Feelin'Stoopid

I know I'm a bit of an intellectual snob. I tend to value those with education and a sense of what's going on in the world over their, well, stupider cousins. I inherited this from my father, who was always impressed with those who were smart, more than those who were rich or famous.

My father wasn't into sports, except for following baseball with me in NY and then football in Miami, but he certainly never thought dumb jocks were anything other than, well, dumb.

Despite this snobbery, I became friends with two fellows years ago. The first I met when we were both fathers of kindergarten kids, and he introduced me to his friend.

The second fellow was kind enough to refer some clients to my law firm, and that was the basis of a period of the three of us palling around together. I'll say that these 2 fellows were cops, because that's what they are, and the rest of my friends used to marvel at my ability to spend a lot of time with these two.

We did have sports in common, but that was it. Whenever the three of us were together, the time consisted of trying to out fart each other, even in the presence of our wives, and other friends.

There WAS some business good, however, and this is a reason I kept the acquaintances going. Over time, though, we all drifted apart, although the two cops stayed together, doing things like riding motorcross bikes and watching Ultimate Fighting together. I had zero interest in these things.

Well, yesterday morning we had a reunion, and met for breakfast. The two of them went on and on about such silliness, but they spoke loud and arrogantly. One told me proudly, how he threatened a stock broker who had lost him money, and was now banned from both the brokerage and a gym where they used to work out. There was another tale about how the two were at a country music concert and one of them proclaimed loudly how great it was that there were "no Latins there," which nearly resulted in a melee and arrests.

I sat and listened, thinking about how my partner used to say to me "I don't know how you take being around these two. Leave it to you --Mr. Chameleon."

I left the restaurant, and felt that I was actually stupider than I was before the meeting. I always joke with the Ds that when they watch reality TV, like "Housewives of New Jersey," I can actually see their IQs dropping. I felt the same yesterday about myself.

There were some laughs with these two fellows. We travelled together, and sometimes the wise ass quips were hilarious.

But, I'm not a blue collar guy, and though I grew up with plenty of blue collar guys, I guess I have to be true to myself that I just don't fit in there.

Friday night, I met another friend for drinks. He's a lawyer and former Air Force pilot. We talked about college football, of course (he's a major Gator fan) but also about politics, and our daughters.

Yesterday, I tried to talk about our kids with, as one friend calls them, Dumb and Dumber, and they quickly changed the subject. I guess the kids are the worry of the wives, in their world...

I told Wifey about this, and she also wondered how I ever hung with these guys. I also think part of it is my growing irascibility. I have patience for fewer and fewer folks socially, regardless of their sophistication.

Still, one of my mentors in life, a retired UM professor and true polymath, always advised spending time with those who elevate you, not the opposite.

That hit home hard, yesterday morning.

Summa D2!

Wifey and I went to the Palmetto High awards dinner last night. We knew D2 was going to be recognized for high academics, but the 2nd to last award, Magna Cum Laude seniors, was given out, and D2's name wasn't called.

But then the principal, Mr. Weiner, a Ben Stein look and sound alike, announced the highest, the SUMMA CUM LAUDE graduates, and D2 was the first name called. Wifey and I were so proud. She bounced up to the stage, and took her place at the highest level of her high school class.

They no longer rank the students, but one of D2's friends had some inside scoop: D2 was number 25 out of 780 graduates. We were amazed.

My three closest friends from LAw School are Mike, Jeff, and Norman. Mike's daughter was also Summa, and was honored last night. Jeff's girl was summa in her high school, and Norman's boy, an award winning musician, is headed off to a top music program for his education.

I had breakfast with Norman this morning, and reflected that, when we all met in 1983, who could have known that the 4 of us would prove such able sperm donors...

Wifey and I didn't plan it this way, but the Ds ended up 4 grades apart. So, this had been our finest Spring of all time, with D1 finishing college, and D2 completing her high school career.

Our cups runneth over with these two girls.

As usual, the Yiddish language provides the better word to describe my feelings: kvelling. It mean, literally to burst, but truly stands for the pride one feels at his children's accomplishments.

Jerry Garcia sang to us that when life looks like Easy Street there is danger at your door. I don't doubt it --there will be sadness and disappointment --no doubt.

But for now, Wifey and my life's work --the Ds --well, they're simply the best. We love and adore them, and would even if they were at the bottom of their classes, or not even in classes.

Their successes -- mighty big cherries on top of ice cream sundaes...

Son of Nebbish

When I was in high school, the real life bogeyman was the serial killer David Berkowitz, the "Son of Sam." He'd kill young couples who were making out in cars.

Although he never killed anyone on LI, during his spree our lover's lane activities were severely retricted. I was even ticketed at Cedar Creek Park by a zealous Nassau County cop. He jumped out of the bushes at my date and I, in my car, and said "Dumb ass --don't you read the news???!!!"

I did after that, and followed the arrest and trial of the psychopath, who supposedly took orders from a labrador retriever. He was the embodiment of all the slasher movies we saw --a true menace.

This morning, I read a piece in the Times about a sleazy NY lawyer named Mark Heller --a real credit to my profession. But that's another story. The story had a link to a prison interview with the evil Son of Sam, as Heller apparently represented him at the initial trial, and later in a case involving the selling of the killer's property. The interview was on video.

I prepared to see Hannibal Lector on camera, or at least some slick talker like Ted Bundy. Instead, Berkowitz looked like a retired mailman --bald and paunchy, and totally un threatening!

The reporter talked casually to him in a room, and the only sign of a guard was a sweet looking middle aged black lady who miked Berkowitz for sound.

Berkowitz was lucid, and talked of his Christianity, and how he took it as a sign from God that the sleazy lawyer helped him with his case.

It reminded me of the time I deposed a man who had admitted to murdering 7 people, when he was a member of the Temple of Love cult. The killer, Robert Rozier, was articulate, charming, and glib, as he causually answered my civil suit questions about hunting down "white devils" in suburban Miami, stabbing them, and then cutting off their ears to bring home as trophies.

But -- at least Rozier was physically menacing --he was a former Cal and NFL linebacker, and I was comforted that 3 US Marshalls, each looking like Nebraska offensive lineman, sat at his side as he was deposed.

Berkowitz, in appearance? The middle aged lady guard could have kicked his ass!

I guess it's just the example of the banality of evil. Monsters can be, often are, nebbishes.

The young people the creep shot aren't any less dead, given their murderer is such a schlemiel. I wonder about this justice thing...

Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay

Last week I had lunch with Bob, my old investigator, now retired. I asked him what he did, now that he wasn't working. His terrific reply: "Not a damn thing, and it takes me all day to do it!"

That describes this Thursday for me. I have absolutely nothing going on at the office, so it seemed silly to drive Downtown.

D1's puppy woke me at 4, and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went downstairs to greet D1, just coming in! She and some friends went to Viv, "The" club on Miami Beach, and had a fine girls' night out, it seems. As we were chatting, we got a big "shush!" from D2, trying to sleep in the next room. At least ONE member of this family still has to be somewhere early in the day!

I went back to sleep, and woke up to see a turgid Basset Hound. Poor thing --she was moving slower than usual, and that's saying something! I think she has a bug of some type, or maybe some arthritis. She refuses to say...

Then my friend John called, asking if the Ds and I could have dinner with him and his daughter, to try to sell her on UF. Poor girl --her Mom died of melanoma 2 years ago, and I know it can't be easy for a teenaged girl to lose her mom. John'd doing a heroic job, and his girl is doing well at school. I told him D1 and I would meet them at 6 (D2 is going to a play). That sealed it --it was fated that I stay home today!

Wifey went to the YMCA, and met her dramatic friend Maureen, our doctor's wife. Wifey threw up yesterday for the first time since she was 14. Maureen told her to IMMEDIATELY get her blood drawn, because "it sounds like you might have been poisoned!!!!"

Well, I guess if I get charged with attempted First Degree Murder --that'll give me something to do. And, my office roommate, a crack criminal defense guy, is back from Africa, where he shot Horton the elephant. So I got that going for me...

So --just waiting for the mail to arrive. I remember that was a major part of my Dad's routine when he retired, even though there was rarely anything of importance. He and his friend Sam would take turns walking to the building mail boxes, and use semiphore to signal each other whether the mail was in...

I'm giving it until the end of this year, and then, with D2 away at college, and D1 esconced in Graduate School, I really must find something worthwhile to do.

Or better --Wifey can go to work. If she survives the attempts on her life...

People Through The Years

I was ordering contact lenses yesterday, and I had to phone the company where I get them. The perky (I always think of Lou Grant's "I HATE perky") customer rep asked for my phone number, and I gave her my office phone. "Oh," she said, is this Ana Garcia?"

I laughed. Ana was one of our firm's secretaries years ago, and she must have used the office phone number to order HER contacts as well. I told the rep that Ana had moved to LA years ago, and she corrected the account. But then I began to think...

My firm will turn 16 in November, and we've had a large number of people come and go. Mirta has been with us a decade, and will be there when the doors close. Norma and Andrea were there at the beginning, and stayed all through the golden period (when we were making money!) and then, wisely, jumped ship when they realized the voyage was going to end.

As much as I downplay the significance of our firm, I guess I have to admit we were an important part of folks' lives, even if just for a brief time.

When Norma started with us, she was a debt -ridden, single Mom. Paul and I paid off her credit cards, and made her cut them up, except for one. As we paid her bonuses, we treated her like a member of the family, giving her financial advice and guidance.

She's told me over the years how much that's meant to her, and I understand.

I guess I've always felt it was a "pay it forward" type of thing. I grew up on tales of my father's boss, Mr. Morris Katz. He was a powerful and scary man. When he died, I remember he warranted several columns in the NY Times obit section.

But, I was told, when my parents wanted to buy their first house, my Dad went to Mr. Katz, and asked for a loan. My Dad was pretty new at the firm, and Mr. Katz might have told him to go pound sand. Instead, Mr. Katz said yes, and my parents bought their dream, a 3/2 split level on Long Island, a house that truly became my family's home for 17 years.

The tale of Mr. Katz always resonated with me, and throught the years, as my father became more succesful as a salesman, and Mr. Katz more crochety and tough to deal with, my father never entertained thoughts of leaving the company, because of Mr. Katz's trust in him, back in 1962.

I guess I always hoped to emulate that as well...

We were very generous with Ana, although my partner's difficult personality in those years probably contributed to a nerve-related hospitalization! Ana was a great secretary, and would have lasted for years, but her daughter had dreams of attending college in LA, where Ana grea up, and, being an old school Cuban Mom, Ana moved the whole family there to make it happen.

I think the daughter ended up getting accepted into community college, and I don't know if she even finished. I haven't spoken to Ana for years. She called Mirta some years ago and asked for a loan. I strongly advised Mirta against it, and Mirta thanks me even today that she didn't send the money --Ana would likely never paid her back.

I hope she's doing well, of course, and assume she found another vendor for her contact lenses.

Food Issues

Today's Times Obit section has 2 prominent entries: both lawyers who went on to different careers. The first fellow, Lamotta, died at 67 of a heart attack. He was the inventor of the Chipwich, the delicious ice cream sandwich Wifey and I used to buy in the 80s.

The second lawyer, whose name I forgot, because he's not the cousin of a famous boxer, died at 72, also of a heart attack. He left the Law and became a proponent of "healthy eating." I assume he didn't advocate chipwiches. Was a presumably acetic life worth an additional 5 years? I guess you'd have to have asked them.

Last week, I was relaying the story of my father's death to my law partner Paul. Paul's turning 60 soon, so to cheer him up, I reminded him that my father died at 63. As I told the tale, a detail I knew but never thought about became clear: my father's last meal was fish.

He hated fish. My Dad was a classic meat and potatoes guy. To him, a good corned beef sandwich was food heaven. Still, at the doctor's office on the day he died, the idiot Internist, Jules Heller, told him he ought to eat more fish. My Dad listened, and at the cafeteria where he had what turned out to be his final meal, he ordered fish.

Ironically, he enjoyed his final meal less than a condemned man would have! Oh well...

That said, I'm still watching my carbs, and continuing to lose weight. I have pizza (my favorite) every once in awhile, but I've been trying to stick more to chicken and salads. But not all the time. Every once in awhile, there's a chipwich with my name on it...

Porcelain Menagerie

Wifey always loved Amanda Wingfield's character. Her friends Rosie and Eileen both had Southern mothers, and said they always reminded her of that great Williams creation. I guess Wifey's growing up in Brooklyn, surrounded by the less than melodic NY, Yiddish accents, she always loved the sound of Southern belles.

Of course, Amanda's line to her emotionally crippled daughter was to hope for "gentlemen callers," chivalrous young men who would come and spirit young Laura away from the malaise of her sad existence.

Well, we've had a couple of fine young men sniffing around our Ds lately. Wifey and I like both of them, and are thrilled our Ds seem to have great taste in men.

Our girls have heard us talk, ad nauseum, about the poor consequences of choosing the wrong life partners, and it seems they have heeded our advice. Neither D has brought home a date that caused me to think about summoning my inner Tony Soprano. I hope this continues. I'm pretty sure it will.

This morning was a particularly pleasant one. I went out and got bagels, nova, and some French pastries. Wifey, the Ds, and their two fine young men and I sat around, laughing and telling tales. I had DirecTV's "Rat Pack" station playing in the background. The two large dogs slept on the dining room rug; the spoiled puppy slept on Wifey's lap.

I toasted D1's graduation and the upcoming graduations of D2 and her boyfriend. Wifey shared that she had just read an article that said that a key to a happy family is toasting and acknowledging the positive milestones that come along. I've always thought this was crucial.

The four younguns have plans tonight. D1 and Thomas are headed to a UF graduation party; D2 and Michael are headed to a friend's theme party: "CEOs and Office Hos." Wifey smirked at this until we reminded her that "CEO" was gender neutral...

Wifey and I? Maybe we'll go see the new Michael Caine movie --a British "Gran Torino," apparently.

In the meantime, we'll bask a bit in the glow of our girls' fine choices.

Bubble Boy

Several months ago, Dr. Barry invited me to attend an event for TILLIKIDS, an organization that provides hospice care to terminally ill children and their families. I have already deconstructed the utter misery of this heroic organization, but, as usual, a Seinfeldian issue related to them cropped up.

At the cocktail party, which was called to honor Barry's partner Patti being named medical director of TILLIKIDS, they held a raffle. I bought 20 $1 tickets, and, not surprisingly (I seem to often win stuff like this), my ticket was called.

The prize was for 10 free facials at a swank day spa, that typically charges $90 per facial. They have offices in Ocean Reef and South Miami. The raffle called gleefully announced that the prize had a value of $900.

I came home and gave it to Wifey, figuring that she and the Ds would each get 3 facials. They were very excited. Wifey called the spa, and began what turned into 5 months of a runaround.

First the director called and said she was backed up, and then the "free facials" had to be booked 1 month in advance, and finally, that she was "taking off the month of April," so she should be contacted in May.

Wifey, when confronted by an issue she deems unjust, or a ripoff, is relentless. In fact, a pit bull would have abandoned the quest for the raffle winnings after a month or two --not Wifey! She dutifully kept emailing and calling the spa director, and increased her efforts after D1 returned from Gainesville, thinking correctly that a spa day for the three of them would be a delightful mother/daughter outing.

The spa owner, who I'll call Samantha, since that's her name, remained elusive. Even though May was the time she told Wifey she'd schedule the facials, her message box was full, and she rarely answered her emails. Finally, Wifey wrote a terse email about being frustrated that the facials couldn't be scheduled. Last night she got a reply.

Samantha wrote that her teenaged son has a "serious, incurable disease," and Samantha could no longer offer the facials.

Now, I'm hoping that her boy has diabetes, or alcoholism, but she didn't say.

All I know is that Wifey felt awful. Her quest for a fun day out turned into a frivolous request to a woman apparently dealing with much bigger issues.

Wifey wrote, one last time --telling her she wished Samantha had told her from the beginning that she was having problems, so Wifey wouldn't have kept after her, and, more importantly, that we wished her and her son well.

The great philosopher Roseann Roseanadanna said it best: "It's always something."

All I know is, I'm not going to enter any more raffles for a long, long time.

The Great Santini

Today's Herald Sports section had an interesting story today, about a FIU baseball player with a very long hitting streak. The student/player's father is a Miami Beach orthopedic surgeon, and the father apparently hounded and pushed the son mercilessly, which now accounts for the young man's "bullet proof" mental status.

I met the doctor years ago. I thought he was a jerk. He's at best a third rate surgeon --not even the best at Mt. Sinai, a hospital NOT famous for their orthopedics. Now, after learning about his parenting skills, I also know he's a prick.

The article said that the doc was never an athlete, and knew very little about baseball. But, he learned, and even built a concrete wall in his back yard, to teach his son not to "bail out" when inside pitches came. As the son grew, the father would go to ball games, and yell and pace during the whole game, so that his wife admitted she made believe she wasn't with him.

The son, in the article, said he had a "love-hate" relationship with his father. Seems to me there shouldn't be any "hate" part in those relationships.



I remember being in Little League, nearly 40 years ago, and observing these types of parents. They all seem convinced their sons would become the next Pete Rose. None of them did, but I'm sure many ended up in psychologists' offices, trying to undue this early damage.

Maybe the young FIU player will make it to the big show. Probably not. He does have a chance at breaking the college hitting streak record. He already won the award to for having the team's worst father.

Nobody Wishes Me a Happy Mother's Day

I got in the mood for today's holiday on Friday. I called Bob, my law firm's investigator. He's a terrific hardboiled guy, retired FHP Trooper, born and raised in NYC. He's half Irish and half Italian (a "mixed marriage" when his parents got hitched).

Bob married a Filipina years ago, and, after a financial windfall, decided to retire to her native land, to live like a king. It lasted 3 months. Apparently his in laws decided THEY should live like kings, too, with their American relative's money. And, I think the third world annoyances grew too much for Bob.

Luckily, he and his wife kept their PEmbroke Pines townhouse, so repatriating wasn't too big of a deal.

Anyway --Bob wished me an early Happy Mother's Day, since, as he said, "Dave --the truth is, you are a MOTHER F####R just like I am!" I'm meeting him for lunch tomorrow, and look forward to hearing his tales of the South Pacific.

As for the ACTUAL mother's in my life: we're heading to my in laws to take them to lunch. Last year, we visited my mother, and then made it a double header by visiting Wifey's on the same day. I've decided this year that two octos plus a nono are too much for me to take. We sent flowers to my mom, and I'll see her during the week,

Fortunately, my sister and brother in law are back from a vacation, and they'll take her out today. My in laws await Wifey, D2, and me. D1 is cruising in the Bahamas with some friends, and she gets a pass.

As for MY baby momma, I toasted her 1/2 a bagel, made a fruit salad, and brewed her weak, overly sweet coffee, and brought them to her in bed, with the Sunday Times. "No, PLEASE," she said, "I need MORE SLEEP!" I left the Mother's Day bounty for her, and she woke up later and ate it.

So, all mothers are, for now, present and accounted for. And this motherf####r is off to read the Sunday Times himself.

Breakfast Meetings

Most folks like to meet friends for dinner or drinks. My favorite time to meet is breakfast.

I guess since college I've been that most annoying of all types of human --the morning person. I used to wake up very happy, and would actually walk around my apartment whistling or snapping my fingers. One morning, Dr. Barry --the opposite of a morning person, grabbed me and held me up against a wall, and said, in a controlled but sinister voice, that if I didn't quit the finger snapping, he'd kill me.

He's now assistant Chair of Pediatrics at UM, and cares for critically injured children.

SO I love the mornings, and meeting for breakfast.

Today I was supposed to meet my friend, but I knew it wouldn't go forward. We always plan to meet for coffee, and though he's been unemployed for 15 years, something always comes up. Today it was a sick child.

I quit inviting him out last year, until Wifey told me "how much it means to him" that I keep asking, even though we rarely make it to the actual coffee drinking stage of the procedure. So I call, and we set a date, and it doesn't happen.

Today it was just as well --I got to make breakfast for D1, her beloved "Daddy eggs," and we chatted happily, my granddog on her lap.

Tomorrow am I have plans to meet Vince, another old college friend. He never cancels, but rarely has the time to get together. He's on wife number 3, and this one, the best, came with 2 daughters and a sick mother, and Vince always seems pulled to do something for one of them, along with his own 2 kids.

He loves and adores his new family, as well as his two biological kids, and he's far more of a father to his stepgirls than their own Dad is. But any weekend we try to make plans, he has to shuttle one or the other. Hopefully tomorrow he'll get to enjoy a free Saturday morning.

Not me --I have loads of free time, especially in the morning. Our caseload at the firm is laughably low, so there are virtually no hearings in court. The Ds have been self sufficient for years.

Maybe I need to develop a new crop of morning buddies...

Home again...I like to be here when I can

D1 and Wifey cruised back to town yesterday, so know all four of us are here together again. It's funny, though --when your daughters become grown women, or nearly, there also tend to be young men sniffing around, too, and D2's fine boyfriend has been here a lot lately.

Last night, I stopped and picked up Canton on my way home. Wifey and I used to eat there all the time when we were first dating, and we're still loyal customers of the always good, never changing food.

We sat in the living room, Wifey, the Ds, D2's boyfriend Michael and I, and chatted happily about D1's graduation and the coming college careers of the high school seniors.

Wifey was, as usual, the butt of their loving barbs and jokes. She HAS become more Mr. Magoo-like over the past several years. Apparently, on the way home from Gainesville yesterday, D1 thought there was a reasonable chance that Wifey would miss the unmissable Turnpike entrance, and reprise her legendary bungled directions of last year, when she drove from Miami to Gainesville via Tampa (leaving out only Key West, Jacksonville, and Pensacola on her circumnavigation of Florida).

Alas, she made the right turn (or actually lack of a turn) and made it here in 5.5 hours. Wifey good naturedly accepts the jibes.

I defended her, reminding the Ds how one of D1's roommates, left motherless as a child (the rare Jewish mom who lammed it on 2 toddlers) adores Wifey, and would give anything to have a mother like her. I saw it over the last trip: Lauren lit up when Wifey came into the cottage, and embraced her warmly.

The Ds backed off Wifey a bit after that, although took up again when the subject of bathing suits came up...

So, our house is properly full for now. Wifey and D1 are sleeping late; D2 is off taking her 2nd of 5 AP exams, as she winds down her high school career. The dogs have been fed, and our granddog Madeleine, who spend the night sleeping on my pillow, above my head, is now somewhere about the house, looking for socks or underwear to vandalize.

I know it's only for awhile, though. D2 is chomping at the bit to start UF and move to Gainesville; D1 is looking forward to moving to an apartment with a fellow Gator grad, and commencing grad school.

That'll leave just Wifey and me. I'll do all the driving.

Last Dance With Mary Jane

I just returned from a banner weekend, and decided to recount the tale in reverse order.

D2 and I drove back from Gainesville in D1's little BMW. My head was scraping the sunroof cover, but it's a real fun car to drive. D2 slept from Gainesville to Orlando, while I chatted with my California sister. It was a nice way to pass the time and the stretch of road with all the creepy anti-abortion signs. My favorites are the ones that try to pander to Blacks -- telling them that abortion is a type of genocide that whites impose on them. Of course --the signs don't refer anyone to places where these creeps are clamoring to adopt all of the unwanted inner city babies. But despite raising my blood pressure a bit, I refuse to let these morons dampen my mood...

D2 woke around Orlando, and we stopped for some Mexican food and gas. Ha! We resumed our Turnpike trek, and D2 studied while playing D2 with D1's IPOD. We blasted terrific 70s and 80s music, and I gave D2 short backround talks on Meat Loaf, Pink Floyd, Guns N Roses, and the best thing to come out of Gainesville until now (more on that in a second) Tom Petty.

We were coming from Gainesville, because D1 graduated UF!!!!!! Yay. We're so proud.

The ceremony was held at the O'Connell Center, and 1/2 of the College of Arts and Sciences majors attended this event. It was over one thousand Gator hatchlings.

There were no guest speakers --we figured because of the format of splitting the event into so many separate times and venues. The Dean and Provost gave the expected "The Future is Your Oyster" talks, and then all of the grads walked across the stage to get their handshakes (the diplomas are mailed later).

D1 was beaming! And so were we! We went with boyfriend Thomas to Mother's a great wing and beer place, and had the first toast. In the evening, we went to a new upscale (absurdly expensive wine list) Italian place, and toasted again. And ate.

Friday night, Wifey and I drove to Orlando, to fetch D1 from Grad Night at Disney. We had a fine dinner with our friend Elizabeth, who happily killed the time with us until 11 pm. We walked around Lake Eola in Orlando, and talked of times past, and to come.

After we fetched D2, and another Palmetto senior leaving Grad Night early, to watch his sister graduate UF, off we went. A large coffee and Red Bull kept me awake as I made the midnight run to Gainesville.

At D1's apartment, we hugged and said goodbye to her 2 roommates, the Laurens. One Lauren is moving back to South Florida, to hopefully work for a synagogue, as she starts her quest to become a rabbi. The other Lauren has acceptances to Grad School in Philly and Plantation, and she and her boyfriend are deciding which to pick (he's waiting to hear from FIU Law).

It was happy and sad to watch them all pack. It of course brought me back in my mind to 1983, also in May. After my roommates had left, I sat on our vinyl couch, in apartment 22 Z, and reflected on the past 3 1/2 years. I had become a man, but sadly because of my father's early death. I'm happy to report D1 had no similar event!

Tonight, Wifey remains in Gainesville, and she and D1 will be giving away some furniture, and packing up the SUV for the return to Miami. D2 and her boyfriend are studying --they both have 5 AP exams over the next 2 weeks, so my house retains a bit of academic tension.

But the real heroine is D1. As I said to her at dinner, one with a jaundiced eye might think it's no big deal for her to graduate college. Money wasn't an issue for her, and she lives a "privileged" life. As I told her, I know what bullshit that is.

She had plenty to overcome, including illness, heartbreak, and, I shudder to recall it: a car wreck that wasn't too far removed from tragic.

She overcame, and triumphed. As she beamed, in her gown and mortar board, Wifey and D2 and I beamed along with her.

I'll never say the following in the plural, and certainly never wish well to the football team, but for my precious girl, I will write, probably just once, and again in 4 years, for D2: Go Gator!

Love,

Dad