I have a new oven and it’s black.  I wouldn’t have chosen black but there were only two choices:  black and white.  Some time ago, and I’m embarrassed to admit how long, my kitchen started breaking down.  First it was the microwave.  That was okay because I had decided it was dangerous.  Then my oldest broke the knob off the stove so all I could do was broil.  That was okay because I bought a portable oven.  Then the front burner started acting up.  The final straw was yesterday.

I had Elizabeth and her little boy over to see my house and my middle daughter was making grilled tuna and cheese when the burner started doing its thing.  It would turn on and off.  I promised to take action and after they left I went to the appliance store down the street to see if I could switch the grill side over to be burners.  Now I have a fancy looking new stove top and four burners that work.  While I was there I bought a new wall oven.  Here all this time I thought they didn’t make 24-inch ovens any more.  I’d been holding off until I refinanced, thinking I was going to have to take my kitchen all apart to accommodate the new size.

Getting ready for Henry’s mother to come the other day involved lots of cleaning so not only does everything work, I am ready for company.  The kids think we should have the Canadian over.  They met him Wed night when we went dancing and everyone hit it off.  I think my daughter and the Canadian are both the type to pour on the charm.  They’re both real charismatic and good at reading people.  My daughter’s boyfriend liked him, though, and I trust his judgment.

After Easter Party

Antipasto plate:  marinated vericots, those little green italian olives, kalamata olives, wine-cured salami, summer sausage, three kinds of white cheese, roasted red peppers, and pepperoncinis.  I have a lovely spring platter I use.  Next to that was a long silver tray with two kinds of baguette, along with good mustard, cream cheese and butter.

In the dining room I had decorated the table with chocolate eggs and fuzzy little ducklings, beautiful candles and two large foil-covered bunnies Grandma always gives the kids.  I’d bought this Art Deco looking, verticle structure that held eight of my dyed eggs.  An oversized salad bowl, loaded with Shrimp Louie, along with a tray of warm asiago bread completed the luncheon.  Thousand island dressing sat in glass boat.  All I had for drinks were mango, apricot, V8, and orange juice.  Mostly, people drank coffee. 

Oh, but dessert was the best.  Someone brought a banana cheesecake.  I had never had it or even heard of it, for some reason.  And I bought some sort of brittle, I guess you’d call it.  Henry’s mother really went for that.  It was a thin layer of chocolate on one side and made of cereal I think, along with coconut and several kinds of nuts. 

The youngest was home for spring break and she arrived with hair that made us all wince:  bleached blonde and blunt cut, if you could call that a cut.  I hadn’t realized my party was going to turn into a beauty parlor.  After lunch was served the oldest went to work, dyeing and cutting..  She (the youngest) is a strawberry blonde but now she’s more of a red-head.  The oldest brought her brand new puppy so my dog was delirious.  Plus, the youngest brought her childhood best friend, who we all love, and she brought her boyfriend.  He brought his coach’s HUGE chocolate lab, Romeo, who he was taking care of while the coach was away.  We all watched the three dogs frolic on the floor near the growing pile of hair. 

It was the first time my mother-in-law (she doesn’t use the ex so I won’t either) has been to my house and she was busy taking it all in, watching the salon act, amidst the menagerie of dogs.  She’s been used to seeing the girls, for the last four years, in a more formal setting, and I think she liked the way everyone was at home here.  They say the house their dad is living in (his wife’s) is like a museum.

Grandma is still spunky in spirit but frail in stature so the trek from couch to porch, through the jungle of canines, was precarious.  As soon as she reached for her purse I was by her side.  Like a basketball player I fielded my dog so she didn’t get in the way.  “Grandma” still smokes Pall Malls.  I have a nice, covered porch but it was cold and raining so I tried to talk her into smoking in the house.  I was relieved she didn’t take me up on it.  

I wonder how she felt being here, seeing all our old furniture in my house.  She liked the house.  I think she must have loved being back with the girls and me, like old times.  But maybe she felt like a traitor.  I hope not.  

Edited to add:

la_chatte_gitane  is right, and it’s an important point she makes.

Heartache

I have this yearning.  It’s a mixed-up kind of ache, which I think was exacerbated by Sunday’s singing.  That brief encounter with my heart dredged up memories.  Sometimes during a full moon I get pulled back into love.

I emailed the married man.  I don’t even feel bad about it either.  I went to a house party with a friend of mine Saturday night.  She’s an actor and was in a play with the drummer.  The girl who opened for them sang a song, and that’s what started this yearning.  She sang a line about how there was a guy who loved her.  The way she sang it made me believe that was the most important thing in the whole world to have.  The song started out with all the stuff she didn’t have, then got to the line about how, many miles away, at the end of the day, she knew he was loving her.  I want that. 

I had that with the married man.  I could feel it when he was thinking about me, many miles away.  This year, after we’d been home a couple days, I decided we should just stick to once a week at the beach and leave it at that.  No communicating in between.  But when Easter came it made me remember the phone call I got last year, and I wanted him to know I remembered.  I emailed him to say I had rented the same house at the beach and was he still coming.  He and his friends stay in the next town over, and we all meet up at the blues festival.  This will be our third year. 

Really what brought this on was my new friendship with the Canadian.  He’s the one I dance with now, the one who is in the middle of a divorce.  Maybe I haven’t mentioned him.  He’s ten years younger so that won’t work but he looks so much like the married man and has that same dry sense of humor.  They carry themselves the same way.  They tease me the same way.  I’m just getting to know the Canadian so I’m not sure how much I like him.  Mostly he makes me miss the married man.  I can’t tell if I really like him or just like to be around him.

The sad thing is that this pining is for someone I don’t know yet.  When there is such a disconnect between what I have with men and what I have with Spirit I know I won’t be settling.  I wish the bar weren’t so high.

I just dyed Easter eggs and I did it a new way.  I made variations of color by dissolving the tablets differently.  Some were in a bath of fizz with white vinegar.  For the orange I used Meyer’s lemon, and the green just had water.  Don’t do that, it doesn’t take.  Plus, I used some brown eggs, too, which made the purple and orange more pungent.  I’m feeling like it’s Easter now. 

Not that I didn’t this morning.  But singing the Hallelujah chorus at church was not like any Easter I’ve had before.  I don’t think I’ve ever been to church on Easter.  Well, not since I tried to take the girls when they were little and on the drive home the oldest wanted to know why she was a sinner. And this was the Episcopal church.  We never went back.  Well, I did, but that was 17 years later, and I didn’t take the kids.

I’ve never sung in a choir as an adult.  I had no idea about the sense of camaraderie.  And I had no clue about the Hallelujah chorus.  What it can do to you.  After we sat down, and it was with pride and a deep sense of righteousness, I was overcome.  And I could see the woman next to me was, too.  I kind of panicked because it felt like I was going to start sobbing or something, and I was sitting in the front row.  I was sure people could see the tears well up and make that long, slow descent down through the eyeliner, over the concealer and onto my lipstick.  I snuck my tongue out to catch the remains, wondering what color the trickle had left.  It was better to think about that than the deep well of emotion that beckoned me.      

The choir director was in her own state and we exchanged a look.  Soon both eyes were pooling and I had to use my hands.  Earlier that morning she’d told a story about one of the guys, who is Italian, “you know how Italians can be” she joked.  She said last year after he was done singing he pulled out Kleenex.  I should have known then.

The kids are having Easter dinner at their dad’s.  Actually, it’s at his new wife’s house, since his is still on the market.  I almost started to type something about how it was too bad he wasn’t having any luck selling his house.  You know, like too bad so sad.  But since I’ve been doing the compassion prayer (“may I be free from danger, may I be happy, may I be healthy, and may I live with ease”) I can say I sincerely hope he’s able to sell it soon. 

Every day I say the prayer for myself, then for my mentor, then for the guy who makes my coffee (you’re supposed to choose a stranger), then for Henry, then for all people.  I am a much more compassionate person now, and I can really tell when I go to the movies or something where I am around lots of people.  I don’t feel so removed.

It’s time to eat artichokes, hot with melted butter.  Happy Easter.

Maybe if I write it out I will calm down about it.  Several hours ago I refinanced, locking into a loan at 5.25%.  I had to pay 2 points to get that rate.  I hope it was worth it.  I hope I’m not too early.  Ben Bernanke speaks tomorrow and last time he lowered rates for banks, mortgage rates went up.  What he’s lowering is the rate banks can borrow at the window.  But what lowers mortgage rates has more to do with the 10-year-note.  I watch it go across the top of the TV, like the ticker tape at the bottom.  It showed the 10-year down to 3.31% this afternoon and my mortgage broker called shortly after that to see if I wanted to lock in. 

Plus, I borrowed $50,000.00 to live on, just in case.  That’s the part that made it hard to breathe.

I haven’t been able to see my account since last Friday after the market closed.  Bad things were happening then, and this Friday was even worse.  Fridays, if there are any worries going into the weekend, people sell and stay in cash until they see how the open is on Monday. 

The first few days I was not even missing it.  I’d log in and not be able to see my numbers. But my numbers were getting so bad I was glad for the reprieve.  They posted a notice online that said the site would be down over the weekend of the 9th and 10th.  This was in order to implement new software.  We would be so pleased with the new system, they said.  Not like navigating the site would change, at least I sure hope not, but that it would be faster.  Yeah, it’s about time.  So, I was fine with taking a little break. 

I can still see my watch list, which is comprised of all the stocks I have ever bought or considered buying.  It’s a broad list, covering all sectors.  It’s global, it’s some mutual funds, and I’m starting to watch ETFs.  Twice a day I’ve been going through the list, when Wall Street goes to lunch and after they close, looking at which ones are moving the most.  That gives me some idea of what’s happening. 

Until Wednesday, I hadn’t considered the fact that they might have chosen this time to disable people’s accts.  Maybe they wanted to avert panic selling.  Maybe people were withdrawing their money and putting it under their mattress.  Thursday I remembered getting that email my broker sent about how the name was going to change slightly.  I liked the new name, it sounded classier.  Who knew they were associated with a Canadian bank?

Were they really or did they need to be taken over because of all the bad paper they are holding?  See how paranoid I am.  What if they weren’t previously connected but that this bank bought us out because my investment firm lost so much money on bad investments?  I know for a fact that my broker owned a lot of what he talked me into buying, American Home Mortgage.  You may remember they went out of business  I have to assume if he owned it the investment firm bought a bunch and were selling it.

I have no idea how low this bear market will go, how much I will lose.  But I figure it’ll go right back up, at least for a little while.  At least before the election.  We’ll get some more inaccurate data.  It’s not out-and-out lying, it’s just uninformed guidance.  That’s what they call it when Bear Stearn’s CEO comes on a week ago and says the balance sheet looks okay, and one week later they say they don’t have the capital to stay in business.  Today Bear Stearns got bailed out by JP Morgan.  “The Fed agreed to provide financing through JPMorgan for up to 28 days, the bank said in a statement on Friday.”

I heard a comment on Fast Money Friday night, which was probably taped before the news came out, saying it was going to happen, not that it had.  But I’ve also heard rumors that next week there will be news of another investment firm going under.  To my knowledge, the government has never “provided financing” in order to bail out investment firms. 

On a brighter note, I finished getting my tax organizer reader for the accountant and delivered it today.  It was due yesterday.  That’s always fun.  For them, not me.  At least I’m pretty sure I drive them crazy.  My accountant saw my name on the caller ID, his gal Mary does all the work on it, and he happened to be in her office when I called.  I was holding for her when he picked up the phone to say hi.  Some day remind me to tell you about this guy, and maybe I have, because he would be a fun character sketch.  He’s unique.

I just got back from the movies.  I was horrified by the violence in the previews I was forced to sit through, while I waited for my movie, “The Bank Job.”  It’s a true story about a robbery that took place in London in 1971.  They got away with it and there was a huge scandal with Scotland Yard, which I remember.  It’s cool to be old. 

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.  Jeri seems to know.  Something about a new private page vs the old desktop.  I thought private was when no one could read it and desktop meant the kind of computer you had.  That’s how far behind I am.

And Eric says it’s possible to see who is online.  Wow, it’s just like matchmaker. 

A scary thing just happened.  I logged on and couldn’t get into my page.  I could only go to my New Page, whatever that’s supposed to be.  The only way they said I could get to my old page was to click on “add stuff.”

Yeah, right, like I’m gonna fall for that.  So I closed Xanga and started all over, praying I could get here, now that I’ve gotten pulled in again.  They probably track you and if you post a certain number of times in a row, or maybe it’s about how many times you log in, but they figure out when you’re hooked and then route you through some site because they want something, and it’s either money or information.  Probably both.

I can barely keep up with the new stuff, already.  And I appreciate your help with the lingo and what it all means.  But this new, more blatant move is alarming.  I wonder if there is a better place for writers and readers of a particular ilk? 

But I like it here.  We have history.  Shit, It’s been three years, going on four.

do re me…

Bad things are happening to good people.  My people.  And I internalize it, taking on what doesn’t belong to me.  I must have a need for it.  But I don’t want it, and so I breathe.  I breathe into my belly the way my voice teacher taught me.  Yes, I have a voice coach, I believe is what they call it. 

My first lesson was yesterday, and when I got there I was not early but the lesson before me went over, so I sat and listened to the golden voice behind the door.  I was in the basement of the choir director’s home.  The student was a soprano and she sang in French, beautifully.  Like an opera singer. 

I felt ridiculous being next in line.  All I was attempting to do was not embarrass myself on Easter Sunday.  The choir director had asked for volunteers, being short singers for the Halleluja chorus.  But that first night at practice everyone acted like I was joining.  I have a very mediocre voice but they need altos so I, after hearing Elizabeth talk about how silly I was being, decided to take her up on the advice to learn how to sing.

The last thing the teacher had me do was to lie down on the floor.  Above me on the wall were black and white photographs of yogis, taken in India, it looked like.  They were taken in the homes of these men, at close range, by a stranger.  I’m thinking it was her. 

She was very excited about my lower ribs.  They extend lower than most peoples’.  She also liked the fact that I have a large range; she called me a mezzo.  I didn’t think I had much of a range in that most of those high notes are quite puny sounding but she showed me how we were going to fix that. 

What really got her, though, was that I was a bellydancer.  One of her teachers in New York made all his students take enough bellydance classes that they could isolate the muscles in their lower back and abdomen.  When I told her that I used the breath in my energy work she looked closely at me and said, “You have all the tools to be a singer.”  And when I did the first breathing exercise on the floor she said, “In the 30 years I have been teaching, this is the first time I have not had to explain how to do that.  You just knew what to do.”  I wanted to say, “I bet you tell that to all the students,” but of course I didn’t.  I am so suspicious. 

It turns out she teaches some sort of meditation class at the church on Tuesday nights.  I guess I’ll check it out.  We certainly hit it off.  I can’t afford singing lessons but she gives people in the choir a break.  It was $99 for four, the first one being a consultation.  She asked me if I had any interest in singing something in Italian.  I said I was taking Spanish so it shouldn’t be that hard.  Secretly, I was very excited about the prospect, having read “Eat, Pray, Love.”  That whole section about how beautiful the language is made me say, “Yes.”  Even though I can’t afford it. 

Every day I lose more money.  It’s frightening but I refuse to look for work.  I secretly think that I can support myself, even through this terrible bear market.  I am meeting amazing people lately, and if I were working I wouldn’t be having these interactions.  Maybe I am fooling myself.

I’ve begun talking on the phone with Ian.  She served him divorce papers this morning.  Last night we danced ’til the jam was over, then stayed and talked until they closed up.  He’s in a world of pain, and I am behaving more sisterly now.  It feels good to have a real dance partner again.    

The second guy, the one I don’t like as much, took me to see graffiti art on the trains at the switching station.  We had lots of fun walking the tracks, taking pictures of our favorites.  I was so surprised when he suggested it because it’s something I love, too.  But the best part was when the cops came.  A train went by and tooted at us but what they also did was call the cops, who escorted us out of the yard.  They told the police that a couple kids were running on the tracks. 

Last night I was at the blues bar, sitting with my new friend, who I’ll call Ian.  Turns out he is a friend and the next door neighbor of my brothers closest friend.  Ian is going through a divorce and ten years younger but he reminds me so much of the married man that I can’t help myself.  And he’s really quick with a dry sense of humor.  SO fun to be with.  Plus, he loves to dance.  His wife is having her third affair only this one she wants to marry.  I’m trying to figure out what to do with him, and it’s making me nervous because I can’t think of one good reason not to go for it. 

On a more reasonable note, I rearranged my bedroom.  What I should be doing is painting it, but I want to wait until I can sleep in the room my daughter and her boyfriend are in.  And I want it to be warm enough that I can keep the windows open.  I expected it to look better with less furniture, but I was disappointed.  I had the kids move the vanity into their room.  Even though the furniture fits in the room better now, it looks less comfortable.  But I’m going to bring up my daughter’s trunk, which Henry and I bought in our late 20s, and put it where the vanity was, under the window, and lay the summer quilt on it.  That should soften the look up a bit.