Tuesday, February 22, 2011



I thought we’d keep firm grips of each other’s hand,
each year choose Christmas gifts with knowing care,
include space for the other at every possible table,
in turn listen, lean, push or pull.
We’d make love on Monday, certain of more kisses Tuesday,
eat pasta in Venice, be giddy with Italy and London to come,
stay in, go out, float or flail through moods, over and over again.

We were a couple, a pair, partners, two Musketeers, lifers.
We checked forecasts, were well prepared.
I missed your shift.
You didn’t like the movie, did you?  It was fine.
Let’s eat dinner in front of the TV.  Why not?
Did you write the check, letter, list, card? Not yet.
I forgot your orange juice, paper, medicine. No big deal.

I didn’t know we were coming from our corners, patched-up,
ready for another round, didn’t know we were in a ring,
didn’t see the referee or hear him counting.
I wore a blindfold so opaque that your sucker-punch
blasted me from Maine to Florida. Turns out that I was so sure
of us all by myself,  and you, for awhile, you just went along.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Red Carpet Snaps and Learning to Spell Ophthalmologist

Taking the day off today because I’m a lazy, shiftless cow.  It’s 1:11 p.m. and I’m still dressed in my gray long-sleeved yoga t-shirt, the gray & white striped flannel pajama bottoms my brother Drago gave me for Christmas three years ago before a winter trip to NYC, extremely comfortable black Minnie Tonka slippers my sister-in-law Rae gave me because the last (do you know what that is, I mean off –the-top-of-your-head?) was wrong for her feet, and a cool, urbanite, black jersey robe that I bought myself, just because I wanted it-and it was on sale.  Oh, and my hair is hanging long and straggly which Drago can’t stand.  

I’m giving you the picture because I just spent about two hours clicking on photo after photo of red carpet bests and worsts from various award shows, and honestly, I like my outfit better than a lot of the thousands of dollarsish designer get-ups memorialized, forever maybe, on the Internet.  Mostly women, but men too, who are, apparently, famous, have shown up for the world in gorgeous or boring or astounding ugly/tacky/bewildering clothes.  Lady Gaga came down the Grammy’s red carpet in an egg-shaped litter carried by slaves in gold boxer briefs.  I learned, by clicking on a Jay Leno snippet, that it wasn’t supposed to be an egg, though.  It was a vessel, and she was an embryo.  See?  I wouldn’t have known the vessel-rather-than-egg distinction if I hadn’t spent the morning meandering around the Internet.  Cultural literacy-that’s what I call it. I did suffer, then celebrate, with the Egyptians, there’s that in my favor…but I’m still a cow.

Hell, I do deserve some down-time. Yesterday was a Doctor’s Office day.  I had to go to the ophthalmologist’s for cataract surgery evaluation.  Jeez louise! Like eight machines to look through. No, not machines. Devices, maybe.  Instruments!  That’s what they were.  There were several fairly familiar things where you tried to read letters (I always feel badly when I don’t do well) or those impossible “is this better-or that?” contraptions where one gives sincere, but completely random answers, and then a bunch of weird holes to look through that I’ve never encountered before (that I remember, anyway.) Skinny blue rectangles, red sprays, blinding, no, really, blinding lights, green flashes that dart out at you from the sides, black circles with red lights waaay down there.  Had no idea what any of them were supposed to do.  The tech was very young and neither explained what we were doing nor laughed at my jokes.  I did spend a few minutes with an ophthalmologist, but he spoke Eyedoctor and only to his nurse.  After two and a half hours I was released, eyes wide open, into the shock of daylight.  Drago was there in his Jeep. His afternoon had been blown, too. Don’t you hate that? When someone has to wait at the doctor’s/hospital/courthouse for you? They always say they didn’t mind, of course, but you know they must’ve, at least some, because when you have to wait for someone, even if you love them, edginess attacks you sooner or later. 

So tomorrow I’ll cook him something new from my excellent-even-for-heart-sickos-like-me- Mediterranean Diet cookbook (little product placement there.)  Tonight will be tunafish.

Friday, February 04, 2011

Nonnie’s Lonely, Drago’s on a Mission

Drago’s been holed up in his room, burning incense and trying out different chants.  He’s obsessed with finding an incantation that will cast a spell over Ben Gleck (you know who I mean-I refuse to use his name as he spells it ) causing him to shun the public’s eyes or ears.

I can hear my brother murmuring in Sanskrit. He’s been lousy company for the last few days-eats his meals on a tray in there, won’t watch TV with me, dashes out to teach a Yoga class and then he’s right back to his books or chanting in strange poses he’s invented.  He told me during a brief chat when he came out of his room for food and water that shutting up the Ben Glecks, Shelly Batmans, and Hannah Painins of the world might require new Catholic Buddhist prayers and Yogic efforts. 

I’m all for depriving these lunatics of attention, but I miss my brother. May he find the right formula soon. It’s clear we can’t rely on our own, earthbound kind, to stop the idiocy. Drago says we need help from Higher Powers. I know my brother-he won’t give up until he uncovers the secret to ridding us of these decompensating blithering idiots-I just hope he doesn’t pull a hamstring or throw his back out before this particular free speech conundrum is resolved.