Sushi With Ma Girls

D2 is back in the house, and it's been delightful. Wifey and I have been so blessed with our girls -- awesome people, good life paths, and good choices about the men they choose as boyfriends. This last was always one I feared , as I know so many good women who have chosen toxic men, and had lives that fell by the wayside because of them. But, as a cherry on the top of parental ice cream sundaes, we really LIKE our Ds, and the time we spend together. The Ds find Wifey hilarious, often because Wifey has no clue she's so funny. The other day, Wifey was lounging around on a week day, not dressed at 11, when the strange rescue dog started barking, to alert us that Pete the plant guy was outside. Pete represents, to me, how spoiled we are -- we have a guy who waters and takes care of our plants, a leftover luxury from the salad (ha) days of our law firm. Anyway, Wifey was annoyed she had to get up and dressed, protesting loudly "And on my ONE day off, too!" The Ds found this tale hilarious, as I did... So D1 left her job at Jackson a bit early, and came over with her spoiled Spaniel. The Ds then went out on quality sister time -- running errands together, and meeting some friends at the local ice cream place, Whip N Dip. I stayed home and did some legal work -- chatted with an expert on a case, and reviewed two law suits about to be filed on a new major accident case we have. Wifey fetched some sushi at the tiny place we love, and we all gathered in the tiny breakfast "knock," as my mother in law pronounces it, and happily ate and chatted. It was marvelous to all be together on D2's Spring Break. Afterwards, D1 drove back to Brickell, leaving the Spaniel behind. D1 is volunteering for the Humane Society today at a dog event. D2 is sleeping in, and Wifey and I are going to LOL for breakfast. When I used to watch hockey as a kid, I remember when my beloved Islanders would commit a penalty, and the player would have to leave for some minutes. Afterwards, when the penalty ended, he'd skate back onto the ice, and the announcer would say "And the Islanders are back at full strength." And so it is here, at home, when both Ds are here. I savor sushi with ma girls...

Glass and Tropical Foliage

So our friends from the English Midlands, Dave and Sandra were in town, staying a few days in the 305 before leaving for Costa Rica. We met them 10 years ago on a Med cruise -- D1 became friends with their daughter Sorrel, and her best friend Esther, and the girls and their parents have kept up the friendship all decade. Tuesday night we fetched Dave and Sandra at MIA, and met D1 and her boyfriend Adam for a drink in D1's apartment, and then repaired to Novacento, an Argentine place, for a lively dinner. Dave worried that Brits might be given a hard time, as Argentina is still smarting from having their culos kicked by the Brits over the Falklands...our waitress was from Ecuador, and not born during the war, so he needn't have worried... They spent Wednesday on South Beach, at the Raleigh, and soaked up sun and fun, as Jackie Gleason prescribed. Yesterday they Ubered, for the first time, over to Westchester, where we met my sister and brother in law at Tropical Chinese. My family had met Dave and Sandra on the same cruise, and enjoyed catching up with them. We feasted on dim sum, and then drove to Fairchild Tropical Garden, where they're hosting a glass artist Chiluly exhibit. I never take the beauty of living in Miami for granted, but as we drove through the banyan covered roads, Dave remarked again what a paradise we live in. They've traveled througout Florida, and found so much of it paved -- Miami, near the Bay, is a lovely exception. He said when he worked, he never had a commute, but if he had to, sitting in a car on Old Cutler Road wouldn't be so bad. Anyway -- we arrived at the garden, and took the tram around, and then walked to the butterfly house, in the gathering dusk. A big one landed on Wifey's hand, and hitchhiked around the exhibit. We excited, through the comical 2 part forced air exits, designed to keep the critters inside, and then had some sodas as we awaited the darkness. The glass sculptures are really something to see at night. Dave and Sandra happily snapped photos, and we strolled in a true paradise at night. My sister and brother in law left for home, and we drove Dave and Sandra back to the Beach. We showed them the view of Downtown from the MacArthur Causeway -- glistening in the clear air. Dave again noted that he's been all over the world, and there's no prettier city than ours. We arrived at the Raleigh, and they showed us around. Esther Williams stayed there back in the day, and swam in the pool. We ended up in the Sir Walter Bar, with a huge portrait of Sir Raleigh looming over us, and had a few drinks and laughs. The bartender was Serbian, and I made fun of his and Dave's love of soccer. A spiffily dressed couple at the bar had funny accents, and, sure enough, were Scottish and English, so Dave and they chatted for awhile about the Independence vote... We said goodbyes and headed for home. Their daughter is getting married in Vietnam next month, and though we were invited, have begged off. But Dave and I agreed that, Fawlty Towers-like, it's probably a good idea he doesn't bring up Agent Orange while he's there... We got home, and D2 arrived -- her last Spring Break. She was driven by Ali, a sorority sister from Broward, whose family is Jamaican. Ali is lovely and beautiful, but, alas, doesn't have that awesome West Indian accent -- she's a gringa, like D2. So all in all, it was a delightful end to Dave and Sandra's Miami stay, segued into D2's beginning of Spring Break. It's terrific to have her home.

South Beach For Old Guys

So my law partner Paul's best college bud Frank was in town from LA, to go diving in the Keys with his youngest daughter. He dropped her at FLL on Saturday am, and checked into a South Beach hotel to get some more sun before he headed home. Paul was going skiing, and asked if I might entertain Frank on Saturday night. I might. Frank is a foot doc to the stars, and our partner Stuart uses him as an expert, and so Stu asked along as well. We met at Prime 112, which only had the earliest reservation of 5:30 pm available. I drove to the valet, as parking otherwise is near impossible SoFi (South of Fifth Street), and the fellow announced "$20 -- payable now." I handed over the money, and thought how my late mother would never pay $20 per person for a meal, let alone parking. Stu was inside, and we had a drink. Frank was characteristically late -- a habit that once caused his long suffering wife to cut one of his suits to shreds in an anger fit following telling him that he really needed to leave for an event on time... Anyway, the anxious hostess asked us if we really were going to all be there, as the place was packed more than usual owing to the wine and food festival going on. Frank arrived a bit before 6, and we were seated. The food is awesomely expensive, but also amazing. Stu and I had some bone in filets, and Frank had the "best tuna he's ever tasted." Stu grabbed the check -- I joked that the only times I go to Prime 112, it's with him, and he pays. Class act, my buddy. We laughed, and talked about careers and life, and how Frank and Paul met as freshman at GW in the 60s. Stu was amazed that Paul was richer than Frank -- Frank told the tale of an off campuse apartment Paul moved to but Frank couldn't afford. Stu married late -- at 54 has a 12 and 10 year old -- Frank has a grandson. After dinner, we walked to Mango's -- Stu's wife's uncle owns the place -- and admired the Latinas dancing salsa on the bar. Ocean Drive was packed with tourists -- and restaurants -- and Frank and I reminisced about visiting in the early 70s when it was truly the Lord's Waiting Room -- ancient Jewish retirees there, on their final stop on the planet. Afterwards we visited Frank's hotel -- now a Marriott, but in the day the Ocean Haven, where my family stayed before the roaches drove us away. Now they get $600 a night for tiny rooms.

Dirty, Disgusting Dog

Today seemed like a good one to stay home, between near record cold (low of 42, and warmed to 60) and the fact that I've been putting a LOT of time in the past few weeks. As I lounged late over my coffee and Herald, Wifey asked if I was going to the office. "I don't know," I replied. She answered she only heard the "no" part. Anyway, the lawn guys were here, and later the pool guy, too, so our front gate was open. I noticed the strange rescue dog wasn't around, and I asked Wifey if she'd seen her. Just then, Wifey's cell phone rang -- with a frantic call from our neighbor. Our neighbor is a little unusual for a co homeowner in this hood. First of all, she's in her mid 20s, and doesn't exactly share the appearance of the rest of the moms. Her mom does, though. She calls Wifey all the time, for advice about contractors, and babysitting. A few months ago, a dachshund from down the block came into her house. She called Wifey, and as Wifey was there, along with our off duty FHP trooper, the dog, named,like many weiner dogs, Oscar, bit the neighbor's 4 year old boy. The child did fine, but the resulting tumult was the most excitement seen in these parts since we were invaded by peafowl... So the neighbor is understanably not a fan of dogs, and was calling because one had run into her garage. The neighbor thought it was the same hound that bit her son, and she and Wifey talked about the fact that supposedly Oscar had been given away, and whose dog was it, and, etc... I'm known for my quick thinking, and while Wifey and the neighbor woman were engaged in their colloquy, I immediately made the connection: the dog was ours, and I ran out to fetch her. The funny part was the neighbor describing the beast that entered our garage as "fat, dirty, and disgusting." When Vienna saw me, she trotted happily over, another adventure notched on her collar. We didn't tell her that she was described in such unflattering terms. More importantly, I think I figured out how the dog was getting from our back yard to the front: a gap between our fence and the neighbor's fence to the north. I plugged the gap with some limestone boulders. Vienna saw me do it, and cursed me in mutt language, I'm pretty certain.

Living In The Moment

Years ago I attended a talk by a major Torah scholar, and it turned into a discussion. The question he posed is what we would most like to "get" out of spirituality. I answered the same thing I seek today: the ability to live in the moment. That skill is evasive. I inherited my father's anxieties, and my head is always on -- spinning like the Apple beachball icon. I'm almost always planning my next move, and worrying. No ambulance can pass without awful thoughts creeping in about the Ds in the back of it. No news report about a crazed gunman can air without my personalizing it. Last night I met my friend and financial advisor Oui at Christy's. She's in charge of some of Wifey and my investments, and we always meet to go over things. Wifey rarely attends -- although she has TRIED to become interested in investments and money, the lure of other things always wins out. Oui was born in Thailand and is a Buddhist. And she's a REAL one -- not the typical liberal Jew or Christian who dabbles in it because the religion seems more humanistic than the religion of their birth. Oui just returned from a family trip to see her aging mother, and we chatted about Thailand, and how it's becoming a true gateway to Southeast Asia, and maybe that means some good investment opportunities. And then we talked about life. Oui is about my age and single. She owns a townhouse in the Gables. She used to be married to a college friend, who is now a major partnet at a huge Miami law firm. He's a fellow from the Midwest who was ALWAYS working, and striving. Oui was more reflective. We laughed about how maybe she shouldn't share her big picture philosopy with all of her clients -- they just want to hear big results and gains. I told her about a story I had heard years ago -- my old professor friend Ross had a brother in law who was a Miami Dade paramedic, who became a Buddhist. He was always spouting about reincarnation, and our place in the cosmos. His colleagues told him to can it -- the family of the 60 year old guy dying of a heart attack just wanted to be kept alive. By coincidence, two of Wifey's friends happened by Christy's -- Cara and Ronnie. Ronnie was a schoolteacher who married RICH -- she now travels the world and lives large on her late husband's wealth. Cara still works -- nearing 70. We said our hellos, and Ronnie shared with us all she knows about Thailand, and then they left. Oui told me that even for a Buddhist, learning to savor each moment is a life long struggle. But she told me that sharing some drinks and dinner with a friend, especially an eternal optimist like me, was as good as it gets. At that precise time and place, neither of us wished to be anywhere else. I guess that is the key. It's tough to savor things in a world of Debbie Downers. Everything can be deconstructed -- the restaurant could be better -- the martini bigger elsewhere. But the ability to enjoy a moment with a friend -- well, that is special. And so it was last night.

Chilly Weekend

We finally got the first real cold front of the year, and it's great -- low 60s in the sun, and high 40s at night. Wifey and I spent Valentine's Day visiting her parents at MJH -- we fetched D1 and her Spaniel, and took my father in law outside, to the site of the former gazebo my Mom loved so. I used my notary skills for my now semi annual F U to the Nazis -- proving that my in laws are still alive, and forcing yet another set of reparation payments. The Germans are so sharp -- the annual check in is now semi annual -- as the old Survivors die off, they want to make sure they don't make unnecesary payments. We left the Hmoe, dropped off D1 at a hair salon on Brickell, and then parked so Wifey could walk across the street to get some pizza -- from Stanzione. The place is awesome -- a 24 year old former hedge fund whiz opened it, with a $600k pizza overn imported from Italy. The pizza is the best in the state, in my opinion, and Wifey and I ate it in the car rather than wait until we made it home. It was too cold for the fire pit, so we canned it and went to sleep early. Tonight, Norman and Deb are fetching us, and we're dropping off D1 at a wedding. IT's adorable -- we're bringing her to the temple and getting her later -- just like we did for countless Bar and Bat Mitzvot. But now it's so she can toss back a few without driving... Anyway, Norman made reservations at a place on South Beach -- we'll celebrate the Day of Lovers a day early -- and probably at normal restaurant prices. It truly is the best time of the year here, and the chill is a welcome change.

And So This is Valentine's Day...And What Have You Done?

Ah, El Dia de los lovers, to use Miami Spanglish, is here again. And my favorite memory involves not the typical things, of young singles or marrieds, but rather my family. We moved into Villa Wifey in February of 2001. The weather was the most beauriful, as it is this time of year. The Ds were 12 and 9. I set up a folding table on our front porch, and brought in food from DiNapoli. I borrowed D1's boombox, and put smooth jazz on it. The four of us ate outside, and toasted how rich we were -- not because of the big house, but because we were all together and loved each other. This year, D1 has dinner plans with her boyfriend, and D2 and her fellow will celebrate up in Gville. I decided to do something a bit extravagant this year, and was inspired by a billboard I saw on the way to visit Wifey's Dad at MJH -- Michael McDonald was playing at the Fountainbleau, and they offered dinner and a show. I booked us -- $175 each for the show tickets, 2 hours open bar, and dinner. After I did so I remembered that the Beach would be PACKED -- the boat show is in town, as well as the Coconut Grove Art Festival. With Valentine's Day coinciding with Presidents' Day and the long weekend, EVERY hotel room in Miami is booked this weekend. Well, sometimes ya gotta fight the crowds I figured... And then I got an email from the hotel concierge -- the only dinner reservation was for 11:30 pm. Really? Wifey and I are 2 hours into sleep by then. So I asked for and they gave me an old folks' refund. But Wifey knows it's the thuoght that counts... So instead I'm taking her to the premiere of "50 Shades of Grey." Ha. As if. Wifey never read it, and any of her friends who did were not as titillated as the midwestern Moms who claimed to be. No -- Norman to the rescue...He and Deb invited us to dinner the night following -- an Italian place on SoFi -- and we may take Deb's vintage Ford convertible. Wifey and I can sit in the back, blanket covering us against the cool breeze, and enjoy. As for VD itself, well, I plan to fetch some gourmet sandwiches and salads from Joanna's Market,maybe crack a bottle of 'paigne, as my friend Stuart calls it, and toast the years gone past, and those to come.

One Pauper, Broke-ass Jew

20 years ago, when Paul and I founded the firm, I had an epiphany about the absurdity of measuring yourself by money. We had decided that I needed to upgrade my ride, in order to impress clients and opposing counsel. It was a good idea. So I turned over the most luxurious car I had driven to that point, a Mitsubishi Diamonte, to Paul's son Alex, who was a high school senior, and I headed to the Collection to lease a Jaguar. A Jaguar. Growing up in middle class Long Island, I never even drove in one. Driving a Jaguar meant more to me than having money -- it meant I was James Bond, with all the sophistication and class Levittown certainly did NOT represent. I cut the deal (I think it was about $600 per month for the 2 year lease) and went to the pick up area to await my new sign of amazing success. I was feeling like I was IT -- 33, no mortgage, starting a Downtown law firm -- rich! A kid sat next to me, and I tried to mask my excitement -- but surely told him I was picking up my JAGUAR. He smiled, and answered in South American accented English, that he, too, was there to pick up a new car. He must have been 21 or so. And then I heard a rumbling -- his ride was delivered first. He got up and waved and smiled as he got into his FERRARI. But it wasn't a regular Ferrari -- I asked the salesman who told me it was a Gallardo -- a limited edition, and the kid (or his Dad) has paid over $200k for it! Compared to his car, mine was a Chevy...and a cheap Chevy at that! I got into my new Jag, drove off, and laughed -- at myself. It was like the Big Man was shoving my face in my hubris -- comparing oneself to others based on bucks is so inherently stupid. Plus, that Jag was a piece of crap -- stalled out everytime I drove through a deep puddle. But still, I went about making money as a lawyer, and have enjoyed the fruits of that labor -- big house -- spending more on a single family vacation than my first year's salary, etc... And I guess I do compare myself to my peers, despite my epiphany of 20 years past. And then came yesterday. Wifey and I were invited to a memorial service for our friend Allison's mother, Sally. Sally died like a queen -- aboard a Crystal Cruise ship, during an elegant dinner. She and her husband Cy, a retired Urologist, were long time members of the Surf Club. I guess they have some deal with the Indian Creek Country Club, as the service was held there. We had never been to Indian Creek before. It's on the west side of Miami Beach, on the Bay, with stunning views of Miami. It's a guarded village -- of billionaires. Julio Iglesias lives there, as does corporate raider Carl Icahn. Don Shula lives there, but only because he married a fabulously rich widow. I've been to Palm Beach and Fisher Island many times, but there was something different about this place. The Club itself, built in 1930, seemed northern, somehow, like a Vanderbilt estate in Providence. The service was lovely, and beautifully catered. It was terrific to catch up with Allison and her family. After all the guests had left, Allison, her husband Steve, and Paul and Stuart and I and our ladies sat for awhile, talking about the glory days of our law firm. We recalled how, after a big settlement, PAul and I treated 9 people to a firm retreat in Vegas -- where we paid for all the guests to live like rockstars for the weekend. We thought we were Donald Trumps then. In the late afternoon, Wifey and I left. Our car was the last one in the grassy lot --with the stunnig view of the Bay. We drove past the houses -- one apparently just sold to a Russian oligarch for $50M. It was great to visit. It was nicely humbling. Sally lived her wife well and fully. And her service, and its location, reinforced a critical lesson.

Mike and The Boys

So last week D1 and her boyfriend Adam wandered over to Books and Books, the best bookstore in Florida, and Adam saw a sign about an upcoming signing: Mike Greenberg of the ESPN show Mike and Mike. Adam, though in training to become a dermatologist, really would prefer to be a sports journalist, and got excited about the appearance. D1 told me, and I told Dr. Barry, whose boy Scott IS going to become a sports journalist, though I joke with him that he'll fall in love with pre med studies in college and join his Dad's business. He won't. A plan was made -- Scott and little (not really --he's 6' 1") brother Josh would take the bus from Pembroke Pines, meet up with Barry and Adam at JMH, and drive to the Gables, where we would all meet, have dinner, and go see Mike the writer and radio guy. We ate at Swine, the gourmet barbecue place Barry picked because his wife would NEVER eat there if she were along, and then walked over to Books times two. The talk was to begin at 8. Not so fast! They were folding chairs and taking down curtains, and the snooty gay guy working there said, dismissively, that they moved the talk to 7, since Mike had flown in from NY and was tired, and so sent out the change on Twitter. We hadn't seen the Tweet, or whatever it's called, and so had missed the event by 5 minutes. I asked if we could at least Mike...was he still at the store, but the gay guy said, again dismissively "He's having dinner somewhere." He was about to cluck his tongue, but didn't. But, conspiratorially, a black guy helping him, who surveyed the scene and felt bad, winked at me and pointed to the cafe. I knew his meaning -- Mike WAS there, about to eat in the back of the store. Now, if I just missed the talk, I would have shrugged and left, but these were my two nephews on another family, and they had taken the BUS for this! Plus, Adam doesn't get to go out much on school nights... So, I took the lead and marched our crew through the store, and sure enough saw Mike G walking from the bathroom. I asked if the boys could meet him, and, though he makes $2M a year for ESPN, replied sure -- but go buy a book for a signing. I bought two, handed one to Scott and one to Adam, and we returned to the cafe where Mike was starting his salad. After he surveyed us and realized we weren't TOO creepy, he invited us to sit, and we chatted for the better part of an hour. He was as advertised -- a nerdy Jewish guy from NYC who went to Northwestern and has hit it big in a real fun industry. He told us his favorite interviewee was Bill Cosby, and how he deals with the notoriously taciturn Bill Belichick. And then I turned the conversation to the NY Jets -- Barry, Scott, and Mike's favorite team. Barry explained that the reverence for Don Shula was a big reason he never took to the Fins, despite moving to S Fla nearly 40 years ago. Barry is STILL angry about the '83 AFC Champ game, where the Fins beat the Jets 14-0 and the Jets QB Richard Todd, the poor man's Joe Namath, threw 5 picks. Mike leaned in, and told us that several of that Jets team told him they thought Todd threw the game on purpose. Barry's grin widened. Of course! That explains it! His beloved Jets did NOT lose fair and square! And so our chat continued -- exciting stuff for guys like us who care too much about football. We kept offering to leave Mike alone to dine, but he seemed to like having us around -- no one else was there. I guess only SOME bestselling writers have groupies --like Anne Rice, for example, or the Harry Potter lady. Mike finished his dinner, and we offered him a ride to Doral -- he was staying the weekend to play golf -- but he had a car and driver. He wished Scott good luck getting into Northwestern, and left. Adam and Barry lingered, chatting about academic medicine politics, and I asked a European lady at the Books and Books wine bar to take a photo of us. Even without the shot, it was a most memorable night.