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.

Day 64; Be Brave Project; Agony & Upstate Continued

It's 8.43 Election Morning as I sit here at my desk the skyline of Manhattan's Upper West Side over my right shoulder and the sound of drilling. . .the sound of drilling. . .the sound of drilling coming from the building next door.

Can't get away from it. You see, I did travel upstate for Halloween weekend--for a time of crisp country drives and walks through a town consisting of 1 grocery store, 1 restaurant, 1 'video' store. To help my Aunt finish her canning for the year and to work on my projects upstairs in my room with the lovely golden quilted twin bed and the views over barns and rooftops.

What I did instead was roll on that bed, punching it in agony and shaking my fist at the skies. Or that was the first night, after my dental hell kicked back in, in high gear. By night #2 I was on codeine with acetaminophen. . .much less cursing and wailing, except for the early hours of the morning when the drug would wear off. I didn't cry--the crying came later.

And re. Codeine: That is, I must say, a pretty damn nice drug.

By Sunday my face swelled up to look as if my Aunt had been smacking me with a frying pan (enough codeine and I wouldn't have cared, really), and the throbbing twisting agony was making it impossible to sit still. Monday morning I had a pendulously large, square jaw--and a 3:00 meeting with my dentist.

Back in NYC, I wove my way down Columbus Avenue, clutching the hot egg-shaped swelling on my face--but like any self-respecting Manhattan woman was wearing a chic trench coat, immaculate heels, and clutching an over sized Canal street faux D&G bag. Glimpsing myself in shop windows I looked as if I were in a J. Crew shoot re-creating Munch's "The Scream"--one hand firmly clutched to jaw, eyes burning in pain, but a kicky little knot on my trench coat.

Got to 79th Street and my dentist--walked in looking forward to having this damn situation out of my hands and into someone else's. I expected the usual leisurely sit on the vinyl bench, more info about Madonna's divorce, some nervous glances from patients who wondered if my dental state was before or after treatment. . .

But one glance at me, and I was rushed into some secret back room I've never seen before: a lead apron was tossed over me, x-rays taken with quick intensity, instruments placed on high tables where I could only see their sharp tips gleaming. A gum specialist came in from God knows where. . .and next thing you know I'm being rushed E.R. style to another secret room--secret rooms come expensive in Manhattan, and should have made me worry--to be told what was going on.

I had a double abscess and would need an emergency root canal immediately. The infection over the last few days already had killed much of the gum surrounding the tooth and surgery would be required to trim the dead bits still carrying the infection. . .

Holy Crap. Emergency root canal. Not the way to begin the holiday season! It all began immediately, with the gum guy going in to the top abscess and pulling clumps of rotted gum out, before my guy went in to drill away my molar and do the emerg. root canal--such fun it was! The best part: Abscesses apparently don't take Novocaine as regular flesh does, so I had to have 3 direct shots into the burning infected center of the pain. After the root canal, the gum work proceeded, and then a temporary crown.

An hour later, with patients piled up in the waiting room glaring , until they saw the state of my face, I wobbled up to the desk and was given the bill. And that, after a week of what I was told is the worst dental pain you can go through, is when I began to cry.

I handed over my card, weeping. I wept in the elevator, and all the way home. I wept in the Duane Reade as I gave them my prescriptions for amoxycillin and more codeine. And in the elevator up to my apartment. Once I closed the door behind me, all pretense of stiff-upper lipping it was off and I wept like an Italian widow. . .

All my savings for a trip to Europe in the summer. Wiped out in one painful, painful afternoon.