We'll Split the Difference, Go to...

Wifey and I had a lovely time last night. We went with our friends Diane and Charley (and one of their Havanese dogs, who was recovering from an attack earlier in the day) to a fine restaurant in Coconut Grove.

I first visited the Grove in the early 70s, when we used to vacation in Miami. My father loved the place immediately. Although he was a Greatest Generation guy, he had the heart of a young Liberal, and immediately recognized the Grove for its Greenwich Village-like feel.

I remember walking down Main Highway, and seeing the several head shops. Hare Krishnas annoyed the passersby, and I remember stopping into a homemade fudge shop.

Years later, I read that Woodstock had its roots in the Grove. The young producers of the event had a record store there, and tried out their ideas with the Miami Pop Festival up at Gulfstream Race Track. I also learned about all the terrific musicians who hung there, while making iconic records like "Layla and other Love Songs," and "Hotel California." Plus, Jimmy Buffett lived on a sail boat at Dinner Key, while he was writing his soft rock songs that would turn Key West into a national icon...

When I moved to Miami, the Grove became my hangout. I have countless memories of reggae music-fueled fun times at the old Monty's, and we used to get $1 pina coladas at a place next to the old theatre called Bananas.

The Grove was THE cheap date place. We'd go for a burger, and then music at the Village Inn, and a free walk, where we'd shock midwestern freshman with a visit upstairs to a sex shop that was there.

Over the years, a lot has changed there, but it's still our favorite place to go on a Saturday night. We went to an Italian place called Calimari's, and sat outside. The food was delicious, and Wifey remarked that the setting and temperature felt like we were on the Amalfi Coast.

At the next table, 4 aging hippie-types were sharing 3 different bottles of red wine. And, sure enough, one of Charley's old neighbors walked by, and stopped to chat. He had moved into a rental building that was built on site.

There's something about a restuaurant where you run into old friends. Like Wifey said --very European.

On the way out, we stopped into the remains of Taurus, a venerable old Grove tavern. When they built the new stuff, they left the original Taurus building, and, sure enough, some cool looking folks were inside, drinking and chatting. Apparently on random nights they have a blues singer, and I made a mental note to remember to stop in again.

The paper says the Grove is hurting, since there are now so many entertainment options. The younger set, moving into the Brickell and Downtown apartments, go to Mary Brickell Village, as well as the number of new restaurants and clubs opening along the Miami River.

South Miami now has a "scene," too. South Beach remains, but in my view is a place for vampires, not humans.

So, for us Boomers, the Grove remains the place to go, and last night's lovely time proved again why that's so.

A Day of Unsettling Occurences

It was raining at the office yesterday, and my metro partner was all dressed up, and so I agreed to go to the Grille by car, lest we get wet.

We were enjoying our lunches, when he noticed a retired judge I know and like quite a bit. He invited him over, with his younger lawyer lunch companion, a fellow my partner knows pretty well.

I hadn't seen His Honor in 10 years. He's now 79, and a very frail 79. He was walking with a cane, but still dressed for court, although he retired, and works part time for a big Downtown firm.

He stood next to me, and we reminisced, both about one of my former bosses, who he didn't much care for, and the Judge's infamous 8 am hearings, designed so that most later rising lawyers would do whatever possible to avoid waking up a 6 to attend.

All of a sudden, the judge's eyes went blank, and he sort of slumped down. I grabbed him, and led him into the booth next to me. IT was like he had a small stroke.

Fortunately, he recovered quickly, and apologized for "feeling a bit dizzy." I acted like the whole event never happened, and resumed our talk.

He was one of my favorites. Although he had a reputation for being more friendly to the defense, he was brilliant and well prepared. He always reminded me of Mel Brooks, and peppered all of his hearings with sharp, witty comments, in the presence of his British born bailiff, who to me always resembled Harvey Korman!

Old age sucks.

In the afternoon, I made the mistake of meeting a boorish guy for dinner and drinks. He's an acquaintance I tried to fix up with my assistant/friend Mirta a few months ago, and he spent the entire date staring at the ample chest of Mirta's attractive friend, who came along.

This fellow wanted to "take me out" to thank me for that dinner, and I relented.

Surprise. He got amazingly drunk, and stared at the chest of ANOTHER of Mirt's attractive friends, who happened to be at the same pub. I ended up picking up the check again for this putz.

He called today to thank me for dinner, and to tell me I needn't have worried --he got home fine. I wasn't worried.

Boorish drunks suck.

So, today the sun is shining brightly, and music fills the house as Wifey sets the Passover table.

We have dinner plans with our friends Diane and Charley. I know there'll be no boorishness, and hopefully no passing out...

What Do May Flowers Bring?

Wifey and I have been walking around the neighborhood most evenings, lack of laziness permitting.

Last night, the scent in the air brought my back in my mind to Spring on Long Island.

I have no idea why. Long Island had no ficus trees, or palms, and certainly no plentiful mango trees in bloom, but somehow the mixture of botanical smells combined to, at least in my unsophisticated scent memory, evoke northern deciduous tree buds, and forsythia, the yellow first flowers to bloom around the house where I grew up.

I used to walk a lot on Long Island, in the 70s. First, you couldn't drive until you were 17, and as adolescence drew late, there was something uncool about riding a bicycle.

I guess it embedded in me a love of walking, even though Long Island is a famously car dependant place.

This morning there was a passing storm. The rain poured down with an intensity typical of Miami summer afternoons. A cold front is coming. I wonder if it's the last of the season --we've had the coldest winter in the 31 years I've lived here.

Spring Break starts next week for D2, and she's celebrating by staying home today. I asked whether there were classes. "For losers," she replied.

That's my girl! I was worried about her acute lack of laziness, as she strove for college admission, and even after she was accepted by most schools. I'm glad to see she's comnig around to her father's inherent nature of loafing off when possible, and procrastination most of the time...

I guess I'll slouch into my office for a few hours. An elderly wheeler dealer car victim is coming in, referred by a commercial lawyer friend of ours.

He sent ahead a dossier about his case, including computer color enhanced versions of the crash report. He's not hurt too bad. I want nothing to do with him. My partner will spend a few hours with him, getting into his being, and then we'll refer him out.

Life's too short to deal with problem clients.

Especially when there's a host of freshly washed plant scents to sample, while out on a walk...

Passover

So Passover is coming faster than a freight train at night! The first seder is Monday, and I haven't even begun removing bread from my house!

I won't of course, though that's what observant Jews do. My slide into apostasy continues...

When I was a kid, we had sort of seders. There was a meal with matzah bowl soup, and more matzah, and the drinking of sweet Manishewitz wine. We never had the service part, but I remember the men all napping, post meal, on our forest green living room carpet. I also remember my brother in law Dennis proudly showing up with a challah, in honor of the holiday. Raised Catholic, he knew challah was "Jewish bread," but no one gave him the memo about Passover being a breadless holiday. I'm guessing the kosher bakery attendant snickering as he walked out the door...

Since Wifey and I were married, we've hosted seders each year. As my extended family grew, some years we had nearly 20 guests. When the Ds were little, and attending JEwish pre school, we read from the prayer/story books they'd create, and sing the silly songs about frogs, boils, and the other forms of plagues visited upon the Pharoh and his men...

In the mid and late 90s, I flirted with religion through my Chabad rabbi friend, Yossi. We actually attended a community seder one year. It lasted 5 hours, and was more onerous and painful than any dental procedure I've ever had. That evening went a long way towards convincing me that organized religion wasn't my bag...

So, I know there's some hypocrisy about celebrating the holiday at all, but there's the grandparent factor. My mother and in laws enjoy the holiday, and a big reason we're still hosting it is to honor them. My mother's about to turn 90, and my in laws are 85; at best, we're not talking about too many more seders for them.

We're having a small gathering this year. Just D2, Wifey, and me, along with my my mother, sister, brother in law (no challah this year) and in laws. D1 is finishing up in Gainesville, and will go to a secular-type seder at UF. The extended family have taken other roads, none of which lead to Villa Wifey.

So, we'll drink vodka, and share some laughter, I'm sure. Wifey has ordered chicken and brisket from Shorty's, our local barbecue place. The first time she got the meat from a place famous for our pork ribs, I cringed. And then, my mother in law tasted it and said, in her heavy Yiddish accent "Now THIS is REAL Jewish style brrrrrisket!" Talk about kosher STYLE!

So, no religosity for us. Just a get together around a dining room table, with hungry dogs patrolling the floor for any dropped food.

And hopefully, no frogs or boils.

Dirty Laundry

I have a dirty little secret: I've always enjoyed doing the laundry. As a child, I never washed my own clothes. I'd plop my stuff into an upstairs "hamper," which was a wooden closet next to our split level 3/2's master bathroom, and, miraculously, a few days later, clean clothes would appear back in my closet and chest of drawers. It was great to have a magical mother.

I learned to do my own wash in college. The dorms had communal machines, and I always seemed to meet folks while we did our clothes. There was one time, this Venezuelan girl took my stuff out of the dryer so she could put her lace lingerie in, but I forget what else happened...

Ha! As if! The truth is, I used to enjoy the sense of completion when I did my wash. There was a beginning, middle, and end. This was so unlike much of the rest of life.

Well, over the past 20 years or so, I rarely did my own laundry. Our housekeeper Miriam does the wash, and my work shirts get sent out to the dry cleaners. Miriam does a serviceable job, but I've lost several articles over the years to her prodigious use of bleach. I actually kept one pair of blue, canvas shorts that she turned into one with white and purple streaks --it reminded me of the tie-die stuff from the 60s.

It was convenient to have my laundry done, but like most tasks one doesn't do for himself, I lost out. I took my clean clothes for granted.

So, a few weeks ago, given my diminished work schedule, I took to the machines again. We have a pair of cool, hi tech laundry machines (I don't know that they're called washer and dryer anymore) and I fired up those babies.

I NEVER liked ironing, so my t shirts got plucked out of the washer and hung on a line in the garage, while my dress shirts still get sent out, but for the rest of the stuff --it was all my work.

I had forgotten how much I enjoyed the smell of cotton garments fresh out of the dryer. Why should Miriam get all the sensual delight of that experience, of folding my still hot briefs and socks? (Is this the height of male ego here, or what?).

So, as I type, my shirts are drying in the garage, and my underwear and socks are twirling and hurling under high heat. Soon I 'll hear the "ready" signal, and pluck them out, smell the warmth, and fold them and put them away.

No matter how much time I waste at the office later, and how little good I do as a bored lawyer, at least I'll have the satisfaction of a completed task today.

A New Age

When I was a freshman at UM in 1979, I became good friends with my English prof and her family. I was pre med at the time, and Judy took me under her wing and introduced me to her husband Bob, who was a professor at the med school. He gave me a research position in his lab, and I spend a summer butchering frogs for the cause of spinal cord research. He even included me on an article! I'm probably one of the few layers to be published in the "Journal of Brain Research!"

I used to babysit their kids, who were then 10 and 5. My how times have changed! I can't imagine, these days, letting an 18 or 19 year old stay with kids alone. Ah, those were more innocent times.

Well, the little boy, Ari, is all grown up, and last evening Wifey and I went to his wedding. He was married before, but it didn't work out, and this time he was sure he'd found his true life partner.

Her name is Carla, and she's 1/2 Haitian, 1/2 Mexican, and a pretty observant Catholic. Ari's family's rabbi, at the Liberal temple, agreed to do essentially a commitment ceremony, which the couple wrote, along with the rabbi, a cantor, and one of the bride's friends.

It was truly beautiful. Ari, who has a tremendous voice, and actually thought, at one time, about becoming a cantor, sang a love song to his new wife. She began to bawl, and the rest of the assembled followed along.

At the following party, which Ari's sister Sarah catered, we sat with some cousins, including an obviously gay young lady and her fiancee. They were in from Baltimore --one was a lawyer, and the other a scientist, and they were very much in love. Their wedding, to take place outside of Maryland, where same sex weddings aren't acknowledged, is to be this Fall.

I thought about these two "untraditional" couples the entire evening. They were so happy, as if they had all found happiness with each other.

The rabbi had said we're in a new age, and that he was starting to see the wisdom of performing other than typical religious unions.

The love was there, last night, and it was palpable.

May Ari and Carla have many, many years of good health and laughter. They seem off to a fine start.

River of Barbecue

It was a glorious late March day today, and Wifey and D2 had plans. They went to see "In the Heights" in Lauderdale. I had seen the show on Broadway with D1 last year and thought it was terrific. Wifey and D2: not so much. They thought it was contrived and boring, and the production from the traveling show was subpar. Two thumbs down. I guess the message is that you really do have to see musicals only on Broadway --there's nothing like the old theatres, and the acoustics they have, as well as the top flight talent.

My day was much better. My friend Mirta called, and asked if I wanted to go bicycling. I did, and she had never been to Shark Valley, in the Everglades. She picked me up in her Honda, we saddled up the bike rack, and off we went.

It was about 70 degrees, and a lovely breeze was blowing. The birds and alligators and turtles were out in abundance.

We rode the 7 miles to the observation tower, and climbed to the top. It was so clear, it was as if you could see the entire River of Grass. I remarked that it looked like the African plains. Another visitor said the same thing.

A tall, thin blonde asked me to snap a picture. I did, and noticed her Stanford hat. I asked how she liked visiting here from the Bay area. No --she lived in Miami, but was a Stanford grad. I played my one degree of separation with her, and, sure enough, knew D1's friend Hannah's mother. Hannah's family is crawling with Stanford alums. I guess there is no better infestation.

Mirta and I headed back onto the trail. We chatted wonderfully about our families and lives. Mirta has been a caregiver for her whole life --for her mother, now gone, and then her boys, and finally her grandchildren. She dreams of moving to MAdrid and trying our life there. I told her the final expenditure from our firm, before it closes, will be an open ended ticket there for her. Wifey and I can visit.

As we neared the entrance, some bright pink movement caught our eye. At first I though they were flamingos, but realized we had come upon a small flock of roseate spoonbills. In 30 years of going to Shark Valley, this was my first such sighting.

We rode back to Mirta's car, and headed East on the Tamiami Trail. We crossed Krome Avenue, and made a mandatory stop, at the Pit Barbecue.

I've been going there for years, and about 5 years ago, the rednecks who owned it sold to a Cuban family. The food is much better now, and we celebrated our 15 mile ride with ribs, chicken, and delicious corn on the cob.

The sound system was playing salsa, and then a group of Gringos on motorcycles drove up. The manager changed the songs, in deference to them. We finished our lunch to "Freebird" and some Elvin Bishop...

We came back to Villa Wifey, and I made us some coffee. Wifey and D2 came home, and told us details about the disappointing musical.

D2 left, and Mirta, Wifey, and I talked for a long time about aging parents. Mirta's mother died 5 years ago, and she still misses her terribly.

The Everglades calls me back. I'll go again, before the heat and mosquitoes make it impossible. And the Pit? I wonder how late they're open...

The Big 9-OH

My mother's turning 90 this April, and we just booked my California sister on a flight to come visit for her celebration. Ninety. That's a lot of years.

Mom doesn't want a big party. I guess that's because everything has become so daunting for her. She just wants her favorite, lobster, and a small gathering of her family. She never orders lobster when she's out by herself --she's far too frugal. But I guess in April, she'll let us do it.

It's funny --longevity is supposedly something we desire, and almost everyone I talk to "doesn't want to live that long." Mom has outlived a husband, and long time companion. She's outlived all but her youngest sibling. She's outlived most of her friends.

When she moved in to her current home, she was 59, and my Dad was 60. They were retired, which to me, then 18, meant elderly. All of their neighbors, in the "55 and Over Only, Please" community were old, it seemed. It's mind blowing to be old, and then live another 31 years.

Today, Wifey and I are taking her to a doctor, an oncologist of all things. She has slow growing skin cancer, the type of disease she'll die with, not from. But, it's on her feet, and may take away her ability to walk.

She's been really declining this last year or so. She's literally wasting away, in front of us. I agree with those who comment --I don't want to live that long, either.

But for now, Mom keeps on chugging along. I'm going to tell her today that all three of her kids will be with her on her birthday. That will make her smile, I'm sure.

She's been one of the luckiest people I know. She's always had tremendous gratitude for all in her life. Other than losing a husband of nearly 40 years, she's dealt with little loss. My father left her enough money to make it for more nearly 30 years after his death.

I hope her luck continues, and her final days are as comfortable as they can be. And then, next month, we'll celebrate a true milestone.

St. PAddy's Day

I grew up in a part of Long Island, where you were either Jewish, Italian, or Irish. I guess there were WASPs, but I didn't know any. In fact, when were real little, and discussed religion, it was "Are you Jewish or Catholic?" Years later there were things known as Protestant, or Christian...

So, from an early age, St. Patrick's Day was a holiday I knew about. We'd wear green that day, lest the likes of Miss Dempsey or Mrs. O'Brien pinch us, and tell us it was a leprechaun.

As I became an adult, I realized that any holiday that involved drinking with friends and the banishment of snakes was a winner.

About 10 years ago, I happened to be in NYC for St. Patrick's Day. I was staying at the old Plaza hotel, and watched the huge parade of cops and firemen swaying down 5th Avenue. I ended up in one of the many overflowing pubs, and drank a few Guinnesses with the revelers. It was a gray, cold day, with a fine mist of a rain. It's still one my fondest memories of NYC.

Last night, I was feeling in the mood. I called Wifey, and told her I'd pick her up at the front gate. We drove over to Flanagan's (of course) and at 5 pm they were setting up the outdoor tables and pouring green beer. She put our name on a list for a table, and was told it would be a 1/2 hour. I went to the bar and ordered an Amber Bock. Wifey doesn't drink, so she watched me and the scene, which was rapidly becoming festive. Plus, the NFL network was playing old Dolphin games, so the locals were also getting melancholy.

After 40 minutes, Wifey went to check on our table. She was told it would be 30 minutes. When she protested, the host said "Hey --it's St. Paddy's Day!" I finished my beer and we left, to walk down the shopping center to Wagon's West, where I had seen a sign when I parked that they had corned beef and cabbage.

At WW we were among a handful of fellow Flanagan's refugees. I had a bowl of split pea soup, and then a serviceable corned beef and cabbage. I had my second beer -- a Guiness from a bottle.

I started getting all wistful, and telling Wifey how much I loved her, and how happy I was at this point in our lives, with the Ds grown, and starting their adult lives, and how the best decision I'd made in a life of almost all good decisions was marrying her, and having her be the mother of my children, and then we shared some blueberry pie and vanilla ice cream, and then left for home.

And so, another St. Patrick's Day has passed, and for us, it was a fine one. Passover is coming up soon. Maybe we'll have corned beef...

The Candidate

Tonight my roommate Brian is hosting a fundraising cocktail party for a woman who's running for Circuit Judge. He and a few friends decided to raise money this year for three targeted candidates, in hopes of "improving the quality of our local judiciary." In other words, they want to help some folks get to the Bench so that they'll be on their good sides when appearing before them.

This is the reality of Florida judicial politics. In some states, judges are appointed, and that leads to charges that the judges are aloof, and not sensitive to their communities. The theory here is that, if judges are subject to popular election, they'll be more attuned to their local folks.

In practice, the only ones who truly care about the judges are the lawyers, so we get to control, effectively, who gets in and who doesn't. And, who gets in depends on 2 factors: money raised for campaigns, and ethnicity.

Actually, the second factor isn't always true. Although conventional wisdom is that a Hispanic always trumps an Anglo in Dade, over the past several elections candidates with names like Murphy and Ginsberg have actually beaten some Hernandezes and Gonzolezes.

The lady coming to my office tonight seems to be a suitable candidate. She's a local Cuban woman, who went to the U, and then moved to NY for law school. Between the close friends she made in Coral Gables and those on Long Island, she converted from Catholicism to Judaism, and then married an Orthodox guy she met in law school.

She came here and became a prosecutor, and now, since her husband makes enough to pay for their kids private school, and their big house on Miami Beach, she wants to "serve the country that was so great to her immigrant family."

I met her for coffee last week. She's very chatty and earnest. In other words, probably insufferable over long periods of time. Wifey would like her.

Brian bought some premium booze for the event tonight, and I'll drink my fill, I figure. Hopefully this lady will win, with the made for Dade County hyphenated last name. (My fellow wise ass friend Jorge keeps calling her "Sally Gomez Fendelman" which isn't really her name, but it's close).

Ah, this Law business is getting tiresome, on so many levels...

Quieter House Sunday

Well, the Gallery Night was a big success. Wifey, Elizabeth, and I ran into our friends Ken and Joelle, who were about to have dinner with one of Joelle's FIU Law professor friends, and we combined the 2 groups for dinner at Fratelli Lyon.

Ken and Joelle have 2 boys, in 6th and 8th grade, and the other couple have a 4 year old, so the conversations were separate --we caught up with Elizabeth on goings on in Orlando as she pursues her Masters, and deals with family pathology.

Afterwards, we walked through the District. It was an unbelievably gorgeous night. A band was playing, and they were terrific. We walked into some galleries, including one where a surrealist painted a huge depiction of a woman with a toothy fish where her, um, lady's organ ought to be. This caused much laughter. I hope the artist wasn't milling around in the crowd.

Elizabeth left early this morning for a meditative stroll on Miami Beach, and then a lunch her sister was having in the Grove for her elderly parents and their elderly new partners. Elizabeth is talking about moving back to Miami after she finishes her degree, since her folks are going to need more and more care, and she doesn't feel its right to leave it all on her Miami sister. With her Nurse PRactitioner degree, she'll have a host of jobs available, and it'll be great to see more of her.

D1 left early, along with the happy puppy. She drove with her high school friend Nicole, who started out college at Wash U in St. Louis, but transferred this year to UF. The two picked up a third girl, Shelley, on Miami Beach, and the three hit the Turnpike. It somehow comforted me to know that Jewish girls were still being named Shelley. Wifey and I knew a bunch of them in NY, but I hadn't heard that name among the new generation.

D1 posted a Facebook shot of Shelley and Madeleine, the puppy. Shelley's pretty. Madeleine is adorable.

The house is already quieter. I napped most of the afternoon, while D2 studied for her manifold AP classes. I left to go pick up some Subway sandwiches. D2, Wifey, and I ate and agreed we missed D1 and her puppy.

Wifey's getting dressed (it's 5 pm --about time for a Sunday) and we're going to walk the remaining dogs. Elizabeth is due back later, and the ladies plan to watch "Precious." I'll take a pass --March Madness ought to have some offerings for me.

So, adios last D1 Spring Break. See you in Gainesville soon, D1!

Saturday at the District

It's D1's last Spring Break Saturday, and appropriately she's spending it at the beach with some fellow Breakers. The sun is shining gloriously, and I'm sure they're enjoying each other's company, as the windsurfers and sailboats glide by. They went to Virginia Key, my old college stomping ground.

Yesterday, D1 signed D2 out of school, and the two drove up to Aventura in search of a prom dress. I called my partner Paul, and told him to BOLO for these 2, and he ended up meeting them, along with his girlfriend and her sister, and taking them all out to lunch. They adore their "Uncle Paul."

Today, our friend Elizabeth is on her way here from Orlando. She's on Spring Break, too, from her Master's program at UCF. We're so proud of her. She went back to school to get a Bachelor's degree, and now is going further. I can barely focus on anything anymore, and somehow she's found the discipline to study and get an advanced degree, while still working full time to boot!

We're headed out to the Design District tonight, for their Gallery Walk. They have it each month, and it's a lovely event. The stores and galleries stay open late, and serve wine, and buskers fill the sidewalks playing music.

D1 may come along, but not D2. She's off to a "future Gator" party at her friend Carly's, even though she's not sure she wants to go to UF yet. In the meantime, it seems like each trip to the mailbox brings yet another acceptance, or scholarship offer. Yesterday Maryland tried to lure her with money. She just shrugs and says nothing. The only thing that gets a rise out of her is when her mother eats subs she was saving for later...

So tomorrow it's back to UF for D1. She's in the home stretch of her 4 years at Gainesville. She's excited about starting her Master's program at FIU (solamente 20 minutos de Hialeah) and apartment hunting. It looks like she's going to join the new trend of the local young professional types, and move to Brickell Avenue. The condos there are filling up with 20 and 30 something renters, profiting from the poor investor slobs who paid too much for their apartments, and are now leasing for amounts about 1/2 of what they had hoped to secure.

Another Saturday night...

Busy Busy Busy

I have a friend who rarely has time to meet me for coffee. I ask him to meet me every month or so, and he is always "busy." Dr. Barry, my truly busiest friend, is a father, husband, and has, essentially two full time jobs. He always seems to find the time to get together.

The first fellow hasn't worked in over a decade and a half. He's been out on the type of generous disability policy they used to sell in the 80s, and haven't since that hair band era. He volunteers a lot, and is on many community committees. In his view --very busy.

I always chuckle at people's own distorted view of how much they truly have to do. My mother, nearing 90 and with truly, objectively, nothing she HAS to do, always says she keeps busy.

I used to be busy. When I started my law firm in 1994, I'd work long hours, and then in the evenings socialize with folks who might send me business. Ah --busy-ness! Then I'd come home to Wifey and the Ds, and always find the time to enjoy with them.

These days --not so much. My firm is slow, and I have PLENTY of time . I'm enjoying the pace. And I'm proud of it.

I guess the remnants of our Protestant work ethic make laziness a sin. Whenever someone calls me, they say "Well, I KNOW you're very busy, but..." Not really, no. I have plenty of time!

The old cliche of "If you need something done, ask a busy person to do it" is very true in my case. When I was overloaded with stuff to do, there was always a way to fit in another task or commitment.

Now, I notice that when I ask someone with truly little going on to take on another job, it throws them for a loop.

I spoke to an old acquaintance recently about empty nesterhood. He has 2 kids a little older than the Ds --his boy is a 4 year old lawyer, and his daughter approaching 30. He's the founding partner of a successful law firm, and he said that he's been working more than he ever did. "What am I going to do --spend all that time with my WIFE???" He asked the rhetorical question as if it was akin to volunteering for more dental work.

We'll see. I guess we'll always see. But for now, I'm just sitting on the dock of the proverbial upper class suburb dock of the bay. And I like it.

Floored

Now that Wifey and I are about to be true empty nesters, we've started talking about our future. First up, we plan to take a "Great job, Brownie!" celebratory trip. We're talking about either a week in Paris, or a Canadian Maritimes cruise.

I have a strange desire to see the Maritimes. It dates back to the 3rd grade, at East Broadway Elementary School. We used to watch film strips, which were slide shows accompanied by a scratchy record sound track. There was one about the Bay of Fundy, with its world's greatest tidal changes. That stuck with me, and I retain a strong desire to go there.

The other issue is whether to move to a smaller house, or a different part of town. We moved to where we live because of the great public schools, and now that is no longer a concern, places like Coconut Grove or Coral Gables beckon.

Nah! We've proclaimed we're staying put, since we love living here so much. Then again, at least in my case, the proclamations aren't worth the paper they're not written on...

So we're doing a few home improvements. First, we had the downstairs area painted, including the kitchen cabinets. Done!

Next, we needed to replace the warn carpets on the second floor, which are 10 years old and looking like something out of a busy government office.

As I'm cheap when it comes to myself, I thought we'd just re carpet, but then Wifey and I went to Norman and Deb's house, and saw their new dark wood, wide plank floors. I decided that we'd go that way.

It took Wifey some time to do her comparison shopping, and research, but she finally hired a company to do the work. The salesman visited, and told Wifey he had sold the previous owner of our house the carpet. He remembered they wanted the cheapest one they could get, as they knew the house was going to be sold, and just wanted a new looking upstairs. Well, it lasted 10 years!

The workmen started yesterday, and they're doing a great job. All of the bedroom furniture was moved, and they left our mattress on the floor last night for Wifey and I to sleep.

We laughed as we went to bed, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, like we did when we first moved in together, back in 1985. Things DO come full circle.

So, as Paul Simon sang, one man's ceiling is another man's floor. That has no relevance here, but I always loved the line.

Here's to years to come with Wifey --wherever we find ourselves.

Pet Emergency

So it was a quiet Sunday night at Villa Wifey. The Oscars were on TV, and the D2 and 2 of their friends were over. I was happily feeding my news junkie habit, scanning the web sites of major and minor news outlets, and then...

The Basset Hound came in from outside, laid down, and started acting strangely. Now, the Basset is a strange creature to begin with, so it really takes something to have her appear even stranger. But, alas, her legs and head started shaking, like she was having a seizure.

Our immediate thoughts turned to poison toads, which abound in Miami. Dogs eat them and then their owners wish they hadn't. Upon Perry (one of D1's friends and a budding journalist) suggestions, I took Molly outside, and stuck a hose in her mouth, to wash away any toad toxins. The dog perked up a bit, but then, a few minutes later, started shaking again.

Now, I figured we'd wait until Monday, but then the chorus came of "But Daddy --what if she's dying???:" The fact that the Ds are 18 and 21 changes nothing in my house --they might as well have been 8 and 11.

Wifey sort of half heartedly volunteered to take the dog to the ER, but, Ha! As if! I knew I was the one.

I drove over to the Pet ER, which luckily was very close to our house. By the time I got there, Molly looked fine, but I figured I might as well get her checked.

I took her inside, and there was a Mom, little girl, and stricken looking boy, about 9. He looked at Molly and asked, sadly "What's wrong with YOUR dog?" I told her she was shaking, and we wanted to make sure she hadn't eaten anything poisonous. He volunteered "Our dog swallowed one of my Mom's pills. He's either going to be fine tomorrow, or he's going to die."

Isn't that true of all of us, I thought.

The vet came out, and I liked him immediately. He looked like a taller and less Semitic version of Zach Efron. He was about 6'3", and Canadian. He examined Molly, and could tell it was no frog or toad. He didn't seem too concerned.

He drew blood, and reported that the lab machine was in need of recalibration, and it would take "aboot" 30 minutes. I love how Canadians say that!

I waited and watched "Animal Planet" about catfish in the Amazon that eat humans who fall into the river. I wished the boy with the pill popping dog was there --he would have found the show extremely cool. I also texted D1, telling her that she and D2 outght to have been in my place, dealing with the young, handsome vet.

Around midnight, Dr. Aboot-Dreamy cam back to the waiting area, and told me all Basset levels were normal. He explained that sometimes seizures just happen, and they're no big deal. They are for humans, since they can strike when we're driving, or swimming. I told him we didn't plan on letting Molly drive, and she wasn't much in the pool...

I came home to the waiting other 2 dogs --the ancient Lab, and the hopping puppy Cavalier. It appeared from their excited sniffing that they were hearing Molly's version of the veterinary adventure.

The whole ordeal only cost about $200. Wifey commented that they were cheaper than our regular vets.

It appears the Basset will live to drool another day...

Basketball Jones

So I had plans to see the Canes play their last game of the year, to celebrate Dr. Barry's boy's 12 year birthday. Then Friday, my banker friend Carole called, with 3 Heat tickets for Saturday night.

The D2 really enjoy Heat games, to see and be seen, especially on a Saturday night, and especially with Carol's bank's 5th row courtside seats. So I agreed. Wifey was a little disappointed she couldn't go, too, as she enjoyed the game last year: "That Wade is SOOOOO sneaky."

I met Carole at the Canes game, to get the Heat tickets, and she invited Barry, Josh, and I to her bank's skybox! Wow. Her Seminoles won a close game, but Barry and I were at least a bit anesthetized by 2 Heinekens.

Afterwards, we left for 5 Guys, where we met Jim and his adorable 5 year old Jake. Jim, a numbers guy even though he's a lawyer by training, immediately realized it was 5 guys at "Five Guys." We ate, laughed, and Jim (Dolphins) and Barry (Jets) ground each other about each other's teams: "Fins resigned that Hall of Famer Pennington, Jim --how exciting is THAT?"

It was an exquisite afternoon to me, who, as much as I adore my Ds, enjoys a day with some borrowed sons, too.

And then on to the Heat, with the Ds. Carole joked that she was replacing Wifey. I answered that as long as she gets all these prime sports tickets, we might work something out.

The D2 had a blast! It was a close game, and D Wade took it over for the home team. Even a non basketball fan (like Wifey) can appreciate watching him play. He's the best, in my opinion, since Jordan.

D1's old dance group, Jill Mallory, performed pre game, and she reunited with her old teacher, Miss Kim. She loved it.

I was a tad more interested in the Heat Dancers, a group of, um, non appearance challenged young women.

I dropped D1 off at a friend's in Coral Gables, and D2 and I headed for home. D2 is still sleeping, and I'm taking D1 out for a bit of "retail therapy" to combat the pressure of her last college semester.

I'm DONE with basketball for the year.

The Canes football team is in Spring practice. Bring THEM on.

Classic Faux Pas

Wifey often tells me she's impressed at how I always seem to say the right thing at the right time, in contrast to her tendency (inherited from her parents) to do just the opposite. Well, earlier this week, I managed to show a fine example of foot in mouth disease.

Dr. Eric called me as I was driving home, telling me he had "his favorite medical student" with him in his office, and they were on speaker phone. He told me that he needed Dr. Barry's cell number, to call on this young lady's behalf.

It seems, he said, that after spending several weeks seeing cranky, elderly patients in his Delray Beach cardiology practice, "she was certain she wanted to train as a pediatrician" and Dr. Eric figured Dr. Barry would be the perfect mentor.

The insidious analogy percolated in my brain, and I blurted out: "Ha! I fully understand. I guess it's like when a woman dates all the wrong guys, it's enough to turn her into a lesbian!"

There was a nervous chuckle on the phone, and I then gave them Dr. Barry's number.

I spoke to Dr. Eric last night, and brought up my improper comment. "Well," he said, "I wasn't going to tell you, but by her appearance, I'm pretty certain that the student is, in fact, gay."

I smacked my forehead and said "D'Oh" just like Homer Simpson. What a putz I was to say what I did. I felt awful.

I spoke t Dr. Barry, and he had had a conversation with the young lady. She didn't bring anything up about the call, and Barry said she sounded delightful, and he hoped she'd be coming to his program in a few years.

As for me, I'll have to rein in my words --something that becomes increasingly harder to do as one ages.

Soon, Wifey and I can go to parties and insult people left and right!

Unconditional Love

My friend and office roommate Joel has a friend named Mendy, who's an orthodox Jewish lawyer. Joel, an Italian who grew up in Pinecrest but went to law school in New York, met him at the Public Defender's office. He calls him, affectionately, Mendy the Jew, or just "The Jew."

So the Jew came over yesterday to meet some big shot Colombian drug lord, who he and Joel hoped to represent. The fellow never showed, but the Jew and I got to talking. He's a great guy --very thoughtful and articulate, and despite living in an orthodox community on Miami Beach, considers Joel his best friend.

The Jew got married last year, for the first time, at 37. He married the sister of a client, who was only 23 and a beauty. They met while the Jew represented the family in the tragic case of a near drowning of a 4 year old girl, now the Jew's niece, and the dramatic aftermath involving, sadly, my dear friend Dr. Barry. But that's not the point here...

The Jew's wife just gave birth to a baby girl. Mendy told me that, at 38, he's learning about love for the first time. As he drove his wife and baby home from the hospital, he kept getting angry at the cars on the road that dared get too close.

The baby is just a week old, and already the Jew feels a joy he never imagined.

I get it, I told him. There's nothing I've found on this earth like the unconditional love we have for our children.

When they hurt, we hurt more. When they soar, well --I don't know what's better.

I told the Jew the best was yet to come. The first time he comes home and his daughter recognizes him and smiles --well, he's finished.

He asked whether I had kids. I told him I had baby girls, too, but somehow they were now 21 and 18.

The older one is due home tomorrow for her final college Spring break, and I can't wait to spoil her. She loves retail therapy, and there's a new boutique that opened nearby. I just got a debit card from Hyundai, to thank me for leasing their product. The card has D1's name all over it.

D2 can't wait to see her sister (and her puppy). Nest year at this time, D2 will be the one coming home for Spring Break, while D1 is working on her Master's degree.

And Wifey and I will look upon them and smile. Mendy the Jew is just starting the journey of his lifetime. I'm glad he knows and appreciates the fact, and has opened his heart to it.