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The woman who taught my son piano let her own piano go out of tune for 2 years. Not a little out of tune. Badly out of tune. You could hear it from the sidewalk before you got to the door. She taught 11 kids a week on it and not 1 of us ever said a word. I'll tell you what I do for a living up front, because it's the only reason any of this is worth your time. I've worked the loan window at a credit union for 22 years. Which means for 22 years people have sat down across from me and told me why the payment was late. I've heard a lot of reasons. Most of them are true. Almost none of them are the reason. You learn to hear the difference and you learn to never say so out loud. That's the job. Somebody hands you a reason and you take it and you write down what they told you. I was very good at that job. Keep that in mind, because I took a reason off a woman for 2 years and wrote it down and never looked at it once. Her name is Bev. She's 54. She has taught piano out of the front room of a house on Ferris Street since before my son was born. Half this town learned to play in that room, on that bench, out of the same green book with the corner chewed off. My son started at 8. He stopped at 15. Thursdays, 4:15. And I sat in the room for all of it. 7 years of Thursdays in a wing chair by the window with a magazine I wasn't reading. Not because I'm a hoverer. Because there's nowhere to park on Ferris and it's 20 minutes home and 20 back, and it was easier to sit. So I want to be careful about what I'm claiming. I'm not claiming I knew her. I never once had coffee with that woman outside of what comes next. I'm claiming something narrower and I think stranger. Half an hour a week, for 7 years, I sat 6 feet away and watched somebody work. Nobody watches anybody work anymore. Not the same person, the same room, the same half hour, for 7 years running. There's a shallow drawer in the little table beside that piano bench. I sat 3 feet from it every Thursday for 7 years and never once wondered what was in it. The last time I opened it, I wasn't thinking about Bev at all. The thing about Bev is that she was the good kind of hard. She'd stop a kid 4 notes in. Not mean about it. She'd say "start it again and mean it," and they would, and it would be better, and she'd tell them so. She wrote the week's assignment in pencil in the front of the book in this small square handwriting, and she never once wrote something vague. It was always "measures 9 through 16, hands separate, 4 times each, slow." She kept a dish of wrapped butterscotches on top of the piano. Every kid in this town has taken one on the way out. And every spring she put on a recital in the fellowship hall at the Lutheran church. Folding chairs, printed programs, a sheet cake. 20-some kids. She'd been doing it going on 20 years. That's not "a piano teacher." That's a specific woman. Which is why the piano was such a strange thing. It started sounding wrong in the spring of my son's fifth year. Nothing dramatic. Just sour. A few notes up in the top half where you'd hit them and wince a little. By fall it was worse. By the next spring my son could hear it, and he is not a sensitive child about music. He said, "her piano sounds like a cartoon." 2 years of that. A piano teacher, 11 kids a week, on an instrument every one of us could hear was wrong. And nobody said anything. Including me. Especially me. I got as far as the driveway with it twice. Both times I got in the car instead. Because what do you say. "Your piano is bad." To the woman who taught half this town to play. So here's the reason I took, and how long I carried it around. The first year I told myself she probably couldn't afford it. A tuning runs about 140 here and she'd dropped her rates in 2019 and never put them back. That reason held for maybe 8 months. Then I ran into her at the grocery buying 11 dollars of raspberries in February, and I let it go anyway, because I had a reason and a reason is a comfortable thing to have. Now let me tell you what I actually saw, because I saw all of it and I filed every piece of it somewhere harmless. She used to teach until 7:30. Then it was 6:00. Then the last slot on the sheet taped to the front door was 4:45, and my son's 4:15 was second to last. 22 students down to 11. I know that number because that sheet was on the door and I stood in front of it every Thursday of my life. She stopped standing during lessons. For years she taught on her feet — at the end of the piano, or behind the kid with her hand flat on their back saying "breathe out." Then she started dragging in a kitchen chair. Then the chair just lived in there. She started letting the last 5 minutes go. Which sounds like nothing. But this is a woman who once kept my son 11 minutes late over a rest he wouldn't stop ignoring, and told me at the door, "I'm not sending him out of here wrong." And then there was the recital. The spring of that first bad year she ran it the way she always had. Programs, cake, all of it. She got through 6 kids. Then she sat down in the front row and asked Kathy Renner to read the rest of the names off the program. She sat in the front row of her own recital for 40 minutes while another mother announced her students. Afterward she said the hall was too warm and she'd asked them about the thermostat before and they never do anything about it. I wrote that down. That's exactly what I mean. Somebody hands you a reason and you take it. The next spring there was no recital. She sent a note home in the books that said the fellowship hall was booked through May and we'd do something in the fall. We did not do something in the fall. And there's the part nobody said out loud, which is the one I go back to. Somewhere in there the Vogels started driving their 2 to a teacher over in Millersburg. 40 minutes each way, twice a week. Nobody announced it. Their names just weren't on the sheet anymore. I know for a fact Amy Vogel never said 1 word to Bev about why. And I know for a fact Bev understood exactly why. 2 women made a decision about a third woman's capacity, agreed on it without ever speaking, and then carried it around separately for 2 years. So in October I did something that was, honestly, out of line. I looked up the tuner my aunt used to use and I called him and I paid him to go to Bev's house. I didn't ask her first. I called her on a Tuesday and said a tuner owed me a favor and could he come Saturday, which was a lie, and she was quiet for a second and then said fine. I've thought a lot about whether I had any right to do that. I still don't have a clean answer. I did it anyway. I went over that Saturday because it seemed like I should be in the room for something I'd arranged. The tuner's name is Teddy. He's 28. His dad had the route for 30 years and died in 2021 and Teddy took it over, and he'll tell you all of that inside the first 4 minutes, and then about the Yamaha he's saving for, and then he'll ask what you do, and then he'll tell you about his girlfriend's dog. He does not stop talking. That isn't a criticism. It's just the fact of him. He was there 4 hours. 4 hours, because he said you can't pull a piano that flat up all at once without hurting it, so he did a rough pass and let it settle and went again. Bev made him a sandwich around 1 and then went to do paperwork at the kitchen table, which left me on the arm of the couch listening to a 28-year-old. And somewhere in the third hour he said the thing. He wasn't teaching me anything. He was complaining. He'd gotten onto how nobody understands what he actually does, and I said something polite, and he was off. I'm going to give it to you as close as I can, because I went out to my car afterward and typed it into my phone. He said, "Everybody thinks a piano goes bad because it goes out of tune. Tuning's the easy part. Tuning is a number." He held up his phone with the meter on it. "That tells me the string's supposed to be at a number and it's at a different number. "I turn the pin till it's the number. Then it's right. You could check my work. Anybody could check my work. That's what a number is for." Then he said, "The part that actually goes is the hammers. And there's no number for a hammer." He handed me one out of a little box he keeps in the case. A block of wood about the size of the top of your thumb with felt wrapped over one end. "That doesn't make any sound," he said. "The string makes the sound. All that does is take what your finger did and hand it to the string. That's it. That's the whole job. It's the part in the middle." "And every time somebody presses a key, that felt takes a hit. "Kid practicing an hour a day, that's thousands of them. Over the years it packs down. Gets hard. Gets grooves worn in it. "And a hard hammer doesn't hand the note over. It hits it." "So you get a piano where every single string is dead on the number and the whole thing still sounds like a wet towel. "And the lady's standing there telling me she just had it tuned. And she did. "Tuning was never what was wrong with it." I asked him whether people get the hammers done. He said, "Almost never. You know why? There's no number telling them to. Nobody spends money fixing a thing nobody measured." Then he told me his girlfriend's dog had eaten an entire rotisserie chicken including the plastic and he was going to have to have a conversation with her about it. That's all of it. That's everything he said. He has no idea he said anything. I drove home with a piano hammer in my coat pocket because I forgot to give it back. And I want to be honest about the next 3 weeks, because I did nothing with it. I put it in the dish by the front door with the keys and the pennies and I did nothing. What I kept doing instead was thinking about the sheet on the door. 22 down to 11. And a woman in the front row of her own recital. I asked her the second week of November. Badly. She was walking us out and I said, "Bev, are you all right, because I don't think you are." She stood in the doorway with the storm door open and the cold coming in and said, "How long do you have." I said all night. She didn't cry. I want to say that, because I think people expect it. She recited it. Flat, in order, the way you say a thing you've said too many times to too many people. She'd been tired for about 4 years. Not busy tired. Not a rough-week tired. Tired every day, all day, in a way where sleeping did not touch it. And then she gave me the list, and this is where I stopped nodding along, because it was longer than mine and I had always considered myself thorough. 2 full blood panels, 2 years apart. CBC. Metabolic panel. Thyroid. Iron and ferritin. B12. Vitamin D. A1C. Her ferritin came back at 11 the first time. She got iron infusions — 3 of them, in a chair, with a needle, on 3 separate afternoons she doesn't get paid for. Her ferritin is 96 now. She keeps the numbers written on the back of an envelope in the piano bench. Her thyroid came back off, and she's been medicated for it 3 years, and she takes it every morning and has never missed one and is not going to. Her D was 22. She's supplemented since and it's 61. B12. Magnesium. A naturopath in Wooster who ran a hair mineral test and sold her 3 more things off a shelf behind the desk. She cut alcohol out completely 2 years ago. Then put it back for a month to be certain it wasn't that. Then cut it again. No coffee after 11. In bed by 9:30, tracked on a watch, 7 and a half hours most nights. She walked 3 miles 4 days a week, which she started specifically to fix this, and kept doing for 2 years after it didn't. Then she said, "Everything's optimal now. Not normal. Optimal. I know the difference because I'm the one who had to ask for it." And then: "So either every one of those tests is wrong, or I'm the problem. And they're not wrong." She'd stopped thinking of it as something happening to her and started thinking of it as a description of her. Those are different things and I don't think she noticed the day it flipped. And a person who's decided that stops looking. She told me she hadn't typed anything about it into a search bar in over a year. She said it like it was maturity. I read for 3 weeks. At night, on the couch, with the TV on and not on. I'm not a scientific person and this is going to be a bank teller's version of it, which is probably rough in places. There's no tank. That was the first thing, and it undid a picture I'd carried around my whole life. I thought energy was a supply. You fill up overnight, you spend it down, by 4 o'clock you're low. That is not what's happening. Your body manufactures it the entire time you're awake, roughly as fast as you're spending it. Sleep doesn't fill anything. It just lets the place run without anybody at the counter. What it makes is called ATP, and every cell you have runs on it, and your heart and your muscles and your brain take the biggest share, because those 3 never close. It gets made inside the cells, in the mitochondria, and it doesn't happen in one move. It's a handoff, down a line. Fuel and oxygen go in one end. Something you can actually spend comes out the other. And partway down that line there's 1 molecule whose entire job is to take the charge off 1 step and carry it to the next one, and then turn around and go back for the next. It doesn't make anything. It hands it over. It's the part in the middle. That molecule is CoQ10. I sat there with the laptop on my knees and thought about a 28-year-old holding a block of wood with felt on it. Teddy wasn't talking about a person. He'd be the first one to tell you so. He was complaining about his job to a stranger on a couch. Your body makes its own. You make the most of it you will ever make at around 20, and after that it comes down a little every year, and there's no morning it happens on, because 1 percent of anything is invisible. There's a paper from 1989 where they measured it directly in human tissue across a whole range of ages and printed the numbers. Heart muscle, ages 19 to 21: around 110 micrograms per gram. Heart muscle, ages 77 to 81: around 47. I have no business interpreting tissue chemistry and I won't pretend I do. But I can subtract, and I can read which organ they were standing in. And then I found the part that got me up off the couch. It isn't on the panel. Not the CBC. Not the metabolic panel. Not thyroid. Not iron, not ferritin. Not B12, not vitamin D, not A1C. There is a test for it. It's a specialty send-out — the sample has to be frozen within hours of the draw and run on a machine most hospitals don't own, and it gets used for research and for a rare category of disease. It is not part of a physical. Not Bev's, not mine, not anybody's, anywhere. Which means both of her panels were right. Every number on both sheets was accurate, nobody made a mistake, and no doctor overlooked a thing, because there was nothing sitting on that page to overlook. They checked 7 things and 7 things were fine. That is the entire content of the sentence. I have had it said to me 4 times in my life and I never once heard it as a list with an end on it. Here's what I finally worked out, and it took me until about the third week. Bev's list wasn't a health list. It was a shopping list. The iron was for a ferritin number. The D was for a D number. The B12 was for a B12 number. The medication was for a thyroid number. The naturopath's 3 things were for numbers off a hair sample. Every item on it existed because a number came back and somebody could point at it. That isn't a criticism of her. That's the only way any of it can work. You cannot correct something nobody measured, because there's nothing to correct toward. And the thing that takes everything she was putting in and hands it over as something she can actually use — that has never once appeared on any piece of paper anybody has handed her in her life. So she'd never bought anything for it. Not because she was careless. Because there was no number telling her to. Nobody buys hammers. The second Saturday in January I drove over there to say all of this to her, and then chickened out for about 40 minutes. She'd let me in and gone to get coffee and I was sitting on the bench, because there's nowhere else to sit in that room but the bench and the wing chair. And I opened the drawer. I don't have a good reason. I'd spent 3 weeks on this and it was right there. 19 bottles. I counted twice because I didn't believe it the first time. A few full. Most of them not. 2 expired in 2022. And I knew 11 of them. Not "I'd heard of them." I owned them. Same brands, same aisle, same cabinet over my own stove. That's where this stopped being about Bev, and I'd rather tell you it happened in that order than pretend it happened in a nobler one. I was sitting on a piano bench looking into somebody else's drawer and recognizing my own kitchen. And then I saw it. Third one back on the left. A women's energy complex. 30-some ingredients on the panel. CoQ10 was in it. Sitting inside something called an Energy Matrix, with 1 milligram number printed for the whole matrix and not a single number for anything inside it. She'd had it. It had been in that drawer, 3 feet from where I sat every Thursday for 7 years, the whole time. And she had already decided it didn't work. When she came back in with the coffee I was holding it, which was rude, and I asked her. She'd bought it in the second year. Took it at 10 after 6 in the morning, standing at the counter, with coffee, before she'd eaten anything. She gave it a month. There were 4 things wrong with that, and they are not 4 problems. They're 1 problem said 4 different ways. Not enough of it ever got into her, and it wasn't in her long enough to count. The doses in the research start at 200 milligrams. Hers was buried in a blend, which means nobody alive can tell you what she was actually taking — a proprietary blend prints 1 number for the whole mixture and is not required to break it out. That's legal. That's the entire point of the format. It's fat soluble, which means on an empty stomach with black coffee a real share of it goes straight through you and out. And it isn't a stimulant, so there's nothing to feel on any given morning. It builds up in tissue. Blood levels don't even level off for 2 to 4 weeks, and most of what shows up in the research shows up between week 4 and week 12. A month isn't a failed trial. A month is roughly where a trial starts. She quit standing at the edge of it and then spent 2 more years certain she'd already tried it. And the label was not her fault. Bev is the most careful person I know. She writes practice assignments in pencil for 9-year-olds and specifies how many times. She read a label that isn't required to answer the question. There's 1 more thing she raised that night and it cost me an evening. There's a version sold as ubiquinol that runs about double, and the pitch is that it's the pre-converted form so your body gets to skip a step. Here's what I worked out. That conversion is the molecule's actual job. It takes the charge, hands it off, flips back, thousands of times a second. That is the entire thing it does. So you'd be paying double to skip a step your body performs for free — and a body that couldn't perform that step couldn't run the line at all. On top of that, ubiquinol is the less stable of the 2. It reacts with air, which is why it needs the special softgel, and a share of it turns back into the cheaper form on the way in regardless. And the decades of research, including that 1989 tissue work, largely ran on ubiquinone. If you already bought the expensive one, you weren't being dumb. That pitch is built to sound like the more informed purchase, which is exactly why careful shoppers are the ones who buy it. I read it twice before I caught it. Before she started, she called her doctor's office. I'm going to keep saying this part because it's the part everybody skips. She gave the nurse line the name, the dose and the form, and asked whether there was any reason not to add it given everything else she takes — and she takes something every day, and she said so. They called back in 2 days. No concerns, bring it up at the next visit. You are not calling for permission. It's a supplement, not a prescription. You're calling because that office has your whole medication list in front of them and you're working off memory, and because this does interact with some things. Blood thinners are the main one to raise. And if you take a statin, that's a real conversation with whoever prescribed it, because the pathway your body uses to make CoQ10 overlaps with the one for cholesterol. She changed nothing else. She still takes her thyroid medication every morning exactly the way it's written and she always will. Which she pointed out was funny, because after 4 years of correcting things there was nothing left to correct — and that turned out to be about the cleanest way to test 1 thing that a person could ask for. She started the last week of January. 1 capsule with dinner, because of the fat. What she takes is called solia. 200 milligrams of pharmaceutical grade CoQ10 per capsule, as ubiquinone. 1 ingredient. The whole label is the CoQ10, rice flour and a vegetable capsule — nothing on it to wonder about and no blend total to squint at. Third party tested every batch before it ships. Made in the USA in a GMP certified facility. Vegan and non-GMO. 1 capsule a day with a meal. That is the whole of it. If there had been a schedule I'd have put it back on the shelf. She told me the first 3 weeks were nothing at all and she nearly quit out of pure habit, and the only reason she didn't is that I'd made her say 90 days out loud in her own kitchen instead of 30. Here's what I saw. I'm only giving you what I saw. The last week of February she taught my son standing up. All 30 minutes. I noticed because the kitchen chair wasn't in the room. In March there were 2 new names on the sheet on the door, in that small square handwriting. The second Saturday in May there were folding chairs in the fellowship hall. 11 kids. It ran 40 minutes. There was a sheet cake with the wrong frosting on it because that's what the bakery had that morning. She stood at the end of the piano for all of it and turned pages. That's it. That's the whole of what I've got on her. I can't prove the capsule did that. I'm 1 woman off a loan window, not a study. Bev can't prove it either and she'd say so before I got the chance. Some people apparently notice something inside a month. Some take a great deal longer. Plenty of people don't notice much of anything, and that's a real outcome too and nobody ever puts it in these. The only thing I actually have is 7 years of Thursdays in a wing chair, from before I had any idea there was something to explain. Now I have to turn this on myself, because I told you at the start that the last time I opened that drawer I wasn't thinking about her. I'm 51. My last physical was fine. My doctor said the thing they say, which is that everything looks good. And for about 3 years I have not made a Sunday dinner. I have to explain what that means in my family or it sounds like nothing. I did Sunday dinner for 19 years. 9 to 14 people. My mother's recipes out of a tin box, the stuffed shells, the whole business. It was never a chore to me. It was the thing I was. What actually happened is that I started earlier and earlier. First I'd start Saturday. Then Friday. By the end I was starting Thursday night — making a Sunday dinner in 20-minute pieces across 4 days, sitting down in between, and telling everybody it was better that way because the flavors settle. The flavors do not settle. I made that up. It's a real thing people say and I used it because it was lying around. Then one Thursday in March I stood in my own kitchen and could not start it. Not wouldn't. Could not make myself pick up the first thing. I called my sister that night and said the kitchen was too small now that the grandkids were coming and we ought to rotate houses. She said, "Oh thank God, I've been wanting to say that for a year." Everyone was relieved. Nobody asked a single question. It's been rotating ever since. I handed my family a reason and they took it and wrote it down. 22 years at that window, and it never once occurred to me that I was on the other side of it in my own house. There's also a stretch of the afternoon where I'm still at the window and still talking to people and there is nobody home, and I have never mentioned that to anyone, including my husband, because they'd worry and then I'd have to manage that too. So in February I made the same phone call Bev made. Name, dose, form, anything I should know given the blood pressure pill I'm on. My office called back the next afternoon. No concerns, mention it at the annual. I'm 8 months in. I'm not going to give you a before-and-after. I don't have one, and I've quit believing the ones I read. Nothing happened for the first few weeks, which by then I knew to expect. What I've got is smaller than that. That stretch in the afternoon starts later than it used to and some days I don't hit it at all. And in September I made Sunday dinner on a Sunday. Started at 10 in the morning. It was fine. It was not a great one. Nobody said anything about it, which is the only reason I know it counted. So here's who I think I wrote this for. If you have a drawer. An actual drawer, or a cabinet, or a basket on the counter, and you could tell me right now roughly how many bottles are in it without getting up to look. If everything in it got bought because a number came back and somebody could point at it — and every one of those numbers is fixed now, and you feel precisely the same as you did before you fixed any of them. If you've been told your levels are optimal. Not normal. Optimal, because you're the kind of person who knew there was a difference and knew to ask. And it changed nothing. If somebody who loves you asked you a question 2 years ago and you gave them an answer, and you've never once told them the true one. Or if there's somebody in front of you who's been handing you a reason for 2 years, and you've been taking it, because taking it is easier than the other thing. Your list isn't wrong. Every item on it was bought to move a number. Not 1 item on it was for the part in the middle. The part in the middle doesn't have a number. And that — not bad luck, not a bad doctor — is the whole reason nobody ever suggested it. Not to Bev, not to me, not to you. One thing I want to be straight about, because it would be dishonest not to be. If there's something on that list you haven't actually done yet — if the ferritin has never been run, if the thyroid panel is a thing you've been meaning to ask about for a year — go do that first. This is not a way around any of it. The only reason Bev's result means anything at all is that she'd already done every single one of them and had the paperwork to prove it. And if you're running on 5 hours because of a baby, or a second job, or a parent you're up with at night — a capsule is not going to fix a schedule, and I'm not going to sit here and suggest it will. If you want to do what she did, do it in this order. Call your doctor's office or your pharmacist first. Give them the name, the dose and the form, and ask whether there's any reason not to add it given everything else you take. Tell them everything you take. 1 call, and most offices come back inside 2 days. If they say go ahead, it's 1 capsule a day, with a meal. Not on an empty stomach and not standing at the counter with your coffee. Change nothing else and stop nothing. Especially nothing you've been prescribed. And give it the whole 90 days instead of a month. A month is how a careful woman spent 2 more years certain she'd already tried the 1 thing pointed at the actual problem — with the bottle sitting in a drawer 3 feet from where I sat every Thursday. I've spent 22 years being handed reasons. I took 1 off Bev for 2 years about a piano, and I took 1 off myself for 3 years about a kitchen, and I wrote them both down, and I was very good at my job. https://trysolia.shop/products/coq10-cellular-energy-capsules P.S. The phone call is the step people skip, so once more. You are not asking permission — it's a supplement, not a prescription. You're calling because that office has your full medication list in front of them and you're going off memory. Blood thinners are the main interaction to raise, and if you take a statin, that's a conversation with whoever prescribed it. Bev's call took 4 minutes. Mine took 9 because I made the poor woman go through my whole chart with me. And do not stop, reduce or change anything you've been prescribed because of something you read on the internet. That includes thyroid medication, an antidepressant, HRT, a CPAP, any of it. Bev didn't stop 1 thing. This goes on top of what you're already doing. It doesn't take the place of a single item. P.P.S. There's a 90 day money back guarantee, opened or unopened, every penny, no questions. 90 is the honest number and not a marketing one, and here's why it has to be. Blood levels take 2 to 4 weeks just to level off. Most of what the research shows lands between week 4 and week 12. A month tells you almost nothing, and that is the entire lesson of the third bottle from the left in that drawer. Use the whole 90 before you decide anything either way, including deciding against it. P.P.P.S. On price, because it's more than the drugstore bottle and I looked into why before I ordered. Start with what's in the capsule. 200 milligrams of pharmaceutical grade CoQ10 and nothing else on that label competing with it for room. No blend. No combined total. No 30th ingredient taking a cut of what you paid. The rice flour and the capsule are what holds it together — they aren't something you're buying. Now put that next to the cheap bottle, where the real trouble isn't the price, it's that you can't account for it. A proprietary blend prints 1 number for the whole mixture and doesn't have to tell you how much CoQ10 is in there. So the shelf price is low and the price per milligram is a thing you are not able to calculate. You aren't saving money. You're buying a number you're hoping about. And potency is the one thing on a label a buyer can't check for herself — you cannot look at a capsule and know. Somebody outside the company has to test it, and it has to be every batch that ships, because a batch is what you're actually buying. A certificate from 2 years ago is a report on somebody else's bottle. That's part of what the price is. The dose arithmetic comes last: the common shelf dose is 100 milligrams, so it takes 2 of those to reach 1 of these, which closes most of the gap on its own. The multi bottle came out to under a dollar a day for me. I was buying a large Diet Coke and a bag of pretzels out of the machine in our break room most afternoons to fight a 4 o'clock that it never once fixed. P.P.P.P.S. You can only get it from them directly. It isn't on Amazon, and if you find that name on a marketplace it didn't come from them. The reason is worth knowing and I didn't know it either. On those marketplaces, stock from different sellers gets pooled into the same bin at the warehouse. So the bottle that lands on your porch is not necessarily the bottle that company sent out. I keep a spare in the cabinet now, and not for any dramatic reason. I know myself. If I run out for a week I won't start again. P.P.P.P.P.S. Teddy has been back twice. He charged me the first time and Bev the second, and neither one of us has ever told him he's responsible for any of this, because he'd be mortified. He wasn't giving anybody advice. He was complaining about his job to a woman sitting on the arm of a couch, and what I went and did with it afterward isn't his doing and he'd say so. He still talks the entire time. The dog is fine. I still have the hammer in the dish by my front door with the keys and the pennies and I have no plans to give it back. P.P.P.P.P.P.S. The drawer is still full. Bev didn't throw any of it out, which I asked her about, and her answer was better than mine would have been. She said every one of those bottles was a thing she did instead of giving up, and she'd rather look at 19 of those than none. There are 20 in there now. Mine's still full too. And if there's somebody in front of you handing you a reason about a piano, or a kitchen, or a hall that's booked through May — you don't have to be brave about it. I wasn't. I never did ask her about that piano. I just paid a 28-year-old to go make a noise she couldn't ignore, and then stood there while he said something true about hammers. Kalén A, Appelkvist EL, Dallner G. Age-related changes in the lipid compositions of rat and human tissues. Lipids. 1989;24(7):579-584.

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