Having the Pack Together

D2 moved to NYC in September, and hasn't been home to the 305 in nearly 4 months. We've visited her twice in that time, but there's nothing as great as having her here -- especially when she and D1 both stay over. That's happening now. Yesterday we hosted a brunch to meet D1's boyfriend Joey's family, and as expected, they were terrific folks. Jackie, Joey's Mom was there, with her three boys and one (so far) daughter in law, Vera. Joey's Dad was at work -- they recently bought a franchise of green, dry cleaners, and Sunday is the day he does his organization. We'll meet him at another time. Joey's family are Colombian Jews, and they first moved to Cincinnati when they came to the US. They were the only Latinos in their class, and the boys were welcomed because of their supposed soccer prowess. Roberto, the oldest, was called "The Brazilian" -- close enough, it seemed, for the clueless Ohioans... We ate at a lovely table set by Wifey, and talked of wonderful things. Vera, a Jewish Peruana, is also a research scientist at the U, and she regaled us with tales of keeping stem cell colonies alive -- the Ds wondered if they were like so many puppies... Vera is half Ashkenazi and half Sephardic, and her new husband Roberto, fully Sephardic, makes fun of her Ashkenazi ways...It seems the major difference to me is rice -- the Sepharads consider it a holy food, and to our Eastern European folks, it is something foreign... D2's man Jonathan was a no show, unfortunately, as he brought home a nasty virus from NYC. He's on the mend, and the Ds and their men are double dating tonight -- they can talk Venezuela versus Colombia -- which, near as I can tell, is sort of like NY versus New Jersey... No talk of marriages yet, but this lucky man would be absurdly lucky to have this pair of South American Jewish men as sons in law -- even if they'd rather watch soccer than real football. Jonathan is a Heat fan, too, and I think Joey might tolerate some roundball... After the company left, the Ds and Wifey and a surplus of dogs all assumed their posts on the family room couch, and it was sacred to me. I flash back to them as adorable toddlers somehow grown into beautiful women. Wifey was 26 when I met her -- between the Ds' ages, and somehow now my baby girls are women, too. D2 went to a get together at her lifelong friend Amanda's house -- daughter of my law school best friend Mike -- and came home late to share her room with D1. We still keep posted a drawing D1 did in kindergarten, in which she was asked to draw her "favorite thing to sleep with." She drew a little girl and a smaller one next to her -- her favorite thing to sleep with was her baby sister -- and 22 years on, little has changed. So we walk towards 2016, and there's no better way for me to celebrate it. Wifey and I celebrate our 29th anniversary on January 3, so the holiday season for us is always packed --wifey's birthday on December 25th, New Year's Eve, and then our anniversary. D1's man is heading to Utah to snowboard, and he asked D1 to come along, but she's politely begging off the zero degree temps, and reminded him she's starting her business right after the New Year. D2 and Jonathan have South Beach plans. Wifey and I are undecided. There's a great nightclub in Little Havana called Ball and Chain, and they have Tito Puente, Jr playing. I tried to entice some friends to go, but they've begged off so far. I posted a not about it on FaceBook, and the owner, who is the friend of a friend, personally invited us, so we'll see. However we ring in 2016, I am one cool, lucky Daddy in the USA.

Into Each Life Some Excrement Must Fall

So Wifey and I had a great trip to the Left Coast -- saw my nephew Henry and his wife Valerie, and my sister Sue. The 5 of us toured great wineries in Sonoma and Napa, and then spent three rainy but still great days in Half Moon Bay, where Steely Dan would have written, the Asian gentlemen sleep all day. We ate and drank exceptionally well, and took the red eye home yesterday am. I went to the office to toss out the last of 2015's junk mail, and returned to two flooded toilets and a bathtub with an inch of brown water. I'm no handy man, but Wifey is truly clueless --thinking it a bad coincidence that two toilets went on the blink at the same time! I explained it was a systemic problem -- a back up somewhere -- and called Smith Septic, one of my favorite companies. It's owned by Wendell Smith, now near 80, who has the sense of humor required of one who has literally dealt with shit for his entire career. The message was cheerful but upsetting -- they close EVERY year before Christmas through New Year's, but recommend emergencies call A Above All, their Homestead neighbor. I did, and Ken answered right away -- he could come by first thing next am. He called at 7 having just serviced his biggest customer -- the Fountainbleau on the Beach. He told me that baby wipes are a property owner's nightmare but a plumber's dream -- they clog the pumping stations and keep him busy. We recognized each other -- Ken had been out over 10 years ago to pump sludge out of the bottom of my fish pond -- Wendell Smith referred him -- as his company has the most powerful trucks. Ken is a little fellow -- maybe just 5 feet -- and also possessed of the great sense of humor required of a long career in the doody field. He opened our clean out, and put down first a high pressure hose, and later a metal snake. Sure enough -- some white paper products -- maybe feminine -- sloshed out into the septic tank. He had me flush toilets, and joy and flowing water returned to Villa Wifey. But not so fast... he said the reason for the clog was probably roots making their way into the line -- truly fixing the problem would take digging and cost $575. The pump out was only $150. I was going to have Ken return Sunday, but remembered D1's boyfriends parents are coming over to meet us, and having a septic guy there might not give the finest appearance. So we made a date for the following Sunday -- which happens to be Wifey and my 29th anniversary. I figure the symbolism is too perfect -- she's been puttnig up with my crap all these years, why not have a guy over who keeps the literal type flowing where it should. So the end of the year approaches, and for now, we have working plumbing. As it should be. Enjoying the greater things, and dealing with the excrement -- isn't that, at end, all it's about?

Bereft Equals Deprived

I spoke with a friend last night, and she was so empty of feeling, so sad, and even morose, I struggled for words. I came up with bereft, and its secondary meaning, which is deprived, as in deprived of feeling. She's dealing with a sick family member, and not the kind of sickness that either gets cured or ends swiftly in death. Rather, it goes on and on, like a years long tsunami, pulling all in its path to waste and ruin. What do you tell someone in that place? The sun will come out tomorrow? Truthfully, as bad as things are, they're only getting worse? Of course, for those who believe in the Big Man, there is an answer. Seek comfort in God, God has a plan, let things flow, there is a reason for all of this, but you can't see it now. I envy my truly religious friends, like Rabbi Yossi. He truly seems to know, in his heart and head, that the reason for ALL we see and hear and feel on this earth is because God says so. When I asked him the cliched question, about why our benevolent Creator allows us suffering, he offers the example of the toddler nearing a busy street. His father grabs him, maybe even gives him a spank, and says NO! To the toddler, who can't comprehend what's truly good for him, this admonition seems only mean and cruel -- let me go where I choose. Later, the toddler will realize his father/God was doing what was best for him. I don't know. I question so much about the whole thing. I do feel who I am, a Jew, and love the symbolism in our religion. Right now, it's Chanukah, and last night I wished the light of the menorah would brighten the darkness my friend is surrounded by. She was telling me she wanted to move, to change everything -- I offered practical advice: don't make permanent life choices when faced with a temporary crisis. But the crisis, sadly, isn't temporary. A sick relative can drain the colors out of all of life's paintings. All appears gray, and I, at least, am powerless to bring back the brightness. Still, tonight I'll turn the electric bulb on, for the third night of Chanukah. The luminosity, like chicken soup to a head cold, at least can't hurt.

Holiday Decorations

And so soon starts Chanukah...and what have you done? Yes, the Festival of Lights begins tomorrow, and the laborious task of decoration falls on me, as Wifey is not into it. So I have to walk all the way to the corner of the garage, dust off the electric menorah, which has great sentimental value, but I can't remember what it is, dust it off, plug it in by the window, and remember how many bulbs to nightly turn on. I'll fetch the regular menorah, too, and if D1 swings by, we'll actually light some candles and sing some songs. I think that menorah might have come from my mother, as I am the only one of three kids who cares about the Jewish holidays, but I don't recall that, either. Still, it's nice to see all the Christmas decorations around, in the stores, and in neighborhoods OTHER than Pinecrest, which seems to have so many Jews and RICH Christians for whom lights are declasse to really put on a good show. But when I drive through Kendall, and especially West Miami, and parts of town near the Gables, there are plenty of lights. Working class Cubans really seem to do it best... My Rabbi friend has invited us to the Falls, for a public menorah lighting, but I think Wifey and I will take a pasadena. We enjoyed these events when the Ds were little, but now Chanukah means only Wifey and the Ds buying themselves gifts and telling me they're from me. I have zero problem with that, as jewelry to me sort of all looks the same. Apparently I hit it right this year with Wifey's bracelet, which will serve as her Chanukah, birthday, AND, maybe anniversary gift, though the last is still under negotiation. December 25th is, of course, the shining height of the season, the day we celebrate the birth of our savior, the one we worship, and whose grace brings light to all of us: Wifey. We usually celebrate by going to a movie, but this year, we're going to lunch instead of dinner at Tropical Chinese, since D2 is arriving on an evening flight from NYC. So D1, her boyfriend Joey, and Wifey and I will head over for some dim sum. I invited Dr. Barry, who will be pulling his usual "I'm the only Jewish attending in the PICU so will take Xmas week" job, and he has said if the unit is quiet, he'll cruise the Dolphin to Palmetto and meet us for some lunch. And then comes New Year's Eve. The Ds and their boyfriends are all invited to the same big party in the Grove -- rich friends who are getting married the next day. Wifey and I haven't yet made plans, though I flirted with the idea of scoring some VIP tickets to see PitBull at the big Miami celebration at Bayfront Park, but the thought of slinky young Latinas twerking us as the hour of the rising Orange approached changed our minds...Wifey's mind, anyway... The Ds plans made me nostalgic for NYE of '86-'87. Wifey and I were to be married January 3rd, and so for NYE we had our "rehearsal dinner" at our tiny first house. My Mom and both sisters were there, as were my inlaws, who seemed at the time so old, and were actually very close to Wifey's age now. We brought in Chinese food, and most of our wedding party attended, and we ate and danced and "rehearsed" to the humorous script I had typed up, calling my Mom MOG (mother of groom) and my mother in law to be MOB (mother of bride). The following night, the Canes played Penn State for the National Championship, and my groomsmen gathered to watch, and eat the leftover Chinese food plus brought in pizzas. The Canes dominated, but Vinny Freaking Testaverde threw 4 picks, the last of which sealed the Canes loss. Several groomsmen looked up from their gloom and asked if I was going ahead with the wedding. Wifey didn't think that was funny. Well, we did, and the Canes won 4 more rings... So for us, the Holiday season starts with T Day, and goes through January 3, our anniversary. This year the number is 29. Nearly three decades. Time truly does fly. But that trusty menorah still lights...

Thanksgiving and 27 on 27 in NYC

So we left the big house and three small dogs in the care of Mirta, my sister of another mother, and D1, Wifey, and I were off to MIA. We set up shop in the Centurion Lounge, the new place AMEX gives to its customers, and it's really the only way to begin a journey -- open bar with premium drinks, gourmet food, etc... I had my share, and was feeling fine by the time we boarded the 737, although they took D1's bag at the plane entrance, explaining they would return it at the gate in NYC. They later changed their tune, sending us all to baggage retrieval, which was a mistake, as they in fact brought the bag planeside...D2's friend Ben heard our family name on the PA in LGA, some tensosity ensued, and the trip was off to a little mean start, mostly to my being a grouchy old dude. But, seeing D2, hugging her, and feeling the cooler NYC air, set things right. D1 stayed with her sister and D2's boyfriend Jonathan, and Wifey and I walked the few blocks to the Gansevoort Hotel. The name is Dutch for "We do, like all nice NY hotels, charge too much, but it could be worse." Thursday am I learned that coffee was not complementary, but they had an awesome 24 hour grocery called Bread and Butter right across the street, and they had fine java. We met up with Wifey's BFF Edna and her man Marc, in from Atlanta, and then were joined by Edna's girl Lauren, a NYC resident as well. We walked to D2's place, they gave the quick tour of their apartment, and then our group was off to T Day lunch. Wifey picked the Water Club, a big barge on the East River just a short walk from D2, and it reminded us all of the Rusty Pelican in Miami, although not tropical. We ate, drank, and were truly thankful for all our manifold blessings. After lunch we walked around, and waited for the night's festivities. Lauren hooked us up with reservations at the Comedy Cellar, a veritable place in the Village, and after a mix up with the number of us, as well as a glorious slice of NY pizza, we were seated and the show began. The Ds and Lauren and Jonathan were thrilled -- in the audience was an actor who plays McGlovin from "Super Bad," which Jonathan explained was THE movie that represents his generation's high school days. There were 4 comics, 2 very good, one boring, and the female one creepy -- telling strange abortion jokes and tales of losing weight, even though she was scarily skinny... The best of the lot was a black guy. Wifey later looked him up and learned he was raised in the Bronx Jewish, due to his step dad...Typical NY tale... Friday was the 27th, and D1's 27th birthday. We all ubered (in two cars, which I called TWO-ber) to Brooklyn to a restaurant in Brooklyn Heights called Friend of the Farmer. I was skeptical, as the place sounded to healthy and hipster, but in fact the food was amazing -- simple and delicious. I had a corn chowder and a tuna sandwich on some kind of multigrain bread. They brought out an apple pie a la mode with a candle for D1, and we sang and ate the pie -- more toasts to great things. Friday night we met D1's friend Sydney at a mussel place in the West Village, and then the Ds went out with her while Wifey and I headed back to the hotel for some time by the gas fireplace... Saturday was a day walking to Washington Square, and avoiding the drizzle -- we called it an early afternoon, and I watched college ball on TV while Wifey and Edna solved all world problems. Saturday night we went to Sammy's Romanian -- Ashkenazi soul food, and a hilarious DJ who sings and tells off color jokes, -- making fun of all there. Our group of 8 polished off 2 bottles of frozen Stoli. Marc drank the most, but not enough to try the chopped liver, which he claimed looked just like Alpo. It did, but was delicious. The ladies danced, and sang. Sammy's is essentially the best Bar Mitzvah anyone has ever attended -- music by a DJ who gets to tell dirty jokes. He changes the words of the standards ("It had to be Jew"), and everyone has a great time. Sunday the Ds shared smoothies, and Wifey led us to breakfast with Edna and Marc and Lauren. We said our goodbyes, and walked in the crisp, cool air to D2's place. We said goodbye to our temporary New Yorker, and were Ubered to LGA by a charming fellow from West Africa. So it was a fine trip -- the missions of giving Thanks over great food and celebrating D1's 27th were well accomplished. T Day starts off a busy time -- end of the year business stuff for me, Wifey and I headed to the Bay Area for a week with my Cali sister, and then, on the 25th, the day we all celebrate the birth of our savior -- Wifey. D2 is flying back XMAs night -- the best birthday gift Wifey could hope for. The Ds have joint New Year's plans -- Wifey and I have to figure that out -- and then on January 3 we celebrate 29 years of marriage. It's the most wonderful time of the year, as the song says, and we started it off right.

Peeved Pet

So last Friday Wifey left for Brickell, to spend the night with D1 so they could get an early start Saturday at the Wynwood Seed Festival. This was an event apparently sponsored by Whole Foods (I love when people call the company "Whole Paycheck") where D1 bought a booth to hawk her new Nutrition consulting business. After a long and tiring day, Wifey was too tired to drive home, and so spent Saturday night there as well. This meant I was responsible for two dogs, the fragile Spaniel, and the strange rescue dog. The strange dog, usually happy, is, to Wifey's observation, depressed. She's been peeing and crapping in the house, Wifey thinks, because the hot weather has prevented us from taking her on walks. All I know is, sure enough, Saturday am I came into the kitchen and was smacked in the face, frying pan-like, by the stench of fresh dog dropping. There's nothing as nice as cleaning it up before you have your morning coffee. And again, in the afternoon, there was more for me, when I returned from the Miami Book Fair. It's wearing thin. I really like dogs, but I'm starting to get over them. The truth is, if I lived alone, I would be dog-less. It'd be plenty for me to visit dogs at the Ds' places, without the hassle of caring for them, anymore. Unfortunately for me, as long as I live with Wifey, there WILL be dogs. This is non-negotiable with her -- she LOVES them, and they make her very happy. So I shall doggedly move on. Pet ownership gets a bit creepy, in my view, when the love people direct towards them replaces normal human interaction. I have a friend from LI who never had kids, and his cats became replacement kids. He talks about the stupid cat stories as if it was his child getting into MIT. Wifey points out that shows he's a warm person, deep down, but just one who is emotionally stilted towards other humans (Yoomans, as Wifey calls them). I guess... All I know is, as I age, and have less patience for people, I have less for pets, too. It's a good thing Wifey forces me to keep dogs. I could easily see myself becoming the mean old man, standing on my porch, shooting BBs at kids who come onto my lawn to retrieve baseballs... The good news is that the weather turned a bit cooler, and I was able to walk the sausage dog. Sure enough, no crap on the floor yesterday, or this am. We're leaving for NYC Wednesday, and Mirta, my sister of another mother, is house and dog sitting. I hope she is able to enjoy a crap-free house as well.

And I Wonder, Still I Wonder, Who'll Stop the Heat

We haven't seen a temperature beginning with a 6 in so long, I've forgotten what it feels like. Even though it's late November, some strange front has stalled over South Florida, and it's been rainy, humid, and hot - August-like. Wifey and I went for a walk last night, and after just a one time around the block, I was sweating. It was high 70s, and my Apple Weather app said it "felt like 92." And so it did. Wifey, more a lover of the heat than I, is tired of my complaining about it, and is actually looking forward to needing a sweater next week when we visit NYC... It hasn't been the greatest November, so far. D1 took over two weeks to finally get over a Mexican stomach bug. Her followup blood results came in yesterday, and showed all was normal. I got the news from Dr. Neil, who took such great care of her. I sent him two bottles of wine in thanks, and he told me he'd drink both when his three kids come to town next week for T Day... Now that D1 has returned to the world of the living, she's hosting a booth tomorrow at a Wynwood Food Festival called Seed Miami. Wifey is her unpaid assistant -- they plan to give out snacks and pens to promote D1's new Nutrition Consulting practice. I had tickets for the final Canes game, but Norman, the tailgate master, is out of town, and the game is at 12:30, and I had no one to take. So I gave the tickets to Mirta, my sister of another mother, and she in turn gave them to a friend, as Mirta has a party to attend. I plan to visit the Miami Book Fair, and maybe pop over to see Wifey and D1. The Canes can play without me. Dr. Barry was going to bag the game, too, but his nurse friend wants to go, so he will schlep from Broward to see this final contest. We're all excited about the new coach coming, and Canes basketball is here, and that team looks really good so far... D2 and I speak most mornings as she walks to work across town, and she is very excited about seeing her family. We're headed up Wednesday, and have T Day lunch plans with Wifey's BFF Edna, her husband Marc, and Lauren, her NYC daughter. We're going to the Water Club, a very old NYC place, on the East River at 30th Street. We can walk there from D2's place. My only requirements, as the women in our group vetted restaurants, was turkey and cocktails, and apparently the Club has both for us. The following day, D1 turns 27 on the 27th, and has some healthy restaurant picked out for that celebration. Saturday I plan to watch the final Canes game from NYC Canes outpost Brother Jimmy's, while Wifey and the Ds window shop 5th Avenue. I have a feeling they'll be shopping for more than windows... Saturday night we're all headed to Sammy's Romanian, for the heavy food and laughter from the Israeli DJ who keeps alive the spirit of Catskills tummelers from days long past. And it ought to be chilly -- at least chillier than here. I know I won't be complaining in January and February, when the rest of the US is miserable, and Miami is paradise. But I'm ready for a cool front...

Paris

So Wifey and I were coming home for a mini celebration -- of D1's final mending from the worst 2 week sickness of her life. She caught some kind of bug in Mexico which gave her the worst Monctezuma's Revenge -- probably other Mexicans were seeking revenge, too, for building Wal Marts on their Mayan lands. Anyway -- D1 left to return to Brickell and her life, and Wifey and I went down to BlackPoint Marina, where we sat and watched a surrealistic looking sky of ominous clouds and streaming dusk sunlight, and I had a pair of Tito's doubles and ate oysters and fish sandwiches. Wifey only had the fish sandwich. As we got home, the news was buzzing with talk of the Paris attacks -- ISIS had coordinated suicide missions at cafes, a music hall, and a soccer stadium, killing over 100 innocents. As all of us do in tragedies on the news -- we first thought of our relation -- D1 had spend a summer in Paris, and visited the very neighborhoods where this happened. Then we went one circle out -- did we know anyone in Paris? We did, and I called my partner Paul, whose lady is visiting with friends, but she was, thankfully, in Barcelona. Then FaceBook (tm) showed an friend in Atlanta, Lauren, had a son there studying, but he was safely accounted for. Still, we were saddened. People started putting French flags on their FaceBook (tm) photos. I refrained -- I feel badly for France, but they were victims here, and I don't like relating with victims. After they bomb the hell out of ISIS, maybe I'll Frenchify my photo. Dr. Barry emailed with a sad reflection about the world we're leaving for our kids and maybe grandkids. And he's right, but the world has ALWAYS been a dangerous place. In the past, PAris was decimated by plague, which they later learned was spread by ticks from rats. It's just that now the rats have changed, and they come from Syria and "Palestine" and Libya, and other, more distant sewers... My friend with the closest ties to international affairs is John, a retired CIA officer, who was active in Irag. His posts say our targeted drone attacks are simply not working, and we need to ally with states we can't stand, in order to coordinate suppression of the terrorists. I don't know. All I DO know is that awful things happen, and ultimately luck puts you inside or outside of an exploding restaurant. Maybe Hemingway had it right. He said the world was so messed up, the best a thinking man could do was find himself peace and relative safety, a "clean, well lighted place" where he could have a few drinks, and get on with the business of his own life. Of course, Hemingway blew his own head off with a rifle in his ranch in Idaho, so maybe he's not the best adviser. As a back drop to the sadness, we've had unseasonable rain and cloudy skies. Usually by mid November the wet season has passed. Not this weekend -- we've had almost incessant rain, and as I right, it's still coming down with northern looking grayness all around. And still there is hope, there is future. We're off in a few hours to attend a wedding -- one of D1's closest friends, Alyssa, is marrying her Honduran prince -- a fellow who treats her above rubies. We're fetching D1 and her boyfriend Joey, and heading to the Palms on Miami Beach, in a ceremony that, whatever the liberal rabbi's words, will signify one thing -- hope in the days ahead. Weddings mean that -- even if half of them lead to divorce. But today we'll celebrate hope, and joy, and put the tragedies behind. It's what we have to do as humans...

Reunion

After attending my 20th high school reunion, I promised myself I would no longer go to these things. I confirmed that just because I sat next to someone in Social Studies class, it didn't mean I needed to see him anymore, and those people from my various life stages I chose to keep up with, well, there was a reason for that. Still, nostalgia pulls strongly, and last month I got an invitation to attend a reunion of "former student leaders" at the U. I knew Dr. Eric and Dana would get the invite as well, as Eric was big in the student government back in the day, and the organizer of the event, the now Dean of Students, was Dana's old college friend. I emailed them and asked if they were going, and they said yes, so I responded that Wifey and I would attend as well. Well, Wifey bowed out, as we've been caring for a sick D1, who returned from Mexico with a nasty bout of Monteczuma's revenge. She's been staying with us since Monday, and her docs are trying to figure out the correct antibiotics for her bug. But one thing is for sure -- Mexico is OFF the list for any future travel -- it seems everyone we talk to has a bad story to tell of similar bouts. Anyway, I drove to the U, where I often go for walks and coffee, and headed to the new student union. I had a beer and waited for the get together to get going. It did, and I chatted with some friends I see at Canes games, as well as a few folks from way back when. One fellow, who I'll call Clayton, since that's his name, recognized me as the former president of a student group we were in, and we had a nice talk about some of our old professors. He didn't know about the spectacular fall of our old Honors Dean, and was fascinated and saddened to hear. Clayton now manages IT for a big Broward law firm -- I told him it was much better to do work for lawyers than to actually be one. He laughed and agreed. A young woman named Robin approached me -- recognizing me right away. I drew a total blank. I faked my way, and when she turned to talk with someone else, Eric reminded me. Her grandparents were friends of my Mom, in Delray, and I used to drive Robin up for weekend stays -- back to Coral Gables on Sunday nights. A glimmer or memory surfaced, and as we talked, got a little clearer. Robin returned to Connecticut after college, married a tax lawyer, and had two kids. Her daughter, who attended the meeting, is a senior at Emory, and her son, a high school senior, is jonesing heavily about coming to UM. We joked about how back in our time, getting into UM was no big deal. Now, this young man with fine academic credentials, is worried. We left the Union and headed to watch the parade, and the later scheduled boat burning, an old tradition where they paint the opposing football team from the upcoming game's logo on the boat, burn it, and watch it sink in Lake Osceola. A rain storm had passed, and in the low 80s temperature, it was miserable to walk outside -- the humidity must have been about 150%. Eric got called to see a patient at Delray, and it was a good excuse for me to leave, too. I skipped the parade and boat burning, returning home to a happily improved D1, watching taped shows with Wifey. So it was a reaffirmation that I'm over the reunion thing. I see the people I like as often as I like, and to get together to talk about the old days, -- well, I prefer doing that at tailgate parties where we all drink more heavily. The stories get better that way. There is value in the networking, though. I told several people about D1's new Dietetics practice, and two said they'd look her up and become clients. So that was worthwhile. But the U belongs to the students, and the occasional creepy older guy who enjoys walking there and drinking coffee on his way home. As for the organized events, though, well, that ain't me.

A Halloween For The Ages

A few years ago, to the Ds' lasting laughter, Wifey declared "I'm just not in the mood for Halloween this year." Still, we rallied her, put up some of our aging decorations, and gave out candy to the neighborhood kids. And so it has continued over the last years, as the Ds were off in Gainesville, though one year, I think 2009, D1 surprised us with a trip home, and she helped me give out candy to the kids. It was lovely. This year, due mostly to the epic pathology my mother in law has decided to heap upon her only daughter, Wifey again "wasn't in the mood." Mike and Loni announced they were hosting a party, so we simply put some bowls of candy in front of the gate, and left for our friends' house at sundown. I wore a vintage (late 90s) Canes Hawaiian shirt, and Wifey wore a purple blouse. She explained it was in homage to something she did in 1994. Our team had the longest home winning streak (58 games) in NCAA history, and after missing most of those games, Wifey decided to come. I guess I wasn't paying attention to her garb, but she wore a purple sweater -- and purple was the color of our opponent, Washington, that day. Sure enough, the Canes lost, and my friends blamed Wifey -- who wears the opposing team's colors? Several of my friends suggested we had to sacrifice Wifey, in order to start a new streak. I thought about it, but didn't do it -- the Ds needed their Mom, and, well, you just can't off a spouse that easily in America... The sacred Orange Bowl was demolished, and now our Canes have hit rock bottom again -- last week we lost to Clemson in the worst loss of the history of the program. We fired the coach, and were set for a Halloween night game with Duke -- listed as 13 point underdogs. So we went to the party -- it was terrific -- great costumes, and great food. Mike catered with Chick Filet -- I joked that with every chicken strip eaten, somewhere a gay marriage ended -- and we drank and ate and watched the Canes play well against Duke. In fact, the Canes never trailed, and it appeared the upset was in place. But then, late, the defense collapsed, as they do, and Duke drove to the goal line, and scored with 6 seconds left on the game clock. We gathered to watch the last kickoff, thinking we could shut off the game and return to the great food -- Lili made her famous brownies, which are as addicting as cocaine... And then we saw college football history. Rugby-like, the Canes returned the kickoff for a TD! A flag was thrown, and an epic 10 minute referee review started. Finally, the announcement came -- play was ok -- Canes won! The party erupted, and Wifey, to her credit, filmed the whole thing. It was appropriate for the woman at the end of a Canes era 21 years ago may have recorded a new rebirth of our team. Everyone left happy -- even the few Gator fans Mike allowed to attend his party. Mike's sister Jeannine was there, too, and whenever I'm with her I love to reminisce about her Dad -- one of my life's mentors. He would have loved being there last night. So it was a Halloween for the ages. We returned to our house, and the bowls of candy we left were empty -- and the bowls neatly stacked together. Today, we have to visit the ghoul of Wifey's life -- Halloween still lasts a bit longer -- and then we're going to Joe's with Norman and Deb -- a fitting end to an awesome weekend.

The Very Angry Fan

Among my hopes is that, as I age, I don't become a cranky old man. Alas, despite my best efforts, it may be happening. Last Saturday my beloved Canes hosted Virginia Tech, and in a rare occurrence, Wifey accompanied me to the game. She hasn't been in years -- can't stand the heat, and doesn't really like football enough to commit hours to going, but my usual companion, Mirta, had a wedding, and Wifey decided to attend. Our usual tailgate host, Norman, begged off, as his great tailgate companions had a medical issue, but nonetheless Mike filled in nicely, and grilled hot dogs and provided margaritas. It was a nice time, and the cloudy skies kept the temperature down. I didn't partake in my usual vodka -- had a few beers instead. It was a lovely, nice time, and then... Wifey and I went to the gate, and the gate attendant gave Wifey grief for having too big of a handbag (the thing was not big at all). Wifey stepped into an adjacent line, and gained access. My attendant kept scanning my ticket over and over -- not getting the beep he wanted. My ticket is a cardboard, old school one -- with my name on it, for heaven's sakes. Nope -- five minutes went by, and the young man continued to fiddle with his machine. Kickoff was approaching, so five minutes seemed much longer. The young man called over his supervisor -- a guy in his 40s, graying hair -- looked like he might have been a cop in the past. The fellow took my ticket and fiddled with HIS machine for another several minutes, before handing me my ticket back and saying "No --there's a problem. You need to walk to the other side of the stadium and find a line where they can reprint your ticket. Nothing more to do." I took my ticket back, and simply said no -- I WAS going into the stadium, and I stepped around the turnstyle. The man stopped me by stepping in front, and asserting his authority. I asked him if he would accompany Wifey to her seat -- as she was already inside and didn't know her way around. He said no, but that I could NOT enter. I told him directly I WAS entering. He told me he would call the police, and told him to go right ahead -- if they ordered me to leave, I would, but was not listening to an idiot employed by "Elite Services." The dude was NOT backing down. Neither was I. He grabbed my ticket, and wrote down the seat location, telling me "Police will be coming to get you, and you will be escorted out and arrested." I told him that would be fine, as I quickly calculated the $50K or so I would settle for in a civil case of false arrest against "Elite Services," in exchange for being led out of my Club Section in cuffs. I also made a mental not of my friend Steve the cop's number -- knowing if Miami Dade Police really DID come, a call to him would get me sprung. Wifey and I got on the escalator to the club. She was impressed and maybe a little turned on by her man's showing of machismo -- he wasn't letting some idiot tell him what to do. Ha! As if! Wifey promptly lectured me on my anger, and how mean I sound when I speak to people who cross me, etc... Whatever. Wifey's Canes season is over, anyway -- that was her last game. She was concerned that the police were coming -- maybe we should sit in another section. Nothing doing. I took my seat, and told my friends what happened. Dr. Barry's friend John offered to give me his hat and sunglasses. A discussion of "Spartacus" ensued -- would we ALL say we were the resistor, if the police came? Dana reminisced about a similar incident back in '84 -- Eric and I came to the Canes-Gator game early, to get prime student seats, and minutes before kickoff, the Orange Bowl staff decided we really weren't in the student section -- we could go toss off. Eric and I got livid -- Eric more so -- and was led out to calm down. But we kept our seats! The Gators won, though, as I recall... Our game played on, and by the second quarter I figured I was in the clear -- though everyone laughed whenever a cop appeared in our section. The Canes won, and Wifey admitted as how it "wasn't too bad" being there. Next week, Norman is due back, and Mirta is excited to go. The game is early -- noon -- but we'll eat lox and drink at 10 am. Hopefully I'll be admitted without incident. If not, I won't press my luck -- I'll simply call for my liason in the Canes office, and see if he can get me in with my legal tickets. And if the Canes somehow upset Clemson, I won't be the grouchy old man after all -- just a happy one.

D2 In The City

So D2 is an official, working, living in a small apartment, new New Yorker. She started her job two weeks ago, and she and her man Jonathan are full fledged yuppies. Wifey moved her in over a month ago, and we're planning a big Thanksgiving family trip there, but in the interim Dr. Barry had an idea. His beloved Mets, also my childhood team, were going to be in the NL playoffs, and why don't he and I fly up to catch a game at Citi Field. His boy Scott would join us, training it up from Maryland, where he's a freshman, and we'd have a great weekend. The problem was, the schedule wasn't set, and the Mets would either start the series at home or in LA. As the flights got more expensive closer to the weekend, I pulled the trigger and bought a ticket. Barry waited, and it was a good thing. The Mets choked, and lost the home field advantage. They ended up winning, anyway, and now face the Cubs for the NL championship, starting tonight. But I was committed, and so it was off the the City alone... Wifey dropped me at MIA, and I checked out the new Centurion Lounge, which is for AMEX customers. It was awesome -- gourmet food, planned by celeb chef Michelle Bernstein, and they even offer free massages and mani/pedis. Finally -- my family will stop hassling me about getting to the airport too early -- hanging in this place is a fine start of a vacation. After getting on the crowded bus now known as a jet plane, we glided into LGA. I cabbed it to my hotel, at 34th and 3rd Avenue, and headed out for a bite. I found an Irish pub on Third, and took a seat at the bar. The red headed young lady took my order in a lovely lilt, and asked for my beer choice. I replied that based on her accent, it would surely be Guiness, and he drew me a pint. We chatted -- she said she was from a county in Ireland I'd never heard of -- Cavan. I told her not only had I heard, I had BEEN there -- with my brother in law Dennis when we took a men's trip back in '97. After my beer and snack, ok, maybe a mushroom burger is more than a snack, I walked around the 'hood. As fate had it, Eric and Dana were coming back from a Vermont trip, one Wifey decided against, as we had done one just a few years earlier, and were staying in the same hotel -- their girl Jenn lives blocks from D2. I waited in the lobby as the Affinia wine hour was ending, and, like the good friend I am, secured a few glasses of pinot for Eric and Dana who arrived late. As they checked in and drank, their girl Jen arrived, and then the doors opened up, and I heard Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" in my head, as I saw my beloved D2 -- wearing the color of new yorkers -- black -- and looking very much like the grown up junior executive she is. We had a great reunion, and then D2 and I shared an umbrella, brella, hey, hey...as we walked to her place and greeted Jonathan. The place is terrific -- small, but out of the window, a post card-like view of the Empire State Building. We met the next door neighbor, an Israeli guy who owns a bake shop and has a wild Labrador puppy. Good all around... We met Eric, Dana, Jen, and her rhyming boyfriend Ben, in a bar called the Hill. We toasted our awesome kids, though D1 and Josh were sadly not in attendance. I invited our friends to Sammy's, where we had dinner reservations, but they declined, for some finer fare. D2, Jonathan, and I ubered it to the Lower East side, to a capital of Ashkenazi culture. Since it was the City of the World, it was fitting that our driver was from Pakistan, and I chatted with him about Ahmjed, my long lost roommie from UM... Sammy's was, well, truly back to the future. The DJ, an Israeli, is a classic tummler, as good as any the Catskills produced. As we ate chopped liver, deep fried kreplach, skirt steak, and chicken, washed down with healthy amounts of frozen Stoli vodka, the DJ had us laughing and dancing. The rest of the crowd was all 20 somethings -- enjoying the best part of their great grandparents' culture -- the food, music, and laughter, without the guilt and recrimination about who they date, their jobs, etc... Saturday D2 and I met at her place, and as she came out of her door, dear friend Ali and her Mom Sharon walked literally right by. We decided to meet them for breakfast (though I already had a bagel waiting for D2), and we went to the Moonstruck Diner. Ali's fine boyfriend Blake met us, and we talked of UF years, and NY years to come. We then rejoined Jonathan, and walked to Union Square, where we visited the Strand -- best bookstore in the US. Jonathan left to meet some friends, and Ashley, another of D2's sisters of other mothers, joined us. We walked to the Village, and I bored the girls with tales of Bob Dylan, Village connections to Miami's Coconut Grove, etc... We found a lovely cafe, and drank wine, beer, and shared some fish and chips and cheese. It was delightful -- the weather was perfect, and the beautiful ladies at my table were just awesome company. We walked Ashley home to her street, and then spent time at the apartment, before heading over to Brother Jimmy's an "Canes Bar" nearby. It was PACKED with Canes fans, and we watched the Canes blow the first quarter to the Seminoles. We watched the rest of the half at D2's apartment, and then I went back to the hotel, and watched them nearly pull off the upset with Eric and Dana. Alas, they blew it... Sunday am D2 and I cabbed it again to Houston Street, and visited Russ and Daughters. I thought we could eat there, but it's just a shop -- with the best smoked fish in the world. Our nice Asian counterman spent a full 15 minutes slicing our nova and belly lox, with what looked like a diatome. We bought cream cheese, bagels, and rugelach, and returned to the apartment, where we enjoyed the best nova and lox we had ever tasted, looking out at the great Empire State Building. We then decided to walk the hood, and we did -- trying to see if we could make it to the East River by walking to the end of 30th Street. We could not -- it ends at the FDR Drive, and we saw the interesting gentlemen sitting in a garden outside of Bellevue... We walked to a small park, where we watched some young fathers playing with their little children, and D2 and I got all emotional and nostalgic. She told me she was so happy. I cried some tears of gratitude, which she didn't see. Hearing her tell me that -- well, it made the whole trip worthwhile. From there I cabbed it to Laguardia, and though I rarely talk on planes anymore, I sat next to a very nice Cuban woman, a longtime administrator from FIU, who was with her liberal Coral Gables church on a trip to watch a preview of the new Broadway musical about Gloria and Emilio Estefan -- "On Your Feet." The flight was extremely quick, with her enlightening conversation. So D2 is happy in the City, and I really think about 2-3 years there will be enough, and she'll come back to Miami, hopefully to bless Wifey and me with grandkids. Her sister, D1, is the very busy caterpillar, working a LOT on the opening of her Dietetics practice -- set for early 2016. And I am one happy, rocking Daddy in the USA.

Going Into Business

So D1 has passed the two year point of employment at our public hospital, and is going forward with plans to start her own Dietetics practice. I'm proud she's lasted as long as she has, and am still in wonder that my brother Dr. Barry has been able to. The docs and many of the nurses there are top drawer -- but the bureaucracy is as pathologic as any of the rare diseases they treat. Despite having better financial years than they have in a long while, the staffing is short, and D1 has been asked to do the work of three. It's been a tremendous learning experience, though. Last week she asked me to go with her to check out potential office space. We met with her friend Eli, the husband of a fellow dietitian who does health care consulting. I liked him right away. He's from Canada, and attended medical school to placate his parents, but when it came time to do a residency, he escaped to the world of health care consulting. He's helping D2 get started, and not charging, because he thinks his fiance and D1 might well end up in business together. The space is an examining room in the office of a concierge family doctor in Coral Gables. We were going to meet for a half hour -- and the meeting stretched to an hour and a half. We had many Miami people in common, and all of us bonded immediately. The doc will refer D1 some of his patients, and that much more than makes up for the larger than market square foot price he's asking for the space. I think D1 will fit right in -- the two will be complementary. D1 is putting in, and has put in, a tremendous amount of preparation work, even as she's kept her full time job. She's written patient materials, and forms, and has spread sheets done by her friends who do them for multi million dollar companies. She's negotiating to hire a web marketing team -- apparently these days, you get your clients that way, instead of the old fashioned word of mouth my partner Paul and I used 21 years ago. I reminded her that the majority of small businesses fail in the first few years, and she ought to count that as a possibility. She won't hear of it -- she has big plans for her fledgling company -- branding, tie ins with healthy food, tie ins with corporate training, etc... She has, fortunately, an angel investor, and the guy already loaned seed money, and is now getting ready to provide the second round of funding. When it comes to venture capital, the terms are usually best when you're dealing with the Bank of Dad. So now things are running at full speed. After she signs her lease (the doc had originally wanted only month to month, but after meeting D1 is willing to go to a full year), she'll have our fine handyman, Nestor, do the small construction the space needs -- removing a medical sink, and replacing some floor tiles. She'll paint, and get some modest office furniture, and then have a soft opening, and a real one after the year turns. She figures post holidays is a great time for people to want to try to get healthier. I'm already immensely proud of D1 for the person she is -- a loving and loyal daughter and friend and dog mommy. She is always charitable, and is the connector -- puts people together, and they do better than they did before. Everyone I know at her job always sings her praises. And now she's focusing that all into her own career... So Wifey and I look forward to helping her, as she asks us. When my partner and I started, 21 years ago, we pledged to do whatever it takes to succeed. We were so blessed. I see the same in D1, and wish her the same, but maybe with a bit less alcohol...

It's In The Genes, and Jeans

So D1 signed us up for Ancestry.Com's DNA testing -- you get a neat kit, spit in a vial, and they tell you about your ehtnicity and race, according to your DNA. My results were the first to come back, appropriately, on the most holy of Jewish Holidays, as I'm, like, totally Jew. When I was in third grade, or maybe fourth, we read about African tribes -- the Masai and Pygmies. The Pygmies were tiny, of course, but the Masai grew to nearly NBA Center sixe, and drank cow's blood for strength. They'd just cut the cow's neck and drain some blood -- without killing the animal. I always thought this was the coolest thing -- after they'd drink the blood, they'd go hunt lions. My people, Ashkenazi Jews who were third and fourth generation Americans, only hunted bargains and good corned beef sandwiches. To use the great joke, the true meaning of a Bar Mitzvah for a Jewish boy is the realization, by age 13, that he's far more likely to someday own a NBA team than play for one. So I hoped maybe somewhere I had some Masai in me. It could have happened! Jews traveled all over in ancient times, and maybe one of my great-great-greats impregnated a Masai woman, and brought the baby back to Bialystok with him... Nah! It wasn't to be. My DNA is solidly Ashkenazi -- with traces of Italian and Greek. Clearly this accounts for my nearly inborn love of Italian food, and to a lesser degree, Greek. But I also love Chinese, and there ain't none of that in my genes, apparently. A few years back, a dermatologist told Wifey that she had "Sephardic skin." The doc, who I'll call Michael, since that's his name, is a garden variety Ashkenazi, like us, but likes to dabble in genealogy as well, at least as he observes dermises (dermi?). So now Wifey is convinced she's more exotic than I am, genetic-wise, though her parents are straight out of the Polish-Jewish comic books...We'll see, soon enough. Also, D2's results will be in soon. D1 didn't partake -- she assumed her DNA and her sister's would be the same, so why spend more money. Of course, I know one can never assume these things. I once read a study on cuckholdry -- the name for situations where the child's Daddy ain't his Daddy but his Daddy don't know, to quote a great Reggae song. In middle class America, the rate is apparently like 7%. So I like to smile when I see pictures of, say, three classes at my Ds' Elementary School -- 100 kids, 7 aren't who they think they are. So if D2's DNA comes back and she's partly Masai, well, Wifey will have some 'splainin' to do. Many of us American Jews, still yearning for assimilation, want to be "not too Jewish." It's why Jackie Mason is beloved by so many, but lots of Reform Jews find he makes them uncomfortable -- he talks like their grandparents on the Lower East Side. I used to have some of these feelings, too, but any remaining ones left when I moved to Miami. See -- Latin chicks think Jewish guys are Da Bomb! We're seen as good providers, who treat our women like queens. When a working class Miami Latina scores a Jewish husband, it's like she won a major prize. So I rep my Ashkenazi genes! Plus, it's nice to know that Mom, may she rest in peace, didn't step out on Dad, may he rest in peace, back in 1960, when I was conceived. Or if she did, it wasn't with anyone from Asia or Africa...

So This is Yom Kippur...And What Have You Done?

So Wifey and I, like last year, are sitting out the Shul thing. I'm fasting, and she's not, and we fetch D1 later to take her to her friends Sari and Mike's place for a break fast. My "last supper" was a big sushi platter at Sukura... I was reading a lot about the holiday, and learned, for the first time, a crucial thing: the pleas for forgiveness during the prayers are plural, not individual. The congregation asks God to forgive US, not me. I guess that's why the rabbis want everyone in the community there. Well, I went by my fish pond and tossed in the sins, and spoke to the Big Man, as I do several times per day. If He decides to smite me for missing the fashion show at a Reform place, or the group of guys at the Orthodox one, so be it. Yesterday I went to the office to personally apologize to my partner Stuart, for always riding him about his work habits -- he rarely arrives at the office before 11. I was unsuccesful -- he didn't arrive to the office until 11:30. But forgiveness IS essential -- and so hard for some people. My mother in law and her best friend, Dobka, aren't speaking, over failures to visit (my mother in law skipped Dobka's husband's funeral, and Dobka hasn't visited my father in law in the nursing home). Both of these women are 90, and survived the Holocaust together, as well as the pioneer days of Israel, but can't forgive social slights, and so will live their final years apart. I was just fetching the mail, and a fellow had a truck blocking my driveway. He apologized, and asked if I needed to get out --no, I told him, block away. I asked what he was doing, and he was in the final stages of removing our neighbor's huge banyan tree. It had rotted from the outside of the manifold trunks, and was a danger of toppling over. The arborist told me it was well over 100 years old -- here before Miami was Miami, just about, and surely before our tropical hammock hood had any people (the first house, still standing, was built in 1925). So even the mighty, ancient trees must die, and move on. We are of course even more fragile. I guess that's what the Big Man wishes -- a day for us to take that to heart, to forgive, to realize we won't be here too long, and therefore to give and to love. A big T Storm is rolling in -- I feel badly for the orthodox who will be walking home soon, before walking back for the evening prayers and the blast of the shofar, to mark the end of the holiday. I sure hope my family, friends, and I made it to the final, greatest of all Year Books, the Book of Life, for another good year. This is the time of year my Peeps reflect, and repent, and try to figure out how to have better lives. I'm in for that, even though I'm out of the synagogue...

The Nobility of the Notary

It was another banner weekend in the 305, the last one of Summer, although the heat doesn't appear to be fading any time soon. Friday night, Wifey and I drove through quite a squall, to meet my sister of another mother Mirta at Canton, our longtime Chinese place. For old time's sake, I ordered the "Special Steak," which comes out sizzling. My father in law used to love that dish, saying in his heavily accented English "Dis steak is SOFT. I only like SOFT meat!" As we chowed down, an old friend came in -- Darren -- a former Canes OL and now Miami Dade Police higher up. His wife Yoli was with him -- she's a 30 year public school teacher, who has been kind enough to refer some clients to us. I pulled my special deal -- had the waitress bring over their check, so Darren felt like the MAN. He already is. We chatted with them outside, and caught up -- I hadn't seen him in too long... Saturday, bowing to the need for diversity in all walks of life, I invited my inveterate GATOR friend Pat to come to the Canes game. Norman hosted, as always, an awesome tailgate, and Mike parked right next to him, so it was a great reunion of all stripes. I saw Amy and George, two friends I last saw in 1983. Amy lives up in Broward somewhere (I always confuse all of those casa caracho towns), and George was in Houston, Atlanta, and now back in the 305. He's an editor of the local business paper -- I hope to see more of him, The game was great for awhile -- Canes dominated Nebraska, and then we let a 23 point, mid 4th quarter lead slip away. We won in OT, but as we filed out of the stadium, we acted as if we lost -- major systemic problems with the coaching. Still, a great Saturday night and afternoon. Yesterday Wifey and I met my ancient in laws, and I got to once again notarize my father in law's affidavit to Germany to keep up his Holocaust reparation pension. It used to be a yearly task -- damn Germans and their efficiency realize the old Jews are dying off fast, so now they make you prove you're alive every 6 months. Still, he eked out, with help, a scratchy signature, and I notarized it. Each time I do it, it's my personal FU to the Nazis and their offspring -- now 3 generations later. I wouldn't bet there will be another affidavit, but who knows? I thought the old fellow was heading to that great Ashkenazi resort in the sky several months ago, and he's still here... Afterwards, we took my mother in law to a diner -- Jimmy's Eastside. Since Wifey messed up, and neglected to tell her mother we were going for lunch, my mother in law made it crystal clear she "VAS NOT EATING a TING!" -- so maybe next time her daughter would be better at planning -- and then promptly wolfed down half of Wifey's omelette. "Vell, I VASN'T GOING to eat, but I love eggs!" My friends are right -- there's a special place in heaven awaiting one who has such a suegra... But I did get to give another one to the Nazis... Afterwards, since Wifey DID plan poorly, we had to kill some time before dinner at her friend Cara's place on Venetian Causeway. We drove to Wynwood, and went to Panther Coffee -- a place that somehow makes coffee with a mouth feel like ice cream. We drank, and then I took a picture of Wifey with some Wynwood art behind her, which she appreciated so much she made me take down the post because she found the photo unflattering. Still, the dinner was nice -- Cara and her man grilled NY Strips... FU, Adolph!

The Wisdom of the Snow Bird

For years, I made fun of the snowbirds, the typically middle class, Jewish Northeasterners who wintered in South Florida, and went North for the hot months. I now get their wisdom. Today is Rosh Hashonah, and Wifey and I are taking a pass at going to services. I did, religiously -ha!-for several years, but the truth is, I am so much my father's son -- not a religous guy. Wifey likewise grew up proud to be Jewish, but never attending services, and now that we completed the mandatory educations of the Ds, we revert to our default position. I honor my landsmen and landswomen by not working today, and I won't eat or experience pleasure on Yom Kippur either. But sitting for hours in a shul -- sorry -- it just ain't me -- at least for now. So, out of the air conditioned shul, Wifey directed me to replace some flower pots the tree trimmers had moved. There weren't many -- about 10, but simply schlepping them across the pool area, I became soaked in sweat. It's 92 degrees out, and 150% humidity. Meanwhile, D2 called from the streets of NY, where it was 70 and clear and dry. Autumn in NY -- the best weather there of the year. So maybe someday we'll do what we now wish -- have at least a month in North Carolina from June through September -- probably earlier than later so as not to miss Canes games. We got invited to a few Rosh Hashonah dinners, but politely declined. Instead, we took my mother in law to Soyka's yesterday -- she loved the matzah ball soup, and roast chicken. Soyka is very loud during Sunday brunch, so my mother in law's voice, not exactly of the soft, nightingale variety, was tolerated well. Tonight we'll head to Lots of Lox, probably, for some Ashkenazi soul food -- maybe brisket and good soup. Wifey finally had a breakthough with her stubborn mother -- she will at least consider a move to a local ALF. The Ds volunteer at a great place on Miami Beach -- it's positively crawling with Holocaust Survivors -- and they think their grandmother would love it there. Wifey called, and will follow up post Yom Kippur. Her mother really needs to no longer live alone. Today the PT told Wifey the a/c wasn't working, and when Wifey spoke to her mother about it -- was rebuked: "I'm fine! I let you know ven I get too hot!" So maybe the new year will bring some positive changes on the front of the too old... In the mean time, I plan to stay inside, where it's cool, and hope for an early cool front. We had one after Hurrican Wilma, 10 years ago. The nights were positively delicious -- the lack of electricity and a/c wasn't a problem. We ate some apples dipped in honey last night, and toasted with them for a sweet new year. May it be so, and cooler soon, too.

The Big Schlep

So our beloved Canes were playing a game in the new FAU stadium in Boca...seemed like a natural to go up there, tailgate, enjoy the game. Dr. Eric and Dana scored some tickets from FAU -- turned out it was the biggest thing in Palm Beach County, well, ever...Over 30,000 people attended -- largest crowd for any sporting event in PB's history, and the tickets got expensive. Well...Mirta and I flew up to Boca in my little Caddy, and met at Eric's house. Barry and his wife and remaining if Florida boy were running behind, so we decided to leave. Norman, our usual tailgate man, had decided to pre game it at a local Italian place. Norman made the right choice. It took nearly two hours to crawl from the West Boca house to the stadium! I've been to plenty of 100K games in Knoxville, Gainesville, etc... and this was the WORST. The Palm Beach County sherrif's deputies looked truly clueless -- no one knew where to direct anyone, and when they did, they circled us around the stadium, past empty lots. It was clownish. Miami Dade is used to hosting Super Bowls, tennis championships, Art Basel, and many other huge events. Apparently South Palm Beach isn't -- those morons can't handle a small football crowd... Eric was seething -- he planned the tailgate, and no one could get to it. Barry was stuck in his car over TWO hours...we actually saw him passing as we approached the stadium, and Mirta ran to him...Donna and Josh jumped out, looking like they had just driven in from Gainesville, instead of Pembroke Pines. We all longed for the crowd handling abilities of Joe Robbie Stadium, and the Orange Bowl...this will be our last trip to the FAU campus, we all agreed. The stadium was essentially a top of the line high school job. The concessions were out of drinks and food before the game started. I went up to a young, supervisor looking AD guy in a FAU shirt, and vented to him that I had seen college football all over the country, and that the FAU experience was by far the worst. He smiled, and listened, and said "Look, I went to UF, and this place was the only job I could get. You're right -- it's bush league, and always will be." I appreciated his honesty. The Canes were so clearly superior to the Owls, but didn't play that way. We ended up winning by 24 points, and yet all of us felt crappy -- our coaching is on a par with Palm Beach County's crowd control -- no one knows what the hell they're doing. We host Nebraska next week, and all of us expect to get walloped. The only good news is we're all tired of Al Golden -- he recruits well, but coaches poorly. After another mediocre season, he'll get fired, and maybe the Canes can rise again. Barry and his crew left in the third quarter, and Eric and his in the 4th. Since the crowd was thinning, Mirta and I figured we'd stay until the bitter end. We did, and sure enough, it was STILL a hassle to leave -- they had blocked off lanes for no reason, and the remaining few hundred cars had to squeeze into a single exit onto Glades Road. It was really as though Boca was saying "Stay the hell away from us." I take the hint. I plan to.

And So It's Goodbye, Miami...

So last Thursday I had a work related meltdown, when I realized an untrained, unsupervised staff member communicated with a client in a most unprofessional manner. Worse, it was a client referred to me by a senior partner in probably the biggest firm in the city. The whole mess left me in a foul mood, which unfortunately lingered on to the D2 farewell dinner. D1 picked Zuma, the crazy expensive but worth it place where she was a hostess during the beginning of her grad school years, and a minor infraction caused me to lose it. It was a moment of tensosity, to use the word coined by my friend Alan, but we all got over it, and toasted D2 happily, as we ate king crab, mushroom hot pot, cod, and other delicacies that Zuma does so well. Speaking of Alan -- he happened to be there with friends, as well as his new girlfriend. Alan is 67, and his new lady friend is 23 -- D2's age. When they came over, Wifey and the Ds thought she was his granddaughter. Hey -- different strokes... I stayed away from the office yesterday -- partly to avoid the dysfunction, and mostly to spend the last day in Miami with D2. We schlepped a box of clothes to UPS, to learn it was overweight, and we had to split up the contents into a separate container. Then we drove to CVS where our friend Norman's niece Rachel is the new head pharmacist -- and she gave us our yearly flu shots. We then met Wifey and D1 and went to our go-to local Italian place -- Di Napoli, for the second farewell dinner. After a stop at the nitrogen yogurt place -- we came home and snuggled with the three dogs, while D2 and Wifey finished packing. And then the morning came, as it always does, and I drove Wifey and D2 to MIA. I sent them a YouTube (tm) version of "Far From the Home I Love" from the Fiddler on the Roof movie. It's a song and scene that always gets me -- Tevye is dropping Hodel at a train stop in the desolate Russian hinterland, and she sings this as there are flashbacks to her as a little girl. The scene ends with Hodel boarding the train, saying "Poppa -- God knows when we shall see each other again." And Tevye replies, "Then we will leave it in HIS hands..." Maybe there's a father of a child who can watch the scene without tearing up, but I don't know, or really want to know, who he is. The video had the effect. As soon as we were on Ludlam Road, Wifey started balling. I reminded her she was going WITH D2, and would spend a terrific weekend with her and her boyfriend -- fine dining, maybe a Broadway play. But still -- her baby was moving away -- and not just for college or grad school. Luckily, New York City isn't exactly the Siberia where Hodel was going to meet her man, Perchik, and we already have tickets to have our first family T Day together there. Plus, the team of my childhool, the Mets, are still the team of my brother Barry -- even though he moved to S Florida when he was in junior high. The Mets are in first place, and appear headed for the playoffs. If they make it, Barry wants to fly up to the new Shea Stadium -- Citi Field -- and have his Maryland freshman boy Scott come up to watch the game. I told him I would certainly go along as well, so I may well be seeing D1 in less than a month. If we do, I want to take her and Jonathan to Sammy's Romanian, for Eastern European Ashkenazi soul food. Jonathan has promised to wait for me before he tries it out. So my baby girl is all grown up, and entering the corporate world. She's doing something I always wanted to do and never made time for: living in the world's greatest city. And New York really is. My mother used to say New York is the world, and she was right. Paris is more romantic, and other cities have parts of greatness, but it's all in one place on that small island with the Hudson on one side and the East River on the other. So I wish D2 Godspeed. May NYC be her oyster...

Crime Wave in the Leafy Suburb

Since I've lived in Pinecrest, my job has been to be a jaded observer of the rich, white person's condition. There are so many people with plenty of time and money on their hands, and watching them take up causes is a never ending source of amusement. Wifey is head of Crime Watch in our neighborhood, which is sort of like being in charge of NBA tryouts for a college for midgets. In all our years here, the crimes have basically been breaking into unlocked cars, with the occasional car theft. About 10 years ago, a neighbor I'll call Robert, since that's his name, confronted 2 kids as they were rifling through one of his vehicles. He reached into the getaway car, which was a Lexus, as the offenders were themselves rich drug addicts from a few blocks away, and tossed it up on his roof, to prevent getaway. One of the offenders pushed him, whereupon Robert went into his house to call police, one kid wisely ran, and the other climbed onto the roof to fetch the thrown key. He fell on his way down, breaking his leg, but getting his car back. The two were arrested -- one plead guilty to being a stupid rich white kid and got, probably, probation, while the one with the more serious charge (battery, for pushing Robert) fled -- presumably to Beverly Hills, or maybe Providence, RI... Other than that one, the crimes have been, thankfully, non violent. And then the other night, there was another one. Kids broke into a 1920s house, now populated by a large family from New Jersey, who paid $2.5 M for it, and I wonder about them... Anyway, they stole the car keys, and then stole a car. Wifey has been on it like McGruff the Crime Dog on a plate of raw meat. She called the local cops, and spoke to the detective, who assured her it was an inside job -- one of the family teen's friends, as he knew exactly where the keys were, and took nothing else. The controversy is the crime took place over a Saturday night, when our hired FHP trooper is supposed to be on duty. EXCEPT: it was lousy weather, caused by missed Storm Erika, and the trooper as not at her post. This has caused a sentiment of "why the hell do we each (83 houses) pay $2500 per year for worthless, part time security?" It's a good question, but one many don't want answered. The long timers (more than 20 years here) LOVE the troopers. Some of the old widows have developed close to mother-son relationships with them, and are extremely opposed to any talk of replacing the FHP with full time, unarmed guards, roving in golf carts. This latter mode of security is exactly what our 'hood needs, according to a security expert I consulted a few years back. Complicating things is the arrival of a new neighbor, who I'll call Joe, since that's his name, who is a Village Councilman, and running to be our next mayor. He is interested in the stuff, as well as a few other high take burglaries in the Village. In one, a doctor who calls himself the "king of the Brazilian butt lift," was himself the victim of a lift: over $250 k worth of jewelry and cash stolen from his North Pinecrest home, while his butt lifted wife (I'm assuming) was out at a museum with her kids. This doctor has called for a burglary victims' rally against crime, at a local park, for this weekend. Wifey will be out of town, and asked if I'll attend. I told her only if the good doctor brings some of his patients and has them on display in G strings... So we'll see if Joe brings more local police around. In the mean time, our only concern is someone stealing the dogs. But not really. I don't think there's much monetary value in a strange looking rescue dog, or an orthopedically challenged Spaniel, who walks like Dickens' Tiny Tim... Our leafy suburb will survive this trying time -- with silliness, and a lot of wasted emails and conversations.

Tainted Tzedekah

So the other day I observed and commented on a small situation of life in the big city. It might have been a "Seinfeld" or "Curb Your Enthusiasm" moment, except it wasn't at all funny. I was walking down the street in South Miami,stopping in front of a coffee place, debating with myself if I wanted to go in, and there was a homeless guy. At least I thought he was homeless -- he was wearing filthy, greasy clothes, and sitting on the sidewalk, propped up against the Starbucks storefront. A pretty, young woman, probably about D2's age, came out with her double, mint, triple whatever chai tea latte, or whatever expensive drink Starbuck's sells that made the working class Jewish kid from Brooklyn, Schultz, a billionaire. The young woman looked like she was headed back to an office -- probably a newly minted MBA type making her way in the corporate world. She saw the homeless guy, bent down, offered him a $5 bill, and asked if he could use it. The fellow smiled, took the money, and said he sure could. A rather zaftig 40 something woman, not at all well dressed, but looking more like she came from a Target and was somehow forced to pick something up on Sunset Drive, and, horrors -- pay for parking to do it -- approached the young girl. "You know," she said, "You really shouldn't do that. It's better to give money to the homeless charities. By giving him money, he's just going to buy booze or drugs, and keep on the streets. I have some social work college, and that's the right way to help THEM." The young, pretty woman was embarassed. I could tell she questioned whether her act of charity was really something harmful. So now I butted myself in. I told her my opinion -- charity was a beautiful thing, and one who questions its purity is the one with the problem. I looked at the large 40 year old and asked her how much money she had given away that day. Her eyes narrowed, and she blurted "None! I support kids, and I can't afford it! I do plenty when I can, but now is not the time. But I just want to help -- and you know what? You're an asshole!" The young girl and I started to laugh, as our rival walked away. I turned to the generous young girl, laughed, and told her her "teacher" was right -- I AM an asshole, and as I go through life, I'm surprised that more people don't call me on that. The girl smiled at me and said "I get the sense you're not." I assured her her act was a thing of charity, of beauty, and she should never allow anyone to begrudge her because of helping others. She walked away. I thought of a recent FaceBook post -- a picture of the Rebbe -- the Big Man to my Chabad friends, and his words: "It's more important to be kind than right." The phrase has long been one of my favorites -- and I never knew it came from Rabbi Schneerson. I thought it was the invention of a LSW Wifey and I met years ago. So there will be the charitable, the "correctors" of the charitable, and the rest of us, in between. Somehow, I'm certain, the young, pretty girl who gave the money to the homeless guy has some positive karma coming her way. As for the begrudger? She'd better home that someone's karma doesn't run over her dogma...

A Reunion and a Shocking Death

So Wifey returned yesterday from ATL and Asheville, and I met her at MIA with a delicious turkey (pavo) sandwich from Latin Cafe, and an icy Diet Coke. I still know how to bring the romance... We enjoyed some reunion time, and talked about the last 8 days, and then decided to get some sushi for dinner. While there, I got a text from my friend Todd -- Nancy Dearr died?" What??? We got the food to go, and Wifey called her friend Eileen in Atlanta -- Nancy's sister. It was true: Nancy died in her sleep, at 62. We were shocked and saddened. Just a few days ago, I was joking with Nancy on FaceBook (tm) about her praise of Jimmy Carter. Nancy is the most politically liberal person I know, and I always enjoy tweaking her about it. A few months before, she and I had a long talk about her ancient mother in law, and the best ways to deal with her. Nancy and Eileen's Dad Jim, one of my favorite people, died last year, in his 90s. We never imagined his daughter would follow so soon. Apparently Nancy died in her sleep, of, probably, an asthma attack. Her husband Ryan woke, made some coffee, and returned to bed to see if Nancy wanted some. She didn't respond. The funeral is set for Monday, which might be complicated by Tropical Storm Erica, which is apparently headed our way. Wifey is out scrambling to prepare, even though it looks to be, at most, a rain event, and our house is set up way high. After we went through devastating Andrew, and annoying Wilma and Katrina, Wifey takes these things seriously. Not me -- my only storm prep is making sure all cars have full gas tanks == so we can beat a hasty retreat if the power goes out. Nancy and Ryan always struggled financially -- by choice. They sent their son to an expensive private college and grad school. They give generously to liberal causes. After Nancy's Dad died, it seemed the money situation changed -- they went on a European extended vacation, and talked of buying a condo in NYC. This of course brings back Warren Zevon's excellent advice, given after he was diagnosed with terminal cancer: enjoy every sandwich. 62 is mighty young, though she did have the best type of death. Storm allowing, we'll go celebrate her life on Monday, I'm sure. And this am, when I returned to bed after waking, Wifey popped open her eyes and said "Still here." I'm glad.

It's That Most Horrible Time of the Year

My close family and friends always make fun of how much I love Miami. Wifey always says I ought to work for the Chamber of Commerce, as I know so much about the place and savor so much about living here. Well, there is one thing I really can't stand -- and that's this time of the year -- "peak" hurricane season. First of all, getting hit by a tropical cyclone is bad. We went through Andrew 23 years ago this week, and it was one of the scariest nights of our lives. Had Wifey and I been alone, it would have been less so, but we were responsible for a 3 year old, and 6 month old, and 70 something mother, and the thought that roofs would collapse on everyone was very sobering. Katrina and Wilma were more of an annoyance. Katrina just rained a lot, and left us without electric for a few weeks, but we decamped to the Mayfair Hotel in the Grove and turned it into a vacation. Wilma's surprisingly strong winds loosened all my roof tiles -- costing me a $4000 repair bill, but was also not too bad -- Wifey and the Ds decamped to Atlanta for a Halloween time there, and I enjoyed the glorious cold front that followed Wilma. As my friend Norman's son Benji pointed out last night, as we were reminiscing about storms -- it was one of the few times you could see and enjoy the stars in a Miami night sky... But the hype is the worst. We haven't actually been hit in 10 years, and the media clearly is angered by that. When fear of these things gins up, more people buy papers and watch the news, so ratings soar and it means more money for the media. Right now, there's a storm called Erica East of Puerto Rico, and we're currenctly in the Cone of Death, as I call it in a not to the absurdity. If Erica strengthens, the lines will form at the gas stations, and the folks will flock t Home Depots. This is actually good for us, as we're substantial HD shareholders... My directive to my family is simple: during storm season, gas tanks must always remain near filled. This is in case another Andrew is truly looming -- we will high tail it out of here, and I don't want to have to wait on an hours long line to do it. But the thought of escape is daunting -- Wifey has to deal with her wildly annoying mother, although her Dad will be ok in the nursing home -- he's THEIR responsibility now. So the hype is in the air, and I really don't enjoy it, along with the high heat and humidity of a Miami August. D2 is set to leave for NYC a week from this Saturday. I told her the first time she steps off the curb into filthy ice water mixed with dog crap, she'll miss storm season. I guess I have to keep that perspective on the downside of living in the tropics as well.

The Pinecrest Bachelor

So I dropped Wifey and D2 at MIA on Thursday morning, and I have been a single guy ever since. My first order of business was breakfast - read the entire issue of New Times at Bagel Emporium, across from the U. At the next table there were 4 dudes -- reminded me of Barry, Eric, and Jorge and I 30 years ago. They were talking loudly and having fun. I then returned to Villa Wifey to close the gate after the tree trimmers left -- they finished half the job, which consists of removing branches that grow over the roof -- lessening the risk of breaking tiles during a bad storm. Dave, the company owner, called to say they had a "tree emergency" and would need to finish next week. I told him none of my trees looked particularly threatening -- so it was cool with me. Friday I took care of the dogs, and then headed to the office for a few hours of frustration. Cases seem to move so damn slowly, and we don't get paid until they're over. It never seemed to be a problem in the past, but it is now. As Tony S says, what are ya gonna do? Norman invited me to dinner with his three sons and father. Max is my favorite POF (parent of friend). We all ordered parmesan -- a few veals, one chicken, and a few shrimp. It seemed the manly thing to avoid fish and healthy things as our wives were not present. Norman's clan enjoyed Salvatore D's -- our local nice Italian place. We talked of times gone by and times to come. It was terrific. Today D1 is coming by to check in on her elderly Dad, and then I'm meeting my sister of another mother Mirta at Miami Jewish. I'll check in on Wifey's REALLY elderly Dad. Wifey is taking a well deserved week long break from dealing with her parents. Her mother, healthy as a schtetl donkey, is particularly demanding. Wifey is a fine case manager -- juggling several drivers, taking care of appointments, dealing with all the minutiae of her Mom's life. But still the accusatory guilt ridden calls come -- and when they're said with a strong Yiddish accent, they seem even more plaintive... Well not for a week! Wifey and Edna, her BFF, have been living it up --dinner with the daughters Thursday, "Motown" at the Fox Theatre last night, and 3 days in an Asheville B and B coming up. Meanwhile, I'm here with the dogs, where I belong... D2 comes home tomorrow afternoon, and I plan to savor the time. She's due to leave for NYC 9 days later -- she bought the first one way ticket ever. I'm thrilled for her, and I know she's a little anxious and also thrilled. If she can make it there... Meanwhile, a hurricane spins in the Atlantic -- Danny. It looks like it won't affect us, but it's DNA worries me -- a lot like Andrew, which most certainly DID affect us. Still, storms will come, or they won't. We prepare for them and hope they miss us. It sure is quiet around here, in the mean time...

Wild Night For The Middle Aged in the 305

So we mustered at Diane and John's Grove condo -- Diane had awesome apps and her boy Garrett was in from Asheville, celebrating the purchase of his new BMW from Braman -- pouring frozen Ketel Ones...John E and his lady Cynthia joined us, and we watched the sun set over the Biltmore Hotel in the Gables -- the ladies drank champagne. At about 7:30 we met outside as the enormous limo pulled up -- with a few drinks under my belt, I made good natured fun of the fact that the driver was a woman... I turned out to be prescient, even though inebriated. As we poured more drinks, I looked out the window and realized we were headed West -- I think she thought our destination was Hialeah instead of Wynwood. Luckily John E, a former USAF fighter pilot, was able to navigate for the lady, and we somehow arrived at the Mana Event Space on 23rd Street. We came upon quite a scene. Well over 1000 people were there, and lines awaited, but our VIP badges got us right in. We saw our man Norman standing in the ring, looking positively regal in his tux. We found our table, and Stu and his boy were there -- Val feeling awesome that he was the only kid in the place. We greeted Norman's posse -- his partner Glenn, brother Martin, and old friend Maria. In my buzz, I hugged and kissed Maria's husband -- except he wasn't. Luckily he was an affable fellow, who welcomed my greeting with a laugh and smile. I texted Norman that I "kissed the wrong brown man..." The boxing went on, and we watched -- one of the matches were between 2 women. I asked Wifey if she'd fight for me -- she said she wouldn't. But what if some other woman tried to steal me away? Nope, she said, maybe poison, but no violence... The featured match got cancelled! El Maja, Norman's boxer, was overweight, and his chickenshit opponent refused to fight him, even when offered a bigger purse at the last minute. Still, as none of our group with the exception of Stu's boy is much of a fight fan, the spectacle and friendship was the draw, and around midnight we piled back into the limo, We had midnight reservations at Touche -- another packed place. We got the last table, and enjoyed a Miami Spice 4 course dinner -- most of us switched from booze to Arnold Palmers. After dinner, we rode the elevator to the first floor to use our free admission to the gentleman's club below -- and walked around, to see how the other side lives. I'm told there were cartoonishly gorgeous naked women dancing, but I really don't recall. I was watching Wifey closely -- she was nonplussed. Cynthia lamented the fact that there were no naked men. We found the thought of that repulsive... Back in the limo, we laughed the whole way home, and discussed the concept of strip clubs. Diane's son was among her number -- and I pointed out she really was a cool mom, not a regular one. I think I'd have visited a strip club with my dear, late mother maybe AFTER I drank Drano... Wifey and I walked into the house around 3:30 am, to be greeted by D2 with her hands on her hips. I was very tired, but I'm pretty sure Wifey and I were grounded for the rest of the month for staying out so absurdly late. But the main point was Diane and her fiance. Diane is one of these people who can take the good time and make it great, and last night was certainly an example of that. It took most of today for Wifey and I to recover. But the laughter and memories will linger. Just because she dances go go...

Let's Get Ready to Dale!!!!!!

So my friend Norman, his law partner, and brother have been backing a local young boxer. He's on the rise -- goes by the nickname of El Maja, which is Spanish for young boxer on the rise. The fellow has been winning, a lot -- I saw him last year at the Hard Rock in Broward -- it was a kick to watch an event where a close friend has a real connection. Tonight, El Maja is the featured boxer in a night of boxing in Wynwood -- some former movie studio, now "event space," where they apparently can pack in a few thousand seats. My law partner Paul and I bought a VIP table, which comes with an open bar, but Paul realized he had a conflicting event, and so offered the tickets to our friend Diane and her fiance John. Stu and his boy are going, as 12 year old Val is a big fight fan, and rounding out our table is office roommie John and his g/f Cynthia. Also, Diane's boy Garrett is in town, and he'll be joining us, too. Diane is one of those people who finds ways to make life more fun, and when I invited her to join us, immediately had her fiance John book a limo. So now we're set to meet at their Grove condo at 6, have cocktails, then champagne in the limo, and then make it to our table around 8 or 830 -- missing the first, minor bouts. El Maja probably won't fight until 10:30 or so, so we'll still see plenty of boxing. An added attraction is the ring announcer. Norman applied for and received a one month license from the state to be a boxing announcer, and he will do so tonight. The running joke is he now wants to come up with a catchphrase like "Let's Get Ready to Rumble" -- the creation of a Michael Buffer, who to this day gets $10,000 plus expenses just to fly to events to say it. My suggestion is "Vamos a Dale!!!" which is Spanish for, roughly, Let's go to let's go. Norman thinks that's a non starter. He's right. After dinner, Stu and his young son will leave, and the preliminary plan is to limo over to ClubEleven -- a high class restaurant that sits on top of a gentlemen's club -- a favorite of celebrities who come to the 305. I'm not sure we'll really go, but there WILL be an after midnight dinner -- the second such late night event for Wifey and me in less than one month! It's good to get out of our comfort zone every once in awhile -- we've been witnissing the end of life -- and it's not pretty. So while we still can... So Dale and Vamos El Maja! D2 left earlier to meet D1 -- they're going to an adult trampoline park together, and D2 said "Well, Dad, I guess you'll be home much later than I will tonight!" That's right, my girl. Maybe Mom and I still have it going on, once in awhile...

The Good News is, It Won't Get Any Hotter

And so we sweat nearing mid August of the Miami Summer...and although hot, as usual, it hasn't been as brutal as some past summers... Our lives in the 305 have been a microcosm of the great circle: Wifey's father fades away, as the Ds make plans to start new chapters of their young lives, and Wifey and I, as befitting the term, are sandwiched in between. After a hellish day, maybe the worst of Wifey's life, her Dad got the right pain meds and is resting quietly. D1 visited the other day, and reported he is "unarousable," and Wifey, D2, and I spent time with him yesterday and learned her decription was apt. Wifey is coming to terms with the inevitable -- stroking his arm, telling him how much she loves him, and crying...a lot. She is s rookie, thankfully, in the dying parents league. I joined the league when I was only 20 --I wish I hadn't. D1 is working at JMH, each day SMH her head about the absurd bureacracy, but learning, learning, learning. She's been scouting out locations for an office for her coming private practice, and seems to have narrowed her choices to two -- both in the Gables -- which is key for her wish to attract patients with means... I'm so proud of her -- she is truly laying serious groundwork -- corporate set up, banking, web site, and now meeting with pro marketers for cement her brand and marketing strategies. At happy hour the other night, my best law school friend asked whether she took out a SBA loan. No, I told him, she has an angel investor named Dad. Still, I made it clear to her that I wouldn't put money into this enterprise if I thought it wouldn't soar -- and I think it will... D2 bought a one way ticket to NYC. It's the first time, I think, that she has bought a one way ticket. Wifey is flying up with her, assuming she isn't needed here for her Dad, to help her organize and decorate her apartment in Murray Hill. The good news is the day they leave, September 5, is also the date of the first Canes game, so I can deal with my sorrow at a tailgate party, with the help of some vodka...I have learned one needs to dull the pain of life, somehow... So the Ds are, thankfully, in a great place, and I look forward to helping D1 in her practice, and visiting D2 in NYC. We booked a trip there for Thanksgiving -- the first time I'll be in NY for T Day since 1978, when I was a high school senior. Since D2 is going to work for Macy's, I think we'll get passes for a "background tour" of the famous parade floats. I hope D2 gets to hold the ropes for Underdog --always my favorite... Last night, we all mustered at a Brickell Italian place, Spaghatini, for a very early dinner. D1 pulled her hair back and effected a flawless Wifey imitation -- with Wifey's trademarked resting frown. I took a picture, and we all laughed deeply. I had a glass of Chianti, and I toasted these three women -- Wifey, dealing with sadness, and the Ds, dealing with it, too, but more importantly, perched to soar into their futures. Walking back to D1's apartment, the heat didn't bother me at all.

The Big Gordo Venezuelan Wedding

So D2's boyfriend Jonathan's brother Dan was set to get married, and I truly thought we'd miss the big wedding. My father in law was in awful crisis after returning from the hospital to the nursing home, and I figured his time had come. If I've learned anything, it's that people don't die or get born according to the schedules of the rest of us. Thankfully, he recovered a bit, and our sister of another mother Mirta was available to visit him Saturday, so off we went -- all the way to Aventura -- for our attendance. We had a fine lunch at Mo's, the great deli there, complete with a visit from the co owner Paul, like the wedding family a Venezuelan Jew. Sure enough, he knew the families of the party, but wasn't going. The Ds were a bit surprised -- they thought EVERY Jew from South America living in Miami would be attending. We checked into the packed Turnberry Hotel, or tried to. The place was over run, and so we waited in the bar. A rich, white girl problem arose -- the Ds needed to shower before heading to the mall for their makeup sessions. The very nice, EXTREMELY out manager came over -- the Ds could shower in the luxury spa, all of our drinks while waiting were free, and a bottle of red would be sent to our room. The preparations went well, and I was able to squeeze into my tux last worn 5 years ago for a wedding in NYC. Wifey and the Ds looked gorgeous -- even though the Ds hassled their Mom for looking "modern orthodox" with her arms covered by her dress. The valet line was packed, so we Ubered over to the synagogue -- a $4, 5 minute drive. Sure enough the wedding was a big one. Surprisingly, the service was in English, mostly, though in homage to the couple's "Latin roots" the rabbi put in a bit of Spanish. The band played non stop for hours. We ate dinner at 1 am, and stayed until 3 am. Miami being the small town, big city it is, I had one degree of separation with some folks at our table. One fellow, from Montreal, was a CPA who did receivership work, and was close business friends with Jorge, my old college roommie and retired judge. He sent Jorge a selfie of us, in our tuxes, and Jorge, a great Conservative, replied that it appeared we were testing out the new Supreme Court ruling by getting married to each other. The Canadian's wife, also an exotic Canadian Jew, headed the local Holocaust Remembrance group, and knew Wifey's parents' friends very well. Another lady at the table was the sister of a local doc I know, who used to be a professor at the U, and now runs a concierge practice in the Gables... The newly married couple and their families beamed. Dan is getting a grad degree in Neuroscience, and his new wife Melanie is in PR. They met in the 5th grade. The bride's older brother took quite a shine to D1, and invited her to move to Cancun, where he has a jewelry business, to allow him to "cover her with jewels." He was a nice fellow, but D1 isn't rushing off to Mexico just yet... After a big breakfast and walk around the "Aventura Circle," featuring a very nice array of cosmetic surgery results, we headed back to our tough reality -- the nursing home. D2 straggled -- she spent the final hours with Jonathan before he headed back to NYC. She's excited to join him in September. My mother in law met us there, and provided a LOT of unintended comic relief, as she always does. But Wifey finds it less and less funny... So another nice couple is sent out to make their own family -- after a party of about 250 people. People age and die, people are born and get married. It was lovely to be part of the nice portion of the cycle of life.

The Numbers Eventually Get You

Wifey and her two closest childhood friends are statistical anomalies: they're all nearing 60, and all three enjoy having both of their parents being alive. Well, maybe "enjoy" is the wrong word in the case of Wifey's BFF, but still... I just read a good one about two statisticians duck hunting -- they shot at the same duck. One missed a foot high, the other a foot low. They high fived each other: statistically, the duck was dead. I've never been good at math, except for Geometry, which is logic based, and shows shapes I could see. I still remember getting a 90 on the NY State Regents exam. Therafter came Pre calculus, and calculus -- and my mind never wrapped around those. In college, somehow Dr. Barry's tutoring to my moronic self got me a gentleman's C in the class -- and I therafter fled from Math, never looking back. But numbers are there, whether I appreciate them or understand them or not, and they're catching up to Wifey. Her father was discharged from Mt. Sinai yesterday, after a 15 day hospitalization. The infection took its toll -- he's fractionally as aware and awake as he was before this latest health event. Wifey is dealing with her Dad with so much love and caring -- as she also deals with her far more difficult mother. I told her this am how proud of her I am -- and she is precisely the type of mentsch I wanted to marry, and did. Unfortunately, I'm a seasoned pro in the dying parents department -- I had my first gig at 20, and the second two years past. These are unchartered waters for Wifey, though -- which is a truly happy thing. She's kept her parents a long, long time. When my father in law was 63, the age MY Dad was when he died, Richard had quadruple bypass surgery. Afterwards, I asked his surgeon, a highly skilled Brazilian fellow, what was the long term prognosis. He said he hoped he gave my father in law "10 more good years." Well, that was 26 years ago, and the surgeon himself died several years back. So my father in law was given many, many more years than I thought were coming. Most of my close friends have lost at least one parent, if not both. It's a numbers game, of course. For now, Wifey will keep her Dad as comfortable as possible -- and visit often. She's a mentsch, and that's what a mentsch does. But those damned statistics keep rolling in, and tell us eventually we all die. It's in the numbers.

For Want of An IPhone Tap

As I age, I find the quotidian activities of daily life more and more daunting. I mean -- not seriously so, like my ancient Mom did in the final years of her life -- but I tend to make more mistakes than the sharper minded youthful version of myself did. Today, I met Wifey and the Ds at Mt. Sinai, where my 90 year old father in law remains -- it'll be two weeks there on Wednesday. He came in with sepsis following an out of control UTI, which in the extremely old is much more serious business than it is for the take some antibiotics and pee more often younger set. He's getting better, at least in Wifey's view, and may be discharged in a few days -- back to MJH. D2 and I decided to stop for some dinner in South Miami, and we pulled into adjoining parking spots on 74th Street. I pulled out my IPhone, and went to the "Park By Phone" app -- D2 did the same with her phone and car. I emerged, after inputting the space number, telling D2 the App was "the best invention of all time!" It would cost $3.50 to park for 2 hours. Some friends of Wifey, from Central Florida, had some meals with us in South Miami, and were appalled at the idea of paying for parking. They claimed they NEVER did when they went out -- all of the restaurants they ever ate at were in strip centers, where the parking was free! How grand is that, they asked. Anyway, D2 and I ended up at My Ceviche, and the food was terrific and well priced. We each had some mixed ceviche, and bought one to go for Wifey. I tried something for the first time, too: a Snapple (tm) Diet Arnold Palmer. It was awesome -- I'm a new fan of sugar free iced tea mixed with lemonade. 45 minutes later, we walked to the cars, and there was a parking ticket on the windshield of my small Caddy. What! Must be some miskake. Alas, D2 did a quick bit of IT forensics, and realized I never pressed the "Confirm Parking" icon. I was an idiot. I was careless. I now owe South Miami $18. Since I never paid on the App, which would have been $3.50, I'm really only out $14.50. And, since the fine is for 18 -- Hebrew for Chai, I figure there's a bit of good luck there. I rather like South Miami -- always have. I can easily contribute $14.50 to their coffers. And, I have to be thankful I live in a place where the restaurants aren't in strip shopping centers. Ya gotta pay, if you want good stuff. Or, if you get old and careless...