Barry cancelled a trip to Marco Island, and as consolation to his boys he bought 4 Club seats to watch the Marlins play the Mets. Even though Barry is wary of Dave overload (we'll be spending next weekend together on a Gainesville trip), he invited me along.
It was a glorious night! Barry still loves the Mets, since he grew up in Flushing, in the shadow of Shea Stadium. They were my boyhood team, too, but I move on, and have adopted the Marlins. Scott, Barry's almost 12 year old, is a Marlins fan. Josh, nearly 11, shows solidarity with his Dad and favors the Mets.
It was a breezy night, as the outer bands from Hurricane Gustav swept through. The game was a good one, with a bench clearing brawl for added excitement. The MArlins won in the bottom of the 9th, on a bases loaded walk! I explained to the boys that you rarely see a walk in run in the Major League.
We chatted, and laughed, and Josh asked a million questions about everything from the game to JAckie Robinson to why plastic bags were floating down from the upper deck. He is such a sweet young man, though, and never annoying like some curious kids. His brother is much more taciturn, but a bigger baseball fan, who LOVED both having his team win and jabbing his father about the Met's loss.
After the game, there was a fireworks display, and we oohed and aahed at the explosions. I took a mental snapshot of the lovely summer evening, to remember when these boys graduate high school, and get married.
There was also a post game concert --a Puerto Rican singer named Olga Tanon. She danced energetically, and sang well, but all in Spanish, except for a comical "Goooood eeeeeevening my Eeeeeeeeenglish friends." We listened to a few songs and watched the Latina girls dance to the music. I explained to the boys that American girls don't dance that way. I think they understood.
Meanwhile, Gustav is taking aim on New Orleans. It's funny -- we enjoyed a delightful Labor Day Saturday night, and those poor bastards were running for their lives. Such is the unfairness of things in life.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
CH CH CH CH CHANGES....
All of my nostalgic whining about the sanctity of the Orange Bowl has turned out to be just that: nostalgic whining. I went to the first game of the Hurricane's new era, and it turned out just great! RIP Orange Bowl. Thanks for the memories, but change is good.
D2 and I picked up Amanda and caravaned to Dolphin Stadium last night. We parked right next to the building, and then walked over to Mike's crew, where the grill was already fired up. The sun was setting, the blender was whirring, the beer was cold, and the bonhommie was everywhere.
We ate and drank and laughed. My partner Paul cornered D2 and explained the true meaning of life, along with the benefits of attending a $50k/year college, as his kids did.
The sun was setting and all were in high spirits. "Is this so bad?" I asked. No one thought it was. Rob smoked his cigars. Old friends stopped by, like Norman, whose life has paralleled mine, except for 3 sons and a divorce instead of my 2 daughters and long marriage. Norman and I reminisced about Canes years of yore, and spoke about our kids. I introduced him to crazy Steve the cop, and we shared some police/lawyer jokes.
D2 and I entered the stadium. We're sitting in the "Club Level," which has huge air conditioned plazas, and bathroom attendants. It was the first time I gave a tip after peeing at a sports event! The staff all welcomed us, and asked if all was ok. It was.
D2 and I agreed that even famously finicky D1 would enjoy a game from the Club Seats, since she could escape to one of the leather sofas overlooking the city, and eat organic chicken sandwiches on whole wheat while texting her friends.
We walked over to Eric's section, where he was there with Dana and his mother. More talk of seasons of yore. Norma, Eric's mom, told me the new seats were at the same angle that her first UM seats with Eric's late father Marvin had at the OB. There's always a bittersweet moment at a happy event; talking about Marvin was it.
The game was great, too, as the Canes completely dominated Charleston Southern. Someone once said that if a college has a direction in its name, it's a rinky dink institution. This was true last night --many Miami high school teams are better than Souther Charleston, but that's ok. We got to see our beloved Canes play well, and that made the house warming party complete.
I came home to Wifey watching Barack Obama on TV. She has a huge crush on him. Years ago, my 11th grade Social Studies teacher, Fred Froelich used to say that "the dream of every middle class white woman is to be taken by a large black man." This was, of course, in 1970s all white Levittown, LI, so Mr. Froelich wasn't fired. He was prescient, though.
That's ok. Wifey used to have a crush on Tony Soprano. I guess Obama is a step up, although I like to fantasize about a Tony Soprano administration.
So, Canes football is back, and there's joy in the heat of late Miami Summer. We're off to Gainesville next weekend, likely to see our team lose handily. That's ok, though. The beer will be cold, and the laughter freely flowing. D2 will be at a fraternity with her sister D1, enjoying REAL sorority.
Paul, Mike, Eric and Barry will be there --some of my closest brothers. Change is inevitable. Sometimes it's great.
D2 and I picked up Amanda and caravaned to Dolphin Stadium last night. We parked right next to the building, and then walked over to Mike's crew, where the grill was already fired up. The sun was setting, the blender was whirring, the beer was cold, and the bonhommie was everywhere.
We ate and drank and laughed. My partner Paul cornered D2 and explained the true meaning of life, along with the benefits of attending a $50k/year college, as his kids did.
The sun was setting and all were in high spirits. "Is this so bad?" I asked. No one thought it was. Rob smoked his cigars. Old friends stopped by, like Norman, whose life has paralleled mine, except for 3 sons and a divorce instead of my 2 daughters and long marriage. Norman and I reminisced about Canes years of yore, and spoke about our kids. I introduced him to crazy Steve the cop, and we shared some police/lawyer jokes.
D2 and I entered the stadium. We're sitting in the "Club Level," which has huge air conditioned plazas, and bathroom attendants. It was the first time I gave a tip after peeing at a sports event! The staff all welcomed us, and asked if all was ok. It was.
D2 and I agreed that even famously finicky D1 would enjoy a game from the Club Seats, since she could escape to one of the leather sofas overlooking the city, and eat organic chicken sandwiches on whole wheat while texting her friends.
We walked over to Eric's section, where he was there with Dana and his mother. More talk of seasons of yore. Norma, Eric's mom, told me the new seats were at the same angle that her first UM seats with Eric's late father Marvin had at the OB. There's always a bittersweet moment at a happy event; talking about Marvin was it.
The game was great, too, as the Canes completely dominated Charleston Southern. Someone once said that if a college has a direction in its name, it's a rinky dink institution. This was true last night --many Miami high school teams are better than Souther Charleston, but that's ok. We got to see our beloved Canes play well, and that made the house warming party complete.
I came home to Wifey watching Barack Obama on TV. She has a huge crush on him. Years ago, my 11th grade Social Studies teacher, Fred Froelich used to say that "the dream of every middle class white woman is to be taken by a large black man." This was, of course, in 1970s all white Levittown, LI, so Mr. Froelich wasn't fired. He was prescient, though.
That's ok. Wifey used to have a crush on Tony Soprano. I guess Obama is a step up, although I like to fantasize about a Tony Soprano administration.
So, Canes football is back, and there's joy in the heat of late Miami Summer. We're off to Gainesville next weekend, likely to see our team lose handily. That's ok, though. The beer will be cold, and the laughter freely flowing. D2 will be at a fraternity with her sister D1, enjoying REAL sorority.
Paul, Mike, Eric and Barry will be there --some of my closest brothers. Change is inevitable. Sometimes it's great.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
You Go Girls
So D1 flew back to Gainesville last night, and will start her junior year of college Monday. D2 started HER high school junior year last Wednesday.
I'm so proud of them.
They both put so much into their studies, and are properly proud of their accomplishments. They have their challenges, physical and emotional, and deal with all that comes their way.
I used to think some people had it easier than others, and were less deserving of praise when they soared. I now realize that's ridiculous. We each battle our own demons, and challenges, and those who do this successfully are the winners in life.
I told D1 that my junior year in college was the time I began to find myself intellectually. I had spent 2 1/2 years pursuing a career I wasn't meant to have, and as I turned 20 I realized I was just going to pursue my true interest --and switched to an English major.
D1 seems to have a pretty well defined goal now, and met with a Masters Program Advisor while she was home, and is now excited about a graduate program.
D2 is taking 4 AP classes and studying HARD for the SAT, while balancing clubs and activities.
So, as this pivotal academic year has started, I wish them fun and learning, and the creation of memories...
I'm so proud of them.
They both put so much into their studies, and are properly proud of their accomplishments. They have their challenges, physical and emotional, and deal with all that comes their way.
I used to think some people had it easier than others, and were less deserving of praise when they soared. I now realize that's ridiculous. We each battle our own demons, and challenges, and those who do this successfully are the winners in life.
I told D1 that my junior year in college was the time I began to find myself intellectually. I had spent 2 1/2 years pursuing a career I wasn't meant to have, and as I turned 20 I realized I was just going to pursue my true interest --and switched to an English major.
D1 seems to have a pretty well defined goal now, and met with a Masters Program Advisor while she was home, and is now excited about a graduate program.
D2 is taking 4 AP classes and studying HARD for the SAT, while balancing clubs and activities.
So, as this pivotal academic year has started, I wish them fun and learning, and the creation of memories...
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Tropical Whiff
As I write this, it's barely raining, and the wind is "gusting" to about 15 mph. Despite these mild conditions, our city is effectively shut down for the second straight day, afraid of what might have been. What WAS, was Tropical Storm Fay, which missed us and is heading up Florida's West Coast, bringing much needed rain.
This is the only time of year I wished I lived somewhere else. The hurricanes are tolerable --my family survived Andrew, the most powerful to rip through here in 100 years --it's the media hype and anxiety I can't stand.
My office roommate Mark does something I hope to someday emulate: he leaves town at the first sign of a "storm event." He owns a high rise condo on Brickell with impact resistant glass, and figures there's nothing he can do to protect it anyway. He simply flies to Chicago, or NYC, and checks into a nice hotel, leaving all of the worry and annoyance behind. While we're checking storm paths and schlepping patio furniture, and buying gas for generators, he's eating steaks and watching plays.
Of course, D2 still has 2 years of high school left, so it's not as easy to flee, but someday I plan to close my accordions at the first scent of one of these annoyances and take flight like a storm avoiding bird.
Yesterday the media actually got a wish come true. While a news crew was setting up on Ft. Lauderdale beach, an idiot on a kite sail forgot to let go when the wind gusted, and the camera caught him being gruesomely pulled across the sand before smashing into a building on the other side of A1A. CNN picked up the story, and all of the reporters got to moralize about how "dangerous thses storms can be." No --being a moron is what's dangerous!
I avoid the TV as much as I can, but I'm thwarted by Wifey. I don't know that Wifey ever walks into a room in our house without turning on the TV. Then she watches and asks me what the reporters mean. As soon as she leaves, I shut the damn thing off (unless football, The Sopranos, or any of the Godfather movies happen to be on).
So --hopefully we'll be back to normal function tomorrow, having "dodged a bullet" as the latest clown director at the Hurricane Center just cliched. I haven't trusted those guys since Andrew, when their one day before the storm prediction said the hurricane would hit Palm Beach County, causing me to keep my elderly mother with me in South Dade, away from harm.
Of course, my house was in ground zero, and my mother got to watch the roof blow away over us, while we huddled inside a car in my garage, hoping that the car's roof would protect us from any falling beams.
They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Tropical Storm Fay just made us all annoyed.
This is the only time of year I wished I lived somewhere else. The hurricanes are tolerable --my family survived Andrew, the most powerful to rip through here in 100 years --it's the media hype and anxiety I can't stand.
My office roommate Mark does something I hope to someday emulate: he leaves town at the first sign of a "storm event." He owns a high rise condo on Brickell with impact resistant glass, and figures there's nothing he can do to protect it anyway. He simply flies to Chicago, or NYC, and checks into a nice hotel, leaving all of the worry and annoyance behind. While we're checking storm paths and schlepping patio furniture, and buying gas for generators, he's eating steaks and watching plays.
Of course, D2 still has 2 years of high school left, so it's not as easy to flee, but someday I plan to close my accordions at the first scent of one of these annoyances and take flight like a storm avoiding bird.
Yesterday the media actually got a wish come true. While a news crew was setting up on Ft. Lauderdale beach, an idiot on a kite sail forgot to let go when the wind gusted, and the camera caught him being gruesomely pulled across the sand before smashing into a building on the other side of A1A. CNN picked up the story, and all of the reporters got to moralize about how "dangerous thses storms can be." No --being a moron is what's dangerous!
I avoid the TV as much as I can, but I'm thwarted by Wifey. I don't know that Wifey ever walks into a room in our house without turning on the TV. Then she watches and asks me what the reporters mean. As soon as she leaves, I shut the damn thing off (unless football, The Sopranos, or any of the Godfather movies happen to be on).
So --hopefully we'll be back to normal function tomorrow, having "dodged a bullet" as the latest clown director at the Hurricane Center just cliched. I haven't trusted those guys since Andrew, when their one day before the storm prediction said the hurricane would hit Palm Beach County, causing me to keep my elderly mother with me in South Dade, away from harm.
Of course, my house was in ground zero, and my mother got to watch the roof blow away over us, while we huddled inside a car in my garage, hoping that the car's roof would protect us from any falling beams.
They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Tropical Storm Fay just made us all annoyed.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
First Day of School
Some of my sports minded friends love baseball's opening day. That never did much for me --I really only watch baseball at the end of the season, when the pennant races are going on. For me, a favorite day was always the first day of school.
I used to love seeing old friends, and the anticipation of meeting the new teachers. Of course, one first day for me --in third day, was filled with as much anxiety as an 8 year old could have.
Late in the season of second grade, my friend Michael Monahan and I got the brilliant idea of throwing rocks while on the back "blacktop" of East Broadway School at midday recess. We hurled with glee and abandon, until a young teacher came over, rubbing her head. One of us had beaned her!
We each got pink slips, which were disciplinary notices. When you got 3, you had to each lunch in the principal's office --the height of embarrasment. I got 2 that year --Michael made it to the big three. I still remember his screams as he was led off to the awful punishment --pleading like a comdemned man.
Anyway -- fast forward to the following Fall. Michael and I sat together, and in walked the teacher. It was her --the lady we had beaned! Miss Dempsey! Michael and I both began to fidget and sweat, convinced that she would spend the entire school year paying us back for what we had done.
It turned out that she had forgotten, or at least she never brought it up. As I recall the year (now nearly 40 years past), she was a terrific teacher. I remember specifically a trip to NYC and climbing the Statue of Liberty, all the way to the crown, and learning in the days of NYC yore, they let you all the way up to the torch!
When my own girls were young, I also loved taking them to school. The atmosphere was charged. Optimism was everywhere. The screw ups hadn't screwed up yet. No one had been disciplined. No one had failed any tests.
I'd introduce myself to the teacher, and kiss my girls goodbye. Recently, D1 told me she remembered how proud she was of her well dressed, "hot young dad" as I took her to school.
Of course, those days ended for me years ago. D2 is starting 11th grade. My last allowed visit for the first day of school was when she was in 5th grade. Now, she'll get up and drive herself.
But --one tradition will survive! I always take the Ds pictures in front of a tree --to see how little they grow relative to the tree. On this coming Monday, I may even wake D1 and make her stand outside (she returns to UF on Thursday).
Then, as I drive past all of the schools on my way to work, I'll think of all of the first day memories being created inside, on the day before any disappointment sets in.
I used to love seeing old friends, and the anticipation of meeting the new teachers. Of course, one first day for me --in third day, was filled with as much anxiety as an 8 year old could have.
Late in the season of second grade, my friend Michael Monahan and I got the brilliant idea of throwing rocks while on the back "blacktop" of East Broadway School at midday recess. We hurled with glee and abandon, until a young teacher came over, rubbing her head. One of us had beaned her!
We each got pink slips, which were disciplinary notices. When you got 3, you had to each lunch in the principal's office --the height of embarrasment. I got 2 that year --Michael made it to the big three. I still remember his screams as he was led off to the awful punishment --pleading like a comdemned man.
Anyway -- fast forward to the following Fall. Michael and I sat together, and in walked the teacher. It was her --the lady we had beaned! Miss Dempsey! Michael and I both began to fidget and sweat, convinced that she would spend the entire school year paying us back for what we had done.
It turned out that she had forgotten, or at least she never brought it up. As I recall the year (now nearly 40 years past), she was a terrific teacher. I remember specifically a trip to NYC and climbing the Statue of Liberty, all the way to the crown, and learning in the days of NYC yore, they let you all the way up to the torch!
When my own girls were young, I also loved taking them to school. The atmosphere was charged. Optimism was everywhere. The screw ups hadn't screwed up yet. No one had been disciplined. No one had failed any tests.
I'd introduce myself to the teacher, and kiss my girls goodbye. Recently, D1 told me she remembered how proud she was of her well dressed, "hot young dad" as I took her to school.
Of course, those days ended for me years ago. D2 is starting 11th grade. My last allowed visit for the first day of school was when she was in 5th grade. Now, she'll get up and drive herself.
But --one tradition will survive! I always take the Ds pictures in front of a tree --to see how little they grow relative to the tree. On this coming Monday, I may even wake D1 and make her stand outside (she returns to UF on Thursday).
Then, as I drive past all of the schools on my way to work, I'll think of all of the first day memories being created inside, on the day before any disappointment sets in.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
The Lonely Surgeon
So D1 had to have a cyst removed, and needed a surgeon. She was going to do it up in Gainesville, but decided against it, lest her recovery time interfere with her summer finals. She wanted to do it here, get healed, and leave a few days later for UF.
So --getting a qualified surgeon for a completely elective procedure in no time flat --ha --as if! Well, I called my dear friend Vince, a former anesthesiologist, and he called a top guy and made the appointment. D1 had the removal today, and her surgeon spent as much time chatting with Wifey and me as he did operating.
We compared notes about Vince, and how much he missed him at the hospital. We also chatted about Barry and Eric, since Barry runs a Residency PRogram, and Eric trained at Harvard, where the surgeon went to college and medical school.
The surgeon said "You know --I really don't keep in touch with any friends from college or med school, and I wish I had. You're a lucky guy Dave."
Well, this guy didn't go to Harvard for nothing! Of course I'm lucky, and a main reason is the wonderful friends with whom I share this trip called life.
Yesterday D1 and I visited my mother, and then Eric and his family on the way back. D1's turning 20 soon, and Eric's kids are a senior and freshman in high school. Eric met Dana when she was YOUNGER than D1. It amazes us.
We're blessed to share our lives --education, weddings, kids growing and moving away.
Yes, Dr. Canning, you're a wise and skilled man.
So --getting a qualified surgeon for a completely elective procedure in no time flat --ha --as if! Well, I called my dear friend Vince, a former anesthesiologist, and he called a top guy and made the appointment. D1 had the removal today, and her surgeon spent as much time chatting with Wifey and me as he did operating.
We compared notes about Vince, and how much he missed him at the hospital. We also chatted about Barry and Eric, since Barry runs a Residency PRogram, and Eric trained at Harvard, where the surgeon went to college and medical school.
The surgeon said "You know --I really don't keep in touch with any friends from college or med school, and I wish I had. You're a lucky guy Dave."
Well, this guy didn't go to Harvard for nothing! Of course I'm lucky, and a main reason is the wonderful friends with whom I share this trip called life.
Yesterday D1 and I visited my mother, and then Eric and his family on the way back. D1's turning 20 soon, and Eric's kids are a senior and freshman in high school. Eric met Dana when she was YOUNGER than D1. It amazes us.
We're blessed to share our lives --education, weddings, kids growing and moving away.
Yes, Dr. Canning, you're a wise and skilled man.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Intimations of Football
Yesterday marked a pleasurable annual event: my Miami Hurricanes tickets came in the mail. Each year, going back to 1987, I always savor their arrival. I take the cardboard tickets out of the envelope, check them for accuracy, spread them on the carpet, and then gleefully roll around on them, like a dog with a dead squirrel. The last thing I don't really do, but I think about it.
My Dad wasn't much of a sports fan, and we never had season tickets for any sporting events. We'd go to the rare Mets or Jets game, and that was it. When I came to UM, I was smitten by the Canes, probably because their rise to greatness paralleled my college and grad school days. More importantly, going to tailgate parties and games was, as my friend Jim noted, the most fun you can have with your pants on.
This year is the first season away from the Orange Bowl. My friends and I have grieved and moved on, and I'm actually excited about the new stadium. I bought Club Seats, which are air conditioned and have waitress service, so I figure that even a few losses will be tolerable with a steady supply of mojitos.
I called my friend Dave about the tickets' arrival. He uses my long term account. Dave's a senior partner at the most important law firm in town. He's a Harvard Law grad (we went to UM undergrad together). I know, because my partner's son is a young associate at his firm, that Dave is in the middle of an enormous case, with hundreds of millions of dollars at stake. Still, Dave and I chatted about the Canes quarterback and linebacker outlook for a solid half hour. Had I been paying for his time, it would have cost me $400!
I then emailed Mike about where our new parking assignments fell. Mike took over tailgate manager duties from his late father Ed. Ed, one of my life's beloved mentors, hosted the parties since the mid 60s! Mike, also a big time lawyer, is already planning the season's festivities. Like his father, he's a tavern keeper first, and lawyer just is his day job.
Barry and Eric, two big shot doctors, will always put aside life saving procedures for their patients to discuss the Canes. Barry's boys are old enough to go to games this year, and he has season tickets, too. Eric's kids have been going since they were babies.
So, the tickets and their parking pass are safely tucked away in my night stand. I'll separate each one from the pack as game day arrives.
I'll hand them to the ticket taker, explaining how wrinked they are because of my joyful carpet rolling.
My Dad wasn't much of a sports fan, and we never had season tickets for any sporting events. We'd go to the rare Mets or Jets game, and that was it. When I came to UM, I was smitten by the Canes, probably because their rise to greatness paralleled my college and grad school days. More importantly, going to tailgate parties and games was, as my friend Jim noted, the most fun you can have with your pants on.
This year is the first season away from the Orange Bowl. My friends and I have grieved and moved on, and I'm actually excited about the new stadium. I bought Club Seats, which are air conditioned and have waitress service, so I figure that even a few losses will be tolerable with a steady supply of mojitos.
I called my friend Dave about the tickets' arrival. He uses my long term account. Dave's a senior partner at the most important law firm in town. He's a Harvard Law grad (we went to UM undergrad together). I know, because my partner's son is a young associate at his firm, that Dave is in the middle of an enormous case, with hundreds of millions of dollars at stake. Still, Dave and I chatted about the Canes quarterback and linebacker outlook for a solid half hour. Had I been paying for his time, it would have cost me $400!
I then emailed Mike about where our new parking assignments fell. Mike took over tailgate manager duties from his late father Ed. Ed, one of my life's beloved mentors, hosted the parties since the mid 60s! Mike, also a big time lawyer, is already planning the season's festivities. Like his father, he's a tavern keeper first, and lawyer just is his day job.
Barry and Eric, two big shot doctors, will always put aside life saving procedures for their patients to discuss the Canes. Barry's boys are old enough to go to games this year, and he has season tickets, too. Eric's kids have been going since they were babies.
So, the tickets and their parking pass are safely tucked away in my night stand. I'll separate each one from the pack as game day arrives.
I'll hand them to the ticket taker, explaining how wrinked they are because of my joyful carpet rolling.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
The Very Busy Teenagers
My girls are lucky in so many ways, and they know it. They live nice lives, and don't trouble about finances. Still, I'm so proud of them --they take little for granted, and put so much effort in their studies.
D1 just returned from UF's Summer Session. She's decided that she wants to go for a Masters in Nutrition Science after she graduates. The problem is, while she's a whiz in the Humanities, she struggles in the Sciences.
She took a Chemistry class, and found it very tough. She got herself a tutor, and worked it all summer. She's high strung, and would call each time she got a low exam score. But guess what? She still got a B in the course.
I'm so proud of her. I'm proud whenever she gets good grades, but in the liberal arts classes it's a bit like being proud of Shaquille when he dunks a basketball --natural abilities abound. But when D1 took on something very tough, and still conquered it --way to go, my girl.
D2 worked like a demon last year, and came out of her sophomore year with one B and the rest As. She's volonteered all summer at a camp, taking care of little children. On weekends she volunteers at a pet rescue operation --taking care of the dogs, and helping them get adopted.
She spends a little time with her friends, but then sees two tutors --one for her difficult upcoming math class, and another to maximize her SAT score this year.
D2 is much more driven than I was. And --she's not naturally a hyper person like her sister. D2 is, in her natural habitat, very happy to sleep until 2 pm if she can. So --I know the effort she puts in doing all these manifold activities.
Ah, girls, what can I say? My cup runneth over with the two of you.
Hopefully the next week you'll take a well deserved breather from your industrious lives.
Brava, ladies!
D1 just returned from UF's Summer Session. She's decided that she wants to go for a Masters in Nutrition Science after she graduates. The problem is, while she's a whiz in the Humanities, she struggles in the Sciences.
She took a Chemistry class, and found it very tough. She got herself a tutor, and worked it all summer. She's high strung, and would call each time she got a low exam score. But guess what? She still got a B in the course.
I'm so proud of her. I'm proud whenever she gets good grades, but in the liberal arts classes it's a bit like being proud of Shaquille when he dunks a basketball --natural abilities abound. But when D1 took on something very tough, and still conquered it --way to go, my girl.
D2 worked like a demon last year, and came out of her sophomore year with one B and the rest As. She's volonteered all summer at a camp, taking care of little children. On weekends she volunteers at a pet rescue operation --taking care of the dogs, and helping them get adopted.
She spends a little time with her friends, but then sees two tutors --one for her difficult upcoming math class, and another to maximize her SAT score this year.
D2 is much more driven than I was. And --she's not naturally a hyper person like her sister. D2 is, in her natural habitat, very happy to sleep until 2 pm if she can. So --I know the effort she puts in doing all these manifold activities.
Ah, girls, what can I say? My cup runneth over with the two of you.
Hopefully the next week you'll take a well deserved breather from your industrious lives.
Brava, ladies!
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Meeting Charo
It really is the worst time of the year here. It's so hot, that venturing outside for more than a few minutes mid day leads to a soaked shirt. The early mornings and evenings are at least passable. Anyone with sense is up in North Carolina, or out west.
My partner and I went to dinner on Tuesday. We met another friend out near MIA, and went to a Venezuelan steakhouse. It was nice -piano bar with a singer performing comically accented Sinatra. And then Charo walked in.
Ah Charo --fleeting icon from the 1970s --the "cuchi cuchi" girl. I think she guested on "Love Boat" 100 times, and Carson probably 100 more. She sat with a 60 ish fellow who looked like he came out of a Montana ranch. She wore a track suit --like a New Jersey mobster.
At the table next to hers, a large Cuban family, celebrating a birthday, noticed her and squealed. Charo went over and sang happy birthday to a 60is woman.
On her way out, I waved and said "Buenos Noches." Charo looked great for her age, although the lighting in the restaurant was dim.
The next day, I told some of the office staff, in their 30s, about my meeting. They had no idea who Charo was...
Such are the Summer doldrums, when even the most trivial event is newsworthy...
When's football starting?????
My partner and I went to dinner on Tuesday. We met another friend out near MIA, and went to a Venezuelan steakhouse. It was nice -piano bar with a singer performing comically accented Sinatra. And then Charo walked in.
Ah Charo --fleeting icon from the 1970s --the "cuchi cuchi" girl. I think she guested on "Love Boat" 100 times, and Carson probably 100 more. She sat with a 60 ish fellow who looked like he came out of a Montana ranch. She wore a track suit --like a New Jersey mobster.
At the table next to hers, a large Cuban family, celebrating a birthday, noticed her and squealed. Charo went over and sang happy birthday to a 60is woman.
On her way out, I waved and said "Buenos Noches." Charo looked great for her age, although the lighting in the restaurant was dim.
The next day, I told some of the office staff, in their 30s, about my meeting. They had no idea who Charo was...
Such are the Summer doldrums, when even the most trivial event is newsworthy...
When's football starting?????
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Albert Schweitzer Rides Again...
So Barry pulled another Albert Schweitzer. I really wish he'd stop.
One of his patients was dying, after a long illness, and the mother went to a quack who sold her some sort of "miracle juice" that she wanted injected into her daughter. The poor mother, desperate as would be anyone with a dtying child, came under the spell of this shaman, who charged her hundreds of dollars and told her American doctors were ignorant.
Anyone else would have simply refused, and that would have been the end of it. Not Barry. Amidst a week where his manifold responsibilities were even greater than usual, he spent hours on the phone with NIH and the FDA getting permission to try this "medical experiment."
It turned out the substance was a Chinese herb that IS known to have immune boosting qualities. After Barry's persistence, both federal agencies gave the ok, figuring it couldn't hurt (the girl was terminal). Next, he battled his OWN hospital's administration. They finally relented, and the miracle juice was given.
There was to be no miracle. The girl died Thursday morning, 6 hours after the magic potion was given.
I'm sure the mother, steeped in grief, will not recognize Barry's extraordinary efforts. In fact, one of his colleagues DID give him thanks --in the form of a ton of paper work he has to fill out to explain this "failed medical experiment."
This is vintage Barry. Where others may have good hearts, he dives in to peoples' problems. Years ago I nicknamed him Horton, after Dr. Seuss's character. Barry is always saving Hooville, or sitting for days on an egg to hatch it.
I just worry after him, now that he's 45. These adventures in altruism take a toll on him. His own affairs suffer. He has little time for himself. Some selfishess is necessary.
I just hope someday that there's email between heaven and hell. If the Devil gives me coffee breaks, I'll email Barry to see what's up in the other place.
One of his patients was dying, after a long illness, and the mother went to a quack who sold her some sort of "miracle juice" that she wanted injected into her daughter. The poor mother, desperate as would be anyone with a dtying child, came under the spell of this shaman, who charged her hundreds of dollars and told her American doctors were ignorant.
Anyone else would have simply refused, and that would have been the end of it. Not Barry. Amidst a week where his manifold responsibilities were even greater than usual, he spent hours on the phone with NIH and the FDA getting permission to try this "medical experiment."
It turned out the substance was a Chinese herb that IS known to have immune boosting qualities. After Barry's persistence, both federal agencies gave the ok, figuring it couldn't hurt (the girl was terminal). Next, he battled his OWN hospital's administration. They finally relented, and the miracle juice was given.
There was to be no miracle. The girl died Thursday morning, 6 hours after the magic potion was given.
I'm sure the mother, steeped in grief, will not recognize Barry's extraordinary efforts. In fact, one of his colleagues DID give him thanks --in the form of a ton of paper work he has to fill out to explain this "failed medical experiment."
This is vintage Barry. Where others may have good hearts, he dives in to peoples' problems. Years ago I nicknamed him Horton, after Dr. Seuss's character. Barry is always saving Hooville, or sitting for days on an egg to hatch it.
I just worry after him, now that he's 45. These adventures in altruism take a toll on him. His own affairs suffer. He has little time for himself. Some selfishess is necessary.
I just hope someday that there's email between heaven and hell. If the Devil gives me coffee breaks, I'll email Barry to see what's up in the other place.
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