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.