TIme Passages

Wifey's BFF Edna was here for the weekend, and after her visits to her ancient parents, spent a lot of time talking with Wifey and me. At this stage of our lives, hopefully pre-grandparent, we of course spent a lot of time talking about our families -- mostly our 4 awesome daughters, among us. One thing was stark -- the fast passage of time once the girls were born. Wifey and Edna met in junior high -- Wifey was thrown next to Edna as the "other Israeli girl now with us," and their shared backgrounds, with Holocaust Survivor parents, drew them together, with a bond that has endured many, many years. And those first years, from junior high to young womanhood, seemed to last forever. At least to them, and the never ending tales they love to tell. But once 1983 rolled around (Edna's first daughter's birth year), things took off like a car on black ice. And they continue to fly today. It's true -- even now, that I don't work nearly the same hours as I did for many years, the hours fly by. We're leaving for a cruise in just over two months. Old time would have made that seem a long time away -- now it feels like it's time to start packing. But then, it seems, if you live too long, as Edna's parents and Wifey's mother have, time slows again. My mother in law complains about being so bored, about "vatching de 4 walls all day," even though Wifey fills her week with trips and activities. Einstein's genius is so clear to me as I age -- time DOES bend and twist. It's funny -- our friend Stu comes to the office many days and says he wants to be me. I have a much gentler work schedule than he does. He's still so active in the practice, and yet extends vacations, comes in late each day. It occurred to me that I envy HIM, from the years 1988-2005, when I was cutting short vacations, getting to the office early each day, missing events from the Ds childhoods, to get ahead. And in the long run, it won't matter at all. Time will claim both of us. With rare exception, a few generations does the trick, of erasing the importance of most people. I was never close to the three grandparents I met (my paternal grandfather was long gone by the time I was born), and yet I almost never think about that generation. They were responsible for my modern family -- coming to this new world around the turn of the century -- leaving Europe and the Holocaust -- getting my parents a new chance in life. And yet they're gone -- my maternal grandfather died when I was a boy, and my grandmothers died when I was a young man -- and to the next generation -- my Ds -- they're just the subject of a few quaint tales. A lesson I taught the Ds, since they were small, is that life is, indeed, NOT fair. And yet it can be, and if you're lucky, often is, exquisite. It's about using wisely your allotted time -- fast as it flies by.

Negative Nancy

Wifey has pointed out that, as I age, I tend to be more pessimistic about things. Specifically, I assume that matters in others' control will often go wrong. This is because they often do. So two weeks ago I dealt with some incompetence surrounding my new passport. An "expedited service" wasted my time, and would have required me to lie under oath. Since I know a woman who spent two years in federal prison for passport fraud, that wasn't going to happen. Then, at the post office, I spent time using a pen provided by staff to fill out the application, to learn it was black ink -- not allowed. Anyway, when I finally sent off the package, I had little hope of it being completed. Well was I wrong! In only thirteen days, without even paying an extra expedited fee, I received my new passport in the mail. Now I'm good until 2026 - when I'm 65. Will I even care about traveling at that age? All I know is, the Bay of Fundy awaits -- an excursion in just over two months, for Wifey and her BFF Edna's birthday cruise. I never should have doubted the Department of State... In another example of my negativity -- Wifey bought an expensive Dyson vacuum last year. Now -- not worth it, I said -- it will break like all of them, and we'll need to replace it. Well, it did stop working this week, but I went online, and a nice fellow in Chicago, via chat, took some info, and gave me a number. The thing has a 5 year total warranty, and I just needed to bring the machine to a UPS store, and they'll pay to ship it to Tampa for repair. Was I close to Tampa, he needed to know, first. Now, I said, and there's only one reason to ever go there -- Bern's Steakhouse. We started talking about steaks, and he gave me a good lead for our upcoming Chicago trip. So Dyson is coming through, and I learned about a restaurant in the Windy City, too. Meanwhile, Edna was here for a few days -- checking in on her ancient parents. Last night, I took out Wifey, Edna, and our friend Diane to dinner in the Gables -- Ruth's Chris. I felt like Hugh Hefner with the ladies, and we enjoyed ourselves royally. No negativity at all. So I got my passport, and broken vacuum on its way for repair. How can I even think about being a pessimist?

Time it was and what a time it was it was...

Old friends, by Paul Simon, always captured the feelings so well of friendships that last through the years. We're not yet 70, like the fellows in the song, but getting closer and closer. Dr.Eric and Dana suggested Dr. Barry and I and Wifey and Donna meet for 2/3 of our birthdays. Barry and my birthdays are 6 days apart, though I'm 2 years older. Since Eric and Dana live in Boca, and Wifey and I are in Miami, we picked Lauderdale -- and Anthony's Runway 84. I've been there about 10 times and love everything about the place. The food is authentic Brooklyn/South Philly Italian, and the decor so campy -- the bar's booths are replicas of jet seats, with the windows showing scenes as if you were up in the air. The pianist plays standards. There are always actual goodfellas and wise guys and their wives or gumars there. The manager is named, what for it...Vinny. To Wifey's consternation, we arrived first, as always, which let me get my Stoli martini drink on. Then Dana and Eric arrived, and joined me in the martini department, and brought my birthday gift: more Stoli. Barry came from a rough week at the hospital, where a child died on his watch. I told him his job chips away at his soul, for all the good he does. I hope he steps away sooner than later. Then Donna came with Josh -- Barry's small son, who is 18 and only 6 1 or so. Next came Scott, fresh from his summer internship at the top sports station in South Florida -- and looking more like an offensive lineman than serious student, which he is. Wifey and I always adored both boys, and Scott was always, as Wifey noted, "oversized." At 4 he looked 8, at 10 looked 14. And now , approaching 20, he is just one impressive young man. I had tipped Vinny when I shook his hand -- just something you do at Anthony's, even when it's not a crowded night. When it is, that gets you in faster, and I WILL be back there. They gave us a table in an alcove, backs to the wood paneled walls, with photos of Dolphins and Joe Willie (like Barry, Eric, and I, the owners are transplanted New Yorkers). We drank, and we ate VERY heartily, and we laughed -- a lot. A few years ago, Eric mentioned to me, after a particularly alcohol heavy tailgate party, that maybe I ought to cut back. Last night Eric acquitted himself quite healthily in that department. I noted he ought to drink MORE. Though he is brilliant -- surely smarter than I am, I know I am correct in this regard. Our waiter was terrific -- pretty sure he was gay, and he told us he was half Jewish and half Italian. Who isn't? One of the specials was the "black grouper." Wifey, as she does better and funnier than anyone, asked many questions about how the fish was prepared. Given the alcohol and happily politically incorrect nature of Anthony's -- Eric and I had a eureka moment, and said at the same time that "Grouper lives matter!" Maybe you had to be there, but it was very, very funny. I know some people get through this life without close friends -- those who lift you when you're down, but more importantly, cheer for you, heartily when you soar. Last night my two brothers of other mothers, sisters of other misters, and large, wonderful nephews all soared and laughed together. As the martinis had their delightful effect, the food was bountiful, Sinatra played over the sound system, and we laughed together heartily, it occurred to me that there might have been better places to be. I was just at a total loss as to where that might be.

The End of The Century (Village)?

Before Hurricane Andrew, in '92, my in laws listed their Kendall house for sale. They wanted to move to Century Village, in Pembroke Pines, where all of their Miami Holocaust group had relocated. Then Andrew came, and for the weeks following, NO sales were taking place in Kendall. But, as Wifey and I were creative (and I know how to deal with insureres), I convinced my carrier, which was paying us about $3k per month to live on Brickell while our destroyed house was being rebuilt, to settle for a lump sum of $40K. We took the money and bought my in laws house, for their asking price, and of course paid all costs. They moved to a section of CV, and all seemed well, as we re built, and got on with our lives. Not so fast...My in law's contemporaries had all bought units on the artificial lakes -- sort of the Pinecrest of CV, while my in laws were not on the "vater," as we learned, ad nauseum. This became a source of true misery for my mother in law especially -- to the point where she asked Wifey to give her the $30K or so needed to "upgrade." I refused. My duties as a son in law, it was clear to me, were to take good care of their daughter and grandkids. Upgrades based upon silly needs to "keep up with the Rabinowitz's" (Wifey loved that creation of mine) weren't included in the great son in law package. Yeah. Right. My mother in law succeeded in making Wifey so miserable, and straining our marriage over this absurdity, that of course I finally caved. But I put my foot down -- as gift tax laws prevented what they wanted. Wifey and I bought their new unit "on the vater" for $120K, in 2000. The great irony is that my mother in law NEVER looked at her lake view -- during most of her residency there, the storm shutters were shut tight. Whatever. Survivors don't survive by being amiable -- my strong willed suegra got her way, and after my father in law died, and we moved the old woman to Miami, it was time to sell the unit. Wifey and I visited Mark, Mr. Century Village. He was the broker who handled the previous transactions. He had his picture with CV icon Red Buttons. It seemed like a no brainer to hire him to sell the unit. One problem, though: Mr. CV had himself become old and lazy. Still, he convinced us to pay a 7% commission, to "insure a quick sale by motivating other agents." That was February. We had the unit painted and deep cleaned. It wasn't renovated, but looked pretty good. Mark set the price at $169K, which seemed high to us -- our checks on web sites showed that renovated units went for that amount, but non renovated ones sold for $140-$155K. And nothing happened. Zero offers. It became clear that little or no effort was being made. I asked Mark out of the contract early. No dice. He didn't become Mr. CV by being nice. We figured we'd just wait until August, when the listing expired, and sell it ourselves on the internet. And then, on the 11th hour, an offer came in. We went back and forth, and the buyers, Hispanic like most of the current CV buyers, came to $155K. But Wifey insisted Mark cut his oversized commission back to 6%. He agreed this am, and the buyers, who have cash, want to close within a month. Barring a complication, our CV days seem to be over. We're most happy about that. Rest in peace, Red Buttons.

First Walk in Awhile

I really, really need to lose weight and get in better shape. My loving Ds have made this a recurring theme -- something about wanting to have a Big Daddy Grandpa around when they so bless me, and with D1 a licensed RD, well, having a fat Daddy isn't good for PR. One major thing is in the way: food is SO delicious, and I so love to eat, and I DON'T like exercise. I know this must change. I DO enjoy my 1.1 mile walk around the 'hood, and in nice weather sometimes do it twice. I've been avoiding that as well, given the oppressive summer heat. But Monday Wifey returned from the vet with OTHER fat news: the strange rescue dog Vienna is ALSO obese -- needs to drop 4 pounds from her thickness. And, this am, there was a lovely breeze blowing from the Bay. So I laced up the New Balances, and headed out. And it was fine. I plan to make it a daily or nightly ritual again. Vienna heartily agrees. I know my main issue is the food, and I will tackle that, too, AFTER this week. Friday we're heading to Anthony's Runway 84 in Lauderdale, for the best Brooklyn/South Philly style Italian. If you diet there, Vinny the manager comes over and smacks you in the head. But after Friday, I will begin to heed the advice given to Bobby in "The Sopranos" I could eat a salad once in awhile... Meanwhile, I continue to find new and varied ways to love Miami. For the past 8 years, I've been watching the construction of Brickell City Centre, the largest development project in Florida history. Swire Company, from Hong Kong, somehow assembled a total of 5 city blocks, and started building an enormous center -- first in South Florida with underground parking. They actually freezed the high table groundwater so they could build concrete tank garages. There are 2 enormous condos, office buildings, and the first East Hotel in the US -- an Asian luxury brand. The hotel opened, and last night some of my buddies and I went to the 40th floor to try out the bar there, called Sugar. My lord. You can see nearly to Lauderdale to the North, and the Keys to the south. I think I glimpsed Bimini over the ocean. And the fauna sitting at the bar? Well, it just reinforces that Miami seems to take the most gorgeous women of North and South American and attract them to one place. It was nice to look upon them as a kindly grandpa type. And now, hopefully, one who might hang around awhile...

The Decrepitude of Aging

Oy, I'm old. I was blessed last night with only TWO nocturnal trips to the bathroom to pee. When I walk I hear creaking, and look to our floor, but it's travertine marble and doesn't make any sounds. Each time I get up from the couch I hear a unique grunt that I only heard come from my father... Nah! It's not so bad, except for the peeing during the night part. Wifey and I talked this am, about our meeting when I was only 22, and already an old soul. Today I'm 55. The years have just caught up with the soul... My mother, with only herself to take care of in her later years, would occasionally proclaim, to our humor, that "today is a day JUST for me." I decided to follow her advice on this day. I got up at 7, and headed to LOL for a classic bagel and nova with Norman, even though he went all fancy and diverse and tried (and liked) the meatball omelette. I fielded a few calls from my brothers of other mothers, and emails from sisters of other misters... I was going to head to the office, but realized I would thereby be making two trips Downtown, and I didn't need Miami traffic to dampen my spirit. So I hung about. Wifey took the dogs to the vet, and stopped AGAIN at LOL, and brought us a delicious tuna on toasted rye sandwich to share. We shared, as a NY Strip awaits tonight at the Palm. D2 called as she walked to work and sang Happy Birthday for me. D1 called and hummed the guitar riff from the Beatles' "Birthday." My Ds are so multi talented. Those talents don't include good singing voices. But hearing them was sweeter to me than any James Taylor ballad. And I really, really dig James Taylor's singing voice... Now Wifey's back, and the skies have opened up. I love to watch thunderstorms -- and Miami has the best ones. They're so powerful and dramatic. I used to sit outside our door in Building 22, Apartment Z, and watch them in college. Now I have a bigger crash pad. The storms are still awesome. So I give thanks, to the Big Man, and ask only for greater wisdom as the years go by. Paul sent me a terrific text: "Some may say 55 and still alive. I say 55-65, a time to savor the amazing life you have created." He's right. Dr. Barry's birthday is Sunday, and Dr. Eric has planned for us all to meet Friday night in Lauderdale -- at Anthony's Runway 84. So much for calorie counting this week... It would seem downright ungrateful to NOT take from this cornucopia horn. Happy birthday to me. May there be, as there will be, just the right amount of returns...

The Day Before Another Milestone

So tomorrow I turn 55. Dennis Leary once said that there comes a time in a man's life when he needs to realize his birthday is no big deal except himself -- and that time is around age 7. I always liked his philosophy, but never really followed it. Our birthdays ARE big deals, as they're reminders of how many trips around the sun we've taken, what has been good about our lives, what has been bad. Paul and I always play a mind game with each other -- if the diagnosis comes back from the doctor saying you have only months to live, what do you do? In my case, the answer is simple -- little other than what I do now. I'm so incredibly fortunate to be amazingly close to my daughters -- no repairs needed there. In fact, my life's true work has been who I've been as a father, and I am damn proud of the outcome of that. So that's first. Wifey and I pledged to be shelters from the storms of life when we married. Check. Our shared values have made this easier than it's been for so many other couples I know. We've had peaks and valleys, of course, but yesterday we lay in bed together laughing. No change there. I was profiled in my college yearbook in 1982, and asked about my future career plans. I answered I had a "romantic scenario" -- practice law long enough to be financially secure, and then go do something else -- maybe teach English. Well -- the first part happened. I don't like the passive voice -- it didn't happen -- I made it happen, by surrounding myself with people better and smarter at law than I am, and coaching, and choosing wisely. And that law business helped many -- overpaying those who went along with us, leaving long time secretaries with enough money to start their own businesses...Again -- check. The second part -- what to do next, is still a work in progress. The thing I didn't predict is becoming spoiled. When you don't need the money, doing things like teaching -- the having to grade paper part, and dealing with academic politics -- makes the rest of it unappealing. I'll figure something out -- maybe someone will open a tavern, and need a host or concierge. Now THAT would be fun. I have friends who I savor. Some have fallen away as life moved forward, and that's ok. Wisdom is learning that some friends are situational -- having shared interests that change, leaving little basis for the friendship. But some have endured, and they're the best. I soar when they soar, and they soar when I soar. If they envy me and wish me bad -- I cut them out of my life like the rotten part of an apple. Earlier in the summer, I indulged a need for some nostalgia. D2 endured this need -- we drove to Long Island, and poked around my childhood and adolescent haunts. We spent the afternoon with one of my earliest friends -- Mark -- and his wife and son. Mark and I realized why our friendship has endured nearly 50 years -- he, too, is an extremely grateful man. His main focus is his son and his wife. He's worked hard, and built a wonderful home, in tree lined Dix Hills. And he and Rita, his high school sweetheart, still laugh together -- a lot. Marrying well truly is the basis of a good and happy life. So no huge plans for tomorrow. D1 and her man Joey and Wifey and I have plans to travel to the Palm, which makes the best steak in Miami, as well as martinis "this freaking big." Whenever I order my favorite drink, I think about my mentor Ed, Mike's Dad, who turned me on to them in 1984, and described a proper one that way, as he held his hands vertically about 7 inches apart. I hope I have many more years on this mortal coil, and really get to enjoy the true cherry on top of the sundae -- grandkids. They'll be the 1A of my life work -- I already know this. In the mean time, I thank the Big Man, as I do several times a day. I can already taste that NY Strip...

Who Are We, Really, Online?

So I got a letter from a local private bank I'll ball Gibraltar, since that's its name. I've had a small account there for years, on account of the fact that my friend Carole is a banker there. Carole and I go way back -- she started her career in 1981 at Sun Bank, which became SunTrust, which I think it still is. Carole was the banker for the firm where I used to work, and handled my current firm's account for years. I really dig Carole -- she has one of those laughs that makes the whole room laugh, and we've shared great times together, at concerts, Heat games, and dinners. Wifey really digs her, too. Carole left Sun, and spent a year at Bank of Boston. I moved some accounts with her. Then Boston Bank pulled out of Miami, and Carole found a home with Gibraltar. They had a rocky course -- they were THE bank of convicted Ponzi lawyer Scott Rothstein, and got spanked by the Feds for their involvement. But I opened and kept a small account with Carole, for old times' sake -- a checking account which I used for some house costs. The account came with a credit card which I never used, or so I thought! A few months ago, Gibraltar wrote to say that their client info was breached, and info about we account holders might be compromised. I ignored it, since nothing seemed to be missing. They offered 2 years of free credit protection with one of those companies that advertise on Rush Limbaugh, since most of his listeners tend to be paranoid. Yesterday I figured what the heck -- might as well sign up -- especially after my California sister told me another relative supposedly found my name on some sort of list of accounts with a failed personal ad company. Plus, my friend Jeff wrote to tell me my AOL was hacked -- I sent him an ad for Cialis, misspelled. So I joined, and learned that I was a paid member of several online businesses, paid for with the Gibraltar card. These included StormFront.org, a neo Nazi group, a few gay dating sites, Seeking Arrangement.com, which pairs sugar daddies with sugar babies, and AshleyMadison, which finds you fellow old married people looking for affairs. Wow! My online persona was apparently far more varied and interesting than my real one: racist, gay, a swinger, and a would be mentor to impressionable young coeds with Daddy issues, or at least broke ass daddies... Robin Williams used to say that cocaine was God's way of telling you when you had too much money. Maybe a modern version is that not even realizing you had a credit card that was being used by others is God's way... All in all, it was a few hundred dollars, and Gibraltar immediately agreed to reimburse me, and more importantly close the damn account. It was humorous but could have been serious -- what if my Hurricanes Club account was compromised and I didn't get my season's tickets -- or my coveted tickets to Miami Notre Dame in late October? THAT would have been horrible. ID fraud is not new to our family. Three years ago D1 got a letter from the IRS saying not so fast about her requested tax refund -- for 2 times the amount of her gross salary! She had to jump through some hoops, and now files her documents with a super secret word, to prove she is the actual D1. She applied for a store card a few months back and was denied -- the store's account office tried to get her credit report and was denied -- no secret word. So at least the system works for her. I hope my politically incorrect FaceBook (tm) posts coupled with my now known paid membership in a Neo Nazi, racist organization doesn't get me a visit from the FBI. They've interviewed me three times in the past -- when my friend John joined the CIA and listed me as a reference, when my old friend Eric applied for top security at Northrup Corp and also used me as a reference, and most recently when our friend Diane, a Federal prosecutor was also re-secured -- the FBI talks to all surrounding neighbors. All of this safety, and still a loser rents a truck and kills over 80 in France...But that's another non humorous tale... So a very hot Saturday is upon us, and I plan to stay inside and watch old movies and read with Wifey. My online persona probably has a busier day planned -- pro Trump rally, some gay tea parties, and then a few swinging event. Next I'll learn I joined one of those sites where guys look only for enormously fat chicks -- with scary naked calendars and everything. As the witch said after Dorothy killed her with the water: oh, what a world, what a world... Carole is on vacation. When she returns, I plan to meet her -- probably at Christies over drinks, and tell her the tale of her bank. I can already hear her booming laughter in my mind...

To Remember Each Year

Today, July 14th, is the anniversary of my father's death. He died 34 years ago. I always write about him on this day, and it never gets old for me. We recognize all important days at least once a year -- Thanksgiving, Veteran's Day, Independence Day, and this one is most significant for me. I was talking to D2 this am, taking part in what has become a favorite daily ritual for me. She calls me as she walks to work, crossing Manhattan from Murray Hill to Macy's corporate headquarters. We talk about the latest about our family, and friends, and what's going on in NYC and Miami. She remembered today was both happy (my friend Mike's birthday) and sad, because of my father. I told D2 that July 14, 1982 was the worst day of my life. But I have been so extremely blessed to have mostly wonderful days after that one. Time truly does jet past, especially as we get older. This am I chatted with Chris, my friend Mike's son, who is clerking at our office this summer. We laughed about his Dad's birthday, and I told Chris his Dad and I were his age when we met, and no WAY does it seem like that was nearly three and a half decades in the past. Chris is a great young man -- headed back to USC in LA for his last semester of college, then a semester off, and then probably law school in the Fall. I've tried to talk him out of that path, but he seems a lot like I was at 22 -- not really sure of what else to do after college with a political science degree (in my case it was the 'BA in English' of "Avenue Q" fame. Anyway, back to my Dad. Wifey asked if I wanted to visit the water, to speak to him, as his ashes were scattered in the Atlantic. I do, and I think we're going to have dinner at Redfish Grill, one of our favorite restaurants, right in Matheson Hammock Park. After we eat, we can stroll along the seawall, and look out past the Bay and to the ocean, and I can ponder, as I often do, his life, and how much he did for and gave to his family. Mike's father Ed was my mentor as a lawyer. When my law partner Paul's father died, Ed sent him a note. This was 1988, and I still recall it exactly: "I was about your age when I lost my father. I don't know that I ever got over it. I feel for you." Typical Ed -- concise, powerful, and feeling words. I know I never "got over" the death of my father. I think about him daily. When I'm faced with a parenting issue, even now, with grown daughters, I think WWHD? What would Hy do? I act accordingly, and usually it's the correct path. On this day of your Yahrzeit, the Jewish term for anniversary of a loved one's death, I love you, Dad. And I thank you for all you meant to me and our family.

Time To Move to New Zealand?

Ruth Ginsberg, Supreme Court Justice, gave an interview this week, and said that if Trump were elected it might be time to become a Kiwi. She's old, and probably behind the curve -- the time to do this is probably here. I base this upon my experience yesterday, in which I had to interface with the federal government. We're leaving in October for a cruise to celebrate Wifey's () birthday. I use brackets, since she has made it clear I must stop always telling everyone she is going to be () years old. I became particularly obnoxious about this, as her friend Edna is also turning (), and I started calling the cruise our () trip, which is () times 2. So it can't be mentioned, this number, about the two best friends who were born in (( )). Anyway, we submitted our passport info to Earl, Norman's brother in law, and our cruise concierge travel agent. I thought this was silly, as we're only stopping in Canada, which I thought had become a 51st state. I'm mistaken, apparently -- it's still technically a DIFFERENT country, and if I want to get off the ship and finally bring true my 3rd grade dream of seeing the Bay of Fundy (I was captivated by a film strip production of the place with its enormous tide changes), I needed to have a valid passport. I did, or so I thought. Mine expires in March of 2017. Earl pointed out this was a problem -- the passport must expire SIX months AFTER the trip -- which would be April. So my passport wasn't valid for the trip. It turns out that passports aren't really valid for 10 years -- it's 9 and a half. Whatever. No big deal. When I renewed in '07, I visited a company near my office that, for an extra $125, expedited it and did it for you -- photos right there. They were closed, but there was a company at 1444 Biscayne, across from the Omni. I drove there, found parking north of the Dade School HQ, stepped over a few homeless guys (not a shining advertisement for Dade Schools, I thought), and walked into the building. It was a strange place -- art galleries, phone offices, and a for profit college called Atlantic Something or other. There was no guard to direct me to the passport company. A young, strapping, girl was walking around with papers in her hand, and I asked if she were looking for the passport place. She was, she answered, in I think a Swedish accent. My mind reeled, but I stayed on task... I followed her onto a hot elevator to the second floor. We asked a UPS guy -- no -- back on 1. I asked where, as I had already searched the first floor. "Inside the college" he replied, as if any fool would have known that. Inga and I followed directions, and sure enough, right after the glass door of the college, was the office. Inga had an appointment, and I waited, as a "walk in." The young clerk with the heavy Spanish accent called me to her cubicle, and asked when I was traveling. I told her October. "Ay -- no good. We can only help you if your trip is within one month." Ok, I said -- changed my mind -- I was heading to Montreal in a few weeks. And then the interrogation started -- where was I staying -- did I have my hotel and plane itinerary with me? I started shucking and jiving -- no -- I was just going to go there, and drive around, like a draft dodger in the 60s...She said she wold prepare and affidavit for me to sign, and then I got real -- NO -- that's ok, I said, I'll just go to the post office like everyone else. I saw myself sitting in a Federal jail cell, charged with Passport fraud, just because I was a spoiled rich guy looking to pay more for expedited service. I left, walked back to my car, gave the really scary guy leering at me for disturbing his urban campsite a $5, received the blessing of Jesus for that, and drove South. I went to the CVS in Sunniland, and got a passport photo. My shirt was askew, and the dude asked me if I wanted a re-shoot. No, I told him, but how was it possible I sat for the photo, and my Dad, who had died 34 years ago, appeared in the image. He laughed -- he was of a certain age, too. I took the photo next door -- post office. Big sign -- "Don't FREAKING BOTHER us about passports -- go the the office next to total wine." I complied, and did. I walked in, and there were 3 female clerks, and the supervisor -- 40 something Cuban guy. I asked about renewing my passport. He answered, and I knew immediately he was the typical manager dickhead -- just in his tone. "We can give you the application, you fill it out in black pen, and return it here." Nah -- I was going to buck his authority, and ask to fill it out RIGHT THERE. He nodded and guessed I could. I asked the Asian woman clerk to borrow a pen. She clearly was following the stereotype and was the sharpest one there. She handed me a pen, and I stood at the glass counter next to the door, filling out my form. I got bumped a few times by folks pushing carts with heavy packages. It took about 15 minutes, and then I proudly returned to the Asian lady, like a Third grader who completed his exam. She looked. No, she said in her accent --"this blue ink." Mr. Dickhead leaned in "Sir -- I TOLD you it was to be black ink." I purposely chose my words to this son of exiles: "Well, your COMRADE here gave me the damn pen -- I assumed it was correct!" Dickhead and Asian clerk actually looked cowed (vaca-ed?). They actually said "sorry." I was handed a black pen this time, and went about contributing another 15 minutes of my life to American incompetence. I went to write out a check, and nowhere on the 5 page form was there an amount. But Asian clerk knew -- it was $110. I packed the check, my old passport, and the application into a priority mail pouch, and paid $7 to mail it. I figure I have about a 50-50 chance of actually seeing my new passport in time -- the elusive, and exotic Bay of Fundy may remain only in my dreams... So people are afraid of Trump. This current confederacy of idiots are chargeable to Obama. All I could think of was meeting him and saying "Heckuva job, Barry." I wonder if the Canes broadcasts make it to New Zealand.

Life Stages

So yesterday I left Wifey home with her bad cold and 2 good dogs and glided up to Pembroke Pines in her new Lexus SUV, to Dr. Barry and Donna's house. After a brief visit with my 2 large nephews, we went north to the mouth of the little rat, where Dana and Eric were hosting an engagement party for their daughter Jenn. Jenn is marrying, wait for it...Ben...next May. The two met on a Jewish dating site, and Ben proposed to Jenn the day she graduated with her Master's from NYU. Eric, Dana, and his parents were involved -- they took Jenn to Jersey to take pictures of Manhattan across the Harbor, and Ben popped the question. It seems to be the new thing -- involving parents in an elaborate surprise wherein the couple makes it official. I want no part of this. I told my Ds -- happy to host your party, but any proposals should, to this traditionalist, be only involving the couple. I asked Wifey to marry me on a chilly night on South Beach, and later there was plenty of time to tell our families. Call me old fashioned, but I want no part of the ring giving... Anyway, the party was lovely. I reminded Eric of his and Dana's party -- held at Dana's rich cousins' house in Miami Beach. Had more than three decades truly gone by? They had. I caught up with my old college friend Pete -- his boy, unfortunately nicknamed "Little Peter," which is funny, since he's easily 5 inches taller than his Dad -- was just hired as a Herald sportswriter. I watched the young man grow up -- at tailgate parties, and in meetings at Joe Robbie Stadium Club areas. He attended UM, and is a die hard Canes fan. Pete is duly proud. His girls are in college, at GW, and the youngest at Carrolton -- a Catholic high school in the Grove. We joked about when Pete got married -- he was in his mid 30s, and married a girl just out of FIU. We chuckled at the time, but now she's past 40, too. Age catches even the very young wives... Dana's grandmother was at the party -- a lady known as Gaga. She's turning 100 next year. She's still sharp as a tack. Dr. Barry asked her her secret. Without hesitation, she said "Get laid as much as you can." Barry said that might be difficult, as he was married a long time. Gaga's response: "What difference does THAT make? Get it wherever you can." This convinced me to spend the remainder of the party next to Gaga. Eric toasted the new couple, and we all agreed to meet again in May, at the wedding. Barry cautioned young Ben that we have a tradition of doing the worm at parties. Ben said he could handle it. So we've passed the stage of college and grad school graduations for our kids, and are entering into the wedding planning phase. Could grandparenting be far off? Wifey and I hope not...

What Do These Acronyms Mean, Anyway?

I won a bet at the office this week. One of my partners was convinced I was making up that the Q in LGBTQ stands for "Queer." No way, he said -- that's a derogatory term for gays, like fag, or dyke. No, I said --some folks of indeterminate sexuality like "queer" in the sense that they celebrate their otherness...We looked it up and he paid for lunch. I'm not sure that the rest of the letters stand for, though...Nah -- I do. Lesbian, Gay, Bi, Transgender. As Bette Midler used to say when she'd welcome her audience of mostly gay men: "Good evening, gays, trans, closet queens -- did I leave anybody out?" Then there's another term I was reading about the other day: polyamorous. Apparently this refers to folks who are in more than one love relationship at a time, openly. They're not swingers, who of course just go to scary looking places and switch partners. These are people in open love relationships with many folks at a time. Power to them. I no longer have the energy. One wife is plenty for me. When I read about the polyamories, all I thought about was what about the extra baggage (or luggage, as my old mother in law calls it?). Do you have to take care of MULTIPLE sets of in laws? What about multiplying, annoying other extended family members? One or two schmuck uncles is enough -- if you have several wives, do you have that many more to deal with? I have a friend or two who still think that homosexuality is a choice, and can be cured. To them, gay marriage is absurd. No to me -- I've been fortunate to meet many folks who are truly happy together, despite same sex pairings. I never got the hate. I always looked at it as a pragmatist: for every gay guy, there is that much less competition for us straight ones. Now that I no longer compete , my attitude is just live and let live. As long as no minors or animals are involved, and people don't, as the great Dorothy Parker said, do things in the street and scare the horses... My friends and I need to come up with acronyms for ourselves -- including being Canes fans, middle aged, overweight, with long suffering wives. When some more time frees up, I may work on this. For now, power to the LGBTQs and all their travelers...

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother (And Mother in Law?)

One of the key values Wifey and I share is taking the Fifth Commandment very seriously. When my Dad died the summer I was a rising college senior, I switched from child to parent of my Mom -- what my father would have expected of me. Though I have 2 older sisters, for the years afterwards I was the main caretaker of Mom. As much as I loved the U, I was ready for a change in grad school, and wanted to go to Gainesville, where I was also accepted. And then Sunny called and said "David -- how often do I have to pay for car insurance?" and I knew I needed to stay close to Delray. Mom's gone over three years now, and I don't regret a moment. I have only warm memories of the woman she was, and of my life's duties, taking care of her is one I'm very proud of. Wifey's an only child, so it's ALL on her, but she shepherded her father through his final years -- and now is left with the burden of her mother. It's not a pleasant or easy burden. My mother in law is nearing 92, and is so healthy, her morbid obesity seems to have little negative effect on her. She still "vatches" her weight -- she even keeps a scale in her living room for frequent weighings. The Ds honor and love her -- since their grandma is deaf, they send her frequent letters about their lives, and always cheer lead for her. She appreciates this greatly. Ha! As if! Last week D2 visited her, and we all went to lunch. Again, the old woman is deaf. The next day, she called Wifey complaining that D2 "treated her like a stranger --after she writes dese letters of love. Vy dis is?" Luckily, D2 has enough of a sense of humor to realize these are just the whinings of a very old woman who has lived, really, too long. Her beloved husband is gone, and her relatives and friends have also gone to that great Schtetl in the sky. So she endures... Last night we took her to dinner -- at Captain's Tavern, our local go to seafood place. She announced "I don't eat fish! I vant HAM burger..." Nope -- no burgers there, so Wifey ordered her a ribeye steak, which she devoured about half of before loudly proclaiming "TOO HARD!" I was properly medicated on 2 Ketel martinis, so her obnoxiousness was just a source of humor, and luckily the restaurant was crowded and noisy enough that her loud talking wasn't noticed. And then...the check came, and she lunged for it. "I pay!" So I said fine, and then she saw the total with tip was $153. Not so fast -- she handed the check back to me. The old $%c%... Then, she looked for her purse, and forgot she had hung it on the adjoining chair. She began to panic and cry, loudly. Wifey bolted for the car -- thinking maybe she left it there. "OY --my money. My cards. Dis is TERRRRRIBLE!" I looked under the table, and there was the purse, hanging. I calmly handed it to her, and then bolted myself for the door. I passed Wifey, motioned the purse and her mother were at the table, and said "She's all yours." Poor Wifey. To release the stress and anger, I posted a "free to good home" ad about her on FaceBook. No takers. But there IS an upside to all this. As I was venting to Dr. Barry about how lucky he is to have ZERO in laws to deal with , he noted that my Yiddish accent, used to tell stories about the old woman, had become quite good. Yes, I can now give Jackie Mason a run for his money. Maybe he wants to take in my mother in law?

A Fine Fourth

So we asked our lovely neighbors Sarah and Madeline, to let out our dogs, and we were then off to the Grove for July 4, 2016. We arrived right before Jeff and Lili and 1/3 of their daughters, Samantha, and checked in as I rolled the filled cooler through the lobby. We went to the room, a 2 bedroom suite with a gorgeous view of Sailboat Bay and Peacock Park, and I mixed Lili and myself some adult beverages. The party was on. The Ds arrived with Joey, D1's man, and then our old neighbor and friend Diane came in. I brought out a clock radio from one of the bedrooms and played an oldies station, and the number grew -- Allison and her twin girls, Mike, Loni, their boy Chris and his girlfriend Rachel, and then Chris's long time friend Kyle. The room was packed, and the Ds and Joey left for the pool, while those remaining, heat sensitive as we are, stayed inside the AC and drank. Rather heavily... Wifey went in for a nap, and soon the Grove cooled a bit as the sun set. We had reservations for 16 at Glass and Vine in the park, but the number dwindled to 9. Poor Diane had to attend to her fiance in the hospital, and Mike's body was not yet in drinking shape following a long camping trip -- his crew opted out. Still, the dinner was delicious -- Glass and Vine has become my favorite restaurant. The fans cooled us, and the night was lovely. At 9 the fireworks started, and Allison's girls and Joey and D1 walked closer for a better view. We finished dinner and walked back to the hotel. A Chinese couple stopped me, and asked where the fireworks were. I told them they missed the show by 20 minutes. They walked away forlorn... We made it to the room just as the thunderstorm began -- it was great to watch the spectacular lightning from the 11th floor of the hotel. The Ds fell asleep -- just as they have on so many July 4ths over the years...although they're grown women, they still look like 2 kittens in the bed together. I stayed up and watched a few episodes of the "Twilight Zone" marathon playing on SyFy. Of course, I was up at dawn, and met Allison and her girls for breakfast. All in all, a delightful 4th. I'll provide my DadBer service tonight and tomorrow -- D2 leaves for NYC tomorrow afternoon. It's terrific having her home -- it was a lovely weekend.

All is Quiet on Independence Day

So the weekend started out delayed, as D2's flight was due in Friday around 11. We planned a dinner with Ken and Joelle late -- most unusual for us, thinking we'd spend some time in the Gables and then fetch the daughter. Well, Mother Nature had other plans -- nasty weather in the Northeast closed LGA, and D2's flight was rescheduled for after midnight, due to MIA around 4. After dinner, Wifey and I walked around the newly developed East side of the Gables -- young people everywhere, line dancing in a bar, and drinking coffee at a place called Pasion de Cielo. Wifey got a decaf, and I ordered a defaf latte, and we chatted with a New Jersey transplant (actually she chatted -- saying right away she was divorced, which soon became apparent, as no man I know would have tolerated her unless he was deaf), and then headed for home. I figured I'd sleep a bit and then fetch D2 -- but the non decaf put a stop to that. Ken and Joelle were surprised I didn't simply have D2 cab or Uber it home. Nah -- I really enjoy serving my girls -- and we decided the service DADber runs 24/7. The phone rang about 345, and I drove the deserted highways to a non deserted MIA -- all the delayed flights were arriving at the ungodly hour -- and picked up a very tired D2 (her boyfriend Jonathan waited with her until he Ubered up to his family in Aventura. She had a lovely reunion with her dog and other dog travelers, and Wifey actually was awake, too. We caught up and then went to bed around 6 and slept until noon -- something I hadn't done since my 20s... D1 came over, and we engaged in a silly ritual -- Dad goes along for his thrice yearly pedicure. This tradition started a year or two back, as we all sat on the sofa watching TV, and the Ds shrieked that my feet looked reptilian. Turned out I enjoyed the pedicure --massage chair and the soft patter of the Vietnamese techs laughing with each other as they make fun of, I'm sure, some of the cow-like patrons there -- wondering how in the hell they snagged husbands or boyfriends... The Ds then had a barbecue in the Grove at some mutual friends' house -- Jonathan met them, but Joey, D1's man, opted out. Yesterday D1 came by again, and we had the required visit with the ancient Sabta -- we took her to Lots of Lox, and realized she has begun producing an old lady funk that is not, well, conducive to enjoying one's food. Comical speculation about the precise source of this stink led to much guilty laughter -- Wifey reminded the Ds that she and I would be there someday, and would it be as funny? Yes, I concluded, it would... We dropped the old woman off at the condo, and D2 got ready for a wedding up in Aventura, while D1 was none too happy waiting for her sister. Busy Ds, these -- even on Sundays. They left, and Wifey and I watched old movies -- a silly one I'd never seen, "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" with Sinatra, Kelly, and Esther Williams as the "girl owner" of a team... And today is Independence Day, a holiday I always enjoy. I'm damn proud to be an American, of course, and love to celebrate our freedom with liberal amounts of drink and food. I made a run to Total Wine, and stocked up on a united nations of booze -- vodka from Sweden, gin from England, rum from Puerto Rico, and beer from Boston. We have 16 of us gathering at the Mutiny in the Grove, for a day of drinking and laughing. The Mutiny was the epicenter of wild 80s Miami -- major coke deals were done there, wild parties were had, Latin American intrigue was plotted and carried out. Now it's a nicely sedate condo/hotel, and they have great summer rates -- I scored a 2 bedroom suite for $180. We have reservations at Glass and Vine INSIDE Peacock Park, where they have fireworks at 9. I was reminded why I no longer plan big parties -- already there were whines about "I'm a vegetarian," but I plan to mask all complaints with vodka, and have the laughter drown out any complaints. Mike is making one of his famous drink concoctions, and I bought the two of us early birthday gifts. His day is 7/14 and I'm 7/18. I got us T shirts with a picture of a New Jersey singer, who looks like Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top. He sings one of my new favorite songs, "I don't look good naked anymore" and that's the logo of the shirts. They ought to get some laughs in and around the festivities today... I always think back on July 4, 1981 -- a wild party at my former friend Vince's house in North Miami. We were all in our early 20s and most assuredly DID look good naked. Just not anymore. Still, today we say happy birthday to the best country in history. We owe her a fine celebration.