Nonnie and Drago: Two Days After Christmas

That went well. Drago, the brother I live with, loved his iPod, especially after we got it out of the packaging, and I loved my classy black leather gloves and pashmina (now I need cold weather-my other brother and his wife sent me a cashmere scarf from Mongolia (!) in the world's best red. We usually get cold enough weather in the Florida panhandle to dress-for-winter for a week or two, sometimes more. If not, I'll just have to go somewhere, right?) We had breakfast across the street and they have children, who had toys (!), warm smiles, good food. We talked to Robert (he of the scarf) in Philadelphia and heard funny dog and grandson stories. Then Drago and I both napped; Drago because he'd gone to midnight mass (he's a Catholic-Buddhist) and had very little sleep, me because I always nap. My New York cousin Nancy called. She never forgets, even this year
when she has loved ones in hospitals in two states-yes,  on Christmas day. (I know-sickness and death are no respecters of holidays and all. But still.)

After chats and naps I cooked our turkey. Successfully! This is not a big deal for most people. It is, decidedly, for me, because I lack experience in big item preparation. I was single for a long time and while I tried to be a good kitchen helper, I didn't have many dinner parties of my own. Didn't have room or enough silverware anyway. (I'd specialized in low-income careers with panache of one kind or another.) Then I was married for awhile and got into the middle-class, but I never had to cook the big meat/poultry part of the meal. He did those on his super-duper rotisserie. (My mother, during her last year with us, ate a baloney sandwich rather than risk my turkey. The next day, after everyone's survival, she ate the turkey tettrazini I made.) Anyways. Our neighbors, Ralph and Barbara came over for dinner, bringing more for our "splendid table." I love that phrase, although I'm not foodie enough for the NPR show-and we had a fine time. No fancy sauces-plain, healthy food. I'm sure my plakky arteries were grateful since I'd been eating (in moderation, of course) the delicious, buttery cookies Drago's yoga students and the neighborhood children had sent over. Homemade fudge, even.

Boxing Day around here had it's trials. Two of Drago's yoga students got headaches from the scented candle-burner thingy he tried-quite possibly his first-ever complaints from any of them. We couldn't get the iPod connected to the internet; we had Ralph, who can generally fix anything, over helping, but he isn't a kid either, and apparently only kids can do this sort of thing without losing their cool, or in our cases, hard-won serenity. After supper (our friend Romona's wonderful soup) I was locked in to "Little Dorrit" on TCM, the 1988 version, Parts One and Two, so I was up very late. And then even later because there was a major thunderstorm and our dog, Blossom, would not be comforted until it ended at 3amish. She kept Drago awake, too. Maybe because I was watching Dickens in the porch room which has lots of big windows and rain pounds down much louder out there, but I didn't want to move because the tv might have kept my brother up, you see.

Anyways. Here we all are-between holidays again. I'm pretty much full of goodwill.  Really. Maybe because I haven't been watching the doings on news shows for a few days and the consequent lack of Trumpage, etc. Maybe because I had a dream where everyone was alive again and my cousin Renee came to visit with a herd of friendly animals. I've been around children lately, too, which can kick-start goodwill for me. The weather is the kind of shiny breezy day you can get after a big storm. Blossom is exhausted but calm. Sam, our cat, is, well, Sam's always calm. I have the new P.D.James on my Kindle. Drago's teaching, and possibly, possibly using his iPod. So, you know, we're keeping-up. Lucky cusses, we are. You know, some 7,000 clicks have hit on this blog. Lots of them are mistakes or trolls, I'm sure, but for those of you who are here on purpose, and I guess even if you aren't, my best wishes for 2012. May it be chockablock with whatever you wish.  xxoononnie

This doesn't have much to do with the holidays, but I like the picture of Sam

                                           

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. 

No Wonder Charles Dickens is Still Going Strong

Dickens had something there-with those Christmas Spirits. Well, maybe not so much the Spirit of Christmas Future. I don’t have much of a feel for that one at this point. Pretty sure I’ll spend it with Drago, my brother. Maybe we’ll go somewhere, you know, hook up with more family or do something exotic. Salzburg, maybe. Mozart in the Dom Cathedral. Snow and roaring fireplaces in the restaurants and cafés around the city. Mmm.  But if we went away, we’d have to leave our dog and cat, Blossom and Sam, and knowing us, we’d feel like that would be a crummy thing to do.  Dunno. Christmas Future made sense for Scrooge, though. They had to show him what was coming if he didn’t lighten up. It was the right thing to do for the old goat.

The Spirit of Christmas present is a nice size this year. Drago and I spiffed up our house. (Lydia came over with a covered litter box and Sam’s corner is much more private and presentable.) We went on a significant spree, really.  Of course, Dad’s not here to roll his eyes or talk/cuss us out of spending the money, but he would have liked what we bought, once he got used to the new stuff. Leon and Rae sent us an excellent espresso machine and tomorrow morning we’re going to our neighbors’ and one of them is only four. Nice. I’ve got most of the vision in my right eye back, after surgery for a couple of retinal tears. Except for the tiny bugs that float around all the time, my eye’s in pretty good shape. There are gifts to open and many, many cookies. I’ve shown splendid restraint so far.

That leaves the Spririt of Christmas past and that one’s a bugger. Seems like there’s been hundreds of them back there, taking turns giving me what we used to call warm fuzzies, God help us, and a few right hooks to the chin. Mom’s been around since Drago got the decorations down. She is indeed a Christmas Spirit. Always went kind of nuts, even scary a few years, getting everything ready, but by Christmas Eve she'd be okay-a star, in fact.

Oh, jeez. Just got lost in memories again. Buying presents, with money and not so much, cooking, not baking, crowded dining room tables, Scotch pines and Frazier firs. I need to spend some cat and dog time, I think. Too many Spirits at the moment. Oh, Drago’s back from yoga and shopping. Says he got me something good. That’s all right, then. Merry Christmas. xxoononnie

Nonnie and Drago and the Good Life

Nonnie and Drago and the Good Life

On Thursday, while I was napping (I have a no-expiration-date note from my first cardiologist, the one I had such a crush on, that prescribes guilt-free naps every day. Pretty cool. ) a Breville espresso machine arrived from our brother in Philadelphia and his wife.  My brother Drago put it together then we admired it, read the instruction booklet, and talked about it a lot. Didn’t get up the nerve to use it until Friday morning, when I made myself a delicious cappuccino. When Drago got home from teaching Yoga, I made him a macchiato. I’m a barista! On Saturday Drago used the machine to make a regular cup of coffee, under my supervision. He was impressed, and will, no doubt become a barista, too.

So, there was that. Also, new leather furniture for the Florida room had been delivered about a week ago; my brother and I mulled décor, Drago rearranged this and that, and the room looks great, except for the kitty litter corner. Drago has assembled all the pet products under a milking stool I found up in Pennsylvania back when I was still a wife and bought things like old milking stools. Lydia, our housekeeper, says people will see it and say “What a beautiful room! And y’all have a cat.” It’s not smelly, though. No really, it isn’t. Drago cleans the box all the time and our cat is nothing if not neat. He even comes in from outside to do his business. I’ve decided I like Sam’s corner. It’s so honest. No coy screening devices for our household’s cat stuff. “This is who we are. A man, a woman, a dog and a cat.” The dog, Blossom, owns half my bedroom.

The kitchen is getting up-scaled, too. Drago bought us a black ceramic glass-topped stove, which was delivered Saturday. Dunno. He and I are on a spree, I guess.  It’s super sleek-looking, and, I believe, will work, which is nice in a stove, don’t you think?

Hmm. Here we are, way down the page and I haven’t talked about the ritziest thing that happened this weekend. Friday night Drago was féted by a secret admirer. My brother and I and five of his friends were treated to a splendid supper at a very classy restaurant-so classy that President Obama and the First Lady chose to eat there when they visited our city. We never found out who arranged this dinner in Drago’s honor, or exactly why whoever it was (we figured it was the doctor and friend in our party, but were finally convinced it wasn’t, and Drago shot down the idea that the secret guy is from New York, because he’s sure all his friends in the City have died by now) went to all the lovely trouble, and not to be crass, expense. The head chef even came to our table to wish us a fine meal and assure us that everything had been taken care of. My brother and I think the mysterious event might have been in honor of Drago’s still being alive. Well, you know, he’s had AIDS for twenty-seven, give or take, years and survived three kinds of cancer. He’s not just hanging on, either. My brother recently became a Level 5 certified yoga teacher and a practicing Catholic Buddhist. Oh, it was a fine time. I got to dress up, didn’t need my eye patch, and felt pretty damn sparkly. Drago loved his féte and that we have a marvelous mystery to ponder. I hope the dear man (we were told it was a man) reads this blog post. If you do, I want you to know that I think you’re a peach! xxoononnie

Don't Think Twice, It's All Right .... B. Dylan

Angelina Jolie doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving out of respect for Native Americans. I’m sure there are many Americans who choose not to celebrate the holiday for one good reason or another, but my brother Drago and I planned to do something festive. You know, carry on with things, even though it looked like it might be down to the two of us. We could go out, I thought, but I hoped something else would come up.

Sure enough, he and I were invited to share a feast with new friends of his, Louis and Julio. My brother and Julio teach yoga at the same gym. Big relief for me. I hadn’t really wanted to go to a restaurant, but the idea of Drago and I having turkey and trimmings at home by ourselves seemed kind of, well, paltry, compared to the grand family gatherings of the past. There used to be a lot of us. I even had a husband and stepchildren for awhile.   Last year, when Dad was still alive, we’d had our neighbors over, which we’d been doing since Mom died, but they were planning to visit Ben’s daughter. So, okay, then. Now we had plans.

A day or two after my eye surgery (see previous blog if you’re curious about that) I was on the Internet looking into designer eye patches. Drago came into my room with his phone. He’d gotten a text, he said (he hates texting) from Louis accusing Drago and the fitness director at the gym of bitchy gossip about Julio’s yoga-teaching being a bit swishy. At least that’s what Drago thought the text said. Neither of us are great shakes at reading these strange communications.  There were a few texted back and forths, and a phone call with the fitness director (boy was she mad about all this nonsense) then silence. Drago didn’t hear from either of the guys, and they didn’t show up for the classes he taught. In fact, Julio didn’t even show up for the class he was supposed to teach.

Time marched on and Thanksgiving Day was looming. (I had mixed feelings about the plans to go to their house by this time, anyway. One likes to look nice when one is the only woman among gay men at a dinner party-and I was stuck wearing a black eye-patch, over my eyeglasses. I’d tried under, but that looked even weirder.) Two days before the damn holiday, I suggested we order a small turkey and side dishes from one of the groceries that does that sort of thing for people like Drago and I were turning out to be: folks with no folk to bother cooking for, or anywhere to go. So we did that.

Then, at noon, on Thanksgiving day, Drago got a text from Julio saying (my brother was pretty sure,) that Julio and Louis had forgotten to tell him that dinner was switched to Friday at six, and they would like confirmation that he would be coming. I guess I was still included in the altered plans. Who knows? Drago, with admirable restraint, texted back, (he thinks) “I think not.”

Later in the day, our friend and housekeeper, Lydia, (I have a heart thing and don’t do heavy cleaning. Well, okay, I don’t do much light cleaning either) came over with lovely, cooked Cornish hens, stuffing, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce and even chicken broth in case the stuffing got dry. I could see well enough to heat all that up, and Drago and I ate Lydia’s home cooking rather than the take-away turkey dinner we had stashed in the garage refrigerator.  Then I watched “Night of the Iguana” on Turner Classic Movies, 

(I wonder how that particular movie got slotted for Thanksgiving) TCM, and Drago worked on his current drawing. We’ve each been producing a steady stream of jokes about this FUBAR, then not at all FUBARED, first-holiday-without-other-family or friends, for each other all week. Drago and I did fine. I wore my patch, didn’t have to put a bra on, and my brother has Zenned his way far beyond intrigues, especially texted intrigues. One of these days I’ll write down his stories about Christopher Street, in NYC, in the early eighties. You know, before AIDS really hit, when he and his friends were doing fine.

Um. If you don’t know what FUBAR means, you can Google. It’s a real handy little acronym. Easy to text, too.