Has anyone had to buy a new furnace lately?  Mine was 50 years old, according to the guy who tried to fix it today.  First it was going to be $4,000 for a new Lennox, the only kind they install.  But by the end of the visit it had gone up $1,000, the difference being 90% efficiency vs 80%.  I want to research it but it’s pretty darn cold around here so time is of the essence.  I’m clear on wanting to vent in fresh air from outside vs the air in my basement.  It’s cobwebby and creepy and linty down there. 

I got my taxes done on time.  Every year it gets to be less of a big deal.  It’s not like I’m doing them, I’m just getting them ready.  But with all the stock stuff and every year I’ve got some real estate thing.  And next year I want to start a business. 

Today’s my six-year anniversary of leaving my husband.  I’m feeling very proud of myself today.  I’ve done well in the market this week, in spite of some scary madness with speculative stocks.  Bob saw my new trend and sagely suggested a site which gives you $2,000,000 in play money and your own mutual fund. 

It’s Wednesday so I went to the Herb Shoppe for the lecture.  This week it was all about the thyroid.  Fascinating stuff.  You have no idea how pervasive hypo- and hyperthyroid problems are.  At least I didn’t.  That it had any connection to the stomach came as a complete surprise.  And that any sort of grieving could impair thyroid function was hard to believe.  But it all made sense in the end.

I discovered my hair was long enough to stay up in a ponytail.  That’s how I wore it today and I feel so girlish.  The other girlish thing I discovered is that I might still want a man.  In fact I’m pretty sure I do.  I read drunkpunches ’ wish list, someone had tagged him for that qualities-you-want-in-a-lover thing.  And it gave me hope.  So I went to bed thinking about a man I could love, not so much the specifics but just the idea of a male human being whom I could love. 

I started thinking about the possibility of a guy who liked stocks or a guy who liked to cook or a guy who liked to hunt — I’ve never been hunting but unless he hunted he might not appreciate my dog.  I have enough interests that are androgynous like music or travel or hiking and rafting.  What if I found a guy who liked medicine, I mean like naturopathic?  Geez, what if I found a writer?  And then I realized I was with a man I found fascinating, for 30 years, and he didn’t have one of those interests.  His interests were reading, drinking and smoking pot, in that order.  Actually sex would precede that list.  So, you know, if the chemistry were good, with a shared sense of humor and similar aesthetics I believe there’s any number of combinations that can be magic.  I don’t know why I’ve been so fatalistic about it.  It drives me crazy when I hear men and women say there are no good one’s out there.  Baloney.  Look at all the good people on Xanga.

Sunday

Lonliness lifts, as the noise level looms overhead, like a blanket, a comforting quilt of humanity.  I self-consciously carry my cup past squares of all colors, communal tables, where I spy an empty patch for me.  One spot left, I sit next to the head of the table, oblivious at his laptop.  Across from me is the head’s mate and next to me is a knitter.  She is making pumpkin, orange mittens.  She finishes the right hand and tries it on for size, holding it up for her friend to see.  I make a mental note:  learn to knit.

There are just as many singles as couples and just as many men as women.  If fact I’m hard-pressed to think of an easier amalgamation of folks to fit in with.  The couple studying leaves and a young, blonde girl, with roots, takes over the head of the table. 

It’s Sunday, and we are at the church of coffee, Crema.  I say church because they have baked goods on a par with all things holy.  Between bites of my muffin I am reading “Plan B,” and she’s writing about the death of their dog.  Bella’s death feels fresh and raw;  Lamotte has opened up the wound.  Fortunately I took two napkins and, with the noise level, the knitter and the blonde don’t notice my sniffling. 

Anne describes her dog’s last breath, just like I remember it, only I was at the vet’s and Lamotte was under her bed where the dog had crawled, to die.  What ensued at her house was a wake.  I went home to an impossible puppy who had, in some part, been the death of my beloved Bella.

Grief among strangers, especially boisterous ones — They may not have been but the more traditional church-goers were filtering in with children and the noise level had reached a new decibel, bouncing off the concrete floor and glass walls.  I took my used napkins and exchanged them for toilet paper in the bathroom, having a little time-out.  Then I left.

You don’t realize how quiet it is when you live alone.  I didn’t want to go back to that.  I was near the Tao of Tea and out of my latest substitute for coffee:  Toucha, sometimes called Camel’s Breath.  It is a very rich, black tea and to my knowledge available nowhere else.  They sell tea in one building and serve tea with food in another.  After my purchase I went next door to hear the waterfall and have their sublime samosas, pockets of potatoes and peas with garlic.

One, lone candle burns in the center of the copper counter, day or night.  One chef moves deftly behind that counter, and just one waitress watches over us.  Whereas Crema is huge, the Tao is small.  Crema is all hard surfaces, and the Tao is rich in texture, with handmade bamboo furniture and brightly colored cushions.  The sound of the waterfall overrides gentle conversation.  Crema’s durable open space lends itself to much movement but one is careful in the Tao not to upset the many teacups and pots along the wall.  I dipped my pockets of dough into flavored yogurt and poured another cup of African tea.

 © 2005 pd Brown

I have had a beautiful but lonely day.  I used to be such a people person yet all my hobbies are solitary.  I finally got Ann Lamotte’s “Plan B,” which I started.  I even made a fire out in the living room where I could sprawl on the couch without Bridget trying to climb on me.  But then I got sleepy from the afternoon walk and laid down on some pillows to watch the fire.  Somehow two hours went by and when I woke up it was dark out.  I hate that.  It leaves me feeling at loose ends.

This morning was wonderful, though.  The sun was out and it wasn’t raining or snowing, not that I get much snow over here, it’s so close to the river.  Do you listen to Car Talk?  Something about that show just makes me happy.  I took my cane and the dog and went down to the river for a careful walk.  All those surgeries I had where I couldn’t dance for long periods of time have made me patient.  But God damn, it’s been since Christmas that my knee’s been fucked up.  I’m taking glucosamine and detoxing my liver and I can feel whatever sediment is in there, moving around.  My accupuncturist/intuit says I will not benefit from a doctor or an Xray so I’m hanging in there with this alternative stuff.  For about one more month.

I just watched (tv) a dysfunctional family go through Thanksgiving — it was depressing but worth it to see Julianne Moore.  I wake up on Saturdays relieved the market’s closed but by Saturday night I don’t know what to do with myself. 

The writing has been good, especially since I read Nicky Jett’s advice about being able to sum up your book in one sentence.  Wow, what a tip.  I went back and started adding more focus, tipping the reader off.  It’s definitely more cohesive now.

I hate to admit it but I might need a boyfriend.  Either that or the sun needs to come out so I can garden.  Yeah, that sounds like a better idea.

It’s ironic that I have no one to cook for, now that I’m in my prime.  I have been cooking for so many years, never using recipes, that I can pull shit out of my cupboards, grab some spices, add a little lemon juice or some diced tomatoes, and find some sort of wrap or chip or pasta.  Even though there was nothing planned for dinner, I end up with a tasty concoction whipped up in no time. 

It’s such a shame my family never appreciated my style.  They do now.  But when the girls were younger they didn’t like “interesting” food.  Henry liked meat and potatoes and nothing red.  White sauce was his thing.  Lots of cheese and butter.  Never fruit.  We had exactly opposite tastes in food.  The only thing we agreed on were the vegetables.

My kids wouldn’t even eat pizza.  “The sauce is too spicy,” they’d say.  I had to make my own.  They all had such different preferences that often I’d make them each something different for lunch.  I love feeding people so I didn’t mind.  Now that it’s just me I’m thinking about cooking for the dog.  Seriously.  Ever since she started dining out in the backyard — I think she’s been eating truffles — now she’s not that interested in her dry dog food.  How good could dry dog food be for her?  I mean compared to brown rice and organic beef stirfry or baked chicken with roasted vegetables.  I just bought a new 20 pound bag for $17 that will last maybe two weeks.  I don’t know if that’s right.  She eats four cups a day.  Does anybody out there feed their dogs real food?

She would be in absolute heaven.  When I go into the kitchen to cook she’s right behind me.  I know I shouldn’t let her but she gets up on her hind legs to have a closer look.  I let her lick the knife if it’s peanut butter.  When I’m not looking she takes her paw and pulls the scraps out of the sink, if I’ve been cutting up vegetables or fruit.  She loves it all.

Anyway, what I wanted to say tonight was what a delight it is to have been cooking so long that I can just sense, without even having to taste, what to put into a dish to make it shine.  More and more I find that whether it’s cooking or stocks I can feel when it’s right. Same with gardening.  True, I don’t know this soil over here yet but I’ll get the hang of it.  It’s wonderful to be old and experienced.  So much of the time I am pushing to learn, trying to figure things out.  I can’t wait to be able to sit back and reap the benefits of these years of exploration.  It makes me think of those wise old men at the coffee shop.  They had the rich satisfaction of KNOWING things.  They knew how to do life.

I am humming, and I don’t mean singing.  I just got up to feed the dog and heat up some soup — It’s 9pm and I forgot to eat dinner.  When I stood I noticed that high-pitched frequency I get with too much coffee.  I only had tea today. 

I get that buzz sometimes when I’ve written something that feels right.  I’m not sure if it’s the length of time it takes to whittle it down; finetuning, getting so immersed I am the words, or if it’s divine intervention; a collaborative affair that leaves me spinning.

I’m up to 41,343 words, which I’m thrilled about, but for those of you who did Nanowrimo it’s three months too late and 10,000 words short.  I figure I’m well over half-way there, though, and with the time I was away I got back into the habit of working on it a little every day so the end is in sight.

I have become a much more patient woman in my 50s, working on my all-or-nothing tendencies.  I spent the morning doing “homework” as Cramer would say.  He’s my latest TV obsession:  “Mad Money,” on CNBC four times a day.  One caller announced today that he watches all three shows.  You’ve got to be a real die-hard to watch the midnight show.  I write down all his stock picks, date them, and when the quarterlies come out I cross-check them with the list.  Then I do what Bob taught me.  I go to Morningstar to check the balance sheet, Yahoo for the statistics, Fidelity to get an idea of what the competition did and my own financial page to check the charts and any news.  I make a list of the ones which pass those tests and put a check on the stocks I want to buy.  Only problem is that today the timing seemed to be off. 

Five hours later I was getting a shower, feeling defeated.  But after my session in the sauna, I remembered it was just homework.  Timing is everything and I can wait.  I did my floorwork, a little shimmy with some arms, put away the folded laundry, and the next thing I knew it was time for Cramer’s three o’clock show and a little coffee ice cream.

Wanting to at least accomplish a chapter, I put on that piano music again and was transported back to 1997.  Over and over I’d listened to Jonny play.  Measure after measure of metered pain, he told my story.  It was his story, too.  I listened to him weave in and out of new beginnings and false endings, hearing whimsy turn to passion.  I recognized danger, riveted by the descending register.  He’d pound the keys, calling up my narrow escape from infidelity.  I put that music away for five years.  When I brought it out yesterday I was shocked.  I had no idea I was living in such secrecy, with so much grief.  And the passion, I was stunned by its intensity.  The hope I still have.

Today might as well have been May, except the daffodils were in bloom.  It was 60 degrees and people were out romping through the city.  I know because I drove around snooping.  I checked out people’s gardens, their porches, the back streets and the cool new shops. 

Let me back up, though, because what set the tone for this marvelous day was my new favorite place, THE SAUNA.  Good things happen in there:).  Maybe it’s the herbs.  All I know is that when I drove off I was wearing my new pearls and a smile.  You’ll never guess where I got the pearls.  Rite Aid, of all places.  Pierced, drop earrings to match, with a reasonable clasp and a pop-bead sized elastic necklace which looked every bit as nice as the expensive one the over-dressed woman in the bakery was wearing. 

I love finding new places and when I spied a salon on one corner and a garden shop on the next I went around the block and took a closer look.  That’s when I heard the music and promptly parked the car.  Setting out on foot I tried to find the entrance to what sounded like a Brazilian bar.  The gate said “Use the south entrance,” and when I peered through the slats in the fence I saw a pony-tailed Argentinian surrounded by exotic plants.  Now I REALLY wanted in.  But there was no entrance.  The next building south was the salon.  So I gave up and checked out the garden shop.

It was next door to a nursery and after a cursory glance I decided I had enough plants.  The shop was a walk into the past.  It smelled and sounded and even looked like my friend, Rachel’s, first house.  Big potted plants, the same music in the background, lots of books around, and that special smell; old but interesting. 

The friendly young people back at the nursery had just been to Crema, the bakery across the street.  It looked inviting with a whole panel of windows pulled open.  I walked back along the fence but the young man with the big nose was gone and so was the music.  The coffee shop/bakery was packed and I could see why.  Hmmm, I couldn’t decide between the little lemon tart with blueberries or the big wedge of chocolate mocha bread.  I ordered an 8 oz, 1 shot Americano and the bread.  And I got the last table.

My next stop was an intriguing boutique which reminded me of one I’d seen in LA.  The  difference being that I suspect the contents of this store had belonged to the sheepish young woman sitting in the back of her closet.  All the clothes were the same size and slightly used looking and everything was overpriced.  What nerve. 

I got back in my car and mosied (sp?)on home, full and happy.  So many cute houses along the way with fetching gardens I had to pull over to get a better look at.  But when I turned into my driveway I liked mine better.  The garden shop inspired me to make a bouquet, I have exactly one bush in bloom.  I got out the wedding present my dad got us(with love instead of resentment I might add), a ceramic pitcher from the Contemporary Crafts Gallery.  I stuffed it with these dramatic, drooping plumes which smell like paper whites.  Then I dug out my favorite old piano music and cleaned the kitchen ’til it shone.  My world is a beautiful place.

This morning I had coffee with Melissa, the estranged friend, went to a movie with Teresa and had dinner with Arleen.  I have gained seven pounds in the short time I’ve been socializing.  It’s worth it, though.  Not only do I like my friends, I like me when I’m with them.  When I leave the house I look great.  When I’m with them I’m amusing, and when I get home I feel connected. 

Tues, after the hospital, I met with an old friend I used to work out with every day. She’s   someone I met at the club, who had a kid in child care the same age as mine.  She was a lawyer but had quit working to have kids.  I never saw her much after I quit the club.  The funny thing is she started writing, actually finished two books, and took up bellydancing.  We had so much to talk about. 

I used to mostly hang with the wives of my husband’s friends, not that I socialized much.  Then it was with the mothers of my kid’s friends, and rarely did I meet a few special people all on my own.  But when I do it is so right and such a luxury to be with them.  Like Marla, Arleen is someone I met when I moved over here, and once a month we meet for dinner at the wine bar.  She is goodness personified.  I’ve never known such a generous, loving person.  She’s like an angel whose golden glow radiates so far beyond her I feel warm and bright just sitting across the table.  I keep thinking if I get to know her better I’ll see her dark side.  Surely we all have one.  But she must keep hers hidden because I see no sign of it, and it’s been two years.

Not only have I been socializing I’ve been gardening.  Mostly it’s just clean-up but I’m feeling encouraged about this spring in the front yard.  Not the backyard because the dog has ripped that to shit.  rabookie — you never told me what you go by — you were right about my dog digging after something 

I was getting nostalgic for all the plants I left behind and today I drove by, turned around and drove by again.  You know, it didn’t look anywhere near as great as I’d remembered.  Though it’s early and not much is in bloom.  Still, my garden here looks a whole lot better. 

I sure feel good after an hour of being out in the yard.  Maybe it’s all the herbs I’m taking or the fact that I’m not drinking alcohol.  The naturopath said no more, not until my liver gets rid of whatever is making me toxic.  I’ve never been to the wine bar and ordered coke but I have to say I feel great.  Plus I just had a nice cup of rooibos (red) tea, a new blend I found at the mall, of all places.  The bag says “Teavana.”  What a cool place.  She opened two or three bins and sort of fanned the tea so it would waft my way. 

The other thing I’m supposed to do is the sauna.  I actually have one here but I thought it was broken.  That sounds retarded, I know.  I ran it for 30 minutes on three, separate occasions today and it doesn’t smell so bad anymore.  Tomorrow I’ll go in and wipe it down and give it a try.  I think it was just because it hadn’t been used in a long time.