Right--so, Thursday night I got the staggeringly good tax news (which I think will be followed by some occasional bouts of more sobering tax news as I remember paperwork I've scattered over two continents) that rocked my world.
Woke up Friday with that contented yawn and stretch, the stretch that goes all the way down and makes your toes spread out. I was one year sober, and my taxes were. . .the phone rang and it was Louie, the accountant of a girl's tender dreams, returning my call of the night before. Yes, he could change the paperwork so the money would be directly deposited into my account. It would happen in as soon as a couple of weeks or so.
Goddamn! Wish I hadn't remembered about that lost paperwork--now it's got me worried about what other work my drunk ass did. Anyway, I'll make the calls and clear it up.
I'd also rec'd a call from Martha, a publishing professional who attends my Women's AA group--she wanted to take me out for lunch. Yes please! We made plans to meet at Fireside and then hit Sushi A Go Go in the Lincoln Square area. And I was to meet Lara (from same group, works for one of the tv networks) at Crumbs on 75th and Amsterdam later. Excellent! I put on a pair of expensive (thrift store) jeans, a nice top, and my DKNY 'urban wellies', rubber boots with 4 inch stiletto heels. Grabbed my short trench coat and a brolly, because it was supposed to rain canned hams during the afternoon.
I was going to look at apartments in Inwood, so I wanted to look respectable and not be dashing in from the rain looking damp and ferrety and insolvent--decided stilettos might add to look of general drunken unreliability--so I switched to cowboy boots. Reliable, I felt, without being too mind-numbingly corporate.
Great meeting at Fireside amongst the mid-town workers and the hard-core drinkers with yellowed hair and shaking hands. It's got to take a basketful of courage to face sobriety without even an apartment door to close between you and the world, the bars, the degradation you've watched yourself live. . .It always humbles me. Wonderful lunch with Martha, who brought me a lovely rose that's on my bureau in a bud vase.
And then I grabbed a cab up to Crumbs. Holy Mother of all that's Fatty and Delicious, I don't know if it's a good thing that I am aware of this place. It blows the Magnolia Bakery, with their lardy yet dry cupcakes out of the damn water. Unpretentious, roomy without looking like a chain store, amazing location near Barnes & Noble, Kiehl's, and the Weekend farmer's market. Lara got a large cookies and cream cupcake, and I got a large "Hostess" cupcake--looked just like the old plastic-wrapped crap, but made of actual chocolaty buttery food! Down to the white squiggled line bisecting the top of the cupcake.
And oh, it was delicious. De.Li.Cious. With eyes and thighs still quivering from the sheer sugar-power I'd just ingested, I then flew on the A train up to 192nd Street--the subway stop reminded me of London: Dirty, with long low curved-ceilinged tunnels that open onto a lot of green, a number of people walking a little slower than downtown, some guys skateboarding in circles around the street. . .but the buildings are still the enormous NYC square blocks, and the view of Broadway was just grim. Bodegas and phone cards and fried foods. Oh my!
Saw two apartments. One smaller, ground floor, with an odd built in breakfast table and a weirdly outsized fridge--but nice arched doorways. One, fourth floor, bigger, great closet space, eat in kitchen (if you can eat whilst folded in 3 as if riding in clown car), beautiful hardwood floors. Laundry in building. And the whole place left me feeling. . .bleh.
With my sugar levels now plummeted, I took the subway home. Pulled mail from my box--oh crap, something from the dread landlord. A large envelope--probably my marching orders. I opened my apartment door, threw the envelope on my printer, and went into the kitchen to make Marcella Hazan's exquisite and easy tomato sauce. Then I faffed around the apartment a bit, harassed the cat and ate some saltines. . .until I opened the Landlord's envelope.
They'd reduced my rent increase!! They accepted the (low) offer I made on that fax I sent them last week--I sent it in the spirit of the BBP, figuring they could only say No, smack me on the peachy pink ass, and kick me out the door--but they accepted my negotiation! I feel like a superhero, on a small scale. Mighty Mouse!
Elusive D. is NOT going to move--it's Morningside Heights for the Duchess and Gigi, at least until next summer! 2 Days of HOORAY for the frickin' frackin' brilliance of the Be Brave Project!
Monday, August 18, 2008
Day 16: Be Brave Project: Day 16. Sometimes A Nice Fax Can Make All the Difference, Baby!
Labels:
Anniversary,
Great News,
Marcella Hazan,
Mighty Mouse,
Sober,
Tropic Thunder
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