Autobiography'. The professor had a favourite line, 'Begin with now...' she would say. When in doubt, 'begin with now'.

To begin with now:

It is 8.03pm. I am sitting alone in a converted loft apartment in an area of Brooklyn the hipsters call 'East Williamsburg', and those too cool to be hip acknowledge as what it is; 'Bushwick'.

I am drinking my second glass of Cavit pinot grigio. Cheap at double the price.

An ice cream truck keeps driving past. Would not have imagined this industrial neighborhood to be his demographic. He keeps it real by mixing up his electronic musak, and I keep thinking my mobile phone is ringing.

I am in Brooklyn because a dispute over the long standing 'open wardrobe policy' I have with my crazy scandinavian flatmate flared up on Monday due to an overdue pair of black pants on her part, built up frustration on my part, and aforementioned craziness (again on her part) drove me out of the west village in search of some peace. So here I am at Zay's apartment, while he is out at a Laure Anderson concert with his boss.

It's 8.07pm. School finished on Monday. On Tuesday I began to have guilt at not being productive enough so I read through the day's casting breakdowns and discovered the perfect acting job for the summer; 'Black Comedy' a British farce being performed in the Berkshires. I even knew the director. Perfect! Today, I went in for an audition. 'Twas not perfect. Though I couldn't even tell you what was actually wrong with it. Just sometimes you know, and sometimes you don't, and today I knew, and the reaction was a very polite 'ho hum'. David Mamet says when you're done (performing, auditioning, whatever), you should wipe your feet at the door. I did; the door to a wine store.

Time to myself extremely weird. I guess this is the come-down from the high of school. Need to make a list of intelligent books to read, need to figure out my tax, need to find a way not to spend forty hours a week in the admissions office, need another glass of wine.

8.13pm. A guy outside the window keeps yelling 'Noooo....' loudly and weirdly. This is definitely not Williamsburg. Makes me think of the stalker phone call in 'The Bodyguard', and my father's subsequent impression of him at frighteningly regular intervals.

To end with now:

It's 8.21pm. The ice-cream truck is back, and the musak has looped back to 'Music Box Dancer'. It's actually kinda catchy. I am considering changing my cell phone tone.

Winter, Spring, Summer....


To begin; a haircut:

Above photo: taken the day of haircut, cut by my very favourite six hundred dollar hairdresser. A frenchman who works out of a salon in an upper east side brownstone, and thank god a friend, so for me, not $600. Not even anything like it.

The haircut was in service of the show, 'Limonade Tous Les Jour', by Chuck Mee, performed after four months of rehearsal with Austin Pendleton at 59E59 Theatres, Tuesday, April 24. My New York debut. Quite a night. Smashing, sold out crowd. Lots of compliments followed by lots of vodka on the roof top bar of the Peninsula hotel on fifth avenue. Famous for its rooftop bar, and people who can afford $21 martinis. And those who every so often like to pretend they can.

One performance only, unless we get picked up for a full season, which is looking, if not likely, then at the very least highly possible. There are a couple of producers 'talking'... a lot of which goes on in this town. Recommendation: keep fingers crossed but do not hold breath.

On a slightly related note, Austin, my 'co-star' or scene partner (depending on levels of pretention) is about to be awarded a special 'drama desk award' for being 'the renaissance man' of the New York theatre. Never met a real live one before, but can report that acting opposite a bona fide renaissance man is a highly gratifying experience.

Above photo: taken in an apartment on the Upper West Side that I spent 5 weeks looking after, for a playwright off on an artist's retreat. A playwright with two cats. Two psychotic cats, 'Bailey and Scout'. However a very timely 'time-out' from the village, and the joys of sharing a one bedroom apartment with high maintenance scandinavian. Also a good way to meet a real live playwright. One that gets to go to 'retreats'.

Above photo: taken by aforementioned Zay. Still around. Still lovely. Super lovely. This was taken Easter Sunday eve, before surprise solo easter egg hunt he prepared in lieu of my being home to attend highly competitive annual Handley Family hunt. Next update I promise a photo of him.

Two weeks left of school, and nine subjects left to pass. Actually, eight. Finished off dialects today with Russian presentation. Then the long, stinky New York Summer. Not sure of plans yet. Invitations to LA, Seattle, Long Island, London and a Lake House in New Hampshire. Also possible I will spend forty hours a week in a windowless office earning $12 an hour. Possible, but fingers crossed highly unlikely.

The city (girl) that never sleeps

So many blog options have drifted through my head since my return from Australia; pithy headlines, observational witticisms, gratuitous New York City star spots. But the time to sit down and craft these to my liking has never materialised. Now, sitting in the admissions office, with an unexpected hour to myself, I feel the need to write something. Just to prove I'm not dead.

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

First of all, Australia was, as it always is in January, hot and awesome. (Yes, I just used the word awesome.) Thanks for the fine wine. Thanks for the conversation. Thanks for living in apartments bigger than broom cupboards. In fact, I had such a good time that I've gone ahead (with a little help from my mum - Well, let's be honest, mum's gone ahead...) and cashed in a stack of frequent flyer points for next Christmas. Almost the same itinerary; I'll be in town from December 25th until January 16th. Yes, I know it's a long way away, but it's also the first time in more years than I care to count that the Handley Family in its ever increasing entirity will be on southern shores for Christmas. Put your duty-free vodka orders in now!

SAME OLD NEW SCHOOL

School is insane. Quite literally ('tis a method-based program after all). Second year really seems to be about stretching you to the limit of your capacity and seeing what shape you bounce back to. If you ever do. On the plus side (or I guess more accurately, the minus side) I've lost about 5 kilos, which has made up some time in missed gym sessions.

At this point I'm debating over whether to give you a comprehensive rundown of how I fit in nine (9!) subjects, rehearsals, readings, work and wine or just to cut to the two most exciting things....

Okay,

Number 1: I just got cast in a third year production. Very small part, but very flattering, and it means I'll be up on the mainstage for the rep season. Which is fun. The play is called 'Desire, Desire, Desire' by Christopher Durang. A comedy. Apparently. Rehearsals start Monday. Show goes up final weekend in March. Y'know... in case you're in town.

Number 2: (this one almost needs a drumroll). I have been cast in the lead of a full length production called Limonade Tous Les Jours by Charles Mee. (Actually, if you're super keen you can read it on-line at www.charlesmee.org - unless you're Zay, and promised not to read it before opening night!) In my opinion it's a super fabulous two-character play. But that's not the best bit. Nor is the best bit that I get to play a character called 'Ya-Ya', nor that she's french, nor that she's a cabaret singer. No, the best bit, is that due to a late recasting, I get to play opposite this guy! Actually his career as a broadway director/actor and recently writer is even more impressive that the film and tv stuff. He teaches one of the directing classes here at school, which is how we were able to approach him to do the show. Anyway, rehearsals are a dream. It's such a funny, sexy play and he is so generous and easeful as an actor, that all I have to do is turn up and ride the wave. So.... y'know.... if you're in town at the end of April...

I GOOGLE NY
or
THE YEAR OF YES - A CONFESSION

Those of you who have been following these ramblings regularly might remember this blog, about my new life philosophy based around a book I found 'while sufing the web recently'. I should have known that casual phrase would one day come back to bite me. So... here goes... a funny story for those of you with some time to kill.

The reason I was surfing the web that fateful day back in November was that a certain first year playwriting candidate here at the school had caught my eye, and I wondered in the age of myspace and cyber-everything, if some insight into his background, or hell, even relationship status might be revealed on line. Among reviews of plays he'd had produced in San Francisco, his own comprehensive theatre blog and professions of devotion from a bunch of teenagers he'd taught at the California State Summer School for the Arts, I found this.

Revealed on the promotional website for the book were the true identities for some of the featured characters in it. Including one Zak/Zay, the 'best friend/roommate' character during Maria's 'Year of Yes'. So enamoured was I by the concept of the book, that I was sent off on a bit of a tangent, and promptly neglected any thoughts I might have had of pursuing Zay outside the cyber realm.

Flash forward to just before school ended in December, and far more traditionally (for a third-grader) Zay asked a close friend if I was seeing anyone. Which of course that same faithful friend ran and told me. And so, aided by the many end-of-year performances/after parties, we got to spend a little time together, and when I got back we actually started to do what the Americans refer to as 'date'.

In the interests of time I'll save you the unabridged version of this story, except to say that due to one rather false step early on you were very nearly treated to a blog entitled 'All Men are Idiots'. And so, early on, I had 'hand'. Until of course Zay decided to google me. Now I'm not above admitting I've googled myself in the past, and know that this blog has been very carefully constructed not to appear under a google search of my name. However this guy (who once worked for Ask Jeeves for god's sake!) managed to find it through a combination of an old email address leading him to www.handley.cc and my brother, who without authorisation, had recently chosen to link my blog to that completely unauthorised and previously obscure website.

Alas... all was revealed. And in a very roundabout, slightly spooky way, The Year of Yes worked its magic a second time around.

We (we being Zay and I, as a couple - yes I said it!) actually had dinner with Maria (the author) when she was here in New York last week. She was here to attend a 'Self Help Book Awards' ceremony in which 'Yes' had been nominated under the 'relationship' category. We spoke at length over dinner about how the book was clearly a memoir, and had nothing to do with self help. Although... after hearing the above story, she promised to mention us in her speech if she won.

Whew! And finally...


I HEART NEW YORK

When the snow melts and suddenly the sun reappears in a golden wash over Greenwich Village, it's like waking up after a glorious sleep, stretching and finding you are still in the dream. It's lovely. And while I'm not sure that we're completely done with the cold weather, the hint of Spring is extremely encouraging.

My head will be mostly down until mid-may, but then I'll be very ready to re-stock my wardrobe with some open toe shoes with cork wedge heels (the look for Spring!).

XO

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.