Ship Life As Seen Through the Eyes of a Libra-Scorpio

It has been nearly two and a half months since my last entry, and for good reason. Since I last wrote, I have, with 16 pairs of shoes, 80% of my entire wardrobe, 3 different types of body cream, 2 Louis Vuitton bags, and my heavy pile of audition material, moved into a tiny cabin aboard a gigantic ship. For the last two months, I have been learning the ways of life at sea. The rules, the regulations, the rituals. It has been, at times, temper-tantrum inducing (I may have a bit of a reputation for throwing a fit when angered by now), at other times, liberating and wonderful.

I was told by an astrologist recently that, having been born a Libra, I am now becoming a Libra-Scorpio. She explained that, with this transition, I was losing a little of the Libra niceness and gaining a little of the Scorpio fire. In other words, I'm becoming a bit of a bitch. However, she assured me that this crueler side of my temper would only show itself when provoked and under the right circumstances, when a sharp tongue is needed to stop my Libran good-nature from being taken advantage of. Being born a Libra, I will never lose my strong sense of fairness; never treat anyone with meaness, unless I truly feel that it is deserved. A situation comes to mind to illustrate: I had gone to the buffet-style restaurant on the ship by myself for lunch one day. By this time, we had been on the ship for 6 weeks, and I had taken to eating at least one meal in there a day. Being a featured singer, I have the privilege of eating in this particular restaurant, whereas there are other crew who do not have this priviledge. Our production manager had sent an email to all staff who worked in the restaurant with the names of those who had the privilege of eating there, along with our pictures, so that the restaurant staff had a reference. The day that email was sent out, I was welcomed by name by a waiter I hadn't met before, but who already knew my name and face because he had received the email. I digress. I was having lunch. As I had been for the past 6 weeks. I had come straight from a safety drill and went in just as the restaurant opened. I was wearing my uniform, which I am only ever required to wear for safety drills. But, I was starving and didn't want to take the time to change before lunch. A dire mistake, as I soon found out.

While I was eating, a restaurant manager approached me and asked if I had the privilege to be eating there. After 6 weeks of eating in the same place, I was now singled out because I was wearing a uniform. This infuriated me, for, would I REALLY be eating there if I wasn't allowed to? You must understand, that working on a ship means that you work for military, and working for military means that you are under constant scrutiny by people who do not care that you came onto the ship as an artist to perform. No, according to them, you are on the ship as a crewmember who must abide by many rules and perform many duties (none of which has been written in your artist's contract), and should one of those rules be broken, you are not called into your boss' office to have a diplomatic chat. Ha! Diplomacy does not exist on the sea, where the laws of land are not recognised. You unkowingly break a rule (because you are pretty much left on your own the second you board the ship to figure it all out), and you get shouted at by a big, red-faced officer in a way that degrades and patronises. I will go as far to say that sometimes I have been spoken to as if I were not a human being. You cannot try and explain yourself or lose your temper, or even ask them to speak appropriately to you, because in the world of ships, the only thing that matters is how many stripes a person's uniform has, not who is actually right and who is actually wrong. After 6 weeks of "getting into trouble" like a junior high kid, for silly things like re-filling a water bottle before a show (there is no water in the theatre) my patience had just about worn thin when this schmuck asked me if I had the privilege to do something that I blatantly would not be doing if I was not allowed to. Though inside, I was boiling and hissing like a kettle, I kept an outward cool and told him that, yes, I had the privilege. My word was not enough for him, and he asked to see my crew card. I gave it to him, he took his time writing down my details (to "double check"), and upon handing the card back to me, said, "the chef noticed that you were one of the first to come in, and he wants you to know that it looks very bad if you are eating before the guests." This kettle was about to burst into flames. I glared at him, smiled, and said through clenched teeth, "so how many guests should I wait to come in before I'm allowed to come in?" He replied, "you don't have to wait for a specific number of guests to come in, just come in half an hour after the restaurant opens." He began to continue with an explanation, and I cut him off with another sharp smile and asserted, "I. un. der. stand."

Nowhere in the rules or regulations does it state that a crew member with privileges has to wait half an hour before they are allowed to enter the restaurant. If I'm allowed to eat there, I should be free to eat whenever I want. The manager wanted to humiliate me, I am sure of it. Why? I have a few theories. A. I am a woman and some men get off on making a woman feel small. B. I am a crewmember under his position, and belittling those under him makes him feel good. C. Not wanting to admit that he was wrong in thinking that I was breaking the rules, he wanted to make sure he still held the power. Whatever the reason was, two can play at that game. I am now a Libra-Scorpio. Watch out. I finished my meal, barely able to swallow the food, my throat was tight with anger. I left the table and approached the manager, and said, "an email has been sent to your staff with names and pictures of who is allowed to eat here, so you should know." He told me that I was wrong. I told him that I was not wrong, because one of his waiters had already learned who I am through looking at that email. "Let me check..." the manager said. He walked over to a booth and picked up a folder and carelessly said, "this contains information on the last cast, not your cast." By this time, I'd had it with trying to play fair. "No. Open the folder and turn the pages and you will find my name and picture." He did. Did he find them? OF COURSE! A simple apology for making me feel like a second-class citizen or an admission that he was wrong would have sufficed. Instead, he tried to save face, and said, "yes, but, some cast come in who are not supposed to," (which is absolutely untrue) and I snapped, "well, all the people who can eat in here are in that folder, so..." and I stopped myself from screaming, "DO YOUR JOB PROPERLY!" I just quickly said, "thank you," and turned to walk away before he could defend himself anymore.

Call it astrological transitions, call it aging, or call it just plain arrogance, but I am tired of people assuming that, because I happen to be an attractive dancer, I am easily manipulated and am not smart enough to battle my way through such tactics. If there is one thing the ship is teaching me about myself as a person, it is that I have the ability to communicate what I want and how I feel with integrity, which is much more productive than mere complaining or whining. I may not be there yet, at the point where I can aways stand up for myself with confidence, but I am well on my way.

It has not been all temper-tantrums, by any means. I am incredibly glad to be having this experience, where I wake up in a new city every day, am making enough money for weekly massages, missing out on October snow in NY, and playing a dream-role in a fantastic production of a really fun show. I've taken to saying that, to every yin, there must be a yang. To every tantrum, there must be a joyous laugh. There are joy-filled nights and days of laughter in abundance in this life upon the sea that I am living. Like the time the hotel manager made an eloquent speech on opening night and moved me to tears, and the time I jumped off a mountain on the island of Capri, and the time I ate a pizza pie all to myself in Italy's first ever pizzeria. Ship life cannot be explained to those who have never lived it. It is a reality unto itself, and like real-life, has its ups and its downs. For every patronising staff member, there are ten others who are delightful. I mentioned to one of the nicest officers at the crew Halloween party that there are some very mean people working on the ship, and thanked him for always treating the cast so well. He told me that one must always surround themselves with good, kind people. I know that I already am surrounded by good, kind people here, and together we have gotten through some rocky nights and lived the dream onstage next to each other. We have 7 more months of tantrums and living the dream upon us. I hope that this ship can contain all of the drama to come!

We're Not In Kansas Anymore

My memories of Florida include a handful of family trips to Orlando for awesome visits to the theme parks, staying at my grandparents' home in Delray Beach (where my grandmother yelled at me once for having left water drops in the bathroom sink after I had washed my hands) and multiple trips to Miami where the entire Rubin clan got together to celebrate Passover. Blanketed by the securities of family, lovely hotels, multiple cars and drivers in our clan, a visit to Florida never felt anything other than oh-so-fun and easy. When I was recently offered a chance to work on a cruise for a few months, with over a month's rehearsal time on land in Florida, I envisaged endless days of blue skies, nights of bar hopping on 2-for-1 frozen margheritas, and strips of outdoor shopping for our days off from work.

After landing at Ft. Lauderdale airport, I watched the palm trees with excited anticipation from the taxi window. When the taxi dropped me off at the rehearsal accommodation, there was one other cast member there, and after we finished unpacking, we were starving and ready for food. The 10-15 minute walk to any sort of food option didn't phase me. I have spent most of my life being able to pick from a multitude of restaurants which are less than a 5 minute walk away, and the notion that you have to either get into a car or take a 15 minute walk to get to any food will always be strange to me, but, you know, when in Rome...

Although the distance didn't phase me, the food options did. Apart from a random Asian fusion restaurant and a Starbucks (obviously), all the options are fast food. No Pret-A-Manger? No place with a huge salad bar? Uh-oh. It was fine for a few days. However, we are now two and a half weeks into our rehearsal process, and the lack of semi-healthy eating options is beginning to become a mild frustration. I usually just fancy a huge salad for lunch, but instead, I have ended up frequenting the local IHOP more times than should be allowed for people whose job description includes a bi-weekly weigh-in. My poor intestines are begging me to ease up on the carbs and the grease. I have compensated by making my own huge salads for dinner, which are better than any salad you'll find down here. While Florida has gifted us with those super delicious buttermilk pancakes, it seems to have not realised yet that there are other greens that exist for salads other than iceberg lettuce. My huge salads have left me happily satiated and gone down a treat with other cast members. Look for the silver lining, eh?

Speaking silver linings, the good thing about having to order a taxi to go to a bar or to a mall, or to go ANYWHERE is that I just stay at home and don't spend money. With a pool, outdoor barbeque, gym, and tennis courts, our accommodation has more than enough to keep us occupied. I work with a bunch of Brits, and we've taken to having teatime together in the evenings, which has really been just lovely. I can't even get to a bank to cash my paychecks (because I would have to pay for a taxi there) so surviving on homemade salads and cups of tea will just have to do for now.

Let's talk about the whether for a bit. It rains almost every day. And I'm not talking about a little drip here and there, I'm talking about Zeus having a temper tantrum and punishing us with mega downpours. So, I whine, "But this is Floridaaaaaaaaa! Isn't it supposed to be sunny all the timeeeeeeee???" Nope. Apparently not. Apparently it's hurricane season. And by hurricane season, I mean that we had a meeting about hurricane preparation, got home, and found a note on our door from our leasing office about how to prepare for a hurricane. I keep saying that none of this was in my contract! I also keep saying to myself that this ain't New York, but NY experienced an earthquake yesterday, so the world has been flipped upside down anyway. Come to Florida for a daily thunderstorm, go to New York to feel the earth move. Who would have thought?

One other interesting difference that I have noticed about life here is that it is not eco-friendly at all. I will go grocery shopping and end up with five plastic bags because the idea of economising seems to be a non-entity down here. I am constantly having to say to the super friendly check-out staff, "I don't need another plastic bag, thanks." And, how does a condo provide a gym, pool, and tennis courts, but no recycling bins? THAT blows my mind.

I miss New York. I miss the convenience, I miss the vibe, I miss taking ballet class at City Center, I miss the salad bars, I miss the pace. But, I do not miss the struggle and I do not miss the stress. I've swapped the salad bars for incredible garlic crabs and the pace for a luxurious day's outing at South Beach, jellyfish included! And I've swapped the stressful struggle for an amazing experience with a bunch of inspiring artists doing what makes me most happy. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto, and I look forward to see what lies further down the proverbial yellow brick road. Maybe a hurricane, maybe a theme park adventure, definitely an awesome life experience.

Aloud, Proud, and Unapologetic

It is 24 hours after New York became the 6th state in the USA to legalise gay marriage. Having sobbed for half an hour upon hearing the announcement, I am still overwhelmed. I don''t know anything about politics. I can't hold a conversation about legalities (though, being a lawyer's daughter, I'm getting good at faking it). I don't know the names of the various politicians whose names I should be familiar with. What I do know is that I believe with all ferocity that every single human being who walks this Earth deserves the same rights as anyone else. We are all created equal. We all ARE equal. This is not a discussion; this is fact. That there are still women in various countries who are not allowed to vote blows my mind. That child labor still exists in parts of the world is inconceivable. That in modern day western culture, when the collective fancies ourselves as smarter and wiser than ever, there are now only 6 states in the USA, the self-proclaimed land of the free, where same-sex marriage is deemed legal, is absurdity. But, let's not focus on the negative. There is too much good to be recognised.

One of the most moving things about the journey towards the passage of the bill is that I saw so many straight people fighting on behalf of our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters. People who do not have much, if anything, to gain personally from the legalisation of same-sex marriage fought with solid integrity. Letters were written, donations were made, charity events were held. These people, with wills the strength of an ox, put me to such shame as I sat and merely watched. To stand up and yell at the top of your lungs for a cause that directly affects you is noble. To be just as bold and loud when it is someone else's cause is remarkably beautiful. Thank you to those who reaffirmed that togetherness is much harder to turn a deaf ear to than a solo voice.

What a time to be living in New York.

The day after Osama Bin Laden was reported dead, I was at Ground Zero, taking pictures of all the placards and news crews. A couple of young people, opposed to the killing of Bin Laden, were quietly making their opinions seen by holding up signs. On one sign was written, "an eye for an eye only leads to blindness." Next to the young man holding this sign were newspaper clippings someone else had taped onto the wall. These were of tabloids which had shamelessly glamorised the story. An ironic sight to behold, and yet, a reminder that I live in a culture where we are privileged with the freedom of speech. Thank goodness that we are all entitled to speak our opinions and our beliefs. However, to force our opinions and beliefs onto others is unfair. Seeing some of the negative response to last night's news was disheartening. But, not enough to dampen the joy! So, up yours, ye hypocrites of skewed faith who stand idly by while someone of your brotherhood molests young boys, yet, in response to the right of same-sex couples to make their love legally binding, proclaim: "The Bishops of New York State oppose in the strongest possible terms any attempt to redefine the sacred institution of marriage. Marriage has always been, is now, and always will be the union of one man and one woman. Government does not have the authority to change this most basic of truths." I curse ye, everyone part of the New York State Catholic Conference, to rot in your own smelly hypocrisy!

Today, the day after same-sex marrige was legalised in New York, and also, appropriately so, the day before gay pride day, I walked through the West Village. There, as one would expect, the pride was palpable. I saw a gay couple both wearing shirts that said "Trophy Husband," and had to turn away before the tears came streaming down. I wonder how many proposals will happen tomorrow during Pride? One more massive step towards equality, and for those whom the passing of the bill most directly affects, I imagine that celebrations will be unrivaled.

"Today marks another step in history's uneven but resolute march to justice." (Dan Cantor, Working Families Party) Every step taken is born from the efforts of many generations of activists. Whomever you all are, and wherever you all are, I thank you for fighting to make this world a better place. Love won this time. Let's hope it keeps on winning, for the millions who still need it. We're one step closer to freedom and justice for all.

Shapeshifting: A Vision

I saw an astrologer last month. Don't judge. Without knowing really anything about the "science" of astrology, here is my completely unresearched and un-backed-up-by-facts argument for it: If the Earth is made up of a huge percentage of water, and the planets' pull on the Earth affect it vastly because of that percentage, how can the planets not similarly affect human beings when we, too, are made up of a huge amount of water? Talk amongst yourselves...

When I told Anne, the astrologer, that I'm a dancer, she asked me in what capacity I danced. I told her that I am currently pursuing the dream of dancing on Broadway. Anne then said to me with a 100% percent certainty that I would make it, but that it may not be in the capacity that I expect and that I should, "try and expand my vision of what dance is." My stubborn streak refused to comprehend this notion, let alone consider it. What the hell am I doing in New York, if not to get to Broadway? Over the next few weeks, I didn't make it to Broadway, but I had some very special experiences helping to create three dance pieces for a couple of fantastic choreographers, and diving into rehearsals for the annual BROADWAY BARES show for Broadway Cares/Equity Fight AIDS. I had to take a little time off of my day job to work on these various projects, and with the BARES show in two days, I am looking forward to some sort of weekend when it is over. So, I have not been at a loss for creative opportunities. Which is ironic, as my most recent entry before this one is all about wanting the chance to dance. Serendipitously, after writing that entry, I got bamboozled with a handful of chances and returned to the rehearsal studio for these various gigs, overwhelmed in my brain with a bunch of choreography, and overjoyed in my soul to be creating again! That performers are so willing to give up our time for free is a testament to how passionate we are about what we do. but, it is also a problem.

Anne the astrologer also told me something that shocked me a bit; she said that I am going to be in a very powerful position (which is why my drive is so strong, apparently). Powerful? Me? The thought is at once hilarious and a little disconcerting, for I have never craved power, nor am I certain that power in my hands would be a productive thing. I ran into a friend shortly after seeing Anne, at the time that I was running from rehearsal studios to work to dance classes, still struggling as much as ever to make ends meet financially, even though I was so busy working on these projects. This friend, let's call him Dave, is a composer with a couple of albums out and a gigantic, international following. I discovered his work when I was still living in London, that's how far his reputation had already spread a couple of years ago. We ended up meeting on the circuit when I moved to New York and became friends, and I witnessed him have some really amazing successes with albums and concerts. The last time I ran into him was at his day job, and I asked him what he was still doing at his day job, because, surely a produced composer with an international fan base doesn't need a day job?! Dave told me that it is impossible for him to earn a living. He is not making money off of the albums because everyone is burning CDs. He is not making money off of the sheet music because everyone is photocopying. He is not making money off of concerts because everyone wants to be comped into the shows. Something is not right here. Dave is working hard and creating his own success, and is broke. I am working hard and creating my own success and I am broke. Many of my peers are being just as pro-active, and they are broke. Something is NOT right. And, if the stars predict that I'm going to have so much power, I need to do something about it.

There is a kink in the system. The people at the top, the ones who have the money and the power, are telling us at the bottom that we need to create our own opportunities. So, we do.Then those people ask to be comped into our shows. We are putting alot of money out and bringing nothing in. It is a similar case with auditions. I recently got called in for the lead part in a musical with under 24 hours notice to learn three songs and three scenes. Having been at work all day, I got home at night, called a friend to put the music down so that I could learn it, paid him $50, and sang until 11pm, only stopping because I didn't want my neighbours to get aggravated. At the audition the next day, the panel asked to hear a song from my own repertoire, which I delivered strongly, after which I was told that they didn't need to see anything else. $50 and 12 hours of stress down the pooper. When I recounted that story to people, the unanimous response: "that's just the way it is." Sorry to get cheap here, but I call that bullshit. That's just the way it is, is it? That is not good enough for me. If we keep saying, "that's just the way it is," nothing is ever going to change. I've only been in New York for two years, and already I am tired of giving up my time for free, inviting peers to see my shows and having them not turn up because they want to be comped (after I have forked out the money to see their shows), and spending hundreds of dollars to be prepared for an audition only to be told that the panel doesn't need to see any of the prepared material. All the while, people who are earning a great annual income or are being supported by their parents are telling me that I should be grateful just for the opportunity to create. Something needs to change. Do not mistake me, I am VERY grateful for the opportunity to create. Financial woes aside, I have loved every unpaid gig which I have taken in New York. But, since when should actors, singers, and dancers be made to feel ungrateful if we want to be financially compensated for our time? This is WORK, we are talking about, after all.

You know what? I hope I do become powerful. Because the more I work with gifted choreographers on pieces that are more than worthy of being on Broadway, the more my vision of what dance is, IS changing as I realise that we are all pouring in our time, money, passion, and hearts into our self-made work, and literally getting nothing back. Yes, we get the gift of being able to perform, but I want something more. I want something tangible that I can hold in my hands and say, "thank goodness I danced in that gig, because I can now pay my rent without having heart palpitations!" If I could use my power to help my whole generation of artists earn a bit of a living...now THAT'S a vision!

I can already hear you thinking, "well, you shouldn't have chosen this business." Go ahead, call me ungrateful, unappreciative, grumbling, and all other irrelevant synonyms that I know I am not. I LOVE New York, I LOVE the community of artists in New York, I LOVE our collective drive, and one day I am going to make a difference in our lives. I know this, because it is written in the stars!

The Wrong Side of 25; The Right Side of Everything Else

I know this is going to come as a surprise to many people, but I have a confession to make: I am in my late twenties. I know, I can hear you gasping. I kid you not -- I may have the body of a teenager, the chronic acne of a child going through puberty, and (sometimes) the emotional maturity of a 12 year old, but, yes, I am on the wrong side of 25. I thank my Chinese mother's contribution to my genetic make up that I am often still mistaken for a person in her early 20s, on the exciting cusp of adulthood. Well, let me tell you, I crossed that cusp awhile back and am now well on the other side of it. So, how does it all look from way over here on the wrong side of 25? I'm gonna tell you.

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a ballerina. I made it into the School of American Ballet in NYC and attended for a year before my mom decided that going into the city from Westchester for class 4 times a week was just too much commitment for a 10 year old. At 13 I changed my mind after so much time and money spent in ballet class and decided I wanted to be a musical theatre performer. By 21 I was touring England on my first professional contract performing 12 (yes,12!!!!) shows a week, all the while dreaming of making it onto the West End. This came into fruition and I got the chance to be a part of 3 West End shows by the time I was 26. When this happened, I decided that the next natural progression would be to focus my efforts on Broadway, a dream so big, that I hadn't even dared to suggest to myself that I might be able to make it a reality until I woke up one day and realised that all the dreams I'd had had already come true. So, I packed my bags and came to NYC with new hopes and new dreams. A typical tale. All the way over here on the wrong side of 25, I look back on my 21 year old self and see that, though my goals are different and much, much bigger, my own way of pursuing them have remained the same.

I have learned that the path to Broadway is harder than anyone or any other experience could have prepared me for. This is not a peaceful meandering path next to a babbling brook, nay, this is a full on sweat-your-boobs-off hike. You know what it feels like to love to dance as much as I do and not have the chance to work as a dancer? It feels like I am living with a third of my soul and a limb missing. I am pretty certain that anyone else in my position will tell you the same thing. I am a cockeyed optimist, so whatever the Universe throws at me, I try to take in my stride and use to learn, help, and give. There are always lessons to learn, people to help, and good things to give. All good things! But even a cockeyed optimist feels blue once in awhile. Spending every spare day off of my day job either auditioning or in a dance class can sometimes feel like I'm hitting my head against a brick wall, but it's my heart that ends up hurting. It hurts to put so much of your time, energy, and heart into something and get nothing back. This is the reality of every unemployed artist, but that does not mean I feel the hurt any less. Even though there are so many of us in the same situation, it feels like just me against the world. There are times I get scared that I am letting the pressures of NYC take away my core values and turn me into someone I don't want to be.

I am what I am, take me or leave me. Even at 13, when I made the decision not to pursue a ballet career, I was following my gut and intuition. In other words, I was following my passion, though I doubt that my 13 year old self would have articulated it as so. This is what I am: I am a loving and loyal friend until I am wronged or taken advantage of, and then my claws come out. That trait is never changing; I'm either warm and fuzzy like a childhood teddy bear or cold and prickly like a frost-bitten cactus, and unfortunately people tend to see one side or the other, depending on where my loyalties lie. I am a daughter and sister whose family is my number one priority. Again, that one's easy; I love my family more than anything in the world, and that will always remain constant. I am the person you can count on who will stay true to my word. Now, THIS is where I run into difficulties. If I am contacted via phone or email, I will reply within the day, and if I can't reply properly, I will follow-up saying that a proper reply is on my to-do list and I will get round to it as soon as possible. For me, that means a week, at the longest. If I tell someone I want to see them, I mean it. Otherwise, I don't say it. If I say I will meet you at 4pm, I will be at the appointed location at 3:55pm. Here's the thing: I don't know any other way to be. I really really don't. So, I get confused when I contact someone and they never respond. I get annoyed when someone tells me that they want to see me so I am careful not to overbook myself, then that person flakes and cancels on me. I get REALLY annoyed when I am supposed to meet someone at 4pm and they show up at 4:15pm.

My mom keeps telling me that I'm naive. "why do you keep replying to people's emails if you know that they are not going to follow-up?" she'll ask me. Why??? Because, in my mind, that is the right thing to do. It is both good human etiquette and good social etiquette to respond to someone when they contact you needing a favour. How am I supposed to know that, if I go out of my way to try and help, they will tell me at the last minute that they don't need my help anymore? But, that's besides he point. I do all these things because I will not lower my standards, even if I am dealing with people who have different standards. However, in NYC, everyone is obsessed with themselves (I am not exempt from this, obviously...I am blogging about it!) that I have found myself not following through on things because there have been so many circumstances when people have not followed through with me. So, suddenly, my need to reply to calls and emails and take social plans seriously really doesn't seem all that important anymore. But I hate that. I hate that I've ended up sometimes being the sort of flaky acquaintance I get confused by. I feel more and more that everyone is out for themselves, and it doesn't matter how they treat others. It matters to me, though. It really really matters to me. I want to treat others with the sort of respect I'd like to receive. As much as I want to be on Broadway, there is something that I want more: to stay true to my core values and not let myself change for the sake of my dreams. Because, if you change for the worse to get what you want, doesn't that somehow taint the glory of it?

I follow my passion and pursue everything that I want 200%, but I will pursue on my terms. I will not sacrifice my sense of what is right for any dream. I am what I am, and I have faith that there will be a place for me on Broadway one day, just the way that I am. So, how does it look from all the way over here on the wrong side of 25? It looks like I'm doomed to send emails that will remain unreplied, make plans that will not materialise, and be offered promises that will not be kept. But, I happily accept. I happily let myself and my quirky ways be made a mockery of if, at the end of it all, I can look back when I'm on the wrong side of 55 and feel as proud of my late-twenties self as I do of my teenage self. Hard work, dedication, strong values, and luck. That's all it took for one 13 year old Chinese-Jew to give up a career in ballet to eventually perform on the West End. It's a long long trek till I'm on the wrong side of 55, so I better get my backpack, water bottle, and teeny bike shorts. I'm ready for the hike!

copyright (c) 2010-2011 Celia Mei Rubin

Plesurable Past-times of One Little Miss Piggy

Little Miss Piggy. Were that a nickname of mine, it would be entirely fitting. I have, after all, already been given the nickname of "Noodle," which refers to my love of Asian cuisine. But my love-bordering-on-obsession doesn't just stop with Asian food, I love ALL foods. The grosser and more obscure, the better and more fun to experience. It's not as if I ever had a choice in the matter; what is the one thing the Chinese and the Jews have in common? They EAT. ALOT. Jews with their hot pastrami sandwiches on rye bread and the Chinese with their Peking roast duck. I got the best of both worlds, and then some, by growing up in Singapore. "The best of all possible worlds." And since those days of weekend dim sum and weeknight tofu that my mom convinced us to eat by telling us that we would have skin like Snow White's if we ate it, I have not stopped pigging out. My roommate and I have been known to sit in the kitchen devouring raw cookie dough and spoonfuls of vanilla frosting. Are you getting the picture that eating for me is not just a matter of survival but one of life's most pleasurable past times?

Speaking of pleasurable past times, I did something very out of character today: I talked myself out of going to ballet class. Ballet class is not just something I do to ensure I'm at my dancing peak for auditions, but it is the most satisfying form of creativity at this challenging time when I am not working on a show contract. I work 10 hour shifts 4 days a week, and in my 3 days off, I am either auditioning or going to ballet class or fitting in both with perhaps a jazz class on the side if I have some extra time. But, today, after an audition, I had an hour and a half before class and as I was walking towards the studio, I found myself finding reasons to justify not going. I love to take class, but there are days when I'm tired from a long weekend of high volume retail that I have to give myself an extra push to go. I feel really really REALLY guilty if I don't take class because I convince myself that, if I don't go, I'll dance badly at my next audition, or the 4 huge slices of Swiss roll I ate the night before will show up on my stomach. I know, this is the mind of someone who is a little off-center, but it keeps me in that studio striving for the best. So my having missed class today can only mean one thing: I am well and truly POOPED. I just want to curl up under my duvet and drink tea and read my book and write a little and gossip with friends on Facebook and EAT. Good Lord, do I want to eat. Eating on a tight budget is not ideal for someone with a love-bordering-on-obsession of food. Must be the weather; being what my mom refers to as a "tropical baby," walking in the rain, cold, and wind for about 2 hours on an average day because I'd rather walk than take public transport (it's that off-center thing again) has knackered me out. I'm only teeny and slight. Or, could be in the stars? Mercury is currently Retrograde (...off-center?). Or, could it possibly be that my notion of myself as a Super-Human is a big, fat delusion? Maybe...just maybe...let's change the subject.

As soon as I decided to forgo class, this little piggy went and pigged out in a great food hall that opened up in Little Korea just before the new year. I discovered it when I went to have a bite in a great restaurant, Kunjip. Kunjip was packed, so I walked two doors down, and there was this new Korean food hall that I'd never seen before. The space was completely void of customers, and looking around at the 5 or 6 different stalls, I was apprehensive of how good the food would be. But, I was starving, and very pleased to see that one of the stalls was serving my Korean go-to dish, spicy oxbone soup with vegetables. To my delight, it was absolutely delicious, cheaper than in a restaurant, and took just minutes to be ready. What a find! I was so excited and made a mental bookmark that I had to return soon. I next got the opportunity to return about a week ago, and from one stall ordered Soondae (Korean blood sausage) and 3 Onigiri (Japanese rice balls) with different fillings: spicy tuna, salty fish, and vegetables. The salty fish were those tiny dried fish used alot in Indonesian and Malaysian cuisine, and that particular Onigiri was my favourite. They also have Umeboshi (salty plum) Onigiri, which I love, but unfortunately it was not available when I was there. I took home a couple of Korean deserts which I'd never seen before and some pickled radish and green beans, all of which were delicious. I still have the green beans and radish, and the blood sausage was such a huge portion, that I was eating it for 3 more days.

I entered the food hall today telling myself that I was just going to get some Onigiri as I recently did a big grocery shop and have banned myself from spending more money on food. HOWEVER. There were even more desserts -- purple cakes, green cakes, multi coloured cakes, and buckets of kimchi. Literally, huge buckets of kimchi. Jeez Louise, what was I gonna do??? Well, I'll tell you what I did: bought 3 Onigiri, 2 desserts, and 2 side dishes. Little Miss Piggy! I told you! The Onigiri didn't make it onto the subway -- I devoured them without breathing. When I got home, I warmed up the two side dishes (a beef stew with shisto peppers, and vegetarian congee) and had myself a mini-feast. While writing this blog, I ate one of the desserts, a steamed white rice cake, and will have the second one, a glutinous rice cake filled with different bean pastes, later. The desserts are so colourful, they almost look inedible. There is a purple cake (made with purple potato), an algae-green cake (made with asteraceae, a type of plant), a multi-coloured cake (probably made with lots of food colouring!) and so much more! Speaking of so much more, there is a Red Mango for frozen yogurt (and a random phone shop??) inside the space, AND I noticed as I walked past Pinkberry 4 doors away that they are now serving lychee with lime frozen yogurt! Foodie heaven.

What I haven't stated yet is that the main reason I wanted to write this entry is because I want to get spread the word about this little engine that could, called, simply, Food Gallery 32 (11 West 32nd St. between 5th and Bway). It is never that busy when I have been inside, and I would love to see it packed because it is fun, unique, very decently priced, and has such awesome stuff. Go check it out! I'll join you! Or I might cry wee wee wee all the way home!

copyright (c) 2010-2011 Celia Mei Rubin

A Customer Service Employee Speaks Out

"The customer is always right." Having worked in high volume, high end retail on a handful of jobs, I struggle with this particular notion. I do believe that great service is a must, and if a customer has not received a desired standard of service, a complaint is not unfounded. In that aspect of business, sure, the customer should get what they want. There is, however, a moral aspect that continues to be in issue for me: if the customer is always right, does it then make it socially acceptable for a customer to treat those who are serving them with disrespect and rudeness? My Libran trait of being a fierce advocate of fairness amongst all people immediately yells, NO NO NO! Condoning disgusting behavior from a customer is not acceptable! Customer and customer service employees aside, we are, at the end of it, all human beings, and regardless of social standing in professional contexts, we all deserve to be treated as such.

One of the actualities of being in show business is that it is a very cyclical profession; one day you could be in your final rehearsal before opening night of a major show whereupon you will be photographed and admired on the red carpet, and a few months down the line, you could be back on the audition circuit, unemployed, waiting (and praying) for the next contract to roll around. To tide me over when I have been in such circumstances, I have had the pleasure of selling wedding gowns in a lovely London boutique, selling delicious dark chocolate in a Disneyworld for chocolate lovers in the West Village, and selling fine teas (miracles of nature, I staunchly believe!) in a beautiful SoHo space. The common factor of all of these is the huge amount of face-to-face customer interaction. I have been lucky enough to adore each "survival" job. Watching a bride's face when putting her in a wedding gown that turns out to be "the one;" Indulging the sweet tooth of someone who looks in amazement at the slabs of chocolate laying out before them; Conducting a tea tasting for someone who is reduced to smiling a copacetic tea smile. These moments are quite lovely, and as someone who, if I could choose any other profession if my soul not demanded that I dance, would choose to be a psychologist, for me they are moments of true human connection. 90% of the time, helping customers is a real pleasure. Of course, I'd rather be doing 8 shows a week, but life is give and take, so I am okay with "doing time" off-stage before I receive the next gifts of the chance to dance again. This point is something that some people to not understand about those of us in customer service. In my experience, the majority of us are artists and performers, biding our time in a semi-flexible job until we are given that opportunity to express ourselves in our chosen career. The fact that we have to support ourselves through retail work or bar work does not make us stupid, nay, it makes us committed to our goals, dreams, and desires that we would rather work in a flexible customer service position than at a more stable office position with better financial opportunity but less flexibility to pursue our true passions. And yet, to some, we are merely seen as uneducated, low-ranking members of society who cannot possibly be more complex.

Would you believe that, sometimes, when I eagerly greet a customer into the store by genuinely saying, "hello, how are you?" that they look me right in the eye, then proceed to look away without so much as a smile because in their eyes I am not worthy of a basic greeting? Would you believe that, whether it be wedding gowns, chocolate, or tea, when I have used my knowledge (I have been quite adequately trained in selling these products, after all) to make a suggestion, I have been met with a look of disgust which is meant to imply that I have no idea of what I am talking about? Would you believe that I have been made to cry on the floor by a customer who, because she disagreed with store policy and I was very politely but assertively not bending the rules for her, actually said to me, "are you trying to get yourself fired? shut-up, don't talk to me?" I am a confident, happy person, and that strangers can make me feel so degraded and inadequate is NOT acceptable, even if the customer is always right. From my moral standpoint, it's just not. The truth is, the majority of people whom I've had the pleasure of working with on these various "survival" jobs are smart enough to choose a more stable career path. Call me arrogant if you like, but if I really wanted to hold down a "better" job I do believe I could, so it is infuriating to me when I encounter a customer with an "I'm better than you" attitude. You see people from all walks of life when working high volume retail, and I have come to learn that, you can have all the money, good-looks, and education in the world, but none of that buys class when you are rude for no reason to the person who is serving you. Most of us are not in awe of the self-entitled yuppie who walks into the store with the air of, "I have everything that I want, aren't you jealous?" (these people exist) then proceed to treat us like servants. On the contrary; they walk out of the store and we discuss the moron that just came in with the awful attitude.

When I was doing 8 shows a week, whether it be as a member of the ensemble or the leading role, I treated everyone equally. From my co-performers, to the dressers, to the choreographer, to the stage management crew, I never made a distinction. When I walk into a shop or into a restaurant or am on hold with a customer service representative, I hope that I am always polite and good-natured. No one deserves to be made to feel not good enough, no matter how bad of a day you may be having, or whether or not you agree with store policy. Because if you disagree with store policy and believe that the customer is always right, therefore, store policy should be changed just for you because you are more important than the thousands of other customers who walk in and out of the shop/restaurant/bar every year, then I believe that you have no class and no etiquette, and, quite frankly, that you are an idiot. So, the customer may always be "right," but that certainly doesn't mean that the customer is always considerate and courteous. I know which type of customer I'd rather be (and wait on).

copyright (c) 2010-2011 Celia Mei Rubin

10 Gross Things A New Yorker Will Do Before They Get Rich Enough To Take Taxis Everywhere And Employ A Maid

1. Plunge poop blockage in the toilet.
FACT: NYC plumbing sucks. Yours Truly would like the audience to be reminded that I have worked the plunge technique to near-perfection, and can plunge a toilet in under 2 seconds.

2. Sweep Mouse poop off the kitchen floor.
And the kitchen counters. I'm not sure I'd make my maid do this even if I had a maid.

3. Sit next to a smelly homeless person in Grand Central
There's a couple of them that we can recognise. Sometimes they're digging through garbage; sometimes they're leaning against the wall: half-standing, half-sitting, whole-drunk; sometimes they're sitting next to me as I eat my lunch before boarding a train.

4. Walk through stench in Chinatown.
Ah, the fish that are still alive, their gills gasping for oxygen whilst laying over ice. Next to them, the lobsters wave their rubber-banded claws at passing white people whose mouths are agape in part amusement, part horror. The rows upon rows of weirdo herbs that must be part of the magical potions that the Asians drink to keep them wrinkle-free. I love me some Chinatown stench.

5. Pick up someone else's garbage that has been left illegally on the doorstep.
There are laws against putting garbage out in certain places at certain times. There are people that disregard this law. However, it doesn't matter who leaves the garbage out, it's the person who's doorstep the garbage is left on who will be fined. Cue gross action #5.

6. Eat out-of-date food.
Hey, when you're stretching the pennies, you'll eat anything that won't make you sick. If it smells good, it's fine! We may be conditioned to believe that eating certain things past their due date or if they're not cooked properly may be a health hazard. My roommate is convinced that, at some point during her travels in India, she ate human feces. And, hey, she's still here and a picture of great physical health!

7. Go two days without showering because the landlord has not fixed the broken boiler.
Picture this: It was the middle of winter in NYC and a tiny Chinese-Jew came home from a 10 hour shift to a freezing apartment. Eager to warm up, she checked the radiators: freezing. In a little panic, she checked the hot water: nothing. The boiler had broken in the morning and the landlord had been unable to fix it all day. He assured her that it would be fixed the next morning. Tiny Chinese-Jews don't take well to the cold, let alone freezing showers, so, having not showered since the prior evening, our tiny Chinese-Jew nonetheless went to bed without a shower. Wearing 4 layers of clothes, she lay in bed underneath 2 duvets unable to fall asleep due to her shivering. She prayed as she went to the shower in the morning that the boiler was fixed. However, it was 7am, so of course the boiler man hadn't yet arrived. She was so cold and exhausted from her night of shivering that she could not bring herself to even remove her 4 layers of clothes and went to work her next 10 hour shift without a shower. She prayed and prayed to return home to hot water that evening. Not many things make a tiny Chinese-Jew sick, but lack of sleep and feeling cold are 2 culprits, and she was being harassed by both. Thankfully, she DID return home to hot water, and as she stood under the soothing heat of her first shower in almost 2 days, she thanked the Shower Gods for the gifts of heat and hot water. The End.

8. Dodge huge rats.
NYC rats are HUGE, and their mission in life is to run up and down subway platforms to freak tourists out.

9. Catch and kill a mouse.
Or, in the case of many New-Yorkers, catch and kill mouse after mouse after mouse, but they just keep coming. It's actually quite sad. Rabies aside, the little things are really very cute and it breaks my heart to see them on the glue trap every time. I have a big admission to make: the reason I sweep mouse poop off the floor is because I'd rather let the mice live then catch and kill them. All the food is in the fridge in airtight containers. so as long as they are not getting into the food and only coming out at night when the house is asleep, then I'm happy to deal with their little poopies.

10. Ride a subway that smells of farts.
Seriously. WHY do people fart on the subway?? WHY????? It's gross, it's rude, and isn't it embarrassing?!

Got your own gross NYC experiences? Share and tell so that we may all revel in each other's grossness!

copyright (c) 2010-2011 Celia Mei Rubin

Identity Crisis

I've been back in London and Europe about a week and a half. Couple of lovely days in London, couple of lovely days in Paris, couple of lovely days in Spain, with a few days on the road splashed intermittently in-between. The main difference I've noticed since being away from New York and arriving back in London? Instead of wanting to get all spiritual about everything and revel in the beauteous joy of life with large gesticulations and neverending self-indulgent monologues, I want to turn everything into a sarcastic joke that is so dry, even my chapped lips would be offended, while obnoxiously taking the mickey out of everyone. This may, in large part, be due to the fact that I'm, at present, on my 2nd vacation read -- "One Day" by David Nicholls, set in London, and told through the eyes of two young Londoners, resulting in pages of English slang, English self-deprecation and loathing, and English pop-culture. For example, when our hero, Dex, asks our heroine, Em, to tell him to make any cocktail in light of his newly-found flair for "mixology," she retorts in her London dryness, "half-lager top." She is by no means impressed, and if she is, well she'd be damned to Hell before showing him. Which brings me to a statement that is going to get me into lots of trouble, and perhaps make me a few enemies, but I'm going to say it anyway: Londoners hate to be happy. They hate it, and because of that, they hate seeing anyone else being happy. Lord help the poor sod who attempts to revel in his success -- he will probably be subjected to a Ricky Gervais style roasting. I didn't see any of Gervais' work on the most recent Golden Globe Awards, but I would have probably found it hilarious. It's what the Brits do, isn't it? Take the piss out of each other. Bring each other down a peg or two or ten. In fact, who can blame them for their "woe is me" attitude? When I arrived in London, I looked out my parents' car windows on the drive from Heathrow to their flat and the greyness weighed down on me. I felt annoyingly suffocated and claustrophobic. Then you have the customer service. Or, rather, LACK of customer service. I had an optician's appointment at 2:30pm, and by 2:45pm, I hadn't yet been seen. I politely but firmly said that I'd been waiting for 15 minutes and asked when I would be seen. Don't I have every right to know? Well. The receptionist retorted sharply that it would be another 5 to 10 minutes without an apology. I had to remind myself that I was not NY. Oh no, we are spoiled in NY, the land of obligatory 20% tips. Don't get me wrong -- I am so happy to be able to spend time with my family and and catch up with my London mates. The people I love the most don't actually live in NY. I adore "Little Britain," "Catherine Tate," and a good old banter. But, after a week and a half, I am looking forward to being back in a city where you can openly believe that your outrageous dream will come true without being made to feel like a fool.

Another thing I've noticed: I'm not as fat as I thought I would be after a week and a half of eating and not exercising. That's not to say that I'm not eager to get back into ballet class to get the flat tummy back, but I thought I'd be bigger by now. I've thought about why it might be that I haven't put on more weight, and I think it's due to the fact that the Europeans eat a diet that is far more fresh than New Yorkers. In Paris and Spain, I've primarily started out the day with eggs and toast for breakfast, had a big lunch of either meat or fish with accompanying veggies for lunch, then made do with some cheese and salami for a night-time snack. No Dunkin' Doughnuts breakfast sandwiches, Chipotle burrito-bowl lunches, or Chinatown dinners. I wouldn't say I've been eating less, but I've definitely been eating better quality food. Here's the thing that I keep trying to convince people about, but few people are ever convinced: it's not how much you eat, it's WHAT you eat. I honestly believe that eating 1200 calories a day of fresh meat and veg is better than eating 1000 calories a day of take-out. Now I've said all this, I do hope I don't get into ballet class and despise what I see in the mirror. This trip has reinforced my motto that cooking from fresh produce is most definitely as important as exercising. No one believes me. I hope the Americans get it right, eventually. They are so good at so much, but healthy eating is still something it seems the Europeans excel in.

I am proud to say that I now suffer from an identity crisis. Sometimes I make dry, abrasive remarks that perhaps Ricky Gervais would be proud of yet no one at work in New York gets. I intend to be funny, and come across as rude. Sometimes I am sickeningly melodramatic about my love and passion for my art and my struggles for my art, and my London friends roll their eyes and tell me to shut the f*ck up. Sometimes I fancy a slice from Ray's Famous pizza, and sometimes all I fancy is a green salad dressed in extra virgin olive oil. Sometimes I say, "I fancy" and sometimes I say "I want." And for all this, I feel lucky. Lucky to be both a Londoner and a New Yorker, to have a twin sister who lives in Paris, and parents who will soon live in on the Costa Brava. One day, I will hopefully add a European country to my "places that I have lived" list. Experiencing and appreciating different cultures is really a gift, and though I may poke fun at certain places and the people that come from those places, I poke with very much affection. It's not every week one gets to start Monday off at a New York dance call, celebrate mid-week by hosting a tea gathering in a London flat, then finish off the week by visiting a Medieval village in Carcassone.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few more days of Spanish food to cram in before it's back to chasing the New York dream. You can take the piss, if you like; Go on, do Mr. Gervais proud!

Author's Note: In response to this blog, a great friend of mine who is a Londoner wrote the following which I am inserting here because I think it is a brilliant response on many levels:

"So buddy ol' pal of a chinese Jew. Having read the new edition to the tale that is Celia Mei Rubin I have some comments to make, which is only proper is it not, After all I am a Londoner! My City is a tiny one, grey it is most of the time, ...mos def but you and I both know that when the sun shines on her, she aint half bad but that is not gonna happen in the middle of January! Not a chance in hell (such a shame!). A Waterloo sunset is quite a sight as is Hyde Park in all its glory! NY is an infectious place and given half a chance gets into your blood. America has been built on the premise of the American Dream, and therefore for someone who dreams as big and loud as you do it is definitely the place for you to be. I agree that sometimes it seems like londoners are not best placed to celebrate achievement, or to "big up" there people or generally to be happy, there are some proper miserable gits around, and a lot of them for some reason work in customer service (Tres Strange) but there are some of us that do as the great Python said and always "look on the bright side of life". That outrageous dream that you have, I also have and know that it will come true at some point, but they will happen on different sides of the globe. London will always have a place for the one that is Rubinsky, avec a flat tummy or not, Although Fat you will NEVER be dude! Enjoy the rest of your Coupe chase through europe xx and travel back safe to the land of the free. But not Free health care xx Peace out x"

copyright (c) 2010-2011 Celia Mei Rubin