Day 88, The Be Brave Project; Au Revoir '08

This is my last posting of 2008.

I am flying to Chicago, which is apparently in the grips of the coldest winter in history. That's something akin to London's rainiest summer--which I experienced two years ago--or the Presidential Chimp's stupidest public gaffe: No joke. Chicago in a mild winter requires nerves of steel and underpants of thinsulate--that damn cold gets in everywhere. I grew up there, and thought nothing of developing thick horns of skin on my feet and hands each winter. The cold would make my skin thicken and buckle, and you'd have to rub petroleum jelly into it before trying to pumice it off.

And those weren't winters described as cold.

As for that summer in London, it's always interesting to visit a place and have to spend a week watching images of its citizens rowing to the grocery store as the rain slaps against your living room windows so hard you'll fear they'll break. Seriously, it was like The Birds, but with water. (As for Bush's stupidest gaffe, My favorite is still the old classic from 2000: He and Cheney walk onto a podium to tumultuous applause as they prepare to greet the press. Bush forgets he's miked, leans over to Cheney, and the words "There's that asshole from the New York Times" ring out over the speakers. It was a subtle indicator of the complete blind obstreperousness to come.)

But the Be Brave Project has helped me to sort out my life immeasurably, and I am very thankful to be leaving NYC with

1. A health insurance card

2. My taxes paid and entirely up to date.

3. A clean bill of health from my internist and cardiologist.

These improvements are so huge, and having run from them while still 'using' had created so much fear and tension, that my life truly is different to how it was last July. . .not to mention that I now live in an absolutely kick-ass apartment overlooking the Upper West Side (which was not my work, but the kindness of the powers above)!

In 2008 I will start my year with a new list, and some new goals. . .but the remaining goal on my BBP list will still remain: Time To WRITE. I will have 2 months to work on a book, before I need to get a job. I need every fibre of bravery and impulse control to do that. . .

But Happy Holidays to all who read this!

Be Brave Project, Day 53; Three Act Structure, Cont'd

Three Act Structure, Cont'd: Act II

1. Midpoint, discussed yesterday. An action is taken which increases the jeopardy or which makes it harder to turn back OR the midpoint takes the form of a reversal, making things significantly worse or forces main character to more desperate action. Not every story has a midpoint, but it is a useful way of focusing the second act, and pushing the main character towards. . .


2. End of the Second Act/Second Turning Point. The main character is pushed to her limits. Things have gotten as bad as they could possibly get short of death--OR the mc has lost the thing they value most--OR the journey they undertook at the beginning of Act Two has completely runaground. In On the Waterfront, Terry's brother is killed and Terry knows he is next. In "Tootsie" Michael will not find happiness as Dorothy and must re-assume his male identity to find fulfillment. With his/her back up to the wall, the main character makes a statement of transformation. A new course of action takes shape. With everything else having failed, the main character now sees what must be done in. . .

THE THIRD ACT (tomorrow)

I always have a problem getting my mind around the end of the second act, and find it easier to think of it as the second-act turning point. It seemed to me that it was a sort of shifting of gear that would inevitably lead towards the slide into the third act, as in "A person isn't getting the results they want, so they change-this change forces the situation so that they either get what they want or they finally irrevocably find it's impossible. Quick slide into home."

But when I was working on the screenplay adaptation it was clear that it wasn't that simple or that reductive: At the end of the second act you have at 30 pages to go (that's 30 minutes in a film, or 60 pages in a book). If it's all a long slide towards home, that'll be a little boring. I realized that for me, what is most important about the End of the Second Act is the statement of transformation. In that screenplay the SOT was when a former drunken frivolous London party girl states her intent to stay in the Irish countryside--this statement indicates an enormous change in character and focus--and results in 2 deaths by the end of the third act.

So with the Augusta novel, she will be in London, she will have been chasing after her 'dead' ex-husband. . .and she will discover--what? List of things it could be:

• that he's married


• that he has a twin and she's been chasing the twin


• that he put out a hit on her


• that he loves her


• that he left a note behind--and someone else destroyed it


• that he took money to go away


• that he was ill when he left--thought he was dying--and believed she couldn't take it, so just took off. When he lived he didn't know how to go back to her.

And how will it change her??

The most important change that happens to her during the book is that she will stop drinking. At the beginning she is a daily black-out drinker, but something happens in London that will force her to stop. She will have a bad 3 days or so. Will this stopping drinking happen this late in the book, at the end of the second act?? Or will it happen earlier, and the end of the second act will result in A. going to buy a big ass bottle of vodka. . .reverting to drunken type but afterwards emerging stronger, with her mind made up.

I am going to print this out and think about it. . .

The Be Brave Project, Day 52; Three Act Structure, Act II

So we've covered Act I:

1. The Set-Up


2. The Inciting Incident


3. The First-Act Turning Point

Though I think what I wrote about the (very important) end of the First Act is somewhat lame: First, I used the phrase "internal decision", one of the silliest tautologies I've ever heard of. Secondly, I over-complicated it all while neglecting to make my point--it is election season and perhaps that's catching.

Anyway--First Act Turning Point is the first major turning point in the story, the event towards which the first act has been headed. Turns the story around in an unexpected direction and contains an element of surprise. Pushes the main character deeper into the problem. Here's what I didn't say: In response to the first act turning point the main character makes a decision and embarks on a new course of action. We now know what the heart of the movie's about--i.e. what the second act is about.

Examples: In Tootsie, will Michael Dorsay find success and happiness by becoming Dorothy? In House of Games will Margaret Ford find the adventure she craves by returning to "The House of Games"? Will Thelma and Louise make it to Mexico before the cops find them?

Act II

1. Midpoint. The middle of the second act is often a place where a pivotal moment occurs. Sometimes the main character takes an action which increases their jeopardy and makes it that much harder for them to turn back. (In On The Waterfront, this is when Terry punches out the gangster who's heckling the priest; in Tootsie it's when Michael/Dorothy becomes a national celebrity.) Up until this point the main character could conceivably go back to being the person they were at the beginning of the story. After the mid-point, the character crosses over the 50% mark. In other stories, the Midpoint takes the form of a reversal--a major setback that makes thing significantly more difficult for the main character. In Thelma and Louise, Thelma's negligence allows all of Louise's money to be stolen. In Hamlet, Hamlet tries to kill Claudius but kills Polonius instead. Not every script has a midpoint, but it is a useful way to focus a second act.


2. (Tomorrow. . .The Second Turning Point)

Okay. So the First Act Turning Point is needs to be something that would shake Augusta up, take her out of her comfort zone. I want her to go to London, so she is obviously going in search of something.

Her ex-husband.

What would make her go after him, after a considerable passage of time?

• Hearing something new about him, something that reverses her previous expectations. She always thought he had. . .died? And now it turns out he'd taken money to pretend he had? Or that he'd been bribed by a family member? Or that he was actually someone 'important' (inherited importance), and a lord or something? (That does sound like a 30's movie plot, but not a noir.)


• What would then occur or she then discover in London that would make it harder for her to turn back, and impossible that she become the person she was at the beginning of the story?

So I'm still on the end of Act I questions, but I think it's important to get these answered before moving on to the Act II questions. This plotting is a major part of the BBP--this novel is--and I need to get the pieces together before writing.

My goals for the Be Brave Project for this Winter, now to New Years are to:

1. Complete a first draft of this book.


2. Go see the doctor already.

Both scary in different ways.

Day 47, The Be Brave Project; All the King's Horses, Plus Movement on the Novel Front

Howzat for an original title? Cos' things are falling apart here in North America, you see, and now in Europe. Failed European conference over the weekend resulted in Monday's blood bath at the NYSE, and yesterday was worse. I read last night that Iceland's money is worth 40% of what it had been the week before.

The Wall Street Journal has cut their on-line staff, the New York Times has 86'd its "Metro" section due to costs, Los Angeles Times cut their staff by 75 people, and papers are discussing the "long slow bleed of journalists out of NY's capital" after the New York Sun folded last week.

I only got this home because the guy living here was relocated back to California, due to his office being shut down. . .let's hope I can continue to earn enough to live here. It is very very cheap for NYC, but if there's no work there's no rent.

In short, this might be the perfect time to stay home and work on a book. Looks like plenty of others will be doing the same.

At least I know how to wait tables. Just hope there are some customers.

Anyway: 2 months' worth of money is what I have, so I'd better get cracking on the book.

What do you want the book to be?

Novel, first person narrative by a woman. Film noir voice, hard-boiled. . .dark atmosphere, comic undertones, lively description, a sense of what it feels like to live nowadays but always poured through that noir filter.

Length: 250 pages. The least I can get away with.

Plot, as far as I know: Augusta Gunn, aged 35. Ageing cage dancer recently moved over into management but still working the floor sometimes. She lives in a family owned apartment in _________. Every day she wakes out of a blackout, puts on a filmy old robe and negligee, fixes a cuppa joe and obsessively watches old films on tv. . .every day she does every thing she can to not think about her past. The man she loved and (this is where a lot of research needs to be done), the child she thinks she lost/killed.

Or perhaps she should think she killed the man??? Probably should go with that.

Anyway, one night she's at work, out on the floor, swinging in a cage in the strobe light that makes her still look young, that highlights her body parts like packaged meat; a flash of thigh, a dead white expanse of arm--and then she thinks she sees him.
Her ex husband.

She stands above him, shouting for his attention, but he keeps looking around. She screams, her face Toulouse Lautrec-ed in the garish light, over the throbbing tech beat--for some reason he turns and looks upward--he sees her. And then turns and pushes his way out of the club.

So that would be the first 1/3 of the first act, pretty much--the status quo and what happens to change that status quo.

And if Augusta did think she killed him (maybe the child thing is just too dark, though it is extremely similar to what happens in Women's films of the 1930's when kids were offed for sentiment and plot development all the time, and also to make depression-era mothers feel better about their secret resentment of their children's stranglehold on their lives)--she's going to start investigating what really happened.

Which means that she'd recreate that last night they were together in her memory. She'd start asking people who were around that evening questions. She'd really focus on whoever told her the guy was dead, and what evidence they'd come up with that convinced her it was true.

She would have required evidence: She is hard boiled but extremely sentimental beneath. Who provided the evidence? And why? Booze has made her selfish and lazy, but it has also increased the sentiment--there will be times when she gets choked up over the littlest things. Think of John Self in Money.

OK. That's good work for today! Tomorrow I will try to move forward.

-Create a document that is the plot synopsis.

-Use structure model you used for screenplay adaptation.

• think of screenplay length, but 2x as long.
• screenplay structure works with this, as cinema (and "partiality of perception" is woven into this book.
• take screenplay structure work to library today and work on it.
• draw up map for structure.

Be Brave Project, Day 29: The End of The Beginning

Today was supposed to mark the end of the Project for me; 6 weeks ago today I did my first Brave Thing, by contacting an ex boyfriend in Paris with whom I needed to sort some things out.

That bit o' bravery took me all of 12 minutes, he couldn't have been nicer about it all (well, it was mostly me apologizing--but as I'm sure you know people can occasionally take apologies as an opportunity to recite your faults, and he did not).

12 minutes that I've barely thought about since, because once the phone call was made and apologies accepted, my monkey mind stopped torturing me with it all and just settled down. The next day I called the Dream Accountant on the impulse of a moment--and left him a message. Second brave thing done. . .I'd begun nervously circling the tax issues that had been bothering me so, and was profoundly tired of waiting for some terrifying notice to come through the mail, and wondering why on earth nothing ever arrived.

By the end of the week I'd:

-Visited hell, in the form of the "Speedy Renewal" branch of the New York Dep't of Motor Vehicles.

-Spoken with the Dream Accountant and already received good information. Put together tax packet for him & shipped it off.

-Taken cat to the vet for delayed dental surgery/cleaning that I was worried would kill her.

-Given an Enormous diabetic cat 2 shots of insulin, needle-phobic though I am.

And I'd realized that the BBP isn't a 6 week project; that most things considered brave in my daily life, (where there's remarkably little hand-to-hand combat or embedded land mines, apart from the emotional variety) are simply acts of self-care and determination to have a better life. You can avoid dealing with your taxes, if you want to behave like a child and feel like a deadbeat. You can live without health insurance simply to protest the antediluvian gruesomeness of this wealthiest country providing none for its citizens--but who does that hurt? Who does that keep up at night? Certainly not our President.

The BBP is like going to the gym, really. You use those muscles or they get weak, and flabby, and they worry you and age you.

What I've learned is this: You've got to ACT to be motivated.

It isn't the other way around. The Be Brave Project is, I have realized, about the long haul.

Next phase of the BBP: Moving and getting that book done! I have an agent who wants to see it!

Day 27, Be Brave Project; Past Perfect Syndrome

To a person afflicted with a particular turn of mind, nothing--nothing--on this planet is quite as attractive as something you're about to lose. Ever. And the things you have lost? Absolutely devastating in their attractiveness. I'm sure the Germans have a word for this emotional state (if they don't, no one will), but I will simply refer to it as "Past Perfect Syndrome".

PPS has happened to me time and again with boyfriends, of course. The way he chews and those flannel shorts he wears--the approximate color and shape of wilted lettuce--turn from being disgusting indicators of future mental cruelty to being endearing hallmarks of quirkiness. A tendency to talk incessantly while viewing dvds is less an incitement to decapitation than a rather sweet boyish yen for conversation.

This is obviously an unfortunate character trait, one which has caused me very real unhappiness over the years. I no longer believe it to be sweetly melancholy, or sign of an artistic temperament: I think PPS is an indulgent and unnecessary pain in the ass.

And now I'm a New Yorker. So I am suffering from PPS in regards to my apartment.

Which has never, ever looked so good to me.

Never mind that when I moved in, my aunt and brother were close to speechless over the state of the place. That I put in hour after hour of scrubbing and thought into this weirdly designed apartment, which has a large kitchen but few counters, a bathtub that occasionally likes to burp tan bark up the drain, really weird rectangular moldings on the walls, and two long picture windows that alert the neighbors to my shamefully indulgent tv habits. Now all is beauty and delight to me; honey colored wooden floors and oh, look there! That's where Gigi Colette hid on her first day here with me. Directly next to it is the spot where she first vomited. That's the mirror I put up the first night I had cable and was watching one of those Jack Nicholson films with exchangeable titles (As Good As It Gets or As Low As It Goes or Something's Gotta Give).

What a night that was! I think I ate pasta.

Everywhere I look this place is filled with charm, from the deeply overstuffed bookshelves to the tarnishing silver, from the coffee table that attacks my shins to that damned kitchen carpet that just won't stay clean.

It's not too tough to figure out why I feel like a business man who's having breakfast with his lovely wife, knowing he's going to schtup another woman during lunch hour. Today, at 1.45, I am going to view the UWS Duplex apartment. And from what I hear, she's built. . .

Be Brave Project Yesterday: FINALLY finished the essay, and think it's quite good. A lot of excess trimmed and a much less overwrought ending to it. Also found myself a General Practitioner near Columbus Circle, and sent the form in to Oxford. Also sent form in to Smith Barney about being a little more moderate with investment goals. Rec'd credit card application at low percentage rate, but am going to hold off applying until I see if anything better comes down the pike or I get a sudden brave-wave of financial acumen. But I'm going to get one more card before 2008 is over; lower my utilization rate and diversify.

Now I have to get dressed for my duplexitous lunchtime activities. Ooh I can't wait to see the place but equally Oof! I don't want to lose this one.

Be Brave Project, Day 26: Word On The Street

There are plenty of lonely and unbalanced people in New York, and many of the arguments I overhear seem to be about dogs: I just heard a man shout to a woman outside, "Why aren't you admiring my fuckin' dog?" Why not indeed. Her response was a shower of shrieked abuse which came so fast and so high pitched that, I suspect, only the poor dog could hear it. This couple lives on my block, and while they seem to live much of their lives publicly in what downtowners might interpret as exhaustive performance pieces, I suspect that their home life consists of few moments of artistic reflection. They are tiring, and certainly could be viewed as a bit depressing, but I'm used to them and they're as much of a background in my life as BBC's Radio 4 is when I'm cooking. I like to know what's going on, big picture and small.

There is also a man in my building who involves himself in a lot of arguments--with his dog. He's a man who speaks in sharp, forceful tones that ring with despair over this uncontrollable beast. "Pee Wee!" The voice cries out with the harsh anguish of a man in love, "Pee Wee, COME HERE!" I've learned to recognize the jingling of Pee Wee's collar as he trots down the hallway, blithely ignoring his owner. My cat will always move swiftly to the door in a low crouching run, to exchange sniffs with the dog. She's double his size, and I suspect has nine times his native intelligence, but lacks Pee Wee's capacity for drama. At four in the morning I hear the man outside, shouting pleas in attempts to control this wild wild creature who holds his heart, but is dancing dementedly in the street. Frankly, I admire Pee Wee's blithe insouciance.

NYC is famous for its street crazies. Of course, the current take on them is riddled with nostalgia: The crazies nowadays (we are told) are not as full of character and richness as they were in the 'good old days' when the subways were covered in graffiti, Times Square riddled with those poor women in the unrestricted sex clubs, and you got an 8 ball of cocaine free with every box of fig cookies bought in a bodego. This sentiment is even more ludicrous than nostalgia usually is: Grime infested, crime infested New York City seems to have been lively, but also gruesomely depressing in its teeming and trapped underclass--something that Dickens and Gogol could have created after a hard night spent together, smoking crystal meth with neighborhood prostitutes. A quick view at how the city was (thanks to Rich at FourFour), quickly dissipates nostalgia.

Nowadays, you can walk up Broadway for miles without hearing from a single crazy on the street. It's quite relaxing in its way, though yesterday I was relieved to see a small dirty red-headed man darting up the street with his fists clenched, yowling the age old question, "Who Put My Buick up their Big Fat Ass?!"

Today I will finish and submit that damn Self essay, which I've finally trimmed to under 2000 words. Shall also call a doctor on West 58th Street to see if she'd agree to become my primary care physician, so I can send this health insurance stuff back & get the doctor's visits started. . .haven't had a thorough check-up in so long that this is seriously scary stuff. As I head to the doctor's office I will welcome/pay for any distraction the streets of this city have to offer.

Be Brave Project, Day 23: Butler Library & The Glare of the Blairs

There's already an autumnal lilt to the air, here in Manhattan, that I've never detected before the third week of September. Usually the students move to the city at the end of August and spend three weeks gasping in the dying grip of a New York summer; they gawp in shocked appreciation as models stroll up Broadway wearing nothing more than three handkerchiefs and a pair of knuckle-dusters, they avert their eyes from bearded hipsters in cut-offs (there's just something about the sight of a bearded guy in shorts that's a bit porno in all the wrong ways.)

But this morning something happened that's the equivalent of Groundhog's Day--I woke up, scratched my way to the kitchen, fed & watered Gigi Colette, and then went to get a glass for my morning diet soda. But I froze. I sniffed the air. I wrapped my arms around myself and felt the need for a dose o' cashmere, or at least a velour hoodie. And then I made myself a cup of tea.

Autumn's come early this year.

I should have been expecting it: Last week I had a slightly disconcerting experience. I was heading to Butler Library on the Columbia University campus. As an alum I have access there, and it's a fine, elegant, efficient place to get some work done (whilst occasionally distracting yourself with their quality baked goods). The architecture of the building is so marvellously over the top in its self-important pretentiousness that I always smile when I see it. I adore this building. I can see some 1930's Preston Sturges characters discussing its design: "I want some columns, see--big ones, and don't be stingy with 'em! Gimme lots of columns, a few big hanging lamps, and a couple a' archways. And let's get some names up there! Who's big in this book business? Aristotle--I heard of him--get his name up there. He's dead, right? Good. No lawsuits. . ."

Anyway, I'm walking towards the library, smiling and thinking girlish thoughts of Preston Sturges, chocolate chip cookies, and the diversification of my credit portfolio--when suddenly I noticed that the people around me were far, far better looking than the average variety of human being. And that these good-looking people were weirdly over-dressed for a summer's day. They all had sweaters tied stiffly around their necks, and the guys wore khakis with knife-like creases ironed into them.

And they were glaring at me.

Turns out that the tv show Gossip Girl was being shot on campus that day, and the entire College Walk was shut down. H'mm. Why, now you mention it, I did suddenly notice that there were plenty of people standing around with the self-important casualness of a film crew--and oh yes, those are some big ass cameras and equipment trucks over there.

While basking in the feast of my own imagination, I had apparently ignored the shouts of the various interns, assistant directors, and security guys, and wandered into the middle of the scene they were shooting. Whoops! I've never seen the show, as I watch Skins on BBC America and only have the capacity for one group of self-involved adolescents in my viewing life. . .but it certainly looked as if I'd just really pissed off a bunch of girls named Blair.

So if you watch that show and see a scene in front of a profoundly fabulous library, where there's an over-aged and apparently mentally challenged female student mooning around, wearing summer clothing when all others are tweeded up to their asses--That's Elusive D.!

Be Brave Project: Yesterday pulled together tax stuff for 2006. Called Health Insurance about activating plan. Edited Self essay, and think it's better and tighter. Called Rebecca about going to see the duplex in the ugly building. . .I decided to risk it for a biscuit, and slightly delay returning the lease agreement to my landlords: It's Labor Day weekend, and these things happen.

Just please God don't let me end up on the street. Think how many film shoots I'd screw up if I wandered this town full-time.

Be Brave Project, Day 20: 9 out of 10 Wise Guys Agree: Take Your *%#@! Beta Blockers!

Thank God for the days off from Being Brave! I've come to realize that Being Brave produces an odd combination of feelings, none of which are comfortable: Anxiety, embarrassment, boredom. . .and the constant nagging thought--Have I Been Brave yet today? Oh, crap--would that count as being brave?

What's become clear is that, in many instances, what I call "Being Brave" is what other people would think of as basic self care. Taking care of your credit, tending to your career, maintaining contacts, taking proper care of your body and its necessities.

An example: For some reason I kept procrastinating a very simple call to my cardiologist in Chicago (I like my cardiologists the way I like my bankers: Handsome, Midwestern and Jewish). For some reason Duane Dumbass Reade, the pharmacists here in NYC, hadn't understood that my prescription was supposed to have re-fills. I've taken these pills since I was diagnosed at the age of 20, and believe me, sudden withdrawal from beta-blockers is no one's idea of a fun afternoon. The tightening of the heart, the shaking of the hands and the sudden sweating, all exacerbated by the worry that very soon one might just pass out. . .it's no good. (Though I did publish a piece in The Guardian about a ghastly withdrawal I went through in Paris one year, and was paid in Lovely Lovely pounds sterling).

Anyway, why procrastinate that phone call? Did I imagine the cardiologist's people would say, "Sweat it out, beta blocker bitch--no pills for you!" Did I think that my need for these pills would suddenly go away, like a yen for pesto or the urge to see a mid-week matinee? No. I didn't think any of these things. I just didn't feel like calling to ask for help. Knowing, as I did, that eventually I would have to call, I decided to just put it off. . .

That is just a little example of how an ex-lush, however fit and trim and nowadays filled with broccoli and calcium, can casually create a little drama and chaos in her life. And for some reason it requires an act of consciousness, and of bravery, for me to place a necessary call. I think that we have successfully established that I don't like authority figures, which is rather bizarre because I used to feel I WAS one. Ah well, the many complexities of Woman.

Yesterday I placed a lot of phone calls/emails in the morning. I emailed a former employer, a Web Publishing company for whom I wrote/edited/worked as consultant, to ask for copies of my tax information. Haven't heard back. I called Jefferson Capital Systems about 14 times to find out why they have placed negative information on my credit report when I signed up to make payments on an old debt the minute they contacted me, and have made my payments on time every time. I did the word count on a Self essay, and realized I have to cut over a page from my submission. Ouch! I also have been combing that brilliant credit site to find out about the world of credit and how to 'diversify my portfolio'.

Ooh that sounds so knowledgable and sexy! I also learned about off-shore phone calls being a sign of sub-prime cards, and that it's a good idea to get a card from a Credit Union. Which I think I shall try to do.

Went to an AA meeting yesterday and IT finally happened. The thing that any NYC lush dreams of: The man who spoke was connected. As in a Wise Guy. Fantastic stories of having no social security number, but owning these lush places on Long Island and the Upper East Side, of the girls and the drugs and the DUIs, of dropping an envelope off here and picking up some money there, 'helping some guys out'. . .Most excellent. The guy even had eyes like DeNiro--the sad humorous look under a twisted brow.

Damn, I love New York City.

Right now my neighbors are cooking bacon and it smells so good I could gnaw my way through their wall. And my landlords actually put a lock on our front door! Living large.

Be Brave Project, Day 18: Ah, the Days When I Allowed Myself Distractions. . .

Don't really feel like writing anything here today: I sort of wish I could resume my normal off-line journals, which I have been keeping every morning for years and in which I do feel less need to censor myself--and no need at all to be even vaguely interesting! It's an unusual combination: Uncensored yet dull.

Could be the title of some ex-Saturday Night Live Cast Member's next concert film. "Eddie Murphy--Uncensored Yet Dull!"

But. . .must keep moving forward. In the last few days I've been trying to keep my eyes focused on just moving my goals forward, quietly, just in an undramatic inch-by-inch method. I have:

-Sent 2005 tax information to the Dream Accountant.

-Mailed Proof of Payment of an old debt to the NYC courts.

-Rec'd and signed form for new organization of bank accounts.

-Organized new debit card so I get miles for using it.

-Received 2006 tax information.

Still need to get more of the 2006 tax crap, and to keep moving forward on letting the credit companies know my debt to Asset Acceptance has been paid--though I don't know if that'll remove the negative information from my credit report. Should ask the guy from the 123Credit link on the right here. Also should call old Web publishing employers for old tax forms.

But today I'm going to work on that damned Self essay. Need to check word count (it may be over, which would be v. annoying. . .), write cover note to Paula Derrow. Essay needs to have more personal detail, as in age and current life. I read several old Self Expression essays in the mag, and they're not too strong on either dialogue or humor, which is good for me (in this case).

So I'm going to skip the AA meeting today, I think. Just don't feel like doing the meditation that's the focus of the Thursday meeting, and I also am feeling slightly--actually, perilously--over-exposed since the qualification earlier in the week.

Oh boring boring it all feels so boring!! Four years ago I was dating a 6 foot 5 rugby player and living in South West London, going to pubs and parties and staying in the odd country house on the weekends, visiting. . .oh, let's face it, I was hungover every goddamn day. Either working illegally or hemorrhaging money in some way, starving myself so I could save the calories for night, for booze. All dolled up in the evening, but during the day eating one McDonald's cheeseburger (which are better tasting over there--must be the subtle flavoring the mad cow disease imparts), or a sad old Tesco egg-mayonnaise sandwich. And as for the rugby playing big boy? He was absolutely lovely--and I didn't give a crap, about him or me.

But oh, I wish I had him around now. I'd love to cook him enormous meals of Tarragon Chicken and vegetables, and cut brick-sized slabs of home-made tarte tatin for his dessert; I'd rent him dvds and sit on his lap as he watched them, I'd find him some rugby games here in NYC. (But he'd have to do his own laundry. I draw a line there.)

Sigh. Anyway. Shower. Self magazine. Being Brave. Ok, ok.

Be Brave Project: Day 17. Dreams and Schemes and Flying Machines

Just woke up from a dream I repeatedly have. . . I am flying home from Europe, and the plane makes a series of straining, popping noises as it takes off. Passengers and the flight attendant make jokes about it the danger, but I am terrified. Next to me is an American businessman who doesn't like Europe and wants to go home. Behind me is an old female friend.

As the flight continues the plane doesn't rise above the old city--it flies low and weightily over narrow streets and between buildings, with wings tilting to avoid tearing off against their facades, then suddenly the plane's nose turns up and we head straight straight straight towards the sky at a dizzying speed, and I'm pressed back in my seat by the force--then, as the plane seems to level off and begin to fly normally thousands of feet above the ground, there is a sudden tumble and rush as it plummets, as the views from the window are smeared blurs, possibly our final view. As the plane falls toward the narrow city streets, the pilot (who is a woman) attempts a landing--but the wheels don't come out. We're moving faster and faster, the plane is level but heading for the ground, the city road beneath us. . .enormous sparks fly up when the undercarriage scrapes the ground. . .we bounce. . .

And the dream ends.

Forgot to mention that for some reason, lately, Carson Kressley of the cancelled show Queer Eye is the flight attendant. This dream is obviously a control dream, a wanting to escape fantasy of fear. . .and I think that the woman who pilots the plane is actually me. (It must be admitted that there have been versions of the dream in which I am outside of the airplane, straddling the cockpit--Dream interpreters need not apply.)

I think the dream was, this time, a response to my having qualified for the first time at my Home group AA meeting. It's a fairly unnerving and exposing thing to do--I don't really want people to know my boring-ass story. Unlike many women in the rooms, I wasn't raped. I wasn't sexually abused. I didn't try to commit suicide or cut myself, though I did think about the latter. I just. . .drank. And learned how to drink some more. And, like some George once sang-- (Foreman or Thorogood or Bush, or for all I know, all three Georges)--I drank alone.

So that was my brave act for the day. Telling my story and then sitting with the feelings and regrets that brought up. "We learn not to regret the past", they keep telling me.

I think that the Be Brave Project might help me get there, but right now I'm feeling impatient and underslept. So if someone gives me that line about learning not to regret the past, my answer right now would be: "Oh Yes? When?"

Be Brave Project, Day 17: Let's All Just Take a Deep Breath, Now.

I apologize for the somewhat breathless (though still rather earthy) tone of the previous few posts. It's just that for years I wandered this planet feeling like the outcast of outcasts, premiere drunken asshole du monde, and general paralytically frightened fool--all over my taxes. But now the untangling has begun--and it's such a relief.

Not just the money--though like most Duchesses I've ever met (and baby, shouldn't we all be Duchesses in our own minds? Not accepting anything but the best behavior, from ourselves and others?)--I can absolutely use the money.

It's just a pleasure to walk around, do my errands and work and write, with this weight lifted from me.

But now's the time to stop running around in circles at the excitement of it all, and re-focus.

Breathe, Elusive D.
Breathe.

And let's take stock for the moment. The original goals of the BBP, as set out late last month were--here we're going to go all italicized and misty as we fade to the past--

For the next Six Weeks, until the Friday after Labor Day (September 4th),
I will do One Brave Thing each day.
-Some of these things will be small, like my first one, but must be celebrated nonetheless.

-I am required to write my brave thing down here, in order to commemorate it.

-I am taking Weekends off, to be a non-brave self and just to rest and watch "It's Me or The Dog" while I paint my toe nails and write sweet fuck-all apart from e-mails.

-I do not have to continue doing brave things after the 4th of September. In fact, if I would then like to forget bravery and impetus and the cruel passage of time upon the procrastinatory, I am then free to do so. Or I can use this blog to take a look at how things have changed and try to find how to move things forward.

Within the space of the 6 weeks of the Be Brave Project,
I must get these things done:
-Get Health Insurance
-Get Driver's License Renewed
-Call the Accountant and sort out grievously embarrassing money issues.
-Pre-qualify for a mortgage. Find out what you are qualified for.
-Take A.B. up on his offer to read your screenplay adaption.
-Plot the novel, using the "Quest" structural format and the one adopted last summer.
-Write the first draft of the novel; 200 pages in total. BRAVE.
-Begin serious job search--force self to decide if you can deal with office life. The trade-off of security for giving up the luxury and uncertainty of freedom/freelancing.

That seems like a pretty damn serious list to begin with. Too big, perhaps? Too much.
Well, I've seen what asking and accepting too little can do: NOT Bloody Enough.

Woof! That's a bit sobering. And here's the summary of my actions & results so far:

-I wasn't able to get my Driver's license renewed, due to ridiculous identification demands by the NY DMV. And I was scared (hmmm) to go to the Social Security office for my card. . .seriously tempted to renew my license in Illinois, where it's civilized and they require reasonable forms of ID, like passport and birth certificate.

-I DID apply for Health Insurance. Am waiting to hear from Healthy NY.

-I DID DEAL WITH THE TAX SITUATION. Now not scared of the Social S. office. Learned I should be getting money back! All delightful. . .

-I HAVE written A.B. about lunch (with goal of bringing script for him to look at). Haven't heard back yet: The ball's in his court, which is quite nice.

-I HAVE called about pre-mortgaging, and found out some discouraging truths, + some useful information. Also found a guarantor for a mortgage, which will make all the difference.

-I am STILL frightened by novel. Am researching plotting, still. . .but not working hard enough. Work done on Novel is part of the BBP: I need to remember that. Something done every day.

-Have PUT OFF job search due to fears of moving, and in order to have time with novel--one of which didn't happen, the other of which I'm scared to work on. That must be resolved.

So here are new Being Brave Projects as additions:

1. Learning how to sort out my credit history. I will be reading this fantastically straightforward and informative blog on credit. I like the guy who writes it because he actually replies to emails--very encouraging to a person crawling out of the primordial mire, financially. . .

2. Taking action to remove negative credit.

3. Organize plans for Novel--Start writing in September. Until then, sort out plotting.

4. Find a part-time job (preferably on the Columbia University campus) so can afford to write.

5. Send essays around! Self magazine gets the piece on Facebook, and pitch Jackie's "As Told To" to Marie Claire and Women's Health. If that doesn't work, find other publications.

6. Keep moving forward with plans to buy a home.

So. Now I will spend half an hour dealing with my credit report, which I printed up yesterday via. Experion (BBP action for yesterday). Dealing with credit plus the fact that I just mailed my 2005 tax information to the Dream Accountant= My BBP actions for today. I think I'll email the lovely guy at Creditmatters123.blogspot.com to ask a question about negative credit. Or I'll send proof of payment to NY State. . .

And this evening, as a lovely greasy nutty insanely summery treat, I will make Elizabeth David's Pesto.

Be Brave Project, Day 15: HOORAY! Being Brave Pays Off!

One year sober! I'm going to the Fireside meeting in Midtown Manhattan, eating lunch with Martha (from my home group), and then meeting Lara for some cupcakes at Crumbs! Treating today as a holiday! After cupcakes I'm going up to look at apartments in Inwood.

BUT yesterday I rec'd my tax return information, the first thing I did when I started the BBP--all I had to do was open the thing, sign & send a check to the State of NY, and decide what to do with my Federal overpayment of (whoo-bloody-hoo) $59.06.

I tossed the unopened packet on my printer, and went to the kitchen to make some cream of broccoli soup. Talked to my mother on the phone for a while, which was a relief as she sounded much better than the last conversation. Changed out of my high-heeled espadrilles into DKNY yoga shoes. Then, with a sigh, I decided to open the pack and, if I had the energy, write the damn check to NY State. Couldn't find scissors to cut the seal open, so tore at it for a bit, then got a kitchen knife. Pulled out the creamy white folder, opened it. Tax forms, filled out on the left. On the right was a bill for the accounting services, and a summary of the tax forms.

I read the summary and yelped like a labrador.

I read the summary again.

I called Louis C.'s office.

I read the summary again.

When Louie had said I had a $59.06 refund coming, he didn't mean $59.06. He meant $5906.00!!! Of all that is Good to the the Poor Sad-Ass Drunks on this planet!!

$5906!??

That'd pay for my rent increase!!

May God Grant me the Serenity

To accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

& The Wisdom to know the difference!!

HOT DAMN!!

BBP: Days 12 & 13: Less Wackness to My Thinking?

I've definitely noticed a subtle change in my thinking that is producing a marked change in my behavior: When I have a situation that I don't like dealing with, particularly one with an imposing/frightening institution or situation that I would prefer to avoid or delay, now I am far more likely to simply do it. Example: Writing an email to Maggie's friend Jay, a famously intimidating NYC mega-landlord, to mention that I'd love to become one of his tenants. Usually I'd put that off, because I hate asking favors, bothering busy people, and the requisite coating of flattery and bullshit you have to wrap that request in. But on Monday, I just did it. Also I called a company to whom I had paid a debt, and got on their asses about sending me proof of payment, so I can go to the credit bureaus with that proof.

In addition, I have spoken with my friend Andy (he who promised to read my script), and we are tentatively talking about lunch--he's being more cagey than usual, though. Does he somehow know that I'm finally going to take him up on that script offer? The film he wrote won a woman a Best-Actress Oscar, so you know a LOT of people have asked favors in the last few years. . .but he did offer to read it, twice. And I didn't show it to him because I didn't want to be a pain in the ass, and, let's face it, because I was scared.

I have also decided to go look at apartments in Inwood, just to see if I can tolerate living there. It might be very nice--there seem to be parks and nicely maintained old buildings! Who knows? I had a friend who lived up on 192nd Street, and her place was in a dodgy building--but what shocked me most was the linoleum floors throughout the place. She'd covered them with rugs, of course, but still felt a deep deep shame and repulsion. . .as did I. I have done many drunken shameful things in my time (there are a few house parties in England that I wish I'd blacked out), but I have never, never, yet allowed linoleum out of the kitchen.

OK. My brave things for the end of the week involve:

-Going to see these Apartments in Inwood. Not letting time go by without researching it.

-Editing this piece that I'm sending to the "Self Expressions" column at Self Magazine.

-Sending the pitch and essay in.

-Sending Pitch to Marie Claire about Jackie, the only woman currently under treatment for breast cancer who will be doing the Tour de Pink next month. If MC no longer has their "First Person" column, try to angle it to Women's Health. Or Health magazine--or think about Self for that one, too. (Self pays well and has a larger subscription base than Marie Claire.)

-Go to library and read back copies of these magazines.

In the last two days have seen two films: Swing Vote, with Kevin Costner: I didn't really want to see it at all, but it was for a free SAG screening at the DGA on 57th Street, so I trundled along with my glamorous friend Kendall, she of the Jennifer Aniston hair. It actually was an amusing, diverting comedy--particularly when you got past the slapstick moments. There is a brutally funny commercial in which the Democratic candidate (played by Dennis Hopper, who is one facelift away from being bollock-chinned) reverses his stand on abortion: As he walks through a playground talking about children and lollipops and America, the children suddenly disappear in puffs of smoke, leaving us with a child-free land.

Pretty brutal, pretty funny--of course, no mention of the fact that if abortion were to be made illegal, that wealthy people would simply go/send their kids to Europe for the operation, while poor people would have to simply have the kids, thereby deepening the already terrifying rich/poor gap in this country and providing more soldiers for the next generation of war. But the film was good, and actually smart. Also saw The Wackness at Lincoln Plaza last night--absolutely wonderful film, dark and funny and a fucking brilliant performance by Ben Kingsley (whose American accent is better than most, but not dead on). However, he character is so funny and contradictory and sad; a crappy shrink who occasionally says something quite relevant--a film about the desperation of men and the anger of women, and how honesty and a little bravery can bring you up above it. Really wonderful.

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.)

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.

Be Brave Project Day 2: One Phone Call

So here's the dealio: You're feeling a bit stuck, vaguely cornered, and a lot as if your life has to change. So you make a list of the things you need to do, really need to do (as opposed to buy cream cheese or vaccuum that cat's damn hair off of your foyer carpet). Seems as if it should be rather straightforward, but actually it begins to feel like catching fireflies between your palms--the brief riotous flutter of success, but once you've got the thing in its jar, labelled and awaiting your next move. . .it's a bit of a head-scratcher.

So my Be Brave Project Day 2 act was actually the first step of something I've been terrified to move on--getting my finances sorted. In March my friend Maggie recommended her accountant, who she got to know when she was working as a P.I. He'd just recently done some rather neat (and vaguely slippery) number crunching for her to ensure that her numbers looked right to get her a new apartment on the Upper West Side. I like kind, and I like people who aren't too tremendously stymied by drawing within the lines. I also loved the guy's name: like something out of the Sopranos. And do you think those guys had good accountants, or what? Louie Bottabicano. Nice.

So Maggie gives me the guy's name in March, and I sent him an email in April. No reply. Happily took that for an answer, because I really do not want to sort through 8 years of financial crapola, but then tried him again in May. This time he wrote back and said he hadn't received my previous email, but asked for some details and then. . .I froze. Didn't call him back. All I could think of was paperwork and horrible embarrassing discussions of my protracted idiocy--so I behaved more idiotically and just did nothing. He rang, and I didn't ring him back.

Stupid. Embarrassing. And quite, quite lame.

So the upshot of it all is that yesterday, after I came back from the gym--where there's a new scale that not only gave me a higher weight but announced it to the room--I sat down, found my old email from Louie, and called him. . .but only left a message. His machine had a canned message, so I don't know if he sounds as if he wears knit shirts and New Jersey gold, but a girl can dream. I was full of apologies and genuine professions of my intention to follow through this time if he'd call me back. So we shall see if he does.

That sort of gave me a bit of impetus, so I also acted on something else I've been procrastinating, and called the vet to make an appointment for my cat to have her teeth cleaned. Neither interesting nor brave, but anti-procrastinatory. And that's very very good.

I can tell already it's going to be difficult, deciding what is brave and what is actually just something dull or expensive I've been putting off. . .but is it fear that causes procrastination? of course, you put the dull stuff off long enough and then you need to be brave to get things back on track. And expense? Sometimes, for those of us with Scottish blood, spending money is brave. Ah, Celtic heritage--it's all extremely sun-blocky.