Be Brave Project, Day 25: Dealing With Dealing.

Labor Day weekend is here, and I feel a bit melancholy and reflective. Outside the milky curtains of of my apartment windows, I can hear the soft sound of cars swooshing by in the rain, of horns half-honked out of habit more than anger, of women clipping by in high heels. Whenever someone comes into my building, a typical NYC walk-up built in 1904, the front door squawks resentfully before easing back into a closed position with a sigh. Ground floor life.

I don't want to move; the hassle, the expense, the finding of the boxes and movers and time. . .and yet, and yet I have not yet sent my lease renewal. I am still waiting to see that damned duplex. Rec'd a call from Rebecca yesterday; they can show it to me next week. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow--this shit might just petty pace me out of a home. But the idea of having a dishwasher and stairs to climb, of laundry in the building and a full-sized bathtub (bubble baths! Oh!)--in addition to saving $300 a month, just keeps me dangling on the line with teeth firmly clamped to the bait.

They're not screwing me around; I just think Rebecca is shy about gaining access to the place for some reason. And if my landlords try to boot me out for being a few days late on the renewal (these landlords being the same people who took 4 months to repair a hole they knocked in my bathroom ceiling last summer), I shall simply say I mailed the renewal at the beginning of the week.

So that's what is making me uncomfortable; I really do not like duplicity. Even in the name--particularly in the name--of taking care of myself, it makes me uncomfortable. I don't like duplicity or uncertainty or negotiations. I don't know when I turned into such a Pollyanna, but it's ruining my sleep and chapping my ass.

Anxiety about the Be Brave Project is also really kicking up. Yesterday I mailed the second out of the three tax returns I missed due to being a lush. Again, I am supposed to get money back; but I feel as if that cannot be the full story. Can you really just do the late taxes and that's it? I spent years feeling terrified about this, and all it took was 1 week, 1 accountant, and a stamp to sort it out? That cannot be.

My Health Insurance card, which I still do find a bit thrilling, is kicking up anxiety as well; I am profoundly mistrustful of the American health system, and convinced that if I actually use the damn thing all sorts of ghastly paperwork will reign down upon me. This, in AA terms, is known as catastrophizing. And, as you can imagine, it's a jolly fun way to live your life.

So, what with the stress of moving/not moving/might get tossed out, dealing with my taxes, health insurance mistrust. . .I find duplicity is seeping into all sorts of odd places. An old friend from Paris called and texted on to invite me to a dinner party in the East Village last night--I was told that attractive men would be there, that the food would be divine. . .

Phhh. That's how I felt. Phhh. First the hassle of getting dressed, which on an average day is far from a thoughtless, casual event for me. Then a hostess gift, two trains downtown, switching at Times Square. Long long walk from Astor Street stop down to Avenue B. "Attractive Men" always sound stressful and a bit high-maintenance, and as for food? Please. I have my pesto, I have Cadbury's Fruit and Nut bars. Unbeatable.

So I lied: I said I had to deal with my taxes.

And I sat on my sofa all night, quietly focusing on not freaking out about it all, the Be Brave Project and moving/not moving, sobriety and the stockmarket, grave family worries that kicked up this summer and the solace of the beginnings of financial acumen. I suppose you could say I was dealing with dealing with my taxes.

And that's attractive enough for me.

Be Brave Project, Day 24: Eat Your Greens, Mr. Eastwood.

Canoodling around on the internet yesterday, I found an old article from the London newspaper The Evening Standard in which a journalist took England's most famous female boxer, Cathy Brown, to see Clint Eastwood's film Million Dollar Baby. I love this film so very much, or the first 2/3 of it, that reading about a woman boxer's response to it made me leap around my apartment until I found the dvd.

In the article the woman boxer, 34 year-old Brown, had recently knocked out Hungarian Viktoria Varga after just two rounds-- exactly the type of fight Hilary Swank's character, Maggie, excels at in the film. Why is it so great (and really very weirdly satisfying) to watch Swank swing out a meaty arm and knock someone senseless?

What is it with boxing and films? Why does boxing transfer so well to cinema when, for example, movies about movies so frequently suck? (Don't even get me going about The Aviator. . . Scorsese got more from one shot of blood dripping from rope in Raging Bull than he was able to muster in 3 hours of the crap Hughes bio-pic. ) Say what you like about Sylvester Stallone, but Rocky is an extremely well-constructed, enjoyable film-- plus, I can't help but remember my pre-adolescent stirrings at the sight of his armpits. (And if you think you're disturbed by that, imagine how I feel.) Would On The Waterfront have been quite so earthy and moving if Brando had been, say, a failed golfer?

There's essentially something very moving about the strength and sadness of people who get beat up for a living.I suppose much of the appeal of boxing films is obvious: Women like watching well-built men sweat with very little clothing on. Men like sports. Boxing is an inherently simple conflict-- two people face to face with their fists and their minds as their only weapons. It has a structure that is inherently both violent and sexual: The rounds of only a few minutes a piece, the terse interstitial instructions, leaping jets of blood as eyelids get sliced open and noses re-arranged. Plus, boxing films have the climactic potential of the old KO. Add a condom and a pizza and that's a Saturday Night!

Million Dollar Baby relies on a lot of standard cinematic relationships, and it is all the better for that. Eastwood clearly is too experienced to avoid the necessary and enjoyable cliches: He knows their power. Swank is a classic underdog, born of the trashiest family in a trash-filled town, and freely confesses that if she were thinking straight she'd buy herself "a used trailer, a deep fryer and some oreos." Eastwood's Frankie is a world-weary old trainer with a mother-hen instinct, who helps his boxers with their automotive problems and worries about their health. The story is told in flash-back, in voice-over. And who does the voice-over?? Only the biggest smoothie in the business: the buttered gravel voice of Morgan Freeman. This man's voice held The Shawshank Redemption together, its gravity belying the movie's potential for sentimentality. The man could read the back of a tampon packet and make it sound epic and evocative.

Eastwood and Paul Haggis, the screenplay writer, also rely on one of my favorite movie conventions: The Same Sex Non-Sex partner. Think Laurel and Hardy, Voight and Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy, Butch and Sundance. (In fact, the only film cliche I like more than the Same Sex Non-Sex partner is The Makeover. I just love it when they take a beautiful person with no make-up on, make them up, and suddenly. . .guess what?!? They look like a movie star!) But I digress: Eastwood and Freeman are world class SSNS partners. I would happily watch hours of footage of these two characters, Frankie and Scrap, sitting in a van waiting for the Automobile Association to come fix their alternator. Or maybe shopping with double-discount coupons at the Piggly Wiggly.

The best SSNS couples express their affection through rudeness and honesty. After Frankie's #1 fighter coldly dumps him for his rival, Scrap observes, "It wouldn't be so sad if you weren't so old." Exactly. That's exactly right. And that's exactly why Frankie has taken as his motto: "Always Protect Yourself." He doesn't want his fighters in over their heads, because they might get hurt; yet he doesn't want to get attached to them because he might get hurt. He doesn't want to train girls because it's painful to watch women get beaten up.

All of this vulnerability makes Million Dollar Baby a difficult film to watch at times. After a few girlfights I began to distract myself, to have fantasies that Hilary Swank might want some revenge on the bastards who raped her in Boys Don't Cry, and start kicking a little male ass. After all the films we've had to sit through watching women get assaulted, it seemed time to even things up a bit.

However, the filmmakers are far higher minded than my vengeful soul, and they took this quietly inspirational story in a very different direction. After Maggie and Frankie have realized that their friendship has turned into a deeper father and daughter relationship, Frankie forces himself to throw caution to the winds: After several refusals, he allows Maggie to fight Billie, the WWF champion. Billie's a dirty fighter (we are told she's an ex-hooker from Berlin, so presumably she's a little cheesed off what with us winning the cold war and all those low-paid blow jobs). And, in an exceptionally nasty move, Billie throws a series of illegal punches which culminate in Swank's spinal column getting snapped.

Which brings us back to what Cathy Brown--remember the English boxer?--thought of Million Dollar Baby. She felt that the film enacts a big fear that people in the boxing world have always had about women's boxing: "That a serious injury to a woman boxer might destroy the sport. I think some people will come away from this film not wanting to see women box in real life. That would be a shame. We train as hard as men, we fight as hard, and we have the same right to be in the ring."

Well, I can see why Brown would worry about that, but in fact this film reflects quite well on women's boxing (though slightly less well on ex-hookers from Berlin). What I would say to Cathy Brown is this: a. Please don't kick my ass, and b. Maggie traveled places she'd never imagined visiting, earned beaucoup bucks, excelled at a sport she loved, and found a very meaningful relationship with Frankie. As Scrap points out, "People die every day after mopping floors. Never got their shot. If she dies today she'll be thinking 'I did all right'."

In short, thank Christ for Clint Eastwood. He just keeps cranking out film after another intelligent, serious, thoughful film. He doesn't have the soundtrack shout his intentions at us (are you listening, Scorsese?? Howard Hughes was deaf: I am not). And Eastwood can take the piss out of himself. I will be trying not to let the Angelina Jolie effect deter me from seeing his next, The Changeling, though the pulsing veins in her arms--and the crazy in her eyes--are somewhat distracting. But eat your greens, Clint baby. . .we need you around.

And as for the Be Brave Project, my own efforts to stop shadow boxing with the past? Sent off my 2006 taxes to the Dream Accountant, received my 2005 from same. Am within one day of sending off that damn Self piece, and will be seeing the elusory duplex this weekend. Oh yes, and I've decided to get over my fear of Russian Literature: I bought War and Peace.


I just wish Morgan Freeman would read it to me. . .

Be Brave Project, Day 23: Butler Library & The Glare of the Blairs

There's already an autumnal lilt to the air, here in Manhattan, that I've never detected before the third week of September. Usually the students move to the city at the end of August and spend three weeks gasping in the dying grip of a New York summer; they gawp in shocked appreciation as models stroll up Broadway wearing nothing more than three handkerchiefs and a pair of knuckle-dusters, they avert their eyes from bearded hipsters in cut-offs (there's just something about the sight of a bearded guy in shorts that's a bit porno in all the wrong ways.)

But this morning something happened that's the equivalent of Groundhog's Day--I woke up, scratched my way to the kitchen, fed & watered Gigi Colette, and then went to get a glass for my morning diet soda. But I froze. I sniffed the air. I wrapped my arms around myself and felt the need for a dose o' cashmere, or at least a velour hoodie. And then I made myself a cup of tea.

Autumn's come early this year.

I should have been expecting it: Last week I had a slightly disconcerting experience. I was heading to Butler Library on the Columbia University campus. As an alum I have access there, and it's a fine, elegant, efficient place to get some work done (whilst occasionally distracting yourself with their quality baked goods). The architecture of the building is so marvellously over the top in its self-important pretentiousness that I always smile when I see it. I adore this building. I can see some 1930's Preston Sturges characters discussing its design: "I want some columns, see--big ones, and don't be stingy with 'em! Gimme lots of columns, a few big hanging lamps, and a couple a' archways. And let's get some names up there! Who's big in this book business? Aristotle--I heard of him--get his name up there. He's dead, right? Good. No lawsuits. . ."

Anyway, I'm walking towards the library, smiling and thinking girlish thoughts of Preston Sturges, chocolate chip cookies, and the diversification of my credit portfolio--when suddenly I noticed that the people around me were far, far better looking than the average variety of human being. And that these good-looking people were weirdly over-dressed for a summer's day. They all had sweaters tied stiffly around their necks, and the guys wore khakis with knife-like creases ironed into them.

And they were glaring at me.

Turns out that the tv show Gossip Girl was being shot on campus that day, and the entire College Walk was shut down. H'mm. Why, now you mention it, I did suddenly notice that there were plenty of people standing around with the self-important casualness of a film crew--and oh yes, those are some big ass cameras and equipment trucks over there.

While basking in the feast of my own imagination, I had apparently ignored the shouts of the various interns, assistant directors, and security guys, and wandered into the middle of the scene they were shooting. Whoops! I've never seen the show, as I watch Skins on BBC America and only have the capacity for one group of self-involved adolescents in my viewing life. . .but it certainly looked as if I'd just really pissed off a bunch of girls named Blair.

So if you watch that show and see a scene in front of a profoundly fabulous library, where there's an over-aged and apparently mentally challenged female student mooning around, wearing summer clothing when all others are tweeded up to their asses--That's Elusive D.!

Be Brave Project: Yesterday pulled together tax stuff for 2006. Called Health Insurance about activating plan. Edited Self essay, and think it's better and tighter. Called Rebecca about going to see the duplex in the ugly building. . .I decided to risk it for a biscuit, and slightly delay returning the lease agreement to my landlords: It's Labor Day weekend, and these things happen.

Just please God don't let me end up on the street. Think how many film shoots I'd screw up if I wandered this town full-time.

Be Brave Project, Day 22: Capital One, it's the Sock Drawer for You.

I don't like not quite knowing where I'll be living in five weeks, and I obviously don't enjoy the sustained effort it costs for me to dig myself out of the swamp of vodka and financial insecurity beneath which I was buried for most of the new millennium.

Turning around and facing the grotesquely self-sabotaging behaviors caused by addiction is not only frightening, but wearying: You feel as if you're stumbling up a down escalator all of the damn time, while next to you your friends and family glide serenely along, effortlessly moving up and forward, forward and up. My world got smaller and bleaker, while friends got married or arranged book deals; purchased houses--wisely at the time when a ham sandwich could get a mortgage--or decided to row across the Atlantic for charity; had children or leapt into exciting career changes.

A great deal of time at AA meetings is spent discussing the dangers of over-reacting when we are feeling "less than." (I know, these recovery phrases make you want to cover your ears and hum show tunes loudly, but as I mentioned, we are weary. Somehow it helps to speak in a sort of emotional shorthand, although you feel as if you're in an afternoon re-run of a crap Lifetime film.)

It's all a bit confusing, and ironic, and circular: Lushes drink when they feel inferior, and feel inferior because they've run away from life. Lushes drink because they feel resentful, but are perpetuating the behavior that created the disparity which causes resentment. Lushes isolate so they can drink, but drink because they're so cut off. But most of all, Lushes drink because they are lushes. And yet once you've put the bottle down for a bit, you do find that avoiding resentments and comparisons and anger and fatigue and isolation does quiet down the drink signals, and telling other people about it really does help to shut the signals off.

So the AA meetings exist, otherwise we'd be wandering the streets grabbing the lapels of innocent civilians and telling them our trivial stories of grudges and woe. Like I'm about to do here:

In my sustained effort to improve my credit and re-join the more responsible members of the human race, I bit the bullet and called Capital One yesterday evening. There actually wasn't as much fear/bullet biting involved in the call, because I have never missed a payment with them since I got the card (hot damn, Elusive D.!), and I have never made any previous requests. So I wanted them to drop my APR from 15.65%, and possibly give me a credit increase.

Fifteen minutes later I hung up the phone almost shaking with anger. I'd been spoken to like a child, told that having the low limit and the high APR was "good for me, and for my credit", and that as a Capital One customer I was "like a child in school asking for a good grade before the work has been done." Well, I asked, biting my words out so I wouldn't tell the woman what I thought of her demeaning customer service technique, what can I do in order to qualify for these improvements in the future? "I can't give a time frame. Files are pulled randomly." Well, fuck you very much, Darling.

Her advice was that I should start using the card, a lot, and then eventually Capital One would decide to award me for my good behavior. They clearly are using the oil crisis to push buying gas with credit, as she kept telling me that it's soo easy to just swipe the card at the pump. Twice I said, "I'm a New Yorker. No car." Oh, she piped in, I could do a balance transfer at a low APR. As if every other card on the planet doesn't have a low balance transfer. But how helpful of her to point out that how I can improve credit is by shifting debt around! Thanks ever so! Happily, I currently have very little credit card debt, having spent the last few years paying it off. I suppose the Capital One Customer Service Manager would have suggesting running up debt in order to transfer it.

I thanked her for 'the interesting information you've given me'.

She thanked me for calling and wished me a good night.

We hung up in mutual loathing. It really was one of those conversations where you realize --Oh, she doesn't like me at all.

So I went to the kitchen, removed the pitcher o' pesto from the refrigerator (anyone who doesn't have a fridge and freezer filled with pesto this time of year should really get off their ass and to a farmer's market pronto). I put water on to boil, pulled out my whole-grain penne pasta, and began slicing tomatoes. The entire time I was banging pans and muttering to myself about assholes who have no goddamn business dealing with the public. . .what the fuck is on my credit information there that she feels she can talk to me like that?. . .I've screwed up my life and will never ever be able to make it. . .the stock market's in the tank, the Be Brave Project has done nothing for me, nothing, it's just removed me from my protective cocoon. . .

As the water neared boiling, I went to the hallway to check the mail. One envelope wouldn't bend: It was thick and contained something plastic--always intriguing. Back in my apartment I threw the rest of the mail to the floor and tore the thick envelope open--

It was an Oxford Health insurance card!

I Have Health Insurance! Thank you, "Healthy New York"!

Scorecard:

Be Brave Project: 2 (Health insurance and Taxes)

Capital One: 0 (That card's going to be eating socks for the next few months.)

Be Brave Project, Day 21: Weirder and Weirder, The NYC Real Estate Gods Smile (Capriciously?) Upon Me

Yesterday I got up late, for a person whose exciting Saturday night consisted of chocolate chip cookies, a liter of milk, and a Peter Bogdanovich film. Like any rational human being I do usually try to avoid seeing PB films, just as I try to avoid looking at PB himself when he squats malevolently in his seat at MoMA screenings, wearing his peanut-faced scowl and milliner's eye glasses, with his poor re-constructed wife by his side. Rather creeps me out.

But The Last Picture Show is an excellent film, with a very young Jeff Bridges exuding sunny charm all over a somewhat thankless role, and I'd already had the dvd out from the library for two weeks, so I broke out the chocolate chip cookies and got down to it.

However, sugar combined with the black and white (literally and figuratively) view of people trapped, diminishing within the rigidly low expectations of their community: I had a fitful uncomfortable night's slumber. I dreamt Peanut Face was a wooden dummy sitting on my lap, with frighteningly long arms and fingers that crept along the floor. When I awakened, very late, I found I'd received a phone call.

Hadn't heard the phone ring.

The call was from Rebecca, a woman who fitfully attends my Home AA group. I always notice when she is there because a) she looks like Lisa Kudrow from Friends, b) she wears some marvellously simple clothes, which I know cost the earth, and c) she's a writer at one of the influential women's magazines. I like Rebecca because she has a wry, intelligent way of talking, and a few weeks ago she helped Jackie--another ex-drunk, the only person currently under treatment for breast cancer who's doing the Tour de Pink bike marathon this year--get some over-due assistance from her sponsors. Rebecca placed one call, mentioned her magazine's name, and. . .suddenly Jackie's bike is getting customization out the ass. As it were.

Rebecca's message states that she and her husband own a duplex on the UWS, one block from Central Park. They do not live there since having children, as it's too small--yet there are some of the typical impossible NYC rules around the place, and they're not allowed to rent it out. But of course, they have been, and their current tenants have been transferred to LA. So here's the big ol' question: Would I be interested in renting this 2 bedroom duplex apartment, with 1 and 1/2 baths, dishwasher and central a/c? For less than 2 grand a month?

Well, to be perfectly honest, I'd prefer to buy a furnished mews house near the King's Road in London--but lacking that option--HELL YES I'D BE INTERESTED.

Dishwasher + Duplex???!! Dreamy! I could put dishes in the dishwasher, run upstairs, wave my arms around and shriek in high excitement, then compose myself and elegantly descend the stairwell a la Lana Turner in her MGM years. I could do a great deal of that.

You stick around AA long enough in this town, and you get goddamn connected!

The downside of course is that it's not tremendously legal. But there's not legal (happens all the time), and there's not legal (you're a warped freakshow who deserves to be prematurely cremated). In NYC, this rental situation apparently goes under the former category. I've called a few friends--profoundly respectable people, darling--and almost all of them have lived in a similar situation in NYC. Rebecca's out of town, but I could look at the place next week.

The nasty part is that I'm supposed to send in my new lease THIS week.

So today I went to look at the building. And I.M. Pei on a stick, it was freaking ugly. Tiny little windows and that grievous burnt orange sort of brick that you just know saved someone some money. The tenants I saw didn't strike me as very prepossessing: One guy was standing outside of the building, and he handed me a business card in which he proposes to "Hi pressure wash" my entryway. Well, really (she clutches her pearls). But. . .there's a concierge at the door. Mm Yeah. And have I mentioned the words dishwasher + duplex???

So I've got 72 hours to somehow figure this mess out.

P.S. I did some brave stuff today, regarding both work and credit, but will talk about that tomorrow. I am suffering from a marked sense-of-humor malfunction since I got off of the phone with Capital One.

Be Brave Project, Day 20: 9 out of 10 Wise Guys Agree: Take Your *%#@! Beta Blockers!

Thank God for the days off from Being Brave! I've come to realize that Being Brave produces an odd combination of feelings, none of which are comfortable: Anxiety, embarrassment, boredom. . .and the constant nagging thought--Have I Been Brave yet today? Oh, crap--would that count as being brave?

What's become clear is that, in many instances, what I call "Being Brave" is what other people would think of as basic self care. Taking care of your credit, tending to your career, maintaining contacts, taking proper care of your body and its necessities.

An example: For some reason I kept procrastinating a very simple call to my cardiologist in Chicago (I like my cardiologists the way I like my bankers: Handsome, Midwestern and Jewish). For some reason Duane Dumbass Reade, the pharmacists here in NYC, hadn't understood that my prescription was supposed to have re-fills. I've taken these pills since I was diagnosed at the age of 20, and believe me, sudden withdrawal from beta-blockers is no one's idea of a fun afternoon. The tightening of the heart, the shaking of the hands and the sudden sweating, all exacerbated by the worry that very soon one might just pass out. . .it's no good. (Though I did publish a piece in The Guardian about a ghastly withdrawal I went through in Paris one year, and was paid in Lovely Lovely pounds sterling).

Anyway, why procrastinate that phone call? Did I imagine the cardiologist's people would say, "Sweat it out, beta blocker bitch--no pills for you!" Did I think that my need for these pills would suddenly go away, like a yen for pesto or the urge to see a mid-week matinee? No. I didn't think any of these things. I just didn't feel like calling to ask for help. Knowing, as I did, that eventually I would have to call, I decided to just put it off. . .

That is just a little example of how an ex-lush, however fit and trim and nowadays filled with broccoli and calcium, can casually create a little drama and chaos in her life. And for some reason it requires an act of consciousness, and of bravery, for me to place a necessary call. I think that we have successfully established that I don't like authority figures, which is rather bizarre because I used to feel I WAS one. Ah well, the many complexities of Woman.

Yesterday I placed a lot of phone calls/emails in the morning. I emailed a former employer, a Web Publishing company for whom I wrote/edited/worked as consultant, to ask for copies of my tax information. Haven't heard back. I called Jefferson Capital Systems about 14 times to find out why they have placed negative information on my credit report when I signed up to make payments on an old debt the minute they contacted me, and have made my payments on time every time. I did the word count on a Self essay, and realized I have to cut over a page from my submission. Ouch! I also have been combing that brilliant credit site to find out about the world of credit and how to 'diversify my portfolio'.

Ooh that sounds so knowledgable and sexy! I also learned about off-shore phone calls being a sign of sub-prime cards, and that it's a good idea to get a card from a Credit Union. Which I think I shall try to do.

Went to an AA meeting yesterday and IT finally happened. The thing that any NYC lush dreams of: The man who spoke was connected. As in a Wise Guy. Fantastic stories of having no social security number, but owning these lush places on Long Island and the Upper East Side, of the girls and the drugs and the DUIs, of dropping an envelope off here and picking up some money there, 'helping some guys out'. . .Most excellent. The guy even had eyes like DeNiro--the sad humorous look under a twisted brow.

Damn, I love New York City.

Right now my neighbors are cooking bacon and it smells so good I could gnaw my way through their wall. And my landlords actually put a lock on our front door! Living large.

Be Brave Project, Day 18: Ah, the Days When I Allowed Myself Distractions. . .

Don't really feel like writing anything here today: I sort of wish I could resume my normal off-line journals, which I have been keeping every morning for years and in which I do feel less need to censor myself--and no need at all to be even vaguely interesting! It's an unusual combination: Uncensored yet dull.

Could be the title of some ex-Saturday Night Live Cast Member's next concert film. "Eddie Murphy--Uncensored Yet Dull!"

But. . .must keep moving forward. In the last few days I've been trying to keep my eyes focused on just moving my goals forward, quietly, just in an undramatic inch-by-inch method. I have:

-Sent 2005 tax information to the Dream Accountant.

-Mailed Proof of Payment of an old debt to the NYC courts.

-Rec'd and signed form for new organization of bank accounts.

-Organized new debit card so I get miles for using it.

-Received 2006 tax information.

Still need to get more of the 2006 tax crap, and to keep moving forward on letting the credit companies know my debt to Asset Acceptance has been paid--though I don't know if that'll remove the negative information from my credit report. Should ask the guy from the 123Credit link on the right here. Also should call old Web publishing employers for old tax forms.

But today I'm going to work on that damned Self essay. Need to check word count (it may be over, which would be v. annoying. . .), write cover note to Paula Derrow. Essay needs to have more personal detail, as in age and current life. I read several old Self Expression essays in the mag, and they're not too strong on either dialogue or humor, which is good for me (in this case).

So I'm going to skip the AA meeting today, I think. Just don't feel like doing the meditation that's the focus of the Thursday meeting, and I also am feeling slightly--actually, perilously--over-exposed since the qualification earlier in the week.

Oh boring boring it all feels so boring!! Four years ago I was dating a 6 foot 5 rugby player and living in South West London, going to pubs and parties and staying in the odd country house on the weekends, visiting. . .oh, let's face it, I was hungover every goddamn day. Either working illegally or hemorrhaging money in some way, starving myself so I could save the calories for night, for booze. All dolled up in the evening, but during the day eating one McDonald's cheeseburger (which are better tasting over there--must be the subtle flavoring the mad cow disease imparts), or a sad old Tesco egg-mayonnaise sandwich. And as for the rugby playing big boy? He was absolutely lovely--and I didn't give a crap, about him or me.

But oh, I wish I had him around now. I'd love to cook him enormous meals of Tarragon Chicken and vegetables, and cut brick-sized slabs of home-made tarte tatin for his dessert; I'd rent him dvds and sit on his lap as he watched them, I'd find him some rugby games here in NYC. (But he'd have to do his own laundry. I draw a line there.)

Sigh. Anyway. Shower. Self magazine. Being Brave. Ok, ok.

Be Brave Project: Day 17. Dreams and Schemes and Flying Machines

Just woke up from a dream I repeatedly have. . . I am flying home from Europe, and the plane makes a series of straining, popping noises as it takes off. Passengers and the flight attendant make jokes about it the danger, but I am terrified. Next to me is an American businessman who doesn't like Europe and wants to go home. Behind me is an old female friend.

As the flight continues the plane doesn't rise above the old city--it flies low and weightily over narrow streets and between buildings, with wings tilting to avoid tearing off against their facades, then suddenly the plane's nose turns up and we head straight straight straight towards the sky at a dizzying speed, and I'm pressed back in my seat by the force--then, as the plane seems to level off and begin to fly normally thousands of feet above the ground, there is a sudden tumble and rush as it plummets, as the views from the window are smeared blurs, possibly our final view. As the plane falls toward the narrow city streets, the pilot (who is a woman) attempts a landing--but the wheels don't come out. We're moving faster and faster, the plane is level but heading for the ground, the city road beneath us. . .enormous sparks fly up when the undercarriage scrapes the ground. . .we bounce. . .

And the dream ends.

Forgot to mention that for some reason, lately, Carson Kressley of the cancelled show Queer Eye is the flight attendant. This dream is obviously a control dream, a wanting to escape fantasy of fear. . .and I think that the woman who pilots the plane is actually me. (It must be admitted that there have been versions of the dream in which I am outside of the airplane, straddling the cockpit--Dream interpreters need not apply.)

I think the dream was, this time, a response to my having qualified for the first time at my Home group AA meeting. It's a fairly unnerving and exposing thing to do--I don't really want people to know my boring-ass story. Unlike many women in the rooms, I wasn't raped. I wasn't sexually abused. I didn't try to commit suicide or cut myself, though I did think about the latter. I just. . .drank. And learned how to drink some more. And, like some George once sang-- (Foreman or Thorogood or Bush, or for all I know, all three Georges)--I drank alone.

So that was my brave act for the day. Telling my story and then sitting with the feelings and regrets that brought up. "We learn not to regret the past", they keep telling me.

I think that the Be Brave Project might help me get there, but right now I'm feeling impatient and underslept. So if someone gives me that line about learning not to regret the past, my answer right now would be: "Oh Yes? When?"

Be Brave Project, Day 17: Let's All Just Take a Deep Breath, Now.

I apologize for the somewhat breathless (though still rather earthy) tone of the previous few posts. It's just that for years I wandered this planet feeling like the outcast of outcasts, premiere drunken asshole du monde, and general paralytically frightened fool--all over my taxes. But now the untangling has begun--and it's such a relief.

Not just the money--though like most Duchesses I've ever met (and baby, shouldn't we all be Duchesses in our own minds? Not accepting anything but the best behavior, from ourselves and others?)--I can absolutely use the money.

It's just a pleasure to walk around, do my errands and work and write, with this weight lifted from me.

But now's the time to stop running around in circles at the excitement of it all, and re-focus.

Breathe, Elusive D.
Breathe.

And let's take stock for the moment. The original goals of the BBP, as set out late last month were--here we're going to go all italicized and misty as we fade to the past--

For the next Six Weeks, until the Friday after Labor Day (September 4th),
I will do One Brave Thing each day.
-Some of these things will be small, like my first one, but must be celebrated nonetheless.

-I am required to write my brave thing down here, in order to commemorate it.

-I am taking Weekends off, to be a non-brave self and just to rest and watch "It's Me or The Dog" while I paint my toe nails and write sweet fuck-all apart from e-mails.

-I do not have to continue doing brave things after the 4th of September. In fact, if I would then like to forget bravery and impetus and the cruel passage of time upon the procrastinatory, I am then free to do so. Or I can use this blog to take a look at how things have changed and try to find how to move things forward.

Within the space of the 6 weeks of the Be Brave Project,
I must get these things done:
-Get Health Insurance
-Get Driver's License Renewed
-Call the Accountant and sort out grievously embarrassing money issues.
-Pre-qualify for a mortgage. Find out what you are qualified for.
-Take A.B. up on his offer to read your screenplay adaption.
-Plot the novel, using the "Quest" structural format and the one adopted last summer.
-Write the first draft of the novel; 200 pages in total. BRAVE.
-Begin serious job search--force self to decide if you can deal with office life. The trade-off of security for giving up the luxury and uncertainty of freedom/freelancing.

That seems like a pretty damn serious list to begin with. Too big, perhaps? Too much.
Well, I've seen what asking and accepting too little can do: NOT Bloody Enough.

Woof! That's a bit sobering. And here's the summary of my actions & results so far:

-I wasn't able to get my Driver's license renewed, due to ridiculous identification demands by the NY DMV. And I was scared (hmmm) to go to the Social Security office for my card. . .seriously tempted to renew my license in Illinois, where it's civilized and they require reasonable forms of ID, like passport and birth certificate.

-I DID apply for Health Insurance. Am waiting to hear from Healthy NY.

-I DID DEAL WITH THE TAX SITUATION. Now not scared of the Social S. office. Learned I should be getting money back! All delightful. . .

-I HAVE written A.B. about lunch (with goal of bringing script for him to look at). Haven't heard back yet: The ball's in his court, which is quite nice.

-I HAVE called about pre-mortgaging, and found out some discouraging truths, + some useful information. Also found a guarantor for a mortgage, which will make all the difference.

-I am STILL frightened by novel. Am researching plotting, still. . .but not working hard enough. Work done on Novel is part of the BBP: I need to remember that. Something done every day.

-Have PUT OFF job search due to fears of moving, and in order to have time with novel--one of which didn't happen, the other of which I'm scared to work on. That must be resolved.

So here are new Being Brave Projects as additions:

1. Learning how to sort out my credit history. I will be reading this fantastically straightforward and informative blog on credit. I like the guy who writes it because he actually replies to emails--very encouraging to a person crawling out of the primordial mire, financially. . .

2. Taking action to remove negative credit.

3. Organize plans for Novel--Start writing in September. Until then, sort out plotting.

4. Find a part-time job (preferably on the Columbia University campus) so can afford to write.

5. Send essays around! Self magazine gets the piece on Facebook, and pitch Jackie's "As Told To" to Marie Claire and Women's Health. If that doesn't work, find other publications.

6. Keep moving forward with plans to buy a home.

So. Now I will spend half an hour dealing with my credit report, which I printed up yesterday via. Experion (BBP action for yesterday). Dealing with credit plus the fact that I just mailed my 2005 tax information to the Dream Accountant= My BBP actions for today. I think I'll email the lovely guy at Creditmatters123.blogspot.com to ask a question about negative credit. Or I'll send proof of payment to NY State. . .

And this evening, as a lovely greasy nutty insanely summery treat, I will make Elizabeth David's Pesto.

Day 16: Be Brave Project: Day 16. Sometimes A Nice Fax Can Make All the Difference, Baby!

Right--so, Thursday night I got the staggeringly good tax news (which I think will be followed by some occasional bouts of more sobering tax news as I remember paperwork I've scattered over two continents) that rocked my world.

Woke up Friday with that contented yawn and stretch, the stretch that goes all the way down and makes your toes spread out. I was one year sober, and my taxes were. . .the phone rang and it was Louie, the accountant of a girl's tender dreams, returning my call of the night before. Yes, he could change the paperwork so the money would be directly deposited into my account. It would happen in as soon as a couple of weeks or so.


Goddamn! Wish I hadn't remembered about that lost paperwork--now it's got me worried about what other work my drunk ass did. Anyway, I'll make the calls and clear it up.


I'd also rec'd a call from Martha, a publishing professional who attends my Women's AA group--she wanted to take me out for lunch. Yes please! We made plans to meet at Fireside and then hit Sushi A Go Go in the Lincoln Square area. And I was to meet Lara (from same group, works for one of the tv networks) at Crumbs on 75th and Amsterdam later. Excellent! I put on a pair of expensive (thrift store) jeans, a nice top, and my DKNY 'urban wellies', rubber boots with 4 inch stiletto heels. Grabbed my short trench coat and a brolly, because it was supposed to rain canned hams during the afternoon.


I was going to look at apartments in Inwood, so I wanted to look respectable and not be dashing in from the rain looking damp and ferrety and insolvent--decided stilettos might add to look of general drunken unreliability--so I switched to cowboy boots. Reliable, I felt, without being too mind-numbingly corporate.


Great meeting at Fireside amongst the mid-town workers and the hard-core drinkers with yellowed hair and shaking hands. It's got to take a basketful of courage to face sobriety without even an apartment door to close between you and the world, the bars, the degradation you've watched yourself live. . .It always humbles me. Wonderful lunch with Martha, who brought me a lovely rose that's on my bureau in a bud vase.


And then I grabbed a cab up to Crumbs. Holy Mother of all that's Fatty and Delicious, I don't know if it's a good thing that I am aware of this place. It blows the Magnolia Bakery, with their lardy yet dry cupcakes out of the damn water. Unpretentious, roomy without looking like a chain store, amazing location near Barnes & Noble, Kiehl's, and the Weekend farmer's market. Lara got a large cookies and cream cupcake, and I got a large "Hostess" cupcake--looked just like the old plastic-wrapped crap, but made of actual chocolaty buttery food! Down to the white squiggled line bisecting the top of the cupcake.


And oh, it was delicious. De.Li.Cious. With eyes and thighs still quivering from the sheer sugar-power I'd just ingested, I then flew on the A train up to 192nd Street--the subway stop reminded me of London: Dirty, with long low curved-ceilinged tunnels that open onto a lot of green, a number of people walking a little slower than downtown, some guys skateboarding in circles around the street. . .but the buildings are still the enormous NYC square blocks, and the view of Broadway was just grim. Bodegas and phone cards and fried foods. Oh my!

Saw two apartments. One smaller, ground floor, with an odd built in breakfast table and a weirdly outsized fridge--but nice arched doorways. One, fourth floor, bigger, great closet space, eat in kitchen (if you can eat whilst folded in 3 as if riding in clown car), beautiful hardwood floors. Laundry in building. And the whole place left me feeling. . .bleh.

With my sugar levels now plummeted, I took the subway home. Pulled mail from my box--oh crap, something from the dread landlord. A large envelope--probably my marching orders. I opened my apartment door, threw the envelope on my printer, and went into the kitchen to make Marcella Hazan's exquisite and easy tomato sauce. Then I faffed around the apartment a bit, harassed the cat and ate some saltines. . .until I opened the Landlord's envelope.

They'd reduced my rent increase!! They accepted the (low) offer I made on that fax I sent them last week--I sent it in the spirit of the BBP, figuring they could only say No, smack me on the peachy pink ass, and kick me out the door--but they accepted my negotiation! I feel like a superhero, on a small scale. Mighty Mouse!

Elusive D. is NOT going to move--it's Morningside Heights for the Duchess and Gigi, at least until next summer! 2 Days of HOORAY for the frickin' frackin' brilliance of the Be Brave Project!

Be Brave Project, Day 15: HOORAY! Being Brave Pays Off!

One year sober! I'm going to the Fireside meeting in Midtown Manhattan, eating lunch with Martha (from my home group), and then meeting Lara for some cupcakes at Crumbs! Treating today as a holiday! After cupcakes I'm going up to look at apartments in Inwood.

BUT yesterday I rec'd my tax return information, the first thing I did when I started the BBP--all I had to do was open the thing, sign & send a check to the State of NY, and decide what to do with my Federal overpayment of (whoo-bloody-hoo) $59.06.

I tossed the unopened packet on my printer, and went to the kitchen to make some cream of broccoli soup. Talked to my mother on the phone for a while, which was a relief as she sounded much better than the last conversation. Changed out of my high-heeled espadrilles into DKNY yoga shoes. Then, with a sigh, I decided to open the pack and, if I had the energy, write the damn check to NY State. Couldn't find scissors to cut the seal open, so tore at it for a bit, then got a kitchen knife. Pulled out the creamy white folder, opened it. Tax forms, filled out on the left. On the right was a bill for the accounting services, and a summary of the tax forms.

I read the summary and yelped like a labrador.

I read the summary again.

I called Louis C.'s office.

I read the summary again.

When Louie had said I had a $59.06 refund coming, he didn't mean $59.06. He meant $5906.00!!! Of all that is Good to the the Poor Sad-Ass Drunks on this planet!!

$5906!??

That'd pay for my rent increase!!

May God Grant me the Serenity

To accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

& The Wisdom to know the difference!!

HOT DAMN!!

Be Brave Project: Day 14: Cry Me a River, Elusive D. (or, The Lameish and the Sameish)

OK, well. This whole apartment thing has me somewhat distracted from my Be Brave Project mission, and from getting enough done on that essay for Self, though I did read some back issues and do some edits to make the thing more specific as to times and dates, etc.

What I'm really suffering from, as opposed to apartment worries or the usual grim knowledge that my mother is in Chicago pouring vodka onto her acute cirrhosis, is a thoroughly unattractive case of Self-Pity. I'm told (and I believe 'em, for they know) by AA that Self-Pity and Resentments are the hallmarks of the alcoholic character--and brother, I'm all hallmarked up!

Yesterday was feeling horribly hormonal, to the point where I thought it was probably good that I wasn't operating a vehicle: If I had been and anyone cut me off or even looked at me funny, I'd have felt compelled to repeatedly ram their car into a brick wall until it was a bloody mash of steel and bone, the entire time gently weeping at the other driver's selfishness and dark, dark soul.

So, you'll see, I was a little under the weather.

Looking around my apartment all I could see were things I don't want to wrap, to pack, to move. Furniture that might--would--get broken. Walking to the subway I felt fat, poor, unappreciated and under-utilized. . .sitting in the meeting I looked at all the women near me who were hoisting enormous rocks around on their wedding fingers, who have tanned limbs and expensive coiffures, who-I strongly suspected--have never bought a $1 bag of "old new potatoes" from the shopping cart outside of Fairway (I actually made some delicious potato egg and chive salad).

So, when I raised my hand in the meeting I said all this, minus the wedding-band envy and the potato salad info (though really, it was delicious). I bitched about not being able to afford to keep my shabby-ass apartment, about my mother's drinking and my father's violent lack of balance, about how I felt I was the "universe's bitch". So there, I felt, when I had finished.

And over the next ten minutes two other women spoke: One, aged 38, who had waited to find a man to have a child with and then discovered that she's going through premature menopause and can't get pregnant. Even with IVF there's only a 3% chance. The second woman who spoke was Jackie: In her 40's, single, apple-cheeked with short wavy hair that stands up on end, a struggling country music singer and songwriter, she's also fighting breast cancer and will be the only person currently in chemo who's undertaking the Tour de Pink, a 200 mile bicycle ride benefiting the Young Survival Coalition. But what Jackie wanted to talk about was just accepting the universe. Just deciding to take the leap and wait to see what unfolds. . .because she thinks to do otherwise would make her nothing more than "a dog chasing its tail."

I was utterly gobsmacked and humbled.

And I decided to stop with the lame bitching, about the same damned ancient things that bothered me enough to provoke me to drink in the first place. There's a vast, intricate, marvelous, admittedly frightening world out there and I want to stare and stare and stare at the same problems. Ludicrous and lame.

BBP: Days 12 & 13: Less Wackness to My Thinking?

I've definitely noticed a subtle change in my thinking that is producing a marked change in my behavior: When I have a situation that I don't like dealing with, particularly one with an imposing/frightening institution or situation that I would prefer to avoid or delay, now I am far more likely to simply do it. Example: Writing an email to Maggie's friend Jay, a famously intimidating NYC mega-landlord, to mention that I'd love to become one of his tenants. Usually I'd put that off, because I hate asking favors, bothering busy people, and the requisite coating of flattery and bullshit you have to wrap that request in. But on Monday, I just did it. Also I called a company to whom I had paid a debt, and got on their asses about sending me proof of payment, so I can go to the credit bureaus with that proof.

In addition, I have spoken with my friend Andy (he who promised to read my script), and we are tentatively talking about lunch--he's being more cagey than usual, though. Does he somehow know that I'm finally going to take him up on that script offer? The film he wrote won a woman a Best-Actress Oscar, so you know a LOT of people have asked favors in the last few years. . .but he did offer to read it, twice. And I didn't show it to him because I didn't want to be a pain in the ass, and, let's face it, because I was scared.

I have also decided to go look at apartments in Inwood, just to see if I can tolerate living there. It might be very nice--there seem to be parks and nicely maintained old buildings! Who knows? I had a friend who lived up on 192nd Street, and her place was in a dodgy building--but what shocked me most was the linoleum floors throughout the place. She'd covered them with rugs, of course, but still felt a deep deep shame and repulsion. . .as did I. I have done many drunken shameful things in my time (there are a few house parties in England that I wish I'd blacked out), but I have never, never, yet allowed linoleum out of the kitchen.

OK. My brave things for the end of the week involve:

-Going to see these Apartments in Inwood. Not letting time go by without researching it.

-Editing this piece that I'm sending to the "Self Expressions" column at Self Magazine.

-Sending the pitch and essay in.

-Sending Pitch to Marie Claire about Jackie, the only woman currently under treatment for breast cancer who will be doing the Tour de Pink next month. If MC no longer has their "First Person" column, try to angle it to Women's Health. Or Health magazine--or think about Self for that one, too. (Self pays well and has a larger subscription base than Marie Claire.)

-Go to library and read back copies of these magazines.

In the last two days have seen two films: Swing Vote, with Kevin Costner: I didn't really want to see it at all, but it was for a free SAG screening at the DGA on 57th Street, so I trundled along with my glamorous friend Kendall, she of the Jennifer Aniston hair. It actually was an amusing, diverting comedy--particularly when you got past the slapstick moments. There is a brutally funny commercial in which the Democratic candidate (played by Dennis Hopper, who is one facelift away from being bollock-chinned) reverses his stand on abortion: As he walks through a playground talking about children and lollipops and America, the children suddenly disappear in puffs of smoke, leaving us with a child-free land.

Pretty brutal, pretty funny--of course, no mention of the fact that if abortion were to be made illegal, that wealthy people would simply go/send their kids to Europe for the operation, while poor people would have to simply have the kids, thereby deepening the already terrifying rich/poor gap in this country and providing more soldiers for the next generation of war. But the film was good, and actually smart. Also saw The Wackness at Lincoln Plaza last night--absolutely wonderful film, dark and funny and a fucking brilliant performance by Ben Kingsley (whose American accent is better than most, but not dead on). However, he character is so funny and contradictory and sad; a crappy shrink who occasionally says something quite relevant--a film about the desperation of men and the anger of women, and how honesty and a little bravery can bring you up above it. Really wonderful.

Be Brave Project Day 11: Red Letter Day--or, Don't be Scared, Baby!

I should have written here on Saturday, when the astonishing fruits of the BBP were still fresh in my mind and not all muddied, stirred up with the feelings of dread produced by A) Looking for an apartment in Manhattan, and B) upsetting phone conversation with my drunken, cirrhotic mother yesterday afternoon.

But let us focus--unfortunately, first I have to go to the Post Office.

Back, and only 28 minutes later! I went to pick up a first edition, with dust-cover in excellent condition, of the 1992 book by the sublime author Riva. That'd be Maria Riva--and I'm the proud owner of her only book, Dietrich, about her own drunken mother, Marlene. One of the best Hollywood biographies ever written (with that little lemon twist of nastiness only a daughter of a Golden Age star seems willing to give), it's also the story of one of the most fascinating and deluded narcissists ever recorded. Poor old lovely Marlene--alternatively downing epsom salts & booze with one hand and using the other to stick upholstery pins into her scalp, while servicing Hollywood and the US Army. Oddly enough, it takes cojones. Hat's off, Marlene!

But I don't have much time and I have a lot to do today, so here's the BPP Update: The biggest worry I have had for years has been about my taxes. Wasn't facing the issue because I was paralyzed with fear about it--terrified to go to government offices to give my SS# lest I be sent to Leavenworth. Friday I spoke with the accountant, Louie, who I hired to sort my way through--he'd had weeks to look at the paperwork, and he'd called me the day before, "with good news and bad news."

The good news was that things were sorted out. The bad news was that it'd cost me--$741 and some change to the State of NY. And the Federal Government owed me--$59.01. They owed me!!

That's it. That's years of self-loathing and not facing problems and fear, all due to a drunk's avoidance of reality. (The drunk I'm referring to is me, this time. I know there are a lot of lady lushes in this blog--welcome to my world, Saucepots!) It took an accountant several minutes to sort out, and less than a grand to pay. I could have done this, oh, ages ago. . .but was paralyzed by worry. Never again. Never again. Now I have an accountant I will never ever let him go, and will send him casseroles and dancing girls during the tax season to make sure he's feeling plump and energized for the important work he does.

I also sent in the health insurance packet on Friday, so now we're waiting to hear on that one.

After I spoke to Louis, I went to Butler library and tried to do research for that Self article I'm editing. But all I could do was alternatively grin like an idiot while leaking endless tears of relief and happiness. Yes, I was that crazy lady. I suppose it's only fair to take her shift now and again--and on Friday I most definitely was the woman whose eyes you don't meet for fear she'll tell you the story of her life.

So less than 2 weeks into the Be Brave Project, it looks as if my tax issues are 90% sorted. I cannot emphasize enough how enormous that is, how I have tortured myself over this (Clearly, I was not made for a criminal life--there are people blithely whistling their way around this city who've recently ice-picked close friends for the big mac held in their hands. I wear a 6-year hair shirt over $750.) The most important thing is I have someone to consult, and that I've made it clear that as an ex-lush I know I fucked up, but all I want is to pay what I owe. So I can look myself in the mirror with a sense of pride again. AND I hope to be approved for this health insurance (Note: Keep an eye on bank account-- if they cash the check it'll be a good sign.)

This weekend I cleaned the hell out of my apartment--bathtub, windowsills, the full monty. Not brave but very nice to wake up this a.m. My Brave things today are: Credit Report research. Necessary before heading out to find apartments. And start getting the Self piece ready: Submit on Thursday.

Friday is one year sober--I just colored my hair a very authoritative dark dark brown, which somehow quells the Celtic pinkness of my skin and turns it creamy white. I will trim my bangs, arch my eyebrows, and wear high heels all this week. I think Dietrich would approve (apart from the lack of booze.)

Be Brave Project Day 10: Too Many Coats, Too Little Time

Already I am lying awake at night, thinking about moving the things I've accumulated over the last 2.5 years. Last night I was compelled to check if the front closets were, in fact, as filled with clothing as I feared. . . had to tear myself away from my cool bed, velvet-eyed cat, and Jeanine Basinger's excellent book Silent Stars. I padded out to the front room, and slid open the painted plywood doors--from the floor up there are 2 filled storage boxes, one frontless fan, 24 sweaters, 9 skirts, 4 dresses, replacement coverings for the sofa, 4 jackets. One Donna Karan black satin shrug, trousers for goodwill, old notebooks organized by size and date, tarot cards, folded sweatshirts, curtains, and 4 blankets. And a vacuum. That's one closet.

The other contains a low bookshelf converted into a shoe stand. On top there are winter coats. I counted, and I have accumulated 7 coats since I moved in here. With one exception (a fabulous Variazione faux-vintage pink and white tweed), they are mostly from thrift shops--but who the hell needs seven coats in a decade, much less 1/4th of that time? Mint colored suede jacket, Black leather shirt jacket, beaver cape (old family item--I wouldn't buy fur), fantastically slimming camel's hair coat, long tan trench--v. Kate Hepburn, short navy trench--v. mid-range secretary in an agricultural supplies firm. On top: Sheets and towels and oh crap I had to run back to bed with a fistful of saltines to reduce my anxiety about moving. The cat glared at me, because I wouldn't share.

I read the Basinger book until I fell asleep, and particularly enjoyed the fine, poignant chapter on Marion Davies (above). Then I had a drunk dream, a phenomenon well-known to lushes like Elusive D. and, I suspect, Marion Davies. In the dream I blacked/passed out in my front room and a group of robbers came in the windows. They stole my crappy framed pictures, broke my chairs, and left broken wicker all over the floor. When I came to I was ashamed and embarrassed,though pleased to find myself not raped. Next thing you know I'm making out with John Wayne in a hallway, much to his complimentary approval, when a bunch of annoying fraus with their irritating children came rushing into the house.

I could have done with more making-out and fewer fraus & their dull dull kinder, but at least I wasn't passed out on the floor.

Yesterday I felt much better about the apartment situation due to helpfulness of my friends in my ladies' AA group: Mira said that she would keep an eye and ear out for me (she and her husband live in one of those imposing doormen buildings in the Upper 70's, so I think they might have friends who own apartments), Cassie has a friend who's looking for a room mate in Brooklyn, and Hillary knows a man who has a two-bedroom on 112th street. I could rent it and get a roommate who'll pay slightly more than I do for the rent. And I wrote a note to someone from my freelancer's emailing group who has a place on 96th with a backyard. God, I am so sick of renting.

Most importantly: I heard from Louie C., the accountant! He has "good news" for me, and I will be receiving my tax refund--though it will be deducted from what I owe. I shall call him today to find out how much that is. Gulp.

And (BBP): Yesterday I composed and sent a fax to the Dermott Management Company about the 64% increase over the last few years-- used the words "staggering" and "should be investigated"--however. I also proposed a gentler increase or that they show me some of their cheaper apartments: I really don't want to pay a broker's fee. Pay someone to walk me around an apartment?? Feck that. (Though that's what I said last time. . .fact is, these people are leeches, but they do push a deal through.)

BPP today: I will finally send in my Health Insurance application--nearly put it in the mail yesterday, but realized I hadn't written a cover letter. Jesus--I get prissier as the days go by. Also today will edit Self piece, and write cover letter. And call Louie C.

Be Brave Project: Day Nine--Recouping

A lovely, summery picture here. . .beautiful and full of natural ease--everything I am currently not feeling. Taken at my Aunt's house upstate this last weekend, before I received The Lease Offer.

Just like yesterday I am still reeling. A 66% rent increase in 2 years.

Reeling.

But, in the spirits of my rules of the BBP, I have rallied by following through on several previous projects: One, I wrote to two brokers upstate to follow up on house viewings. Two, I finished my application for Healthy NY Comprehensive Health Care through the Oxford Plan. The application (with first monthly check) will be mailed today.

Today my Brave Thing will be to write the Evilly Grasping landlords suggesting that they perhaps adjust their reign of terror to something slightly less egregious. I will suggest a $150 rent increase, and mention that I am planning on being here just one more year. I shall also ask, if they refuse that, to see any other one bedroom apartments that are in the same area.

Last night looked at shares (which would mean all my stuff goes in storage), and also at apartments in Inwood, way the fuck uptown. There are some nice little 1999 prices up there still, and I need to consider that. Just look at myself as a commuter--buy a monthly metro card with the $900 p/m I could save living up there, and travel down to Columbia for my gym and library access.

Yesterday had lunch at Blossom, a vegan organic place that's new on 82nd and Columbus. Veganism clearly agrees with their very fetching waiters, who all have that hungry waifish NYC Adiran Brody look that makes me want to feed them beef stew and then, with rough girlishness, throw them up against a wall. Maggie--who looks like a beautiful version of Hillary Swank-- has had one of those usual thrilling/disappointing NYC romances, with a guy who sent her flowers and poems and promised the moon, the stars, and regular tickets to Symphony Space. . .but who kept another woman in the background. Sort of an heir and a spare situation, but of course Maggie renounced her crown once she found out. Now the guy's emailing her constantly, but she's too hurt to resume the old glamorous rendezvous. I've been in similar situations, of course (though the bad behavior was regrettably often mine, due to drunken idiocies and insecurities), and I felt for her. At the same time, I'm ashamed to say, part of my mind was thinking-- there are romantic problems and real estate problems, and real estate's more serious.

That sort of thinking is a sure sign you've been in Manhattan too long.

Ugh. I think I want to look at the pretty picture again.

Be Brave Project: Day Eight. Down, Down, Down: Or, Does this Look like the Kitchen of a $2400 per month Apartment?

I wouldn't say that my current abode is my favorite apartment ever, but I can say that I've worked like hell to make it a decent place to live. Despite the uselessness of Nick, the Not-So-Super, the egregious grasping nature of the management company (Dermott Realty), the low level of light and the complete lack of a lock on the building's front door.

Because who worries about security in New York City??

But, knowing that they were shysters and completely indifferent to their tenants and their own reputation, I still wasn't expecting the lease renewal 'offer' I received yesterday. A $450 per month increase, backdated, so I have only one week to decide if I agree to it.

I am still reeling. Their feeling is that this apartment would now be over $2000 a month, and therefore they can ask anything (there are very complicated sets of codes from long ago re. how the rules change when an apartment hits 2 grand a month). My feeling is that with Wall Street in the crapper and units in this building empty--plus the hight turnover rate-- it might be smart to not attempt to financially rape your tenants.

No. Apparently not.

So now I have to spend the next few weeks/months in debate with these people. I will have to Be Brave for this, and in addition will have to double up on the BBP, because now I have housing negotiations to deal with on top of starting a big writing project within the next few weeks.

But the Brave Thing I did yesterday was financial: I looked up what Wall Street had done with my small, small amount of money. Answer: Lost a lot of it. I am still interested in the possibility of moving upstate next year, though now there are huge concerns in the county about corporations drilling the area for natural gas, leaving behind God knows what chaos and chemicals.

Welcome to Bush's America. Be proud you don't live in it.

Be Brave Project today? Calling the New York State Division of Housing and Community Renewal, and requesting the forms for an Administrative Determination--once and for all we shall see if this apartment is/should be rent stabilized. I also read that I can retro-actively get rent back for the non-locking building door; I shall check that out, too.

I will also keep my eye on the prize health care wise--I don't want this administration mining my corpse for calcium deposits--and fill in the forms for the application. It must go out by the 20th, to have me insured by September 1. I hope.

In addition, to add to my lovely lovely day yesterday, I came home to a mouse corpse on the ($2400 per month??) kitchen floor. Gigi Colette was being very "Who, Me?" about it all. If only I could shrink down the employees of the Dermott Realty Company and set them scurrying all over my apartment. . .

Final brave thing--one gets in the habit of all of this--is that I just printed up the essay I submitted to Modern Love at the Sunday New York Times, and will be re-submitting it. I'm going for the women's magazines: Self, Marie Claire, and then Tango.

I could sure use some Conde Nast money right now.

Cos I'm feeling Kinda Nasty.

And not in the good way.

Be Brave Project Day Seven: Stickin' a Needle in the Big Boy

I do not like needles. The sight of them makes me feel squeamish and rather as if I've just swallowed a hot brick: I think that lots of other people feel the same, or else why would do so many close-ups of injections appear in films? I'm always having to be on the alert for some dripping 6-incher held erect, about to plunge into its waiting destination. . .(ooh my, that came out rather porno, didn't it? Not my intention. Blame the movies).

So I do not like needles at all. But life being the vale of tears and broken shoe-straps that it can occasionally be, I've had many, many annoying blood tests where I'm led to a barely trained nurse who sits behind a white curtain, holding a long needle in her shaking hands. Now, Elusive D. has a plump lavender vein in each inner elbow--easy targets that don't even need that shoulder tourniquet--but I've sat on too many low vinyl stools, my head turned towards the wall, while these nurses stab me repeatedly. I walk out of there looking like the worst kind of junkie.

However, in the spirit of the Be Brave Project, I decided that I would give a diabetic an injection of insulin. 2x, so that I could say that I really had done it. The diabetic in question? An 18 pound tabby cat from New Jersey, named Tiki. Think Tony Soprano with a taste for bats. (Seriously, look at the cat--Look at that Fuck You gaze. Wouldn't he suit some golder-than-gold jewelry, and maybe an open-necked bathrobe to wear when he gets the paper from the driveway?)

What I was really dreading was the idea that a) I wouldn't be able to get the needle in, and would be jabbing ineffectually at this poor animal, and b) that the needle would go in, with a sort of pop! as I broke the skin (urgh), and c) that I'd wuss out and fail to press the plunger at the right time, and pump insulin all over the wrong places.

So I stuck the needle into the rubber-tipped bottle of insulin, and retracted the plunger until the dosage hit the 4.5 line. Then I went to where Tiki was hunched over his dinner. I half expected him to say, "Fuck you, Paulie--I'm fuckin' eating here!" But he didn't even look up. Grabbed a bit of skin beneath his meaty shoulder blade, closed my eyes, and stuck the needle in. Tiki didn't even flinch. I pressed the needle's plunger until it wouldn't go any further, then retracted the needle. I looked at the spot where I'd injected him, and you couldn't see a thing. Hey! (My Aunt watched the entire procedure, and assured me it all went fine.)

And then yesterday I did it with my eyes open. So I figure that counts as my Being Brave Act.

I was upstate NY at my Aunt's house this weekend, in Sullivan County. I had gone up there with the idea that perhaps I could find a place to live; having come to the realization that I cannot afford anything in Manhattan unless I invent a time machine and go back to 1995 (h'mmm. . .Clinton as President, no war, no deficit, and a happy stock market. But no Project Runway. I think I could live with that exchange, much as I adore Tim Gunn and want him to find a lovely boyfriend, preferably an Australian who's horse-hung).

Anyway, I looked at houses--one was a grim Victorian wedged between a chicken farm and a house where dirty children apparently run free. It was filled with the stench of 1000 small dogs and cats. One was poshly remodelled, but somehow uninspiring--and no eat-in kitchen, plus next to a restaurant parking lot. One was very sweet. A small ranch house, and I've never been a fan of ranch houses, with their low ceilings seeming a symbol of low expectations in general. But this one was immaculately cared for by the same couple for the last 40 years. There was land with a gazebo and peach trees. But. . .but. . .I couldn't see me living in that house somehow--fake wood panelling and such tiny rooms--and it's a long long winter in upstate NY, when peach trees and gardens will make no difference at all. Plus, I'd only seen 3 houses. So who knows? I might regret that one.

A complication also set in. Lots of people talking. Apparently there's a gas company moving into the area, wanting to mine natural gas from the land. They'll pay farmers good money to rent this land: The problem is that their process involves leaving chemicals--they won't tell the residents what they will be using--in the soil after they remove the gas. This is soil that grows the vegetables, that feeds the animals, that provides the beauty of the area.

So I think I will be in Manhattan for one more year. Work (Being Brave) on my credit rating and my income--and then try to buy in the spring. Let's hope that there are still houses being sold. That people up there have not become multi-millionaires whose houses cost 10x what they do now. And that they haven't sprouted extra fingers due to touching contaminated soil.

Today Being Brave; more sorting out of financial crap.

Be Brave Project Day Six: A Bit Bummed Out

8.46 a.m. and I've awakened feeling rather crappy. I'm heading up-state for the weekend, leaving at noon, so I've got plenty to do this morning. Pack, work out, call the guy at the law office who I hope can explain to me why I'm receiving letters harassing me to pay debt I already paid. . .need to call sous chef, need to cheer the hell up.

But my first thought on awakening this morning was: I don't want to leave New York City. I'm not talking about leaving for the weekend--I'm talking about how incredibly difficult, the mortgage person at Bank of America made clear, it will be for me to buy an apartment here. Ever.

This town has saved my 2x: The first time, when I was a waitress in Illinois with no clue how to jump start my life--I got into school here. The second time was less than three years ago, when I crawled back to this city after I'd lived abroad, damaging my heart and my liver and my financial future by what happened after I decided to simply run away from the Bush years in America.

Obvious Lessons Learnt The Hard Way #839: Running Away Doesn't Solve Anything.

I have always loved NYC, but I fell hard for an Englishman and when I lost my Manhattan apartment I went over there--and I stayed. For 5 years--it was wonderful, garish, depressing. I dream of London more often than I dream of my childhood home. I was engaged to a posh and stubborn man, and the cold embarrassing fact of it is that happened only because I hoped marriage would keep me there for good.

However, he had problems. I had problems. And the breakup was a relief. Then I moved to a small studio in SW London and lived there for two and a half more years, dating younger men, finding myself drinking more, drinking alone. . .

And I had to leave. I knew I couldn't quit drinking in London--it's part of the culture, it's saturated into the very seam of daily life. But NYC? Plenty of interesting sober artists who are still funny and fascinating. . .I knew New York would still be glittering and hard and all the shiny things that distract me, but also that it has a hidden softness. Which might save my ass.

So now I'm sober. And I tore apart my life and my finances for my grand gesture of leaving Bush's America. Somehow I have a feeling that it might have hurt me more than it hurt him.

But yesterday I learned that my romantic, meaningless gesture cost me the chance to buy a place of my own in NYC. Real Estate's gone through the roof. Any money I had is--pffffffhhhht. And right now that hurts.

BBP Notes: Well, I've done 5 VERY big brave things in the last week, which is my new quota. So I'm done here until next Monday.

However, I think that my next fear faces will be a big one: Fear Of Needles! I think I'm going to give an injection. Holy Mother of God.

P.S. Gigi Colette and her teeth are doing fine; she is also going upstate--in the company of a very large tabby male who she alternately cajoles and assaults. Women.