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?