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.