So I was going to go on a rant about being single in New York, but really, even though I’ve been dating since I was a zygote I’ve also always, really, been single, so why is New York so different? In the end, it’s not really.

Tonight I went to a suprise birthday party for a very good friend at work. I absolutely rejoiced in seeing so many people I love loving each other. Arms slung around, hands on smalls of backs, so very wonderful. And thinking about my lover, who in the end is… well, I don’t know, it’s not simple. There is a man I know and love, in my own way, and in that knowing I struggle in the undefined. There are a thousand things keeping us apart and very simple things pulling me to his apartment once or twice a week. It can’t be and yet it is, and most of the time it is terrific. Once in a great while it makes me terribly sad but for the most part it is, well, lovely. It’s not often that I meet a man smarter than me, and even if he isn’t smarter, he knows things that I don’t, and that, folks, is sexy. He is hot and cold and sweet and distant and delicious and frustrating. So you see why I’m still there.

But I digress. I left the party, reluctantly, untying the ballons that had been wrapped around my pigtails all night. I walked to the subway at Union Square and ambled down to my beloved Q train. I am in the middle of a passionate love affair with a train. My sweet Q, who delivers me from Park Slope to Union Square in five stops, fifteen minutes, who sails over the Manhattan Bridge, who skips all the boring streets and leads me to my second home. I have a great love for Union Square as well. My job near there has made all of the difference since moving to New York. It supported me through one of the worst breakups in the history books, helped my pass my EMT class, gave me beautiful people to love, the people I saw tonight. It was also a place of gathering after 9/11. I love it.

So I’m down in the subway with about 150 other late night New Yorkers, all of us yearning for our beloved Q. I can’t pull out my book because I’m still too lost in the party, so instead I wrap my arms around one of the pillars supporting the network of concrete and wait. And then I start my favorite subway game: rat-watching. Sometimes you’ll see a whole family down there. I waited for at least fifteen minutes before spying a lone rat, a smaller one, dashing around the innards of the subway rails. Finally, in the distance, I see my lover, my speed demon, rushing towards me, “Q” all ablaze, and I actually say aloud, “sweetness, you’ve come”. And then whisper to the rat, “Shoo, fool…”

And then I get on the trail, fall into “Kavalier and Clay”, and find my way home.

A warning to you all: these will be my blogs when I have Newcastle swimming in my blood.

Last night I went to bed at 10PM, so I could be relatively fresh when I got up at 5AM. There was an Equity call for a Broadway revival of Fiddler on the Roof, and the unwritten rules dictate a brutal day. Surprisingly, I fell asleep immediately, only to wake at 11PM when my new upstairs neighbors decided to have BAND PRACTICE. Drums, guitars, bad singing, the works. I prayed for it to end, not wanting to be the scroogy neighbor who disallows fun, but by !2:30 AM I had had enough. I grabbed my broom, climbed up the ladder to my loft, and pounded on the ceiling. The music stopped.

I climbed into bed, and thrashed around for a full three hours more before falling asleep near 4 AM. At 5, the alarm went off, and I was out and in the bitter, bitter cold by 5:30. The Q took me to Union Square, where I hopped onto the R one stop to 23rd. I skidded across Broadway, still in full dark, and wound my way to Chelsea Studios. 6 AM, and there was already a line. I plopped down and started swapping stories about bad community theatre productions of Fiddler. Mine topped them all- having my brother as a romantic lead, in a barn, with planes flying overhead, and a woman having a heart attack in the audience. (She lived.)

At 7 we were all kicked out into the cold, because our numbers created a fire hazard, and we stood shivering as the sun graced the very tops of the buildings. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so cold. Half an hour later we were herded up to the 7th floor, where we re-formed our line, waiting to get slots. At 9 AM, they called us one by one, and I got an early afternoon slot that would leave me time to get to work. I left the studio, went out to breakfast and to my gym to shower and slather on makeup. Back in the early afternoon, I waited in yet another line for my two whole minutes that could make or break my future. When it was finally my turn, I sang one of my mom’s songs, but it had been over a year since I had gone on a theatrical audition. The accompanist was fair, and the auditioner looked down at my resume for all but the final two seconds of my song, which sadly, was when my cool deserted me, and the money notes weren’t all that money.

Alas, I just need to get back in the saddle.

Now, I’m home in Park Slope, Brooklyn, freezing and sleepy, dreaming about a tax return large enough to finace a new road bike and a trip to Italy…

No relief in sight. I think it is going to be freezing in this city for a long, long time.

I worked today. Every person who came in the door had that shocked look that comes from living in arctic weather. The block and a half between the subway stop and the door of my job, which lately is my second home, is enough to freeze my face to the point of pain. And the first thing I did upon arrival at work was fall down the winding staircase that connects the locker room to the kitchen. Amazing. I landed on my ankle, which is currently elevated and iced. Yeesh. That’s the kind of foolish thing that I do when I haven’t had enough rest.

I’ve worked at this restaurant for almost two years now. This time two years ago I was in Kansas City, visiting my then-boyfriend, having just interviewed at the restaurant the day before I left on vacation. At the time I had jobs at three other unfortunate establishments, including a stint at a SoHo bistro that just about ate my soul. Not to mention the “rocker” East Village we-never-close-and-we-all-do-coke diner. And then my current job and I found each other, and it is such a beautiful match that it concerns me. It’s the only part of my life where I am very successful, and it’s the only thing I don’t want to do forever. Writing, singing, acting, medicine- all great challenges. Hospitality? Service? Somehow these skills were bred into me and, scarily enough, I even enjoy it. As far as my restaurant goes, believe the hype. It’s an incredible place to eat. Terrific food, terrific service, not ridiculously expensive. Never in my life have I held a job for two years. And yes, I did run away this past summer, but October found me back in “stripes” (our uniform) and describing our Filet Mignon of Tuna.

Truth be told, I was terrified of returning. I spent several days literally bawling my eyes out, just thinking about it. I was living in the woods, far away from the world of restaurants and theatres and I knew if I went back, I would have an incredibly hard time leaving again. I am way too comfortable, make just enough money, and am just good enough at it that I fear I will not leave in time. Also, it is so terribly time-consuming, and exhausting, and leaves me with so little time to write. And all my fears are realized. I’m entirely caught up in it again, working extra shifts to afford my apartment, not having touched the book I’m writing in weeks.

My life is what I make it, though. I can only blame myself for the choices I have made.

Monday morning I am going to an EPA call for Fiddler on the Roof. I haven’t auditioned for anything theatrical since I returned to the city but I am really excited about this one. That is, I’m excited because I’ll be singing one of my mother’s songs, which is terrific, but I am dreading the actual day. Every man, woman and child who is Equity will be fighting to be heard, so I am planning on getting to the audition in the wee hours of the early morning just to get a two-minute slot. Ridiculous. And only very rarely is anyone actually cast from these huge open calls. But it’s what you have to do. And I love the show, and besides not looking remotely Jewish I’m perfect for it. I’m also waiting to hear back from several emergency medicine centers who just might want to give me a part-time EMT job. This could be a really good week.

I understand that it’s January in New York, but in my opinion, this weather is ridiculous. Not to talk about the weather, but when it is so cold that it affects every waking (and many sleeping) moment of your life, you can’t help but think about it, talk about it, dream of May.

Last year on May 11th, my brother Sean’s birthday, about twenty of us met in Sheep’s Meadow in Central Park. We threw frisbees and ate Doritos and got sunburned. I was two weeks away from my EMT finals, had my requisite crush on an unavailable tattooed man, and was looking forward to a long, hot summer. But a month later, I got my first job as an EMT, as the medic on a trek for National Geographic. We started in Glacier National Park, and while the days could sometimes be warm, for the most part it was really, really cold. I slept in what was supposed to be a zero degeee bag, but every night for two months I slipped on long underwear, pants, a sweater, jacket, hat AND gloves before burrowing into my sleeping bag. By the time I got back to New York, the last warm day was gone and it was immediately the cool side of fall.

I am looking forward to summer. I want it to be so hot that my forearms sweat when I’m sitting reading a book. I want it to be so hot that I yet again swear I won’t make it another summer without chopping off all of my hair. I want it to be so hot that everyone avoids the sunny side of the street.

As it is, I’ll have to find a few more blankets before I climb up to my loft to sleep tonight.

Beyond the weather… I’m struggling right now, trying to find a balance in my life between what I want to do and what I need to do. A very smart man recently told me to ask for what I want, but my question is, ask who? So. This is what I want. I want to make my living singing and writing. I want to go to yoga five times a week. I want to work as an EMT. I want to have enough money to travel. And I want the King of Men to knock on my door.

And for a heat wave to warm up my city.