Still A Good Septic Tank Owner

 So last week I began calling Smith Septic, for my biannual pump out. I've proudly mentioned that they have declared me an excellent septic tank owner -- careful about what goes down the drain, and don't excessively use water. Alas, Mr. Smith, a nice 80 something man, told me their truck was broken -- call back tomorrow.

Each day I dutifully called, since I'm a loyal customer, but by Friday I was starting to feel like a jilted septic lover. And so I called the competition: Chapman. The nice Perrine lady asked about my prior septic experience, and said she and the Smiths were friends -- was all ok? I told her my tale of septic woe -- ok -- they could come out Thursday.

I then realized Thursday might be an issue. D2 is due here with the enormous dog Betsy, and I have to take Wifey to PT. But then Chapman called yesterday -- could they come first thing today? They could.

Mike showed up at the front gate, and agreed the best thing was to take his truck to the street behind our house, and do the pump from there. He did, and also praised me for the good tank condition. Good to know I have my shit in order. He laughed. I guess he gets these jokes all day.

I gave him a check, and off he went. He told me he bought a house near Lake Okechobee, and plans to commute. Miami was too damned expensive, so he'll be doing the 1.5 hour drive each way. He said it was ok -- gives him time to get his shit together. Ha. There it was again!

And so we should be good for another 2 years. It'd be great if we got sewers, but that seems a long way off. Just another example of how the rich, white man gets the short end of the stick in life. 

Meanwhile, Wifey is about to get some fame. The joke in the family was always that she was the only one never to be in the news. D1 is a media darling, and D2 has been on a few times. I used to get press -- most famously I was a consultant for Channel 10 when the OJ verdicts came in, courtesy of my old roommate Mark and his ex wife Gail, then a reporter for the station.

Well, Wifey was asked to be a poster child for recovery for a health issue she suffered, and on Sunday had a long Zoom interview with a freelance reporter for UHealth. The piece should air next week.

I acted as producer -- had to fetch a lamp from D2's old room to improve the lighting. At the conclusion of the interview with the charming reporter, Janna, Wifey told her that if she ever had Pediatric issues, she should call our dear friend Dr. Barry, who typically avoids media exposure but is a brilliant, articulate, and wonderful interview. Barry will be thrilled, I'm sure.

But I have happily dealt with my family's shit again, on the most literal level. If you don't do that, everything else falls apart.

Porpoising

 Years ago, I learned an apt term that describes the end of many peoples' lives: porpoising. In the way a porpoise dives and surfaces, often the end for someone is not a straight trajectory. And so it is with my ancient suegra.

After a few days in the hospital, for a UTI that became septic, we were told by the NP that the end was likely near. Last week, Wifey even told the Ds they might wish to plan final visits with their beloved sabta. On Thursday, Wifey and I drove to the Palace for the signing of hospice papers.

After a lovely visit with the beautiful grandson, we met with a social worker from a company called Opus, which handles hospice at the Palace. There were a LOT of documents for Wifey to sign -- she joked that it was like buying a house, except this time it was selling her mother into a final plan.

Basically, Rachel would be brought from South Miami Hospital and placed back into her ALF room, with the plan that there be no further hospitalizations -- just care to keep her comfortable and pain free. On Friday evening, they made the transfer, and on Saturday we went to visit.

D1 was there ahead of us. D2 couldn't make it. D1 had a letter she had written -- a tear jerking thank you and farewell.

And then my mother in law looked like she was indeed NOT going to die for awhile. She had started taking bites of Milano cookies. She smiled. She reached out to touch D1 and Wifey. The porpoise was not going down for the last time -- not yet.

Of course, only the Big Man knows when the time will come. In my father in law's case, he left Mt. Sinai Hospital's ICU, was discharged back to Miami Jewish Home, and lived another 6 months. My Mom didn't porpoise much -- from her 93rd birthday it was pretty much a straight decline until her death 2 weeks later. In fact, tomorrow is Mom's yahrzeit -- the anniversary of her death. It was 8 years ago.

Saturday night, Wifey's friend Cara had us over to her place on Venetian Island. Another friend Ana was there. It was nice to have a normal get together with fully jabbed folks. Cara made chicken marsala and I poured our drinks. Ana is a Cubana who converted to Judaism to marry a fellow, raised her kids in the faith, and then "converted back" to marry her second husband, a Cuban Catholic. These events made for many funny tales -- especially comparing forms of guilt from each of the two faiths.

Yesterday Wifey was Zoom interviewed by a UHealth reporter, about her recovery from a major health issue. She had joked that she was the only one in the family who had never been in the news, and now she will be. I played the role of Zoom coordinator and lighting director -- I had to go fetch a lamp to make Wifey more visible to the camera. The piece should air next week -- Wifey will have her fame.

So the slouch back to non plague normal continues. Little by little. D1 actually wants us all to attend a Marlins game in late May -- they're playing my childhood team the Mets. Would I be interested? Hmmm...my childhood team playing my current team, and most importantly being able to take the Little Man to his first game? Yeah -- I think I might make time in my empty schedule for that one.

And I'll tell him all about how we're standing on hallowed ground -- the site of the old Orange Bowl, venue to many precious memories. I think he won't be too interested.

But for now, the vigil for the last of my family's parental generation goes on. For now, my mother in law is living out the great Monty Python song, I'm not dead yet.

Card Players! I Vould Drown Every Vone Of Them!

 My late father in law Richard had a very dramatic way of speaking -- often in a very loud voice. My favorite example of that happened during the 90s.

Dr. Barry was at a local bookstore with his young boys, and came upon two elderly men yelling at each other in the coffee shop. He thought it was going to come to blows, and steeled himself for this -- probably recalling his days as a bouncer at the UM Rathskellar. But then he realized -- the men were my father in law and his brother Louie -- that was just the way they communicated. I'm sure it was an argument over something silly, or not an argument at all. 

When I met my in laws, they were involved in a weekly card game with a group of other Holocaust Survivors. They all lived in Kendall or proto-Pinecrest, and took turns hosting. I remember great food, cigarette smoke, and lots of coffee -- maybe a bottle of vodka on the table, too. 

I used to smile at how these aging Survivors had come so far -- now mostly grandparents, and most successful businesspeople. Well -- not my in laws. My father in law always thought himself smarter than the average bear. When a group of them, in the early 70s, each put of $10K in savings to buy strawberry fields in what became West Kendall, my father in law thought Miami was already over developed. He put his $10K into two lots in Cocoa Beach.

Well, in the late 80s, the rest of the group sold their holdings to a developer and each received over $500K. My in laws' two lots in Cocoa sold for $12K. Oh well...

But still, they were all a nice group of friends -- or so I thought. I once mentioned to Richard that I had seen one of his friends on Flagler Street. "Vat???? Friends? They are not friends, they are CARD PLAYERS! I VOULD DROWN EVERY ONE OF THEM!"

So I guess he was saying that these fellow Survivors were just acquaintances. I thought about Richard today, during my morning constitutional.

I crossed paths with a woman I'll call Ellen, since that's her name. She was walking with her daughter, a quiet and lovely grad student.

Two days after Wifey and I moved in, Ellen and her husband stopped by. We had a lot of people in common, and Ellen had something mean or nasty to say about every one of them. When she left, Wifey and I said "Oh well -- that's someone we're never getting close to."

And so it remained -- although we've been cordial neighbors. Their kids have grown and done well. And that makes me happy.

And lately, I've been having nice chats with Ellen and her husband, and two of her kids. She's very funny. It seems the bad mouthing of others has tapered off -- although we did pass one neighbor today, and I noticed they didn't greet each other. Ellen explained it was due to a near miss car accident 15 years ago.

The point struck me -- it's nice to have acquaintances and not ever think they'll grow any closer. As I age, my true inner circle has shrunk. I like it that way.

A few months ago, I was out with two members of that circle, and the wife said "I always feel you're the one of my husband's friends we can go to in an emergency, ask for $10K, no other info given, and you'll get it for us." I assured her this was indeed the case, and I felt proud she had said that.

I told her her words reminded me of the old great saying: A good friend keeps your secret about killing someone. A GREAT friend helps you dispose of the body. I told them I would help dispose of any bodies, as needed, and they agreed they would do the same.

Acquiantances in need? They get a few hundred dollars -- no questions asked.

Speaking of in laws, my suegra has indeed come out of ICU and is in a regular room. I think Wifey will be visiting her later. I'm now back to wondering whether or not I outlive her -- even though she's 37 years older than I .

Not Dead Yet

 My ancient suegra is 96 and a half, and I thought this week she'd rejoin her beloved husband in the Great Beyond. Not so fast.

Wifey and I visited last week, and she had taken a downward turn. She was barely responsive to Wifey's questions, and the staff at the ALF said she was barely eating. Sure enough, on Monday they called -- she was going to the ER -- they suspected she might have a UTI, which in the extreme elderly, is often the end. By the time they are caught, the people often become septic, and that's all she wrote.

Monday night they admitted her to the CCU. It was after visiting hours. The nurse practitioner called, and we spoke about DNRs and other end of life issues. Wifey was beside herself -- her blood pressure spiked, and prompted calls to her doctor. As always, my men were there -- Dr. Eric called and said not to worry -- they don't treat BP spikes -- they treat chronic hypertension.

By yesterday am, though, my suegra was actually improving. They had her on IV antibiotics, and fluids. She was more responsive. I dropped Wifey off, at South Miami Hospital, and she visited. Her Mom actually did respond to her.

A nurse spent all the time with her -- wanted to know all about the old lady's life. Although the nurse had a clearly Hispanic last name, turned out she was herself a granddaughter of Holocaust Survivors, and told Wifey she had felt a special connection with my suegra.

The nurse predicted that indeed my suegra would make it out of the hospital, although it was likely time for nursing home care instead of the ALF. The dehydration told her my mother in law was no longer capable of being trusted to feed herself -- a clear demarcation line between ALF and Nursing Home.

Wifey's going to call Patricia today at the Palace, to begin the process of being moved just across the parking lot, from the ALF to Nursing. Hopefully they have a bed. My mother in law has already paid the Palace over $250K over the 4 years she has been there -- I'd like to think she gets a bit of priority.

As I waited in the car for Wifey, it occurred to me how special a place the hospital was. South Miami was where both Ds were born, as were my 2 nephews Scott and Josh. Their mother Donna was a NICU nurse there.

D1 FaceTimed while I was in the car, hoping to catch a glimpse of her grandmother. The beautiful baby was playing and cooing. I showed him the hospital, and told him it was where we had bought his mother and Tia, D2. He cooed more.

I called over to Salvatore D, a favorite restaurant, and a place we haven't visited since the plague started. I ordered Wifey some branzino, and shrimp scampi for myself. I figured Wifey could use a good cheer up meal. It was nice to see Salvatore and his wife Maria -- they're faring well. I joked with them about my friend Norman -- he has done his part to keep them in business with frequent and large orders.

I'm truly OCD. Thinking it was the end for my suegra, I called our rabbi, Yossi, to see if he was in town. Sure enough, I got him about to board a flight to NYC -- to visit his ailing father. Apparently the kids all take turns being with him -- the elder Rabbi has many health issues, too, and Yossi was headed to Crown Heights to spell his sister awhile -- but he would fly right home if needed.

Looks like not just yet. My tough suegra appears ready to live to fight another day.

I was talking with Paul about it -- and shared my dark observation that people seem to either die too early, like my Dad, or too late, like my Mom. The final 4 years for Mom weren't too high quality.

But Paul took issue with that -- and he's correct. We die when the Big Man says -- and that means the time is ALWAYS correct. It appears that Rachel's time is not yet here.

Happy 101 Mom

 Today would have been my dear Mom's 101st birthday -- or would it have been? We celebrated on April 13 her entire life, and then, when she was about 90 or so, Wifey and I took her to a doctor's appointment. Their records, and Medicare's, had her birthday as the 14th. When I asked her about this, she replied "Oh, whatever -- I always liked the number 13 -- it's my lucky number!"

It was vintage Sunny. Facts mattered less than feelings. And her feelings were almost always warm and positive.

I reflect back today on some of my earliest memories of her. I'm 5 years old. I looked forward to kindergarten ending -- I'd run to the front of East Broadway Elementary School, and find her in the gold Pontiac Catalina -- a '65. She'd take me to McDonald's on Hempstead Turnpike, and we'd have lunch. The glove box opened to cup holders -- which to me seemed the height of technology -- and she'd place her coffee and I'd place my orange drink. We'd eat and she'd ask me about my day. I felt important. 

I always knew she was a beautiful woman -- especially compared to some of the other Moms on the South Shore of Long Island. And since a beautiful woman loved me so -- I grew up extremely confident when it came to girls. I truly thought, often with delusion, that I could date anyone I wanted. I guess there are worse things for a mother to instill in her son.

By the time I reached junior high, I didn't need much mothering. I was pretty independent -- although she did make a life decision that caused me to suffer, but probably toughened me up well. When I started Salk Junior High, we met with the guidance counselor. I still recall him well -- Mr. McNamee. He said my grades and tests showed I should be placed in Advanced Classes.

Mom refused. My older sister had been placed in Advanced Classes, and struggled. She complained she was with all the "eggheads" and was placed back into the regular classes. Mom assumed, I guess, that all her kids were the same, and so I started out in regular classes.

This was Levittown in the mid 70s. Unless you were in Advanced, you were with tough, not very intellectually motivated kids. I used to raise my hand to answer a question, and Joe Benedetto, his real name, would say "You stick up your hand one more time, and I'll kick your ass after school." Joe was big and had body hair. I kept my hand down.

Finally, after 8th grade, and repeated threats on my life for trying to participate in intellectual discussions, I went back to Mr. McNamee and asked him to switch me to Advanced . He did, and I met a group of egghead friends -- many of whom I still treasure. In fact -- we have dinner plans this Sunday with Kenny -- probably the smartest guy from my school days.

And as it turned out, I learned to negotiate in unfamiliar waters -- lessons that served me well later. So even Mom's mistake with me ended up helping me. When I discussed it with her years later, she didn't even recall the affair, dismissing me with "Oh -- you were always such a great student! Dad and I were so proud."

When we moved to Florida, the day after graduation, Mom was just 60 -- the age I'm about to turn. To my nearly 18 year old self -- she was already an old lady. Indeed, the love of her life would die just 3 years later.

And as it turned out, Mom's life was hardly near the end -- she had a full 1/3 more to go! As a financially comfortable, though not wealthy, widow, she traveled the world with her sisters and friends. She had 6 grandkids, and met 4 great grandkids. She just savored when her family was all well and happy.

She was truly independent until age 89. At that point, she crashed her car, and, coincidentally, she began to crash, too. From 89-92 she insisted on living independently, in the condo she so loved, overlooking a strip of grass and a parking lot, and resisted all efforts to move her. Finally, right after she turned 92, she had a fall and ended up in the hospital. Her doctor, my brother Eric, said her albumin level was consistent with starvation. She was barely feeding herself. That was the clarion call for a change -- and I moved her to Miami Jewish Home.

Her final 11 months were peaceful and happy. My sister of another mister Mirta visited her often, and they grew close. Mirta says Sunny has as big an impact on her life as anyone -- showing a positive outlook, even in a nursing home.

Indeed, I would wheel her outside, and she'd look beatifically skyward, and exclaim "Thank you, Mother Nature -- the sun feels SO GOOD on my skin!"

I'd take her to a lovely gazebo in a garden, and buy her an ice cream sandwich. She'd proclaim it the most delicious ice cream she'd ever eaten. And this is indeed her attitude until the end -- grateful for all the blessings of life, and appreciative of each small joy.

Two weeks after she turned 93, she died. Mirta had been with her the night before, and I told her to go home at 1 am. Bless her -- she made sure the hospice nurse followed through with the morphine order --Mom was struggling to breathe easily. I got up early and drove to Miami Jewish. I stopped for gas right next door, and while I was pumping the fuel, got the call -- Sunny had just died.

On Mother's Day, we had her cremains back from the funeral home. D2 was home from UF. Wifey, the Ds and I took the box over to Matheson Hammock -- and, though it was against the law, placed them into the Bay, which is part of the Atlantic, where my Dad's ashes were scattered 31 years before.

Like a scene from a movie, just as I placed the last of the ashes, several gorgeous white butterflies emerged from the mangroves. I had never seen that before. We just smiled -- it was as if Grandma Sunny were signaling to us -- savor the beauty. Be happy. Live from the heart. Details of life -- well -- maybe not so important.

So maybe later, Wifey and I will head over to Matheson Hammock, and stand where her final earthly remains were put into the sea, and we'll tell some happy tales, of a beautiful and loving lady. Happy birthday, Mom.

Cell Phone Dramedy

 So Wifey is, um, how to say this gently...LESS THAN CAREFUL with her phone. She loses it all the time. Usually, it's just a matter of having me call it, but back in November of 2019, it went missing for real. She thought she had turned off the ringer, and so the usual call and hear it didn't work, and D1 did "Find My Phone" and it showed the phone was somewhere on our property, but not precisely where.

She made a claim, paid the $200 deductible to the insurance company, and got a new one. She swore she'd take better care. Ha. As if.

In the mean time, last month D1 was cleaning out Wifey's dresser, and, alas, there was the lost phone. Why did Wifey put it there, and close the drawer and walk away? She is an international woman of mystery -- no one can know. But she now had a back up, in case it was needed. Last week it was.

The phone went mysteriously missing again. Rinse and repeat -- D1 did the "Find My Phone" search -- and, as Gomer Pyle said: Surprise Surprise Surprise. It was indeed at our address. But that was no help -- Lord only knows where Wifey placed the phone this time.

On Friday, I dropped her at the ATT store to reactivate the previously lost phone -- which works perfectly. They did. Problem solved. Yeah -- right!

An hour later, the phone was off again. I called 2 ATT reps, and the second one knew the answer: the phone had been "blacklisted" by the insurance company, once it had been reported lost back in '19. Wifey would have to call the insurance company to remove this terrible label. Somehow it wasn't a priority for Wifey over the weekend -- I fielded calls from friends Cara and Edna -- but today she asked me to call the insurance company.

Well -- after several attempts, including hang-ups, we got a human. And the human had to talk to a supervisor -- we didn't wish to make a claim -- just release the previously "lost" phone, and Wifey goes on her way like a turtle returned to her feet. Wifey was put on hold -- and then came the news: the company didn't allow it. Wifey would have to make a new claim, and receive a new phone -- after paying the $200 deductible.

I realized trying to show the absurdity of this would be futile -- as futile as trying to figure out where the damned lost phone was. So we agreed...and...they're sending someone here TONIGHT to set up the new phone. Hopefully it'll happen.

I also fielded a call about my suegra's possible urinary tract infection. I really don's want to become Wifey's full time phone butler.

Also, hopefully, maybe this phone won't get lost again for a good, long time. But I'm not betting heavily on that...

Treasure Coast Telenovela

So I was minding my own business the other day when I saw a FaceBook (tm) message. It was from an old high school mate named Jodi -- never knew her well, certainly haven't spoken in over 40 something years, but she friended me awhile back. She said she knew I was a lawyer -- could I help her out?

She proceeded to tell me a tale beyond any soap opera. Sadly, it involves her now grown daughter, who by all accounts, has been a disaster her whole life. She's now 32. The issue is she was engaged to a nice fellow, who Jodi and her husband truly like, and she broke it off after she became pregnant. No problem, said the boyfriend -- he was still most excited about fatherhood.

Not so fast. The daughter went to the hospital to give birth, and told the baby daddy and her parents the baby was terribly sick, and had to stay in the NICU for months. Turns out -- that was a lie -- the baby girl was fine -- new Mom was working with a lawyer to give the baby up for adoption -- and claimed she had no idea who the father was.

Well -- turns out the baby WAS adopted -- in December - by a rich NYC couple. When the baby daddy and grandparents found out -- they hired a lawyer to try to dissolve the adoption, and return the child  to her natural father. The judge dismissed the Petition -- apparently there's something called a Putative Father Registry, in which a potential Dad has to register to protect his rights. Based on this Dad's failure to register -- Paternity Petition denied!

So Jodi and her family were looking for someone to handle the appeal -- the lawyer they hired to file the Petition doesn't do them. Of course, the three paragraphs in which I just described this don't come close to relating Jodi's grief and horror -- all told in a classic Long Island accent of my youth.

I called my friend Mike. He asked his partner Jason, who handles big divorces. Jason said the guru of Family Law appeals is a woman in the Gables named Laura. I called her. Since Miami is a big city/small town -- Laura remembered me -- she had been in our house when Wifey used to run jewelry sales years ago.

I could tell right away Laura was a maven. She asked me about the Dad's ability to pay. I told her he was a cop --- but that was between her and her potential clients. I haven't heard back -- so don't know whether my referral was worthwhile. I hope it was.

So yesterday D1 came over with the beautiful grandson. I thanked her for not being a total disaster and giving up the baby for adoption behind everyone's back. She said I was welcome.

But seriously -- just when you think you've heard about family dysfunction -- you haven't heard it all. I feel for my old classmate. I hope she gets to see her granddaughter again -- I could tell she was truly bereft.

Wifey and I sure would be if we couldn't hand with our little man...

In more pedestrian news, I woke today fully convinced it was Monday. I dragged the trash container to the curb, and then realized mine was the only one. I looked at my phone -- nope -- I was a day off. It's funny how some days just sort of feel like they're other days of the week. I guess the loose schedule of the plague times has contributed to that as well.

As for today, if asked what's new, I'd answer the way my Dad did: "Not a thing -- just the way I like it."

Good luck to Jodi and her family. 

Finally! Something Good For The Rich White Man

 So a lot of talk lately has been about "stimmies," a great term coined by, I guess, millennials, to describe the economic stimulus checks being sent by the government to help us recover from the plague. The Trump Administration sent a couple -- $600 each - and now Biden, being a Democrat, had to out do him and is sending $1400. Alas, Wifey and I don't qualify on account of the fact that, despite my best efforts to slink away from the law business, somehow cases keep coming in and getting settled.

However, my ancient suegra is poor -- we paid down her remaining assets to the Palace years ago to get her on Medicaid, which helps pay her tuition at this college for the declining no one really wishes to attend. As a result, she got the stimmies, and was due for another one. But this caused me worry -- to keep Medicaid eligibility, you can't have more than $2000 in assets. The damned stimmie checks threatened to put her over the limit, and, in my paranoid mind, make her too rich to be poor enough for Medicaid.

Well -- I was wrong. The stimmies don't count as assets. So, sure enough, this am I checked her account, and the $1400 was auto deposited by the IRS. Since we pay monthly out of our own pockets to keep my suegra at the Palace, the stimmie DOES help us -- saves us the $1400 we'd have to pay. So there IS an economic benefit to this rich, white man, after all. I love the Democratic Party!

Snark aside, we had a great day yesterday. D1 and Joey's nanny was recovering from her 2nd jab, and the younguns needed help with the grandson -- both had work calls which his happy cooing would interrupt. So Wifey and I fired up the SUV and drove to their house -- and played with him, and took him for walks.

I wheeled him down the street to Biscayne Bay. He loved it -- babbled happily, and waved at a passing seaplane and flock of pelicans. We spoke to my parents, whose cremains are in the ocean, which is, of course, connected to the Bay. I told the Little Man about my family's history, which is, of course, his family history. His middle name is my father's. I think on some level he understood.

After Wifey fed him his dinner, we handed him off to his beloved Daddy and Mommy, and left for home. But wait. If seeing one D was good, wouldn't seeing the other make the day even better? We called D2 and she was out walking the enormous puppy. Would she like to meet for dinner? She would -- Jonathan was working late, anyway.

So, she called a few places -- figuring Tuesday night would be empty. But the Grove has become freaking Manhattan South, and 3 places we called for outdoor seating were already filled. But we went to the Peacock Cafe, newly renovated, and large dog friendly.

It was lovely. I had some delicious fish, as did Wifey and D2. We got lamb chops to go for the late working finance man. We walked D2 and Betsy home along Bayshore Drive -- the breeze was delicious. And then we headed home.

A package was waiting -- D1 surprised me with a new book: "A Year of Dangerous Days." It's about 1980 in Miami -- the year after I moved here - and the confluence of events of race riots, Mariel Boatlift, and Cocaine -- the three pillars that make my beloved City so great. I look forward to reading it.

Today I plan to resume my constitutionals -- on partial hiatus on account of strained quads and hamstrings.

Watching the toddler for 3 hours yesterday reminded me that child care is for the young. I thought of my former next door neighbor, Alfredo. When he put in a commercial level playground, I told him (this was 3 years ago)  I hoped to someday have grandkids play there. "Grandkids? David -- you're MY age -- have more of your OWN kids." I guess he looked past the fact that his wife is 30 years younger than mine -- or figured -- hey -- it's Miami -- get a young mistress to broaden your legacy.

No F-ing way! Even with child care, I am WELL past the parent of young children stage. I just hope I keep the stamina to keep running after the grand son, and, dare I hope?  - more grandkids, too.

Off now to write Wifey a note -- gotta move that stimmie. Not a bad morning...

Do We Have A Chance At Community?

 When I was in junior high, my favorite music was soul, and white peoples' music that sounded like soul. I particularly liked a song by Carole King called "Believe in Humanity," for its message about hoping we could all get along, despite the negativity in the world. And this was YEARS before Rodney King asked the question!

Well, of course our country has shown we have deep divides. The other day, I read a seemingly innocuous post in a local FaceBook page about septic tank contractors in our wealthy Village. Oh boy. I was, and am, the resident wise ass -- trying to defuse tensosity (my late friend Alan's wonderful neologism) with humor. Alas, the poster didn't get that "Number 2" referred to crap. When I tried to explain, he deleted his post -- sort of the way a neighbor did when she thought I was serious about posting that flamingos were bred in holiday colors to be taken to lawns (the flamingos in question were, of course, plastic).

But the septic issue went deeper. Ha. There is now a LONG thread about whether or not is was proper to mention that the company the fellow praised was "minority owned." I happen to think that's irrelevant -- in Miami, white, non hispanics like me are a minority.

When I read about a contractor, I want to know if he or she does good work. I couldn't care less about their race, religion, or otherwise. But this supposedly breezy, helpful community post has devolved into a misery of race baiting and defense of diversity. Caramba!

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. There's an article in today's NY Times about grieving for the loss of an estranged family member -- how it presents "unique challenges." Sometimes, I guess, the survivor is just happy their mother is dead. Other times there is a different kind of guilt..

I see it a lot. In my family of first cousins, each of the 5 families (ha -- we could have been Mafia) have instances of siblings not speaking. It's just the way it is.

Years ago, I recall an adult son invited to his father's birthday party. He responded that the next time he wished to see either of his parents, it would be to dance upon their graves. Ha -- they both plan on cremation, so the joke's on him!

The point is, if families can't get along, do communities really have a chance? Even upper class places, free of crime, where the main issues seem to be an overabundance of peafowl, or the occasional Air BNB where too many parties take place?

At least when it comes to septic tanks in Pinecrest, I know the answer -- and it's very, very crappy.

The Problems Of Most Of Us Don't Amount to a Hill of Beans

 So my family has dealt with serious issues, like death, like most families have. But thankfully the deaths have been terribly sad -- not truly tragic. Tragic is the death of the young.

The worst thing to happen to me in my life was my father's death. I was 20; he was 63. But as much as I adored him, as a rising college senior, to me he was an old man. He collected Social Security. He was retired. He had grandchildren. I've never gotten over his loss, but it was horrifically sad , and yet not a tragedy.

Well, today I heard about one of the T types. Jeff called to tell me he was headed to a memorial service for one of his synagogue's congregants -- a 30 year old who had killed himself. Did I know him, Jeff asked? I knew the family's name, but not the parents or the young man.

Turns out D2 did know him -- he was a few years ahead of her at UF, and has close friends who are close family friends. Learning that, it hit me in the gut. It went from simply sad news, to something much closer to home.

Those who are most close to me share a sacred quality: our kids are everything to us. In fact, the other day, Paul was telling me about someone he was arguing was a "good guy," but then let on that, if his son didn't treat him the right way, the man might financially abandon him. Paul's the much better lawyer than I, but I cross examined my brother into a corner. By definition, such a man could NEVER be our kind of "good guy." He might be fun to hang with, or quirky, or even fascinating -- but never one allowed into our inner circle. Paul backtracked -- maybe the fellow wouldn't really abandon the young man. Nope. Too late. In my eyes, that mere possibility puts a man on a different list in my eyes.

I don't know the family who lost their son. They live close by. We have many people in common. I guess as time goes on -- more will come out about this latest horror. Still -- I pray for peace for them, even though I know that never comes.

I missed my walking today, for a funny reason. Wifey hired our painter to replace some corner stucco fasteners that were rusting through the new paint job. It was a pretty large project -- took 4 workers a whole day to literally saw off the corners, and Erico, our painter, and his son, a whole day to repaint.

The problem was -- they forgot to cover a fountain I have in front of the house, and it became a pool of plaster and debris. The water was a muddy gray. I LIKE that fountain -- keep it clean with chlorine tablets all the time, and turn it on when guests come over, or I want some Zen sounds to accompany my cocktail out front.

So I set about bailing out the water with a 5 gallon bucket, and then flushing the well part of the fountain, and then cleaning it out with a wet vac. It took 3 hours. I was fine doing it, but in effect I was doing weighted squats for hours.

This am I woke, and could barely move my legs. I had a dental cleaning appointment. If I didn't take Tylenol, which I rarely do, I'd still be laying in the dental chair, immobile.

As the day progressed, my walking graduated to Frankenstein monster-like strides. D2 found the whole affair pretty funny -- somehow a project her Mom wanted done ended up annoying and hurting me. Whatever. I should be back with my constitutionals in a few days, hopefully. In the mean time, it only hurts when I get up and walk...

Again -- bupkis problems. Those poor, poor people, who lost a son and brother. Anyone who ever loses perspective in life is a fool. I do foolish things, sometimes, but I'm no fool.

Big Man bless them.

If I Give You $50, Will You Promise Not To Tell Anyone You Live in My Town?

 Ah, stupidity. It's all around -- seemingly more apparent than ever before, due to social media. I guess in the old days, true dumb asses had to speak in public or write letters, and since they were too stupid to do so, they remained, rightfully, in the dark. No more!

A few months ago, one of my cousins posted something so absurd on my page, about politics, I was tempted to make him an offer: I'll send you $1000 if you promise to never tell anyone we share any DNA. Instead, I took the cheaper route, and simply unfriended him on FaceBook.

Well, tonight I met Stupidity again, and this time it was actually pretty funny.

I belong to a FaceBook (tm) group related to Pinecrest. It's mostly a breezy site -- neighbors sharing good and bad contractor experiences, restaurant reviews, local advice, etc... I've actually gotten a few good leads from the site -- including a one armed marble floor polisher. Really.

We had the guy over to give us an estimate to polish our floors. He had one arm. Of course, I said nothing, but he volunteered he lost his arm in an accident, but not to worry -- he worked with an assistant and did a fine job.

Wifey thanked him, and, like all contractors, said she would be getting a few more quotes and would let him know. He started to leave. I told him to wait.

I took Wifey aside, and said "REally? We would hire anyone else over a one armed guy willing to do this job? If he's a few hundred dollars more -- so what?" Wifey quickly agreed, and we hired him. He did a fine job.

So tonight, I saw a post from a neighbor wanting to share a good experience he had with a septic tank contractor. They had done a fine job at a great price. The writer also mentioned that the business was Black owned, from Opa-locka, and he felt good about that. Oh boy.

Some of the responders applauded him, but many asked -- what the hell does race have to do with anything? One poster I know, a local journalist named Michael Miller, asked if it was ok to say "Oh -- and by the way, my contractor is white owned, so you should feel good about that."

I usually stay out of these kerfuffles, but I figured I'd inject obvious humor. So I posted "It's all good. Just find the #1 company in a #2 business." Well -- the original poster, named Dal, responded that he didn't know what I meant -- he was SAYING he found the number one company, and in fact had met with FIVE others.

I responded that it was a joke. He needed to Google the meaning of "#2" and it would become clear, I hoped.

Last I checked, he deleted his posts. I guess he realized he was in fact a dumb ass. Lord, as D1 says...

Meanwhile, we had a great day with the Little Man. Wifey and I fetched some great deli sandwiches from Bagel Bar East, in Sans Souci. I am thinking they may in fact be better than Mo's Bagels. This is serious business to me -- Jewish delis are my cultural birthright, and for me to say that is big. But in fact the corned beef sandwich was awesome -- as was the matzoh ball soup. Bagel Bar -- you may have won us over.

D1 napped, and Joey worked, and Wifey and I took the Little Man across the street to his friend Tomas's house. They were holding an Easter Egg hunt. There were 4 toddler boys -- all born between October of '19 and January of '20. The cuteness factor was off the chart. Everyone there, except for us, was Venezuelan American, and were simply delightful. We talked sports, and politics. The little guys took apart the plastic eggs.

Tomas has a medical condition first identified by Dr. Barry: GLM. That stands for "good looking mother." She's a lovely young woman, too -- made us very welcome, as I drank my Modelo beer.

We went back across the street, and spent some quality time, and then left for home. April -- so far, so good. Hope it continues.

May the #2 in life remain on social media pages -- even those commented upon by those with no idea what that means.

The Stations of the Cross in Kendall

 So today is Good Friday, the Christian holiday commemorating the crucifixion and death of Jesus. In the account, after Jesus is convicted of blasphemy, and Pilate washes his hands of the matter, Jesus must carry his cross to Golgatha (Hebrew) or Calvary (Latin) where he will be nailed to the cross. Two days later, according to believers, he rose from the dead -- this is commemorated by Easter.

When Wifey, the Ds and I visited Jerusalem, we walked the so-called stations of the cross -- the path Jesus took through the streets on his way to his fate. Pilgrims copy the walk all the time -- I guess today it's rather crowded in the Old City.

I called my friend Rabbi Yossi, as he shared with me a tale of his recent house purchase. He had no idea how hilarious it was.

He bought a place on Killian Parkway, just a few houses away from the Center/shul. The seller was a Middle Eastern Christian, and he knew all about the work Rabbi and Nechama have done for disabled kids in our community -- and was proud to sell them his house. He was a very nice man -- and said the house was "built with his heart" and he was so happy that was now going to such fine people. They signed the papers in the house (it being the time of Covid) and the man left.

Rabbi went into the master bedroom. Sure enough, the seller had left a huge cross there. Rabbi shrugged, and began schlepping it out for pickup later. As he did so, the realtor Anthony, himself a Jew, pulled up to see the sight of the Chasidic Rabbi carrying the cross. I'm sure he peed his pants, as I would have.

My Rabbi unwittingly visited the Kendall stations of the Cross.

In the garage, there was an even BIGGER crucifix. That had to be borne, too.

So for these reasons, I called Rabbi to wish him a blessed Good Friday. He didn't answer -- it's the final days of Passover -- which ends this year, coincidentally, in Sunday, which is also Easter.

I'm always amazed how few Christians realize the Last Supper was a Passover seder, and how intertwined are these two significant holidays. Oh well. Likewise, few orthodox Jews know, or care, about Good Friday and Easter.

Mike texted this afternoon. He had asked his wife, who was raised Catholic but recently learned her mother was a Jew, to bring him a Publix sub. He asked for tuna, as today is literally the only day of the Catholic year where one is supposed to shun meat. He got the tuna, but with extra bacon. The syncretism was everywhere.

I explained to Mike that, for some reason, bacon seems kosher, whereas pork chops absolutely never are. I'm not sure why that is.

All I know is, I have to take Wifey to an appointment at 3 -- my cross to bear. We'll fetch some dinner, and then I have my Zoom Happy Hour at 7. I really enjoy those.

Tomorrow we have no plans -- the painter is coming to finish the touch up job Wifey had him and his crew do -- replacing the metal stucco corners with plastic ones -- to prevent the rust stains.

And Sunday, Joey is set to play golf, and so we'll go hand with D1 and the little man. Hopefully D2 and Jonathan will come as well.

And before you know it...Ramadan will be here. It's always something.

Sometimes Into Each Life Meatloaf Does NOT Fall

 Like many, I have settled into some quirky plague routines. One weekly event I VERY much look forward to is my Friday night cocktail parties on Zoom -- with Barry and his boys, Eric and Dana, and Kenny and sometimes Joelle. We appear in various permutations, and always share some laughs and stories about life in these strange times.

Often we eat while Zooming. Eric and Dana whip up some gourmet fare. Donna either brings in some good looking food, or cooks for herself, Barry, and Josh. And Scott and his lady Sam tend to eat healthy.

I weekly get from Publix InstaCart some meatloaf. It comes prepared in a tin, and I pop it into the oven for an hour, and it's delicious. Wifey isn't a big fan, but by the following day, as lunch, the meatloaf is gone. I also make some pasta to go with hit. I have simple tastes -- fettucine and meatloaf -- without any sauce. I eat like a college kid many times.

Well, this week we changed up the routine a bit. Wifey ordered from Amazon Prime, which uses Whole Foods. She got meat loaf, but it was prepared -- not nearly as good. So today I thought -- ok -- I'll do my Publix order -- get some staples and my Friday night meatloaf.

But then first world tragedy struck. They're OUT. I told Wifey this awful, terrible news. I used those words, since I always make fun of her hyperbole when things go wrong. "I HATE it when the show isn't on when they say." "Hate?" I ask. Like one HATES Nazis? So today I used a series of overly dramatic, over the top words to describe my meat loaf-less Friday a-coming.

Hopefully it's a sign that the pandemic is indeed ending. I will happily switch my Friday routine to live restaurant eating -- hopefully with my dudes. We'll see.

Another routine is the every other visit on Thursdays of D2 and her enormous puppy. We've taken to sharing Miriam, our cleaning lady, and when she cleans D2 an Jonathan's place in the Grove, D2 decamps here, and sets up her office in our dining room. I get an order for Daddy eggs afternoon, and then, later on, we bring in Uber Eats for dinner. We eat together and then she brings home dinner for Jonathan.

Alas, tonight, the now twice jabbed kids have dinner plans with friends. So maybe I'll switch the Uber order in to tomorrow night. I get a monthly $15 credit from Amex, and always use it early in the month lest I forget and it goes to waste.

Such are the issues of those of us lucky, relatively, during the plague.

So -- no meatloaf for me tomorrow night. That's ok. Big Man willing, my family and friends stay well. I'll make due with something else instead.