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

This is my last posting of 2008.

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

And those weren't winters described as cold.

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

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

1. A health insurance card

2. My taxes paid and entirely up to date.

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

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

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

But Happy Holidays to all who read this!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Upside: I returned that poor fox.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm ready for Christmas to be over.

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

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

Oh the grimness of the NYC post office at Christmas.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, drinking seems like a completely logical response.

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

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

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

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

I went on with my day.

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

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

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

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

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

Day 84, Be Brave Project; Tips n' Teeth

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or half done.

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

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

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

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

Day 83, Be Brave Project; Letters and Lists

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just dead.

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

So, in the Christmas countdown, I have:

-put together the packet for London

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

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

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

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

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

Day 81, Be Brave Project; Fox News

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

I bought:

9 v. large Godiva dark chocolate bars

3 silver picture frames (2 still in the box)

2 wooden puzzle sets for children

1 Lily Pulitzer pink & red child's blouse

1 Columbia nono-tac camping mini flashlight

1 FDNY child's knit hat

1 pair Laura Ashley bedsocks

1 box christmas cards for doorman gifts

and. . .

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

because. . .

I bought a fox fur neck wrap, for me.

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

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

Hmm. I thought.

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

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

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

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

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

I bought it, and shall return it.

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

But I kept the price tags on.

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

Day 80, Be Brave Project; Century 21

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

Today I go to Christmas shop at Century 21.

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

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

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

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

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

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

An enormous hand had seized my arm.

And then another one grabbed my handbag. . .

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

That wasn't my handbag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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