Day 88, The Be Brave Project; Au Revoir '08

This is my last posting of 2008.

I am flying to Chicago, which is apparently in the grips of the coldest winter in history. That's something akin to London's rainiest summer--which I experienced two years ago--or the Presidential Chimp's stupidest public gaffe: No joke. Chicago in a mild winter requires nerves of steel and underpants of thinsulate--that damn cold gets in everywhere. I grew up there, and thought nothing of developing thick horns of skin on my feet and hands each winter. The cold would make my skin thicken and buckle, and you'd have to rub petroleum jelly into it before trying to pumice it off.

And those weren't winters described as cold.

As for that summer in London, it's always interesting to visit a place and have to spend a week watching images of its citizens rowing to the grocery store as the rain slaps against your living room windows so hard you'll fear they'll break. Seriously, it was like The Birds, but with water. (As for Bush's stupidest gaffe, My favorite is still the old classic from 2000: He and Cheney walk onto a podium to tumultuous applause as they prepare to greet the press. Bush forgets he's miked, leans over to Cheney, and the words "There's that asshole from the New York Times" ring out over the speakers. It was a subtle indicator of the complete blind obstreperousness to come.)

But the Be Brave Project has helped me to sort out my life immeasurably, and I am very thankful to be leaving NYC with

1. A health insurance card

2. My taxes paid and entirely up to date.

3. A clean bill of health from my internist and cardiologist.

These improvements are so huge, and having run from them while still 'using' had created so much fear and tension, that my life truly is different to how it was last July. . .not to mention that I now live in an absolutely kick-ass apartment overlooking the Upper West Side (which was not my work, but the kindness of the powers above)!

In 2008 I will start my year with a new list, and some new goals. . .but the remaining goal on my BBP list will still remain: Time To WRITE. I will have 2 months to work on a book, before I need to get a job. I need every fibre of bravery and impulse control to do that. . .

But Happy Holidays to all who read this!

Be Brave Project, Day 87; Duckin' and Weaving thru the Chocolated Christmas Maze

Well, I manned up and returned the fox fur neck stole I bought at Century 21 the week after thanksgiving: It was an egregious purchase in too many ways to keep. At $90, there are far far many better ways to spend the money than on a poor skinned animal; credit card payments, Internet/cable/phone bills, and a little something known as, well, gifts for other people.

But that's the horrible side-effect of all this damn Christmas shopping--I rarely to never go into department stores. Nowadays I pretty much shop in the magnificent vintage shops of this city, which I adore, but the experience is far more of a battle than a treat. If you emerge without having exposed your lady bits to employees and fellow customers, that is considered a victory.

So when I get in department stores, even cut-rate ones like C 21, all is gentleness and delight. Music is playing, perfume is being spritzed, salesgirls are sneering contentedly. After waiting in a long coiling line in the hidden bowels of the 3rd floor, I handed over my egregious purchase and got the money back--then all hell broke loose.

I ran for the basement, but they were out of Godiva chocolate bars. Shook my fist at the sky, then sprinted for the elevators to check out the Godiva stands on the second floor--still no chocolate bars. Feinted and ducked my way into "Accessories and Stockings", where I found silk-lined gloves for my mother. I then bought a pair of sheer sheer stockings for myself.

I simply cannot help it: Shopping kills my impulse control, but at least (unlike a fox stole--the lunacy of which still appalls me) sheer stockings are a necessity for the parties I'll be attending in the next week, cost under a tenner, and involved no bloodshed. Plus I'm hardly getting thrift store stockings, all laddered and covered in crumbs.

Then I bought my cousin a RL Jeans t-shirt, twisted and ducked my way back down to the Godiva stand in the basement, and found that 2 chocolate bars had appeared. Grabbed them, stood on another line, and eventually got out of C 21 with almost all of my Christmas shopping done.

Upside: I returned that poor fox.

Downside: I have bought approx. 19 Godiva chocolate bars in the last 3 weeks.

But all of my shopping is done, apart from one more (expensive) gift for my mother, which I will pick up at the Met.

If you were to ask me what the hell any of this has to do with the BBP, I would be at a loss for an answer. For a moment. Then I would say that remaining sober during the holiday season requires some cojones, the sort that most people don't swing around. And what will require fortitude is remaining patient with my family, despite their massively self-destructive tendencies.

But right now I will do something that I have been procrastinating on (always a danger sign): I will call my accountant with some questions about taxes for next year. And if he doesn't know, I will ask my brother to recommend someone who does.

Such glamor, my Manhattan life! Chocolate bars and tax scenarios.

Day 87, Be Brave Project; Done with the Chestnut Roasting

Just spent the better part of an half an hour mucking about in the control panel "Internet Options" setting because blogspot here told me to enable java settings (that were already enabled), and muck about in the cookie realm.

Well, it's nice to do something that isn't connected with Christmas. Yesterday, as I roamed Broadway looking for a Best Buy store, I began totalling up the price of Christmas for me: Airfare, a little over $300 (used to be under 200). Tipping of the doormen: $200 (never had doormen before, and do not begrudge the tips for a moment--totally worth the $20 a month). Catsitter: $150. Taxi to airport: $30 (used to be able to take the M60 bus, right from my corner). So, before I've even bought a gift, Christmas costs me close to $700.

$700 before a gift is bought!! Holy crow. Is that not flipping egregious? And should Christmas alone not be able to improve our economy somewhat? In addition I have already made 2 trips to the dirty nugget of heaven that is Century 21, ducked into horrible Filene's several times, only to emerge foul-tempered and empty handed, strolled indifferently into Variazione and came out with the greatest dress bargains in history (2 black, boat-necked capped sleeved back-wrap dresses at $20 each, and one ruched jersey for $10). I've bought approximately 15 Godiva chocolate bars, and will buy more--their milk chocolate is absolutely sublime, with a rich caramel taste. I've seen one woman faint (Century 21), and two women fight (Loehmann's).

I'm ready for Christmas to be over.

Today I have to buy some nice hand cream for my step-Grandmother. She is a lovely southern lady who lives in a nursing home in Jacksonville, Florida. For decades she ran a funeral home down there, and Miss Flo was the most respected person in town: She'd hide bootleggers in the basement with the corpses, and she'd take in your dead daddy even if you couldn't pay to bury him. Now she has diabetes, and has lost one leg.

Once I find the hand cream, I get back here, wrap it and put it in a padded envelope along with a gift card for my father, socks, a 1940's game of skill & luck, and a German date-book. His wife gets a silver frame with pictures already in, earrings, napkins, and a cell phone case. Then I'll be meeting the cat sitter here, showing her around, and heading for the post office afterwards.

Oh the grimness of the NYC post office at Christmas.

One week from today I head to Chicago until the New Year: My poor cirrhotic mother will have a filthy house and a pile of chores to do; it will not have occurred to her to not drink so she would feel well enough to do them herself.

But I like Chicago, and I will try to make the best of it all. I will not drink (I hope and pray). I will see wonderful movies at the greatest neighborhood cinema in the world, The Wilmette Cinema, and I will drive around-- a lot.

But for right now I wish Christmas would come once every two years. That's enough.

Days 85 & 86, Be Brave Project; Straight to the Crazy

Sometimes, drinking seems like a completely logical response.

Not now, not now that I've seen the damage it's done and could till do me. Not when I remind myself that my liver enzymes were all over the place and how swollen my gut was. . .but I quite clearly see why the hell drinking often seemed such an utter relief and necessity.

It was, to paraphrase Jane Austen entirely out of context, the natural response to an unnatural situation. At times my entire family seems to be wired differently to the dictates of self-benefit, logic, kindness and reason. I could give many sweeping statements on how that operates, how they demand success but only encourage failure, believe--to a man--that they are absolute shit and yet the complete center of the universe, but instead I will give this example of the weirdness that makes me head straight to the crazy.

Two days ago I received an email from my cousin informing me that my father's 95 year old uncle was dying. I only met the uncle a few times, as he lives in Texas. But I thought that I should check in with my father, just to say I heard what's going on and hope he's doing ok.

Seems pretty logical, right? Rather normal human behavior, I thought.

I went on with my day.

Yesterday I received an email in response--the email was written to me alone, but sent to the entire family, and also forwarded my previous email (a breech of modern etiquette). The letter was long, with much in praise of the great uncle, and very formally written as if it were a speech. And it concluded with the nugget of information that my father and aunt were welcome at the funeral, but none of the rest of us were.

Then I hear that my father is furious at my aunt for telling her daughter about this imminent death in the family. And the aunt is furious at her daughter for telling me. Apparently these things are classified and information that will only be released months--if not years--after the event. My three sentence email to my father was viewed as forcing his hand, making him tell people of this death, and being the result of an egregious blabbing of information that had nothing to do with us.

See what I mean about the crazy? It would take beaucoup vodka to make logic of this thinking, this control freakery and emotional disconnection. No wonder I behave like an overgrown adolescent--my generation of cousins are bankers, businessmen, graduate students, high-level federal employees, analysts, parents and tax-payers: But we should not be informed of major family events or, if a serious breech of security has occurred, we should never discuss the information amongst ourselves.

Sober, I cannot wrap my mind around this. I also cannot laugh at it, apart from that bitter sort of barking laugh. I trust I'll find this funny later. It makes me think of that Marguerite Duras quote, where she said she would be perfectly happy living alone on an island provided she had enough booze. I do not understand any of it, the hostility and the blame, the defensiveness and the rigidity. I just want to be on an island, away from it.

And I am so sick of trying to figure it out. I need to find another response to the crazy, apart from obsessing or capitulating or drinking--I need to remove myself in some way.

Day 84, Be Brave Project; Tips n' Teeth

I have been giving the doormen their tips for Christmas. After much research on the internet I settled on $20 per person, and twice that for the Super (who got a huge chunk of change when I moved in 2 months ago).

This tipping involves more work than you would expect. First, I bought Christmas cards at Century 21 last week. Or should I buy "Happy Holiday" cards, to be politically correct? Or one of those cards that makes a point of celebrating Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanzaa? Oh crap--Just bought Happy Holiday cards; the least vulgar ones there that were still 50% off. Dark green cards with wreaths on, decorated with a single bronze bow. Very tasteful, darling.

Then I go to the bank and take the lovely money out from my worrying and dwindling assets. Sigh. Bring the money home and sit down, with the cards on one side and the money on the other. I made a list of all the people who work in the building: Pat (crazy as a box of frogs), Angela (don't fuck), Anthony (friendly and sweet), Vernal (moody but nice), Gerard (super with a wonderful Irish face), Manny (shy, tends to hide behind doors), and the two people I've seen around doing work whose names I don't know. On my list I wrote, Young Guy & Middle Eastern Guy. It might be racial profiling, but I needed to get it all down.

Then I put the envelopes together--h'mm. Hmm. Obviously I write "Happy Holidays and All the Best from Elusive D. in apartment #XX." But won't "all the best" seem a little ironic, given that I'm only handing them $20? Or are there people giving less? So perhaps I should write ". . .and a Happy New Year?" But then that's two "Happy's" in one sentence. Not echt.

Hmm. I could write "and a Wonderful New Year." But doesn't that sound rather fulsome and as if I'm from Connecticut? I don't want that. I sat and chewed my pen for a bit, then ate a piece of Godiva chocolate 72% dark chocolate with almonds, then ate some saltines. I could see Christmas lights sparkling from balconies up the street, and I realized that meant the sky was darkening while I mulled this over. Ridiculous. Getting tangled up in knots over crap like this is why I became a drunk, anyway.

I wrote "Happy Holidays and Many Thanks from Elusive D. in Apartment XX", put a 20 in, wrote the name on the envelope (obviously I didn't write "Middle Eastern Guy" on one--I just put another "Happy Holiday". Big ass pile of envelopes sitting on my coffee table and a job well done.

Or half done.

The last few days I have been quietly stalking the building. Poking my head around corners to see if anyone I need to tip is lurking there--yesterday I had a curling iron wrapped around the hair on the back of my head when I heard a sweeping noise in the hallway. Building employee!! I didn't want to unwrap the iron, so I unplugged it and ran out the door, envelope and keys in hand and curling iron held to back of head--ah! I found the Middle Eastern Guy and gave him the envelope. I also asked his name (Bernar) and we shook hands with great zest after I switched hands on the curling iron.

I tracked down everyone, chasing the Young Guy down the hall towards the laundry room. He rewarded me with a rather surprising hug. V. sweet. His name, he said was Dee. (!?) The only person I haven't seen is Mad Pat, who's usually around the building all the time cracking bad jokes and telling dogs to pay their taxes. Hope she's all right.

Now I need to find a catsitter, and then I'm pretty set. Apart from buying gifts, of course.

Yesterday I had my new crown put in at Dr. Folickman's. A nice little $1500 spent to keep me looking like a member of the middle class. It feels and looks fine but oh! I just keep thinking of how nice my bank account would feel and look with that money still in it.

Day 83, Be Brave Project; Letters and Lists

Tra la la, la la la la! If I were another person, a wiser person, a person more aware of the frail fluid passage of time and less fearful of it; a person more inclined to be grateful than to be careless; a woman more involved in my future than messing around with the wreckage of my past--I would be positively THRILLED!

As it is, things aren't bad at all. . .

Friday afternoon was quite a good time. First, my faux fur toque was admired by a discerning man on the street. Love that. Secondly, when I got to my building there was a package from FedEx for me--turned out to be Style sections from the London Sunday Times, sent to me from my cousin. As I went to check my mail I thought --Right. Get upstairs, feed the little cat, then it's bubble bath/Style section time for you, Elusive D! Wonderful.

My hand pulled a few thin envelopes from the mail, and I stepped into the elevator. As the doors slid shut, I glanced at an envelope and my heart lurched. Central Park West Women's Imaging and Radiology.

Oh fuck. The eagle had landed. But maybe it was only a massive bill?? I tore the envelope open, replaying that horrible day the doctor thought she felt a lump. . .the ghastly painful mammogram and clutching my clothes to my chest like a refugee as I was sent to the bad news waiting room for the doctor. . .

We are pleased to tell you that the results of your mammogram are normal.

Hot damn!!! I burst out of the elevator like a bullet from a gun, and ran towards my apartment, where I grabbed the cat, clutched her to my chest, and did a little dance. I then went upstairs to get on the internet, as I'd been doing some bargaining with God and now had to give some money to charity. I gave to The Children's Hunger Relief Fund, because they seemed profoundly legit. And, obviously, do some good in the world.

That night I feasted on the best vegetarian chili recipe it has ever been my pleasure to encounter, I worked on my Christmas list (in my family you have to make one, as it is so much easier for other people. And because we are greedy), and I went to bed with a smile on my face.

. . .And woke up with a horrible cold. Ah well. Below is the list, just because I am the kind of person who likes to read other people's lists. And check what they're buying in the supermarket. And eavesdrops on people's phone calls when they're on the bus, unless they are shouting--in which case I get all annoyed at other people's intrusive rudeness.

Elusive D's Quite Modest Except for Some Bits 2008 Christmas List
1. Cat carrier, soft sided, made by Sherpa. For a cat in the 10 pound range. By Sherpa because that’s approved by all the airlines. This is expensive–I think around $75–but probably available cheaper on the ol’ intershmet.
***2. Queen-sized sheet sets. I like percale or sateen, and in a French blue–preferred–or sage green or some other nice color (I have a white room and a white duvet, so a little color would work.) I’ve no sheets that fit my new bed. Patterns are fine, if they’re not overwhelming!
3. Really high-quality set of coasters.
4. 2-4 small but thick pot-holders. Preferably machine washable, not ugly, & not mitten-type.
5. Book: Without Lying Down: Frances Marion and the Powerful Women of Early Hollywood. Hardcover, if possible. (By Cari Beauchamp)
6. Jeanine Basinger’s book Silent Stars. Hardcover, please!
7. Kiehl’s facial cream.
8. Microsoft "Word" word processing system. I’m hoping someone has a copy of this sitting unused in a desk somewhere! Doesn’t need to be super up-to-date; I have Windows XP. My computer came with WordPerfect, which is v. imperfect.
**9. Armband for an Ipod Nano 3rd Generation.
10. Socks–not too thick, knee high and/or shorter, in dark patterns.
11. Small, pea-sized, pearl earrings. Also, very small very simple gold hoop earrings.
12. Pocket map o’ Manhattan, in a book form. I get lost below 14th Street!
13. Some of that smoked Paprika Toby talks about. And some fancy Chili seasoning.

Day 82, Be Brave Project; Fat Pets & Dead Eyes

Every day I'm just chipping away at Christmas, until it becomes the perfect little ice sculpture for me to slide into the New Year on. Yesterday I put together a package to send to my cousin and her family in London: While I was wrapping a silver picture frame for her (and internally celebrating the day I bought a box of 14 types of tangled ribbons at a garage sale for $1--good lord that stuff is expensive!), I was watching tv.

The show I was watching was called Fat Pets. It was about English pet owners, who own the highest percentage of obese animals in Europe. Isolated couples who treat their dogs as spoiled children, lonely women who anthropomorphize their animals and believe that not giving them 6 slices of birthday cake is simply rude, sad women who cannot work or date or deal with the world. The lady who fed her dog birthday cake clearly equated a healthy diet with something preposterous that no one in their sane mind would demand of her: When the vet asked if her asthmatic heart-murmuring miserable King Charles Spaniel had been following the diet set for him, she burst out with a fruity laugh and a "No!"

The dog sat wheezing on the metal table, its hip joints literally strained to popping from the pressure of fat between the dog's legs. And its eyes were dim and drooping. Suddenly, with the tape and ribbon in my hand, I thought, "That look on the dog's face is very familiar to me."

It took me a while to place it, but that dog's miserable expression exactly matches that of an English friend of mine, when I saw him last summer. When I first knew him he was full of quiet contentment, with a sly sense of humor and bright eyes. By last summer, he'd gained masses of weight, and just seemed to have the hope sucked out of him. Peculiar to be sitting in nYC, looking at his face in the form of a spaniel in Leeds.

But the expressions were the same. Absolutely burdened, with a sense of no way out.

A while back, when I was still drinking, someone gave me a picture they'd taken of me at a party. I did not like the picture, and nearly tore it up and threw it out. But there was a look in the eyes, in my eyes, that made me tuck it in my bag for later viewing. That night, when I was sitting at home drinking wine and smoking, I pulled the picture out of my handbag.

I looked bloated, and sad, and was unquestionably wearing the wrong color sweater for me (a blazingly bright blue). My jawline was heavy and sullen, my hair tied back messily in a way I thought looked casually cool. I was wrong. But what had prevented me from tearing the ugly picture up, what made me look at it again and again and again over the ensuing months, was that not only did my eyes look vaguely rectangular in shape--they looked absolutely dead. No sparkle, no life or hope or humor or anger or anything.

Just dead.

And slowly, as I kept looking at that picture, I realized that something was very, very wrong with my life. . . I hope my cousin's husband figures his problems out, because he's one of my favorite people on the planet and I would like to see him enjoy his life.

So, in the Christmas countdown, I have:

-put together the packet for London

-bought xmas cards for building employee gifts (must get $$ today).

-bought dvds and books over Amazon, which are being shipped to Chicago.

-created a rapprochement between my sister and law and mother, so that dinner is served earlier (though not as early as the SIL wanted it--we are not farmers). I usually loathe this sit-down dinner on Christmas night, as I hate events with fussy table settings and the bullshit pressure for 'witty' conversation, but hope I can make it pass as quickly as possible.

-printed up a pattern to knit a tea cozy for my aunt. Hope it works out!

I have still, happily, not heard about the mamogram last week. . .I think that no news is good news on this front? I do not have the cojones to call the doctor's office. But if I don't hear anything by the end of today, chances are good that that dreadful visit went well.

Day 81, Be Brave Project; Fox News

Century 21 shopping was the same as always; I felt a little tired & bored walking in, I wandered around and around those damn escalators that are never never in the direction one wants to be going--and then next thing I know it's 150 minutes later, I have two shopping bags cutting strips into my wrists, and I am emerging from the store in a daze of hostile joy.

I bought:

9 v. large Godiva dark chocolate bars

3 silver picture frames (2 still in the box)

2 wooden puzzle sets for children

1 Lily Pulitzer pink & red child's blouse

1 Columbia nono-tac camping mini flashlight

1 FDNY child's knit hat

1 pair Laura Ashley bedsocks

1 box christmas cards for doorman gifts

and. . .

They must pump some drug made from the bones of cremated chorus girls into that store. . .

because. . .

I bought a fox fur neck wrap, for me.

My Dear God. I have never wanted a fox fur neck wrap. I have never noticed them on the street, or priced them on the internet. On the rare times I have had occasion to look at a fox (when I lived in Richmond, SW London, they used to congregate on my street at night--poor leggy oily sad things), I never thought --Oooer, peel that garbage-eating bad boy and I'll look fabulous.

It just happened, the way car wrecks do or Angelina Jolie obtains another child: In the blink of an ill-judged eye. I simply rounded the corner, all hopped up on Godiva chocolate and the free tote bag I'd just been given--it says Century 21, Where You Have to FIGHT for Fashion--and there was a sign saying "Fur Head Wraps".

Hmm. I thought.

Hmm. Wonder what that'd look like on me. I'm sick of always suffering from Celtic Scrawny Neck (a hereditary trait wherein one feels the cold in that particular fatless body part). I put down my two bags, my handbag, my chocolate bar, and my diet coke hidden in the pocket of my handbag. That alone felt very, very good.

Then I grabbed one of the velcro tipped, long pale grey fur pieces and wrapped it around my neck, once. The tips fit together in a discreet V at my breast, and the fur was so lovely and warm--how they get the fox stench out I don't know--and the effect so elegant that I paused.

I felt the heat of an impulse buy coming on. But $90??? I am so cheap that I eat vegetarian most of the time simply because it's one of the most inexpensive ways to be healthy. I am so cheap that I make cookies instead of bread because baking soda is cheaper than baking powder.

I wrapped the piece around my head, as it was intended to be. It looked enchanting. My eyes looked very brown and big, the fur felt very soft and warm. And, here is the danger knell. . .I could always buy it and decide later. Because I could always return it, next visit. . .

Oh crap. Oh dear. That is rarely a good and wise voice. Fur is a horribly cruel business, and I have an animal I love who has a coat as thick as this--imagine her dead and peeled. Horrible. Horrible. Just so some scrawny-necked discount shopper can have fun on her chocolate high.

I bought it, and shall return it.

After a trip to Bo-Ky on Bayard Street for a large bowl of $3.75 WonTon Soup, I walked up Canal Street and caught the C train home--very nice, very direct. Had enjoyed a long chat with my mother on the phone the day before, so decided to call her again. She was drunk, at 4.30 in the afternoon her time. I got off the phone, felt depressed, wrapped my horrible cruel fur collar around my neck, and did a crossword.

But I kept the price tags on.

BBP: Still haven't heard from the Doctor. Today am going to library for work on outline.

Day 80, Be Brave Project; Century 21

Today is a day I look forward to throughout the year, a day that takes nerves of steel and sinews of extreme sinuousity to negotiate successfully. . .

Today I go to Christmas shop at Century 21.

Century 21, as you doubtless know, is NYC's absolute best discount shopping. It's all the way down at the bottom of Manhattan, just near the closed World Trade Center subway stop. One must have eaten roundly of protein and carb before venturing in, one must have settled accounts with one's family and lawyers. . .one must carry a shiv.

Ok, that's going too far: Let's keep lawyers out of it.

The first time I went to Century 21 was when I came to NYC in the 90's, for graduate school. I was absolutely thrilled to be living in a small gleaming-floored studio on 118th and Amsterdam, which I'd furnished with one mattress, a mahogany side table, a tv that only received Public Television, and many many books. Naturally, I felt I needed to purchase a handbag.

For many years I'd heard about C 21 from my Aunt, who used to work at the Trade Towers before her office switched her to the City Hall building. She had presented me with absolutely wonderful chic quirky un-affordable clothes for Birthdays and Christmases. She would sit me down and tell me of the rude sales-girls, the heaving odorous crowds, the dressing rooms that you aren't allowed to use if you're trying on trousers. I listened saucer-eyed as she regaled how a pair of boots had been torn from her arms as she clutched them in line, just moments away from the cashier (who turned her head).

I needed to go to Century 21. Caught the train down, found the handbag section in the basement--thousands of bags. Thousands of them hanging from hooks and straps and rails. . .I put one after the other over my left arm, and mimicked scrabbling for keys in it, or seizing it by the strap to clock someone over the head before restoring it to its armpit holster. Finally, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror--red faced, hair in disarray. I decided that a pizza break was called for, and to leave the store, grab a slice and a vat of diet coke poured over a mountain of ice, and decide which bag to buy.

Five minutes of wandering in circles finally brought me to the front door, and with a sigh of relief I saw a Pizza shop outside. "Buy 2 slices, get soda free!" Ok, then. OK. I marched out the door--but suddenly could go no further.

An enormous hand had seized my arm.

And then another one grabbed my handbag. . .

As I looked into the serious faces glaring down at me (faces which themselves weren't unfamiliar with many many slices of pizza), I realized an important thing:

That wasn't my handbag.

I'd forgotten to put back the last bag I had tried on, which turned out to be so comfortable that it just rested from my shoulder unnoticed. And then I'd tried to walk out of the store.

The two security guards led me away from the door, when I decided to use the only tool in my arsenal. Not my innocence, obviously: My Mid-Western Accent. I opened my eyes as wide as they'd go, and did the same with my vowels. "Oh my Gahd, I am so sorry!! I didn't know it was there, I was just trying these cute bags on and then thaaaaght I'd go out for a slice. I am so sorry to bother you boys!" I sounded like Marge from Fargo--I looked like butter wouldn't melt.

And they were so dazed by contempt for my stupidity and my ear-shattering accent that they let me go, but gave me a warning not to shop there anymore that day. I left there vaguely thrilled by the drama of it all, and didn't return for 2 years.

But today I'm going back, Christmas list in hands and loins firmly girded--I'm going to take Century 21, then walk up Broadway slowly, stopping for a cup of tea and cake somewhere, and then buy jewelry chatchkas on Canal Street and/or lower Broadway. It's above freezing, the sky is blue, and I've still got a mid-western accent in my armory if it's needed.

Re. the BBP and the medical stuff: I have not heard from the doctor, but of course I have until Friday. Very stressful. Doubtless good for mental discipline, as drunks are just not good at dealing with anxiety (therefore the up-turned vodka bottles), and on top of it all I am a catastrophist. But that damn mammogram wasn't a reassuring experience--far from it. I am waiting to hear and hoping not to.

Day 79; Be Brave Project; Tits Out and Eyes Lowered

It's been an anxious weekend, and entirely, entirely due to the BBP. Not one moment of the holiday weekend was without a sepia soaked edge of anxiety. On Friday I went for my first mammogram--and it was not a good experience.

I arrived a bit late and flustered, having wandered around 8th Avenue thinking it was Broadway (Columbus Circle always confuses me a bit), signed into the building and took the elevator up. The West Side Breast and Heightened Anxiety Clinic--perhaps not its real name--was on the 9th floor. There was a high dark red counter behind which two nurses sat, their heads visible only from the bottom lip up. I gave my insurance card, filled out the forms, and gave them back. Then I was called back up to the desk, asked if my mammo was diagnostic or baseline. I didn't know. They said that my doctor had felt a lump, and asked where it was.

I answered, and said that that is why she wrote "sonogram if necessary" on the paper, so we could get it checked out fully. They appeared somehow dissatisfied with this answer, and I returned to my seat for thirty minutes. I was called back up and given a questionnaire. I sat back down and looked at the couple opposite; the man was Hispanic, in his fifties. He wore sweatpants and a look of discomfort. His wife looked horribly underslept--or ill. She sat very still, her eyes closed and her hands crossed on her lap. They made me anxious, and I was relieved when she was called in by the technician. More time passed.

A middle-aged fire plug of a technician came out and called my name--she reiterated the question about diagnostic or first-time mammo--I answered. She asked if I'd used talcum powder, deodorant, perfume or lotion this morning. I said, nope. I was led to a small sock-shaped room where two women were sitting, one of them the weary woman from the front room. There was no eye contact. I took my clothes off, put on the robe, and had to carry my clothes with me in a bundle back to sit in the sock-shaped room with the women. No one spoke.

More time passed, and I bundled my clothes more tightly. The woman two chairs away from me moved her handbag so I couldn't reach it. There were pictures of rock stars on the walls, and small placards talking about the photographers. Fire Plug came back in, called my name, and we went to another room with a big stand-up machine. I was pressed into it closely, closely, my feet wedged in uncomfortably beneath it, and a big plastic guard above sticking into my face. Fire Plug started turning a lever and a plate came down down to painfully press my breast. Fire Plug kept turning the lever. . .kept turning it until I thought I would scream. Then she stepped back and told me to stand still--lower eyes, don't breathe.

This went on and on, and the disconcerting thing is that she kept taking images of the same breast, the right one. 4 times, each more painful than the last. She looked silently at the images, and, while I was standing there in my disarrayed robe, clutching my damn bundle of clothing like a fucking refugee, I asked, "Is everything all right?"

Sharply she replied, "I'm not a doctor!"

Oh, fine. Not feeling good, though. She said I shouldn't put my clothes back on, but go back to the sock-shaped room and wait for a doctor. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, have I quit goddamn drinking only to get a horrible terrifying life-threatening disease?? Oh God, Oh God.

Sat back down in the sock-room, and the lady moved her handbag even further away from me. After a while Fire Plug came in and said, "Your doctor's office is closed today. So just put on your clothes and go." I looked up at her, pale in my frightened refugee status, and waited for something more. Some word of explanation as to why I had been asked to wait for a doctor, why my own doctor had been called, what was up with the continued shots of the right breast. . .

I got nothing. Except that I'd know in one week.

As I walked out, a nurse called to me, "Don't forget to fill out your questionnaire!" And believe me, I filled it out.

Then I went straight to an AA meeting, where I met a lady who had had breast cancer, and who said that my experience used to be the norm when getting mammos--but wasn't any more. That next time I should ask for a different location, and make sure that I would walk out with the results. . .she gave me her card.

The weekend contained some heroic eating, much television watching, and epic levels of worry.

Day 78; Kind Hearts and Lost Crowns

Wednesday was warmer than it has been, and I felt like wearing a skirt. When I am nervous I tend to dress a little more formally than usual. Perhaps this is a sign that you're half-way to being an idiot, but I find it reassuring and somewhat distracting to be in fancier clothes I rarely wear. I put on my tweed pencil skirt from LK Bennett in London, black satin Isaac Mizrahi (pre-Target) knee-high boots, a midnight blue v-neck sweater and silver geometric necklace.

I was going to see my new cardiologist.

Hopped out the door and was at 60th Street in something like 10 minutes--living near the B train is fabulous--though I wish it didn't have those bench-like seats that made my tweeded ass slide all over the place. Soon I was sitting in a doctor's office on the 10th floor, thumbing my way through an article on Michelle Obama (NOTE: Please quit with the "Mom-In-Chief" stuff--I know you needed to tone down the smarts for the election, but let's see that Harvard mind at work, please. You could help to de-Palinize the public opinion of professional women!)

I'd already had an ekg that confirmed that, yup, I still have right bundle branch blockage. Small beans, and I'm lucky it's the right, not the left, because that goes under the description of 'cardiac pathology'. My cholesterol apparently is kick-ass, so the next bit was to proceed to the electro-cardiogram.

Nothin' says welcome to the holiday season like having your naked chest lubed up! I lay there on the table, in the blue paper gown, and watched the tissue of my heart flutter on the monitor. It was a curiously relaxing experience, apart from the moments when he dug the little nodule deep between my ribs. Echocardio technology has improved, certainly since my last experience, and the cardiologist was pretty certain that I'd had a false diagnosis of mitral valve prolapse--it was a fashionable diagnosis for a while, and I also have the right appearance for it, being a small, slender woman. I thought of my first cardiologist, a solemn yet wry monkey-faced man at Northwestern General in Chicago: I didn't see him being influenced by fashionable diagnoses. And sure enough, there it was, a little bend in the valve but no leakage or backwash. Otherwise my poor little alchohol-soaked heart looked "pristine".

That, children, is the power of cardiovascualar exercise. I went one with my day, literally feeling light hearted. . .until later that night, when eating an apparently challenging bowl of sweet potato and acorn squash soup, my temporary crown fell out.

Well, of course it did.

Day 77, Be Brave Project; Downey Dreams & Medical Schemes

Here I am, at my desk again. In this absolutely stunning apartment of mine that I hope I get to keep for a while. . .oh my how I hope it, because it is very, very clear that one becomes accustomed to luxury rather quickly. And the bump back down to reality (living in an apartment that is legal and therefore renting at market rates) would be rather unnerving.

But I could handle it--you don't forget how to do studio living, and you don't need to have quite so many things around all of the time as I do now. It's nice, though.

My morning schedule is this: I sleep until 2 things happen. First my cat, who no longer sleeps on my pillow every night due because there's a nearby warm radiator with a shelf over it where she can observe me without being harassed. I miss the days of Gigi asleep next to me on the satin pillow that she's torn up with her talons. . .but still, in the mornings she hops up on the bed at around 6:00. I clumsily pet her for a moment, and then go back to sleep. At this juncture she either curls up into a small white ball and wraps her black tail around her, or she slowly slowly approaches me and, with great slowness and delicacy, sticks her small cold pink whiskery nose into my ear. Yow! I put my head under the covers and she triumphantly takes over the pillow.

The second thing that happens is that the alarm goes off. No one likes this, and the cat glares at me, before remembering that it's close to feeding time, so then she stands up and blinks forgivingly. I hit snooze. Again. And again. I don't like waking up in the mornings, I don't like alarms, I don't like being interrupted in my dreams of being in Cornwall with Robert Downey Junior and attempting to rehab him all on my own. A positively filthy dream in which his puppy dog eyes play a large and thrilling part. Even in my dreams the rehab doesn't work, and in addition, he sticks me with the check at a diner.

I get out of bed grumpily, but the cat is thrilled and runs towards the narrow wooden stairs-she heads down them quickly but carefully, her little white bottom moving from side to side. Gigi Colette disproves the theory of feline grace: This cat can fall off of a chair. I've seen it. We go to the kitchen, which is delineated from the living room by a high white Chinese screen, and I pull the Purina Indoor Cat food out of the cupboard. Excitement reigns, many cries of Now Now Now from the feline contingent, and I feed her and put the kettle on.

Then I come up here to write this and to drink my tea.

***

This week is a lot of the dealing with the medical catch-up: I have more dentistry today, I go to my new cardiologist tomorrow morning (so not sure if I will have time to write), and I get my first mammogram on Friday. Oh lord, I do hope it all goes well. It will be such a relief if it does.

Day 76, Be Brave Project; De Cold and Defiance

Thank Goodness that cold snap is over for the moment--it's difficult to leave home when it's that icy outside. It's difficult to do anything except pile on the layers, knit, and think about what lovely little thing you'll be stuffing in your face next. It's also hard to face the world when dressed like a bloody Bostonian (though without the appearance of wearing hemp). All chic goes out the window, except for a very jaunty little faux fur toque I wear at an angle. Otherwise it's slate grey long underwear, double layers of cashmere, enormous complicated scarf twistings that look as if I was bandaged by a blind giant, a thick pea coat. . .and boots by L.L. Bean.

The ultimate concession. Practical footwear.

Saturday morning I donned this garb and caught the A train down to Columbus Circle. The searching northern wind made me realize, even though my hands were stuffed deep into my pockets, that one of my gloves had torn at the right index finger--cold wind flooded in through that finger tip, straight up to my elbow. I would walk a block, jump into some card shop and wander around for 10 minutes, removing my hat before meandering through the shop with my cold finger inserted beneath my armpit like a thermometer. Then I jam my hat back on my head. . .and walk another block.

I assume everyone else was doing the same, unless the world awoke with a passion for Thank You notes that day.

What got me out of the house, when I could have been home with knitting and cat and fabulous footwear and food? My friend Kendall invited me to a noon SAG screening of the not-yet released film Defiance. I love a good WWII film (who doesn't delight to see Nazis taught a lesson, yet again?), and I particularly love it when there's a new true story to tell.

Defiance is about the Bielski brothers in Russia, Jewish men who are forced away fro the family farm into the woods near their home--their parents have been slaughtered by the Russian police, who are being paid the equivalent of $500 a head to kill or turn in Jewish people. The Bielskis bring along a rather half-witted farm boy, who you suspect will be a bit of dead weight, a gun with four bullets, and very little food. They swear that they will take care of the farm boy, but beyond that remain a tight lone trio.

However people--other Jews seeking asylum-- kept finding them. By the end of the winter the Bielskis had created a community of Jews in the forest, more than several hundred people strong. They built shelters, had schooling, food, weapons. And they also had power struggles, between the two oldest brothers.

The brothers are played by Jamie Bell (the guy who might one day shake the "Billy Elliott" label), Liev Schrieber (supposedly one of the great theatre actors of his generation, but known to me as the sarky guy from Scream), and. . .well, there's no other way to explain my foray out into the cold. . .Daniel Craig as the oldest brother.

It is a fascinating and beautifully shot film. The cast acquits itself well and there are some rocking action scenes involving guerrilla attacks on Nazis. There are also some rather amusing movie conventions like 1. It's easy to tell the bad guys, because they have bad teeth. Everyone else in the forest clearly brought dental floss, but the Bad Guys neglected to do so and the decay apparently went to their morals. 2. The Brothers Bielski, though they entered the woods in unprepossessing woolen jackets, somehow are rakishly dressed in belted leather bombers halfway through. We do see Schreiber steal one coat, but the others look as if they were provided by the Calvin Klein Brigade. And I dug it.

The actors are excellent, the Russian accents well done--and DC does show one coquettish naked shoulder. Excellent. I was surprised, however, to find that Liev Schreiber stole the show. He was more than slightly thrilling as the angry alpha male who couldn't bear being outshone by his older brother. More than slightly thrilling.

Thrill was added by the fact that there were guards hired by the film studios in the aisles during the screening of the film--we were told that if anyone so much as filmed as much as one image of this movie on their cell phones, these guards would be all over them. If the one of the security guards had been in a belted leather jacket, I might not have been able to resist. . .

Day 75; The Be Brave Project; Top Chef, US versus Euros.

IN the name of the father, the son and all that is mangled, seasoned, and stuffed into a casing--I am absolutely thrilled that "Top Chef" is back on the air! And better than ever, as one of its primary components of tension this year is the spicy yet intimidating mix that IS New York City.

And some brilliant, brilliant producer (who is probably 14 years old and has text messaging capability inserted in the skin beneath her forearms) decided to further mix it up by adding some Europeans. With impeccable timing, it's being done just as NYC has become the world's Walmart, with people jetting over here to buy luxury goods at 40% off their price at home. An economic war is being waged, and it is on our home turf: Now THEY are overpaid, oversexed, and over here.

And I do mean oversexed! The entire episode was woven together with soundbites that seem to be lines from bad porno films or medical guides to sexually transmitted diseases.

Examples:

* Guest judge, a woman I can't help but like: "Gimme a good chorizo and I'm happy!"

* A diner, on how the food made him feel dirty, dirty: "It's a terribly slimy feeling on the tongue afterward."

* Chef Hosea, a big goateed boy, gives us the downlow on his offering: "lumpy, little, short sausages." And he was right--those poor mangled meat bits looked like a botched circumcision on a plate.

*Fabio, whenever he's not recounting some damn Italian parable about dragons and princesses, "I love hotdog! I know how make sausage!" It's like an opening line for a deli-based porno.

Absolutely divine. Padma's still stoned out of her gourd, Tom Coliccio is still oddly attractive (and I suspect the two of them of bangin' sausage into casing in the refrigerated walk-in). They will even be having a guest judge in Toby Young, an english wanker of the first degree who never seems to know when he is being profoundly inappropriate.

Excellent.

BBP--Today I go back to the doctor. Taking it step by step.

Be Brave Project, Day 74; Summary

This picture is by the woman whose blog alerted me to the Be Brave Project back in July--she is an artist whose cards are for sale, and which benefit animal rescue. The quote beneath is hard to read. It says, "Your work is to discover your work, and then with all your heart give yourself to it."--Buddha.

I like that. It might seem as if I have taken a bit of a breather from the original goals of my particular branch of the Be Brave Project, but I have actually been disconcertingly (to me) assiduous in my efforts.

I have been going to the library to work on the plot of the novel every day now for weeks.

I have health insurance!

I now have a doctor, and have begun to get myself vetted out head to toe, with a gynecologist and a cardiologist. I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, when I will hear the results of my blood tests. I'm a bit anxious, but hopeful.

Still haven't got AB to read my screenplay--need to work on that again. He keeps eluding the nets I set out for him, and it is tricky because of our non-dating history (he wanted to, I very much didn't).

My taxes are all entirely sorted out. My account with the IRS is absolutely up-to-date--debts are paid that I didn't know I had, and they turned out to be quite small compared (oh my!) to the amount of money I was owed. This has been a huge relief, an enormous burden lifted. Very important to note about myself that I was not meant to live as a rogue or a rebel: Those who get all fluttery due to late tax payments should not attempt to live as runaways. Note to Self.

And oh, the book. . .well, as I said, I've been working on the plot. And I want to get some intense writing done in the next month, before I return to Chicago for Christmas.

Meanwhile, the economy seems to be sliding into ever more frightening abysses, and my chances of getting any kind of pre-qualifying for any kind of mortgage are pretty slim. . .

The odd thing is that what remains for me right now, to replace the self-contempt I felt due to the losses incurred while lushing it up on other continents, is a sort of low and swirling anxiety. This is not helped by the holiday season and the worry over my mother's cirrhosis. This is not aided by my father and step-mother being locked in a cabal of recrimination and blame, talking of discontinuing relations with my brother due to what his wife said, and accusations to me of treating my step-mother badly--in the future. Yes, they've decided to become angry before-hand, to save time and money.

All the causes of the drinking and the running away are still there within me. Of course. I thought every thing would get sorted out so quickly, be so straightforward. I am learning to practice a little patience; it takes a while to undo these things. But today I will again go to a meeting, go the the library and work on my book, go to the gym.

Tomorrow I work at the Consulate. There is really a great deal to be thankful for on this crisp winter day, where thin pink strips of clouds float over the Manhattan apartment buildings outside my window, and sometimes that is the brave think I need to do most of all. Just be thankful.

Day 73, Be Brave Project; Hummous and Heartache

Yesterday I did something that I've done only once or twice before--I went out for a meal after the women's meeting. Socializing with fellow lushes from AA is something that I never, ever thought I would go in for; thought they'd all be so busy tucking their toes into the torn cloth of their shoes, or going down to the soup kitchen for seconds on that dishwater minestrone. Of course, sadly, there are homeless people in AA, and people who have hit extremely low bottoms.

But the majority of people, of course, have jobs. Have homes that they live in and a sufficiency of shoes. . .it's still not a festival of mental health, but neither are most crowded subway cars nor, now I think of it, were the social events in my graduate school. I have a great fondness for Columbia University, but there's no denying that the School of the Arts is a breeding ground for the high-strung. Someone once dropped a plate at an end-of-semester party, and you had to crowbar my colleagues off the ceiling.

Anyway, my lunch yesterday was with two women who work in the media, both as writers for very successful television shows and magazines. They own their own houses (ooh I'm jealous of that), they dress beautifully and have the sort of resumes that most people can only dream of. . .but both are very funny, and occasionally rattled by anxieties and insecurities. It was such an enjoyable afternoon--from the outside we looked like successful Manhattan career women, swathed in camel hair coats with high wedge shoes and expensively angled haircuts--but it felt like junior high school. We sat and ate bowls of hummous and thick yogurt, and kept ordering more and more of the warm fresh thick pita bread. Laughed over Jessica's husband having to put his foot down over the amount of lame ducks she brings home ("No more Virgins or refugees!"), and over Maya's attempts to get her cat to lose weight.

I left afterwards feeling very good because a) it was the first sugar free meal I'd eaten since Friday, and b) it's just healing to laugh with women friends.

Then, when I got home last night, I received an email from my father--a weighty and worrying thing. Very kindly inviting me down for Christmas, but also filled with anxiety and dread over his financial state and reflecting his wife's anxieties about the future, after he dies. She likes to talk about that alot. Now she is 'justifiably' doubtful that my brothers and I will be there for her. . .and she and my older brother's wife are quarreling over Catholicism, mutual insecurities, and a well-intentioned party last summer that went horribly wrong when it was decided we were insulting my step-mother.

Which we weren't. I always liked her--but now insecurities and rage and resentments are simmering on low boil and things don't seem to be cooling down. Resentments are very damaging things for alcoholics--for anyone, really--and everyone is throwing shit and blaming others for their dirty hands.

I want to stay out of it, but don't see how I can. My interests are being threatened by people who aren't quite balanced, and my happiness is dampened by how hurt everyone is and how willing to throw blame around. Why not just give it time and assume things will work out well?

Why not, indeed.

Wish I had some more hummous.

Day 72, Be Brave Project; Forbidden Fruits (and Veg)

I don't quite know why, but I spent the weekend eating like a 14 year old girl who was let loose from parental supervision. Last night's dinner was a box of Entenman's chocolate chip cookies and a couple of pints of skim milk. The night before was Breyer's chocolate ice cream, a smashed sweet potato with brown sugar and butter, a salad, and many tea biscuits.

That's not educated eating.

Those aren't adult food habits. And, frankly, it's a little weird because since I quit drinking I also (say Hallelujah!) quit dieting, so nothing's verboten. And I always thought that it was by forbidding foods that one made them ultra-desirable. Sort of like how telling bible belt kids not to have sex doesn't make them actually not have sex--it just makes them stupid about it.

But something was compelling me to treat cheap dessert items like a southern boy's invitation to the barn this weekend, and I didn't quite know what was up with that. I knew what I was doing, but I still went ahead with it. . . Then, last evening I was out on Columbus Avenue looking for a news stand and I realized.

I miss wine shops at Christmas. They're so sparkly and festive, like candy stores for adults--my favorites are the ones that have open crates of wine piled up, with the wine resting on straw while in the background the more serious reds stand sentinel on the shelves. I miss the cheese tastings and the people all bundled up in their nice wool coats.

I walked by a very attractive wine shop like it was an ex-boyfriend's house. Casual gait, but I didn't blink and I took in everything. The beaujolais nouveau est arrivee, the Sam Adams sign in the window, the wide wooden planks on the floor. The flickering golden light and the rushed employees in their smart green aprons.

Frack. I kept going, to my damn AA meeting, which last night felt like nothing so much as a cliche spouting load of bullshit, with the same people telling the same stories for the same spurious reasons. . .then I came home and ate my Entenman's.

Because frankly, even at my most tempted moments (like last night) I do realize that not drinking is in a way much more interesting than drinking is for me: I know what happens when I drink for a long time. I know what I look like and what I achieve. . . this not pouring the same old crap down the same unsatiated gullet is what is new, and interesting and potentially life-changing.

And I suppose a few empty calories are worth it.

Day 71; Be Brave Project; Parties, Pumpkins and Plot

More party invitations coming in, and also much BBP related Plot work is progressing--which makes me feel wonderful and very, very encouraged.

But first, of course, we will turn to food:

My cousin in London makes the most "more-ish" pumpkin bread, which people there thought was an absolutely bizarre and wondrous thing. . .she would give loaves of it to her dry cleaners, to her house cleaner, to her neighbors. It was a way of bringing a little of the mid-west to south-west London and it helped to make her very popular indeed.

And I have been craving the stuff--that moist texture, the very slight and piquant taste of autumn that comes with squash, the cinnamon and ginger combination. Oh my. . .but I didn't have a recipe, apart from ones I'd look up on the internet that contained something like 1/2 cup of oil.

Now really. You're making a bread that contains moist mushy squash--how much damn oil do you need? I ended up hauling out my old recipe for Low-Fat Banana Bread and adapting it. It worked Beautifully--and only one tablespoon of fat in the entire loaf. Bring out the butter, cos' I've got calories to burn!

Low Fat Pumpkin Bread

2 large eggs

3/4 cup of sugar--half brown, half white granulated

1 can pumpkin

1/3 cup of buttermilk--if you don't have buttermilk, use 1/3 c milk + 1 teaspoon vinegar.

1 Tablespoon vegetable oil

1 Tablespoon vanilla extract

1 3/4 c flour

2 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 teaspoon nutmeg

1/2 teaspoon clove

1/4 teaspoon ginger

1/2 teaspoon salt

(1 tablespoon grated orange rind)

(1/2 cup coarsely chopped walnuts--tossed in a handful of flour so they don't sink in the dough as it cooks)

Pre-heat oven to 325 degrees. Grease 8x 4x 2.5 inch bread pan. Beat two eggs and the sugar in a bowl until thick and frothy. Mix in pumpkin, buttermilk, oil and vanilla. Sift flour, baking powder and soda, salt and spices--blend gently. If you are adding nuts and orange rind, fold into the batter. Pour into bread pan.

Bake for approximately one hour, or until a knife draws out clean. Turn out onto rack and cool.

Delicious! I took a thick slice to the library yesterday, and it was a very nice quiet but satisfying lunch. Came home and had some more. . .and will be doing the same today.

I do like my Fridays: The gym is empty and much of the fierce competition for machines is gone. The library is also considerably emptier, and today I think I will do some shopping so I have some McIntosh apples in the house.

Last night I was invited to another party, but this one is being thrown by someone in AA--so there's no being trapped between red-wine drinkers and asked to carry their bill at the end of the night. December 7th, from 4 to 8 in the evening: Very, very civilized and I am looking forward to it, almost. No, I think I actually am. Doesn't hurt that it's only 12 blocks from my house.

Excellent. Now I can turn down 1/2 of my invitations, accept 1/2, and not feel like a complete isolating loser. And in regards to the Be Brave Project, I think that I am moving forward at a better pace than I perhaps usually believe. I am working hard on Plot for my book, and coming up with some good ideas, I think. I am beginning to believe that quiet focused work will sort of pull together a plot that is out there already, just sort of waiting to be connected. . .

I don't know. That sound weird; I was at a meeting last night thinking about it, and it seemed that all of my tension and panic about plotting and writing and failing failing failing was such a waste of energy, so superfluous--when the plot was already written, in a way, and all I have to do again is adapt it. . .

Maybe better not to talk about that too much, as I don't want to ruin that sensation.

Anyway, I'm working on plot. I'm all paid up with the IRS. I have health insurance. I'm seeing the doctor again next week, gave blood tests, have appointment for mammogram. I do really hope it all turns out well. Dental stuff is on-going, but manageable.

My life has changed since starting this in July--all I have to do is look over my right shoulder at the skyline of the UWS, and I can see that.

Day 70!? Be Brave Project; Parties

Did anyone hear that slight whizzing sound in the air? It began last night at Midnight. I was in bed eating a Cadbury Fruit & Nut bar and reading Jeanine Basinger's book "A Women's View: How Hollywood Spoke to Women 1930-1960", when suddenly my cat looked up and shook her head. I heard it too--vhhhhhrrrrrrrrrr. . .vhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrr. . .

It was the sound of a million retailers bracing themselves for a crap holiday season. It was the rustle of a housewife turning over in bed as she thinks of what the hell she can sell on Ebay for gift money. It was the clicking of a thousand knitting needles, the drawing out of millions of credit cards. . .the tearing open of millions of envelopes.

The Holiday Season 2008 has begun.

I have received 3 party invitations in the last week. Perhaps you would think it churlish if I mentioned that my response to each invitation is one of profound disinterest mingled with a sprinkling of resentment?

Why ever would you think that? Elusive D is usually the soul of social ease and access and-- oh, let's face it. That's not true and never was. The fact is, if I have a choice between putting on a dress, stockings, some rather fabulous Lulu Guinness shoes and taking a train to Park Goddamn Slope, OR staying home and watching the new Top Chef series while eating pumpkin bread, the decision is easy: Those Lulu Guinness shoes are ON in a New York instant, just before I cut a slice of bread and head towards the tv.

Cannot tell you how many nights I have watched tv in stilettos and sweat pants. It's quite a nice little look, in its weird way. And you never end up limping along a street, 19 blocks away from public transportation, wishing like hell you hadn't eaten that weird brown party dip.

So. . .the question is, to go or not to go?? Here are the three parties:

One: A dinner party in a restaurant. Setting: East Village. Cast: Restaurant workers, young urban professionals, people in the arts. The party is for my friend Courtney's birthday. She's dating a very much younger guy whose charms completely elude me, though she seems to think he's a charmer. Attractive men possibility: High, a possible mix of Harvard grads who went on to write books, and puppyish waiters who think they're more interesting than they are. This party would be fine, and perhaps even fun, if I were drinking.

But I'm not. I don't want to go.

Two: A cocktail/nibbles party in, again, the East Village. This is in the legendary building The Christadora, where Iggy Pop lived for years (his album Avenue B is about that time). This party is older people, ex-hippies, and might have some very amusing election related discussion. I will feel very young and slender, and be treated as someone without opinions. . .though that's easy enough to turn around. The food will be excellent, the seating non-existent, same with likelihood of attractive men.

I lean towards going to this party.

Three: The party in Park Slope. Cast: Unknown, but some of the players from Party #1. Setting: An apartment shared by two women, aspiring singers in their 30's. I suspect the food will be of the variety served in styrofoam bowls. The theme is good, though: Wear your Finest Recession Garb. You can only wear things that are already in your closet, and you must look as fabulous as possible. There might be attractive men here, of the deeply neurotic variety.

I do have some rather fabulous things in my closet, but there is no chance in hell that I am going out to Park Slope to watch relative strangers drink. I don't even know where Park Slope is.

Party #1 is the only one where people might be offended if I don't go, but it's also the only one where I'd be stuck at a table, watching people drink, for absolute HOURS--and then get stuck with a bill where I pay for other people's drinks. "Oh, just split it in 18". . .and if I bitch then I look like a complete asshole.

No, no, no. I don't want to go.

I used to love the holiday season when I lived in London. The glamor of that dirty town after dark, with dodgy over-priced train service adding to the mystery. Men in London are more attractive to me, simply due to their verbal dexterity and the fact that they actually really do try to impress you. Very sweet, that. I always liked them for it.

But NY men are too neurotic, too entitled. Or they're in AA and simply too damaged, like me.

But oh, it'd be fun to meet someone with a sillly sense of humor. . .unfortunately, everyone with the sense of humor I most love lives on a different continent. I suppose that's the definition of being, well, Elusive. And a bit dim.

But it makes me sad. How to meet a nice Brit in NYC?

Day 69, Be Brave Project; Eavesdropping and Dis-ease

I'm feeling a little. . .thoughtful today. A tad on the contemplative side. Ruminative: slowly chewing things over with the teeth of my mind.

Oh dear. The teeth of my mind?? Let's continue nonetheless.

You see, the end of the year has rushed right up on me. It's come snaking right up towards my ass, and I do not appreciate it. It seems it was just a minute ago that I was at my old apartment, listening to the grinding churn of my air-conditioner. . .and suddenly I've bought my tickets home for Christmas. Gak.

6 weeks to the end of the year, and I haven't achieved enough. I haven't written enough. I haven't put myself out there dating-wise (and cannot really imagine that happening anytime soon). I haven't found a way to make some good money while putting some behind. I instead am still living in my hand-to-mouth sort of way, hoping for the best but not sufficiently planning for the worst. And not writing enough.

I think much of this was stirred up by what happened when I went back to my dentist's office yesterday. I tripped in merrily, said Hello to Maya at the desk--who knows me well enough now to just smile and point towards the seating area--and sat myself down to read a US News & Weekly Report all about the election. I was feeling quite perky; had just spent some time at the gym and then at the library working on structure for a novel. I was wearing my new "rich girl" Italian camel's hair jacket (from my favorite thrift shop--score!) that I'd recently had dry-cleaned, and elegant wedge-heeled suede boots.

Next to me was sitting a stocky European man with shoulder-length salt and pepper hair. The waiting area at the dentist's is a very small, narrow space like the kitchen seating in a mobile home, and this man's hands and knees seemed to be too large. He leaned forward anxiously to ask Maya a question about his treatment--from her rather weary answers, I could tell this had been going on for some time. "How much percent do I get off on the root canal?" He asked. "Your dental plan gives 15% off, but we need to call them to confirm your plan." "Okay."

There was a pause as Maya turned toward her work, but her very ponytail was stiff with irritation at the question she knew was coming next.

"How much percent extra can I get off on the root canal?"

"None. You pay what the price is."

Pause.

"Can I get the root canal to pay by the month?"

"No."

"You said before maybe I could."

"Sir, the doctor said No."

The poor bastard, I thought smugly. Got his root canal ahead of him and not firmly in the past. I knew that like me, he hadn't budgeted for dental emergencies--just had his discount plan, a wing, and a prayer. Or rather a tooth, and an infection.

When I grew up it seemed all adults had everything covered--massive amounts of insurance, of money for camps or schools or trips. . .roomy houses and freedom from financial worry. There was great sorrow and resentment in my childhood home, and some violence--but no worry about money that I could detect. Now of course I know that there must have been, and that people face this stuff all of the time. Sometimes you cannot organize your life sufficiently. . .but the poor stocky man's worried face and timid persistent manner made me feel his vulnerability, and the vulnerability of all of us who haven't perhaps made the money we hoped to make, or done what we hoped we'd do with our lives so far.

So I was already moving from smugness to sympathy when Maya told me I could go into the dentist's room. I sat down in the angled vinyl chair, said Hello to the hygienist, and twiddled my thumbs whilst gazing at the ceiling. . .until I noticed that the hygienist was placing the colored pins on the tray in preparation for the dentist's arrival.

Actually, they just look like pins with brightly colored tips, but they are really tiny pin-like files. Used to clean out infected canals.

"Uhm--I had the root canal last week," I pointed out, "I'm just here to do the molding for a crown."

Her perfectly painted eyebrows rose, in pity. "No, mami. You are getting the rest of your root canal today."

"Whaa--?"

"Too much infection to get it all last week. . ."

Oh crap. The dentist snapped on his rubber gloves and broke out the dental dam.

An unpleasant hour ensued.

So that kicked up a lot of stuff for some reason: I walked home with a numb jaw and an unsettled mind, and when in the apartment all I could think was I should have bought somewhere when mortgages were easy--fuckin' fathead. I thought of Christmas and my brothers with their families, while I go visit my poor drunken mother should have married some poor guy just to get away get secure get settled. I look at my bank account and it all becomes you've got to write something now you've got to sell something now do it do it. . .

Not a good night.

But I will continue to get my medical tests done, get my dental crap dealt with. I will check with the editor at Women's Health to push for a response on the piece I sent her. And I will keep working on that novel structure. . . I need to be set in a career in 2009.

I need to settle down. At last.

Day 68, Be Brave Project; Neighborhood Fun or Smug Eco Mummy Alert?

I received a flyer through my door around two weeks ago. "West 90th Street News", from the West 90th Street Park Block Association. This is not the type of thing that was distributed at my old address, where neighbor's dogs occasionally urinated outside my door but otherwise I lived in unbothered isolation.

Next weekend is apparently a biggie here on West 90th, with two days of activities including a street "Green Up" day, a Block-long tag sale and bake sale. The Green Up day is on Saturday from 11-1. The primary activities are getting daffodil bulbs to plant in containers and in garden fronts on the block, sanding and painting tree surrounds that haven't been maintained by the nearby buildings, painting yellow curb markings to define the no parking areas, and re-painting fire hydrants. Sounds sort of fun, actually. . .might get to know some of my neighbors. Seems like a friendly, helpful sort of thing to do. The kind of thing people do in Chicago, actually--not NYC.

But I am reluctant.

This seems like the kind of thing that might be made for people who have children--to foster a sense of community here in NYC. In other words, if I showed up, would I be surrounded by self-consciously virtuous eco-Mummies and their children?? If so, I cannot imagine anything more off-putting. I would smile my rictus grin at their kids--I never know what the hell to say to children, particularly these strange spoiled hyper-confident NY ones--and wish to hell I were at home.

However. An ex-boyfriend of mine did something like this, at his old place in Grammercy Park. He was assigned an area to keep clean, and one morning when he was out tending it, no doubt wearing his black biker's jacket and Ramones t-shirt, he began chatting to a woman in a suit who was walking by. Turned out she also had a little plot that she was keeping clean. Turns out she lived in the area. . . And then, Peter told me on the last night I ever saw him, it also turned out that she had inherited a three bedroomed rent-control apartment.

I knew he'd marry her, and he did.

But if leather jacketed Italian guys do stuff like this, then why not me? It's a good way to meet people in the area, and I do desperately need a cat sitter for Christmas.

Or I could put together a table for the tag sale on Sunday, though that requires 6 hours of sitting outside in the brisk chilled air. My final option is to bake something for the bake sale that day, which really is the wimp's way out because all I do then is give my banana bread to the relevant people and then walk away. Not much involvement.

So I will think about it today, and then probably call and volunteer for the Green-Up Day on Saturday. . .after I check the weather.

I don't see myself doing rainy day charity. At least, not yet.

*****

Re. the Be Brave Project:

I have continued on the medical front, and woke up yesterday to get my blood tests. Such an inconvenience, because (like most lushes) I am such a creature of habit that not having my morning cup of tea really chapped my ass. Sipping an abstemious glass of H2O somehow didn't do it for me. Hopped the D train down to Columbus Circle, where a large-busted lady in a very tight flowered smock took one, two, three, five vials of blood from me, and then wanted a urine test out of the blue. Good lord!

I am a little nervous about the results of the blood test, and also wondering if there's still some infection from those abscesses floating around my system. . .but I also am very curious to know things like my cholesterol level and my iron level. Next step on the medical front is to see the Doctor again in 9 days, and begin making appointments for gynecology and cardiology.

I'm getting it ALL checked out, for the first time this millenium.

Oh my I hope it all looks good. . . today another trip to the dentist to make sure my Lower East Side is infection free and to get fitted for a crown. Good bye, Europe money!

Day 67, Be Brave Project; Fabulous Autumn Soup Recipe

What a lovely weekend; no opiates, no tortuous pain or grotesque resemblence to Joseph Merrick. . . shopping and exercise and cooking, reading the newspapers and watching tv. I don't have much time to write this a.m., as I have to go get blood tests near Columbus Circle and I can't eat or drink tea until then.

But I did create a beautiful autumnal soup recipe from what I had around the house this weekend, so I will write it down:

Sweet Potato, Ginger, and Roasted Butternut Squash Soup

1 onion, chopped

1 clove of garlic, chopped

1 thumb of ginger, chopped

1 carrot, chopped

T of olive oil

1/2 t of nutmeg

Saute these over a low flame for 7 minutes, then add:

6 cups of chicken broth

1 peeled and coarsely chopped sweet potato

Let simmer over medium flame for 15 minutes, then add:

1 medium roasted butternut squash--no skin, of course. (I had one as a leftover--cook for 2x as long as the recipe advises.)

Mix, and then blend with immersion blender. Add:

salt

pepper

2 t brown sugar

1 shake Louisiana hot sauce

Let simmer over very low flame for a bit. Ideally, you would turn off the flame and let the soup sit for an hour or two for the flavors to blend (best is if you make it the day before serving). Serve garnished with a dollop of cream and sage or chives, as above, or just on its own.

4 servings.

Day 67, Doctors and Dentists and Popcorn, Oh MY!

Beware the humble popped kernel--whether coated in the most nefarious of chemicals, caramel, or salted butter, that seemingly innocuous treat can end up costing you. Turns out everyone knew this except me: One of those crispy popcorn skins gets beneath your teeth and eludes flossing. . .next thing you know you've got an abscess, your face blows up like a Republican election campaign, and you're shelling out big bucks to have the thing surgically removed.

Next time you're at your local multi-plex, shudder and look away from the popcorn. Or do as I did and have a separate emergency fund that you can tap into just for dental emergencies--of course my fund was in a money market account labelled "Savings For Trip to Europe", but that means nothing. Just girlish dreaming.

Sigh.

However, today is my first normal day since it all began, in the gruesome distant past, on Ooctober 28th. I still have a small hard lump o' pain on my lower east side (dentally), and I am still on mega-penicillin, but I feel normal! I will be going to the gym and the library to work! I will be going to my favorite market in the city--in North America, perhaps--the West Side Market on 110th Street, to eat their free samples and buy salad, lunch, and slivers of chocolate.

Then I'll march up the rain-sodden streets to the NYPL, Morningside Branch, for a look around at their videos. It's all terribly high-minded in there, with Kieslowski and Fellini and Truffaut videos being relieved by the occasional BBC production of a Hardy novel. I've always suspected that there are some professors who scurry up Broadway looking over their shoulders, guiltily aware of the copy of Fast Times at Ridgemont High they have in their leather satchels.

Today is a normal day, and I am so pleased about it. I will work in lovely Butler library overlooking Kim Mead and White's beautifully designed campus, meant to re-create an Italian piazza. I will snap on my iPod and listen to George Clinton's "Atomic Dog". I will exercise long and hard--I've missed it. Amazing how difficult to do that when in searing unfeasible unremitting crazy-making pain.

As far as the BBP goes, I went to my new doctor yesterday. Her offices are on a shabby stretch of 58th street, where the buildings are so tall that daylight never seems to reach the street and pedestrian faces are always in shadow, like E. Hopper paintings. When you step into the building, however, all is mahogany and velvet chairs, with a wolfishly grinning doorman directing you to the office.

I liked that. I love the feeling of finding a little oasis of civility in the dark loud hustling city.

It was an incredibly thorough first visit: I filled in many forms as to my own and family's medical history, my desires for the visit. . .I peed in a cup and then was weighed and measured (I AM 5'3"!! I always thought I was lying, that I was an inch shorter!), before the doctor came in. Then I spent a while alone, banging my heels together on that padded metal table.

Getting more nervous and ashamed of myself by the minute.

After a while I began to say the serenity prayer, but couldn't do it properly. I kept interrupting it with my own impatience.

God, Grant me the Serenity where the hell is she I'm freezing here

To Accept the things I cannot change, Oh god I'm a mess and I don't know where I'll start. . .

The Courage to change the things I can Should I lie about how long since I've seen a doctor??

And the Wisdom to know the difference. I don't want to know if I'm sick--I feel fine and I don't want to know if anything's wrong--ignorance is bliss is bliss is bliss knowledge is popcorn in my gums--



Then the Doctor walked in. She is blonde, with chin length hair and pale skin. She looks a little weary, very kind, and as if she has a dry sense of humor. And she spent an unbelievable amount of time with me. When was the last time you first visited a doctor and she looked over your histoy and talked to you for 45 minutes?

So now I'm set up. With a gynocologist and a cardiologist. With blood tests on Monday and a mammogram on the 28th. All this testing is frightening. . .but this is the stuff everybody faces. I don't get a free pass just because I want one, or because I'm a lush, or because I'm scared.

Life on Life's terms, once again. It feels okay.

Day 66, The Be Brave Project: Facts and Fears

Here are 3 Facts About New York City the day after the Election:

1. You couldn't get a single paper except the damn Daily News, which so offended people by referring to the Obama family as "The New Camelot" that I suspect it remained on the news-stands all night (we really, really are nervous for the man's continued health. Kennedy references are profoundly inappropriate: these Right Wingers have guns). The Times people were idiots in not cranking their papers out: London publishers could have told them that in times of emotion people regress a bit, and want something they can hold. That being said, hits for the NYT website were 29% higher than they ever have been.

2. For the first time ever, I heard racist comments on the street. There were 2 of them, and they were pretty mild, but I was shocked and disappointed. But I realized that some people's thinking will need an alignment and it's probably good to have it come out in 'jokes' than in sullen anger. . .and the longer this administration goes on, the more normal it will become. But it made me sad (we must note: I am still on massive amounts of medication so my defenses are not what they usually are).

3. More importantly, and far far more frequently, there was an air of friendliness and (if my drugged mind was not too distorted) a sort of almost sexual energy in the air. Everyone was checking each other out--so much more eye-contact than New Yorkers are used to. We are proud. We stood in line for hours to vote. We broke the Southern Strategy, we defied the Bradley Effect, we didn't vote according to gender or skin color or financial resources--a higher percentage of people earning more than $200,000 a year voted for Obama than for Kerry despite the fact that O has threatened them with greater taxes. On 81st and Broadway a family had just set up a table, and was giving away coke and cookies. The coke was cold and the cookies were good; I stood there and tried not to be shy--I grinned my swollen grin, and I felt what it was like to be excited by our political future.

On the BBP: Today I am going to see my new doctor for a first check-up. Due to the being a lush and all, I have not had a thorough check-up in a very, very long time. I am frightened by it, but living according to the "life on life's terms" and "face your fears" mottoes. I hope it will be all right. . .

Day 65; Election Daze and Opiate Nights

Fatigued from the shock surgery on my poor infected and opiate-dazed system, I realized that yesterday I wasn't getting much done.

Apart from voting.

Other than that, it was the kind of day when you bend over to pick up a newspaper and then stand half-erect in the hallway with your mouth hanging slack, wondering what you were going to do with it. Build models of the Nina, Pinta and the Santa Maria? Create a miniature reconstruction of the earth's atmosphere? Uhmmm. . . .hm.

So I took my mega-doses of amoxycillin and wearily got dressed. Found my voter registration documents, a passport, two bills with my name and address on, a New York Magazine and a bottle of water, and headed out for the Goddard Riverside Community Center. This time I knew there'd be no problem--I'd planned ahead and was going during the slow hours of the day. I'd checked out the locale in advance, so no wandering around.

Only, there was no one there. Or rather, when I pulled open the bullet-proof doors of the building, I found several painters at work, and a secretary looking at one of them flirtatiously. No lines, no pushy volunteers, no people apart from flirter and painters. They told me the voting was around the corner, at P.S. 58. Okay--walked down there and found the full voting system set up, including old-style booths with curtains and big red levers to pull. I began to get girlishly excited.

But the sign said District 10, and my papers said District 9, "Goddard Riverside Community Center". Oh crap. Went to the volunteers and showed them the paperwork that I'd so vigilantly had sent to me. They said that people were voting at the GRCC. I said, No--Flirting and Painting is going on there. I was told that I couldn't vote at District 10, had to vote at District 9. At . . .well, you know where.

Finally a small woman with the compact form of a fire hydrant dashed up. Her name tag said MARIA, and every other tooth was missing in her mouth, which told me that she has known pain. She gave me random papers and then looked at mine, all while telling me that she had so much energy that none of the other volunteers could keep up with her!! A glance at the other volunteers faces showed this to be her own rather positive spin on the situation. She then took back the papers she'd given me, grabbed my hand, and said we were going back to the GRCC and sorting this out--they'd been sending people there all day and they'd been coming back saying they couldn't vote--let's go let's go let's fix this right now.

She pulled me back to the Community Center, we saw the same secretary (who now was toying with strands of her long dark hair as she coyly told her painter that he was fucked up on fumes), and Maria stormed up to her. Within 12 seconds it was all straightened out: There are 2 GRCC's, within 5 blocks of each other, both with the same name and primary address.

Of Course there are.

I bid adieu to Maria and rinsed my mouth in some salt water as I headed for the polling place. Here, after a wait in line with nervously excited ladies wearing hemp clothes, older women in tweed jackets and hair helmets, and an intriguing amount of rastafarians (could this area be where musicians choose to live!? If so--excellent!), I reached the front of the line. An angry putty-faced man glared at me and my papers and looked me up in the book. "You're not there."

Well, I'm here--and here is my voting card and address change documentation.

"You can't vote here."

I looked around and saw that I was in District 9, and that a neighbor of mine was standing on line eating a bagle and reading P.G. Wodehouse.

"Oh Yeah?"

I pushed past him until I saw someone who looked both competent and important. Explained my situation and ended up sitting at a table (not a lovely curtained booth), voting by means of an: Official Standby Ballot for voters for the General Election

November 4, 2008

City of New York

County of New York.

My work was done. I pushed out by the crowds and walked home, trying not to cup my hand over my swollen mis-shapen jaw. As I walked, dazed by pain and opiates and stress and sudden oral surgery, I foolishly thought to myself. . .I am America--infected and tired and hi-jacked by combative, destructive, extremely costly forces that are sapping my energy at every step.

And I'm so tired. But we've cut the infection out.