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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be Brave Project Day Six: A Bit Bummed Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be Brave Project, Day Four: Digressions and Accountancy

I have to tell you frankly that Elusive D. has not seen and will not see the Sex in the City movie, despite the fact that I am very pleased that its box-office has again forced Hollywood to wrap its mind around the fact that--gasp!--women can be big box office.

When I lived in London, from 2000 to 2005, I watched the tv show primarily for the NY scenery. But I always found the show to be a complete and utter post-feminst fairy tale. Which is fine, if that's your goal, except that it prided itself on its 'honesty' about how women New Yorkers live. I've never met anyone like any of them--though Miranda is definitely the closest to reality, with her intelligence, hostilities, and hit-and-miss wardrobe. Those ghastly neurotic entitled men they date? I'm sure they're around, though they don't even create a blip on my radar. (But then I am elusive.) Nonetheless I found the focus on shoes to be really fucking cutsey and patronizing. With a strong goddamn whiff of product placement.

But.

I have been playing around on Ebay all summer, and I have to say that the shoe auctions are somehow the most satisfying. I got a pair of Gucci loafers a few weeks ago, and the scent of leather made my nostrils flare hungrily. . .so much so that yesterday, less than 24 hours after my DMV experience, I found myself heading for the 125th Street Post Office. Had to pick up my new Coach flats. I've written enough, and too recently, for me to have to re-iterate the experience of dealing with NYC bureaucracy, but the experience is such that I had to pay some apologies to the S & t C producers: I was willing to brave the wilds for my new damn shoes. And, while I am coming down from my high horse, I state that Carrie was a flipping fool to let Aidan go. That man would still have welts from my death-grip on his ankles, if not other places.

Anyway, I got the shoes and they are fine--but not a patch on those damn Guccis.

Yesterday I took the day off, since it was my birthday, and I lay around with a celebratory ice cream cone and the Style section from the Sunday London Times. Once again they claim a social trend in NYC that I've never heard about (have you heard of SCUPPIES? Supposedly stands for Socially Conscious Upward Professional or some crap like that).

Sadly, cones only last so long--had to get down to the BBP; cleaning up my financial mess.

Today's girlish project was to get my financial summaries from 2007 and get them to the dreamiest accountant ever, Louie C.

Once again, why should this make me nervous/frightened? Because I am scared of what I am going to find out after this miserably stupid procrastination. After several calls to various people at the Death Star--oops, I mean Citigroup--I figured out how to print this information up. And then I looked at it. . .

And it didn't look too bad. However, I attended a School of the Arts where we studied fabulous and nearly useless things like European influences on the films of Preston Sturges. So I'll humbly wait to see what L. says.

But thanks to the BBP! I already feel so much better for just dealing with it--somehow having taken an action calms down the dread of the unknown. Considerably. In keeping with the flexible spirit of the BBP, which I appreciate and am taking full advantage of, I have added the following rules.

Yesterday I said that:

A Day's Brave Action doesn't count unless you follow up on it, if that is necessary.

2 new rules today:

• 2 Follow-ups on a brave action = One Brave Action.


• I get weekends off, not just Sunday. This stuff's emotionally exhausting.

So, if I do something about my financial mess + something about getting proper health insurance in one day, that = One Brave Act. I don't want to change the spirit of this project at all. I am just trying to maintain some impetus so I have a life enhanced by all of this astonishing bravery, not stalled for it.

In consequence of the new rules, the Second-half of my One Brave Act, which is actually the first step of a continuous brave act, was to find the Healthy NY website and print their information down. Then I emailed the sous chef I worked with at a European Consulate a few weeks ago, who recommended their health care to me: I usually am horrible about asking for advice (one of those people who are v. opinionated but secretly shy, that's Elusive D.)--so that, plus Health Care, plus financial stuff=

A Damn Good Day's Work.

Haven't spoken to the sous chef, but will tomorrow after I do my single big brave thing--

Take my cat Gigi for her dental surgery. Expensive and I really don't like the idea of general anaesthetic, which apparently is necessary. She lies on the floor next to me, softly blinking whilst digesting her Indoor Cat Chow. Little does she know what lurks in her future. . .

Be Brave Project, Day Three: The Tenth Circle of Hell, AKA The New York Department of Motor Vehicles, 34th Street "Speedy" Branch

The tenth circle of hell, located on 34th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues and boasting easy access by the 1,2,3, A,C, and E subway lines, is reserved for Procrastinators. It's earth name is "Speedy Easy Branch of the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles". Obviously, it is not unusual for procrastinators to arrive late: There's so much to do in the area other than that which needs to be done! Stop by Macy's (pictured), hit the HMV, eat a kebab in Herald Square or test yourself with some even dodgier all-you-can-eat Korean food.

I did none of those things. I'm all sorts of fired up for the BBP, and I'd eaten on the subway. (Note: If any of you sons of bitches who eat McDonalds on the subway are reading this, know that one day I will joyfully set you and your grease-stinking Big Mac on fire. I have the technology, and. . .dammit. . .I'm being brave nowadays. So put that odorous stuff away or I swear the kerosene, bic lighters, and marshmallows on sticks will come out--and the other passengers will make me their goddess of public transport.) I ate a banana and an apple, like a civilized human being does when she's on the subway & travelling to Hell.

Got off at 34th Street, and walked West. I had on me: My expired Illinois driver's license, my passport, a certified copy of my birth certificate, 2 recent utility bills, a filled out license renewal form, that New Yorker with the incredibly long article on Obama and Chicago politics, a David Sedaris book. a sliver of Ghiradelli chocolate, three ways of paying the egregious renewal fee, and a light silk-blend cardigan (because I didn't know what the air-conditioning would be like in Hell). I mean to say, I was prepared. But worried. Upon my back I could still feel the lingering and unnerved handprints of my colleagues Sandy, Jamie and Erin--all had gasped when they'd heard where I was going. And then there had been the silence that says far more than words.

South side of 34th Street: "Easy Speedy License Renewal"--you could, I have walked by this a million times without noticing this sign. Discretely glazed glass and a humble shopfront hides the systemized misery within. Threw open the doors and. . .

Beneath low corkboard ceilings there were lines of defeated people coiling in all direction. To the right, about 12 people sat in low chairs with blue-padded acrylic seats: I shudder to think what they did to earn those seats. The other hundreds of people stood slumped as the hum of fluorescent lights beetled its way into their skulls. I joined the line closest to the door, so anytime someone entered they smacked my right thigh with it. The line said: First Step, Forms and Questions. I tried to go to the line that said For License Renewal, but a lady with a stick beat me back. Ok, she really didn't have a stick, she just pointed her finger--but it was extremely long and bony. So I stayed in the first line, smugly looking through my manilla folder, thinking of how prepared I was. And the air-conditioning was fine.

Eons pass, and after several decades my skin seems as if it should be hanging from my bones like wet crepe paper, but then I reach Satan's employee at the desk. Satan's employee wears a rather questionable combination of headband and sticky-up hair, as if she's auditioning for a music video in 1986. I smile ingratiatingly as her cold eyes rest contemptuously on me. I know she smells the fear. "Uhm--renewal of a driver's license. Please." "Social Security or a Passport," she says, as she slowly gathers together forms that I, the genius student of the DMV, already have and have filled out. "Yup! And my birth certific--" I clutch my passport before me, like a small vinyl shield. She eyes it with loathing--"I said Social Security card and a Passport." "But I. . I have my birth certif--" "You need a Social Security card." Satan's E. doesn't say the word "Dumb-ass", but that's only because it's understood.

She pulls a lever and next thing I know I am sliding down a sharply battered metal chute, and suddenly am spat out skidding on my ass across the dirty-mop damp floor of a Wendy's in Mid-town.

Ok, there may be some exaggeration towards the end of that story, but my Be Brave act was to go head to head with the NYC DMV, and I think we all know who won that encounter. Apparently we all need to carry social security cards nowadays (A. I haven't seen mine since I was 11--I was told to memorize my number, which I did. B. I wasn't aware I was living in a cold-war novel circa 1972.)

So I felt defeated. It was sorely anti-climactic to be walking back to Butler Library without a hot little NY Driver's license on me. So, I asked myself, what do you do when you don't achieve anything? If I were really being brave, I would have fought more, would have actually gone to--gasp--the Social Security offices.

But I am scared of them, because of my financial tangle. . .so I didn't go. So I was not brave.

Oh crap. And suddenly it began to bother me that I have procrastinated so much, that I have so damn many things I have to be brave about in order to sort out my life a bit. A lot. The days wasted doing nothing because I did too much, too late, the night before. The opportunities thrown to the winds, because like some spoiled Hilton I thought that time and opportunities were endless. . .

But then it occurred to me that I had made a new rule: A BBP action doesn't count until it is followed through on. Namely, I hadn't heard back from my Soprano's named accountant, Louie. So I sat my Wendy's slick ass down on a bench, pulled out my useless DMV forms and turned them over. Then I called Louie and had a brief, frank discussion.

And it was marvellous! So many thanks to Maggie for recommending him! Not only did he sort of show me what my first step for neatening out financial chaos should be, but he gave me a golden gem of information that I didn't have. This gem of info., these words dropped casually from Louie C.'s angelic mouth, came to this: That the three years I convinced myself I owe back taxes for? I'm wrong about that-- I owe nothing.

And oh, the difference it made.