Be Brave Project, Day 55; Vague Phone Calls

I was about to write "There are few things that worry me as much as a vague phone call out of the blue. . .", but then I realized that's not true at all. Many things worry me a great deal. Like:

• flying


• vague aches and pains


• important looking envelopes in the mail


• emails from the more rage-fuelled members of my family.


• no emails from the more rage-fuelled members of my fam, which means they're plotting.


• ageing


• lack of financial stability


• what I've lost through the drunken years

But, few things kick up the worries about what the hell I am going to do--if anything is possible--about my cirrhotic mother quite like a phone call, out of the blue, from one of her dearest friends. Last night I got home (oh! you should see my home nowadays!) and came upstairs to read the New York Times front page story on Obama and McCain's debate the other night--when I noticed the light on my phone flashing.

No one calls my home phone, except my mother. And I just spoke with her.

So I check caller ID, and the call is from her life-long friend Anne. Anne and my mother went to school in Cleveland together, became debs together, went to Smith College together--and my mother set Anne up with her husband, the very wonderful Danny. When I saw the caller ID number, I immediately catastrophized and thought that my mother had finally died, been found with her head cracked open behind an arm chair, and somehow Anne had been elected to tell me.

But no--it was simply Anne wanting to ask me out to lunch, either here in the City or up in Bronxville where she lives. . .

However.

However. Anne has just seen my mother in the last few weeks, she has never asked me out to lunch before, and I am afraid that the drinking has got out of control (because it usually is), and that Anne has some really grim story to tell me (because there usually is one).

The whole thing bumps up anxieties in a big way, and make me want to not return the call. It makes me want to do some Christmas shopping and to see matinees and get massages and date gorgeously accented witty diverting men who sadly do not exist outside of my imagination. But, instead of spend money I don't have and date men who don't exist--which even I realize is not a particularly viable pair of options--I will call Anne at 10 am and set up a date for lunch.

What a fucking endless stress alcoholism is. The pain and the selfishness, the delusion and the weakness, the grotesque physical results and the contemptible emotional state all serve to bind people irrevocably to you with coils of steel, while making them dread the very thought of you.

And if you're the alcoholic child of a lush you get the old double whammy, because Boy, do you want a drink!

***

Yesterday I printed and created a file for the 'plot' information--I also went to good old Butler Library to read the file through, get some ideas on where to start, and look up books. . .for weeks, months, I've been trying to look up Writing Manuals that discuss plot. I type into the subject heading, "Plotting Novels", and receive information about Plotinus. Hmm. Yesterday I cracked the code, found that the phrase to use is "Fiction--technique". From there the computer led me to 9 pages of relevant books and to the potential Momma-Load of valuable information--a book on plotting suspense fiction written by Patricia Highsmith herself!! Oh, let the feet of the NYPL be fleet in getting it to me!!

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.)