Giving Back

 I know I'm becoming more crochety as I age. I don't plan on living to an extreme number, like my ancient suegra, but if somehow I do, I will NOT be that adorable, sweet old man. Instead, I'll likely end up the type who shoots at kids when they refuse his command to get the hell off his lawn.

So more things bother me than they used to. And yesterday's annoyance came in the form of an email from an old acquaintance. The fellow, whose name is, I think, a derivation of Abraham, is a very successful commercial lawyer. He's been one since 1975, and started out, well, chasing ambulances for a living. But then he and a very sharp partner started doing more complex stuff, and built a large firm with a great public relations connection network, and did very, very well. At some point, some of the partners broke off, and then his new form of firm also did well. I've always liked him, and been very happy with his success.

But then came the email. It was sent to, I'm sure, hundreds of members of the Florida Bar, if not more. In it, he reminded us all about his very impressive career, with his wide and varied experience. But then came the hilarious part: he had decided it was time to "give back" by lending his wisdom and abilities to those who needed their cases mediated or arbitrated.

Now -- if he planned to do that as a volunteer: terrific. I'd probably have called him and sent him a nice bottle of an adult beverage saying attaboy. But clearly, he plans to charge -- and a LOT per hour, for this "giving back." And that got my gourd, as the great old saying goes.

There used to be a colorful lawyer in Miami named Ellis Rubin -- became famous for his "TV Addiction Defense," in which he argued that a young thug killed his mugging victim since he had become desensitized to violence by watching violent 70s shows like "Baretta." Well -- he lost -- his client got life, but Rubin still did very well with a variety of cases -- he was a great self promoter.

But each birthday, he would devote a day to setting up a desk outside of his office to give free advice to all comers. Of course he invited publicity for this, but he DID give free advice to the poor for a day. I always thought that was kind of cool. That was giving back.

But -- hey -- in addition to my usual hourly billing -- I'll bill YOUR clients -- not so much. Again -- I know this is crochety.

I also heard something that annoyed me yesterday. An aging woman had some photos taken -- and was proud of their youthful nature. Wifey and I saw them and said she looked like the young rock and roll star she was seeking to be. Well -- she told me she asked someone else about whether they had seen them, and the answer was "Yeah -- from a distance, EVERYONE looks good."

Ha. What a comedian. Except that when it comes to women, especially, that's not at all funny. When I heard the story, she was annoyed -- I think I was angrier than she was -- especially since the comment came from, well -- let's just say NOT George Clooney. Again -- my crochety-ness rises again.

On a happy note, Wifey's birthday was a yuuuuuge, as she would Canarsie speak it, success. We gathered at Peacock Cafe on a gorgeous afternoon, and weren't shy with the cocktails. When the little man fussed, the perfect volume of the music of the place kind of drowned him out. We ate well -- Wagyu steaks, and fish, and oysters and a picnic appetizer with great stuff. The manager came over -- a jovial Portuguese guy -- and told us that Grovites, which D2 and Jonathan hope to become again, get a discount. So we'll be back.

I texted Joelle and Kenny, since they live close by, and invited them to join us. Kenny was working, but Joelle and her visiting son Adam came -- and shared a cocktail as well. Then we all crossed Bayshore Drive to a park where the Little Man played happily. It was delightful.

Wifey had to drive home, and I directed her to the old Dairy Queen -- such a day needed a proper ending. D2 and Jonathan begged off, but I got us some soft serve with Magic Shell, which is truly magic.

It was a lovely birthday for her -- she thoroughly enjoyed it. But poor Wifey -- more crochety=ness from her husband is likely in the coming years.

Maybe I can find a way to give back by earning more money. That would cheer me up...

A Birthday Whose Number Cannot Be Revealed

 So folks the world over gather today with their loved ones, hopefully Covid free (ha. as if) and celebrate the birth of their personal Lord and Savior. Around here, Wifey is the reason for the season. Like the Jesus dude, she was also born driving distance from Jerusalem, but many years later.

She has asked that I stop mentioning her age, and so I must comply, but I DO recall we met when she was 26 and I was 22 and I'm now 60. Also, this month she became eligible for a certain government sponsored health care plan whose name rhymes with Schmedicare. But I know how to keep a secret.

It's funny -- when I think of Wifey's age, one memory sticks out. We were with Jeff and Cheryl, sitting at a beachside bar on Isla Mujeres, in the Yucatan. That proved to be the trip where I KNEW I was in love with Wifey and wanted to make things with her more than friends with benefits.

We were talking about dogs, and Jeff asked about Wifey's beloved Sunshine. She said she got him when she was 16. Without thinking, Jeff said "Wow -- old dog." And that has become part of the now large amount of family lore we have created and collected over the decades.

So yesterday, for Wifey Birthday Eve, our Pinecrest Roomies D2 and Jonathan headed up to Aventura to spend time with Jonathan's family -- especially his absurdly adorable 1 year old niece -- a red head like her Mom and Jonathan. The weather here was lovely, and I Uber Eated some Chinese for Wifey -- from a place called Takee Outee -- it's real name. Now that Canton has become Sushi Maki, with only a limited Chinese menu, Takee Outee has become our local go-to takeout place.

I had made pasta and meatloaf, in honor of Festivus, and we sat outside in the company of the strange rescue dog, the special needs Spaniel, and Betsy, the now nearly 90 lb puppy. A lovely breeze blew. Tom Petty played on my Sonos Roam. It was delightful.

Later, Wifey got the Beatles documentary done by the short Australian Peter Jackson to play on our TV, and we watched until D2 and Jonathan returned. Then they were off to bed and I followed their lead, as D2 knew I would.

With my false positive Covid result, we canceled the lunch we planned at Faena, but I got us a spot at Peacock Cafe in the Grove this afternoon. We've been several times -- all outside, with good food, and across from Peacock Park, where we can hopefully take the Little Man afterwards to roam a bit. That toddler brings us so much joy.

So we're in the very heart of our holiday season. Friday is NYE, and we re-booked our plans -- dinner at Mi'Italia with Kenny, Joelle, and their grad student son Adam, along with Diane. D2 and Jonathan will be hosting some of their friends here, and we may try to stay up to midnight to toast the new year with them.

And then, just days later, Wifey and I have our three and a half decade wedding anniversary. I think we'll forego a meal out for that one -- just enjoy more of the nice weather at Villa Wifey, a place I absolutely savor living.

So my dear Wifey -- happy birthday. As our shared favorite Neil Young sang, long may you run. I love the life we have been privileged to build together -- let's keep on keepin' on.

A Festivus Miracle!

 So since I attended a 25 person indoor event on Sunday, I decided to get Covid tested Wednesday. I did the same last July -- after Paul's wedding came at a bit of a surge time -- and the results were negative. I didn't feel any symptoms, but scheduled anyway, figuring we had some guests coming after Christmas and I wanted to be sure.

My appointment at the Pinecrest drive through was at 9, and there were already 6 cars in front of me when I arrived at 845. I almost aborted the mission and headed to LOL, but I was there -- what the hell? The line moved, and the tech stuck two swabs in my nose -- the shallow poke for the rapid test, and the DEEP one for the PCR. I swear it tickled my brain.

I headed to Brickell, and caught up with Carla, Amanda, and Josh. Amanda said she had a recent scare -- her boyfriend was at a party where there were positive guests -- but she was negative. After a few hours I left -- wishing all a Merry Christmas -- and headed to Broward before a meeting about a wedding ceremony I was to perform January 2. I met my nephew of another mister Josh -- at his hangout,  a "breastaraunt" called Twin Peaks. Get it?

We sat outside and talked a lot about Covid. His brother Scott had arrived from DC and a positive girlfriend -- and hadn't taken off his mask since he arrived. Josh had been to a big football party Sunday -- but outside -- and he is VERY careful about infecting his parents.

As I finished my burger, I got an email from the testing site. The rapid test was POSITIVE. What? Josh was cool, but I knew it had set off a panic in him. He is obsessed with health issues -- particularly Covid. Of all the people I could have been with when I learned I was Typhoid Dave -- he was the second worst. His brother Scott would have been the worst. I left a $100 bill and walked to my car -- beginning a series of phone calls to people warning them of my status.

Oh boy. The Ds and their men immediately set about finding testing appointments -- which have become scarce with this huge omicron surge. Luckily no one attacked D1 for having the Sunday get together -- it turned out there were other possible vectors -- Jonathan's family had a get together Sunday as well -- outside -- but the daughter of his uncle had later tested positive. And Jonathan had been at an office holiday party Friday -- outside as well, but still...

Hell. I was at my gym -- working out maskless. It seems these days EVERYONE is positive or knows someone who is.

I drove home, and D2 and Jonathan scrambled to find testing appointments. They succeeded -- as well as scoring one for Wifey, who would have found doing it too daunting. D1 and the grandson got testing appointments for today as well. The Covid/industrial complex was in full swing.

I kept my mask on, but we realized it was absurd. If I was infected, so were Wifey, D2, and Jonathan. So we decided to begin medical treatment -- cocktails. I poured a few Absoluts and tonics in the shaker -- the quinine in the tonic would work. Jonathan had tequila, and then he and D2 polished off a nice bottle of Cab I had received as a holiday gift.

Wifey watched TV and I retired to my firepit -- feeding the flames the statements of failed investments from decades ago.

I went to sleep, and awoke at 12:30. It was 12/23 -- Festivus. An email had come in from the testing service -- the PCR test was NEGATIVE.

Of course, since the PCR is run by a lab, and the rapid not -- the PCR is considered the accurate one. I had dodged Covid -- at least for now.

I texted my contacts. A burden had lifted. The absurdity of our current state of affairs with the plague was clearly evident.

So -- I guess today we'll figure out whether we want to reschedule our canceled events -- Wifey's birthday lunch at the Faena on the Beach, and our NYE dinner in South Miami. Part of me is saying nah -- just lay low until the surge passes again -- probably February or March. We'll see.

But the Festivus Miracle visited our house. D2 said she has MANY grievances to air this year -- and we didn't get the Festivus pole. But the spirit of silliness, sarcasm, and comedy associated with that ersatz holiday is indeed upon us.

Bonfire Of Failed Investing

 The weather is supposed to finally turn cooler this week, and I will be able to use my fire pit. And the first time I do, I have hundreds of pages of paper to commit to the ash heap of history. The tale begins in 2000.

The firm had several good years, and I had accumulated a sizeable nest egg. I haphazardly invested some of it in stocks through Victoria, our Merrill Lynch broker, whose acumen I never trusted. And then Paul suggested I finally get money "under management," to do better than I was doing myself.

At that time Northern Trust, long a bank for the very rich, decided to bottom feed and seek clients for accounts with a mere $1M in investable assets. They had hired a bunch of people to do this, and went after relative schleppers like me.

Well, Northern Trust always stood for old money. And Midwestern old money at that! So Wifey and I walked across Brickell, and met with our new advisor, a Michigan Biz School grad named Diane. As we drank tea and coffee in fine china, she explained that, since the money wasn't immediately needed, she was going aggressive -- major growth. And, since I was a busy lawyer and Wifey had as much interest in finance as she did in, um, maybe roller derby -- paying 1.5% of the accounts value each year seemed like a bargain.

And sure enough, in that crazy tech boom, the balances zoomed. In 2 months, the account had grown nearly 20%. I stopped looking at the monthly statements, and focused on the law practice, and life. But then I started hearing about the tech bubble bursting -- this was around 2002, and I figured I ought to pay more attention.

The account was worth about half of its high. What? How was this possible? Wasn't I paying these people to know when to sell before the losses got too significant?  I met with Diane, and she shucked and jiived about how it was all an algorithm, computer generated, and that's how it worked. I remember one particular security, which she bought at $100 per share, and was now worth $10. Why hadn't she sold it, I asked, when it lost about 20% of its value, instead of watching it crash to the ground? I mean, losing money was one thing, but PAYING someone to lose your money was another.

Diane shifted to the other benefits of being a Northern customer. In fact, we had watched a few Heat games from their corporate box, and one night was a ton of fun. Their local boss, Sherman, was a VERY buttoned down Black man -- extremely serious at all times. Our friend Allison happened to be at the game, in her brother in law the Heat CFO's box, and came to the Northern box rather lit. She tried to get Sherman to dance, and he held his arms so tightly it was like he was afraid Allison was trying to steal his wallet. "C'mon, Shermy baby -- lighten up and dance." He chose not to.

Other than that, there were no other benefits to being a Northern Trust client -- well, maybe one more. I got to tell people the classic riddle: How do you get a small fortune? Give Northern Trust a LARGE fortune...

Well -- we closed the account, and gave the money to our neighbor and friend Pat for handling. We followed Pat from Prudential Securities, to Oppenheimer, to Northeast, and finally to a platform called Western International. Pat has done very well for us -- and calls me before making any moves, and the moves are all well researched  -- not some stupid computer program.

Pat felt strongly I ought to double my usual stock investment in a fruit company, in '03. Their lead fruit man, Steve Jobs, had returned to take over. Well -- that investment has of course soared over the ensuing 18 years, and has been gifted handsomely to the Ds, the grandson, and our various charities.

But back to the bonfire story. I kept the file of all the statements from Northern in the back of my file cabinet. I had thought about suing them for broker incompetence, but didn't want to admit under oath I was naive enough to have trusted them. So the huge file just sat there clogging up the file drawer.

Until the other day. I plucked it out, and realized it was time to say goodbye. So at the fire pit, it will be tossed on -- a talisman of my learning curve as an investor.

Today, I manage our family's accounts. I had kept a small account with Oui, out of old friendship, but she left her company, Morgan Stanley, and I told her thanks for the memories. Now Pat is my advisor, although he only has a small percentage of our money under his management. I'll never give up full control again -- the thought of having to go back to lawyering full time is not a pleasant one to me.

And the fire pit awaits the fuel from my folly...

Damned Covid

 Just when we thought it was safe to go back into the water...I know I speak for all, or just about all, when I say BASTA! Enough! But our hopes aren't realized just yet.

My whole family is now triple vaxxed, except for the two year old, and our guru and sacred advisor Dr. Barry doesn't think jabs for toddlers are coming anytime soon. The early research shows they don't work so well on tiny kids, and, as Barry reassures, there is little literature and certainly little of his own experience showing young kids getting very sick or Big Man Forbid, dying, from Covid, unless they have serious underlying conditions. So that gives us comfort about the Little Man, as well as our friends' young grandkids.

D1 and Joey planned a party for the Little Man for today, and thought about canceling, but went ahead. 2/3 of the guests begged off, which was fine, as the event space was not at all crowded, and all the guests were fully vaxxed and masked. The only effect was FAR too much food -- everyone will be eating pinwheels, cheese plates, and chicken tenders for the coming days.

I went ahead and scheduled a Covid test for Wednesday, just to be safe. I'm honestly not too concerned about deathly illness or deathly death, but I DO want to know if I'm positive to thereafter quarantine.

We had reservations for Wifey's birthday next Saturday, Christmas Day, at the former Versace Mansion, a place called Gianni's. I joked inappropriately that their bloody Mary was called the Cunanan. Alas -- we canceled -- it's inside, and Jonathan instead booked us at a restaurant at the Faena Hotel that is outside.

NYE is set for a local favorite Italian place, including our very smart friends Kenny and Joelle. I figure I'll have them make the call as to whether we go ahead with the plans, or bag it like last year and just stay home and eat and try to stay awake until midnight.

Other than that, I guess I'll stick close to home. I would have maybe gone to a Heat or Canes basketball game -- I think I'll take a Pasadena on those for now, although Norman points out that there are more people in a local Publix than attend Canes basketball, especially during Winter Break when the kids are home from their dorms.

We're all fortunate, work wise. Jonathan and D2 can work remotely, as can D1 and Joey. My little work can certainly be done by phone, although I was starting to enjoy weekly Wednesday trips to the office to brainstorm with Stuart and his young Turk Josh.

Instacart will continue,and I think tomorrow I'll even order my Publix meatloaf, which was on hiatus for awhile. And, based on the test results this week, my in person workouts may be put on hold -- though I hope to continue the daily minimum of 7000 steps.

Oh what a world, what a world. This damned virus messing things up for the better part of 2 full years now. Hopefully 2022 sees the transition from pandemic to endemic.

As for today, the Little Man SAVORED his cake. May there be more joyful times like these.

It Was Two Years Ago Today

 So D1 was full term, and we knew we might get the call any time. She was under the amazing care of Dr. Yasin, the kindly Middle Eastern OB I called "The Wizard." First -- Barry said he was the best there was -- at the best Children's Hospital in the SE. And second, when D1 was having complications, which turned out to be not horrible, when I met him in her presence he looked at her and said "You belong to me now."

I cried -- he was a fellow father of grown girls, and he got it. D1 and Joey loved him, but as a grandpa to be, I will never forget that comfort he brought me. He retired last year -- long may he enjoy his beautiful family.

Anyway -- my cell rang at, I think, about 2 am. It was D1 -- her water had broken. I woke my brother Barry, and as usual he was sanguine -- no rush. But there was -- there had been mecunium in the water, which meant fast C section lest there be an infection.

Wifey and I flew to Holtz, and met our consuegros. Soon after, Joey came out and told us -- we had a big baby grandson. Mother and baby were doing great.

In D1's room, Barry was there, thankfully looking at a healthy baby instead of his usual critically ill ones. A tall surfer dude looking doc came in, and flipped the baby around -- Joey wasn't used to the fact that newborns are actually less fragile than we'd think.

And a few days later -- they took the boy home -- to a house with a cuddly Spaniel. His life began.

A week later there was a bris at our consuegros house. Eric and Barry stood very close to me. I was moved at their affection. Truth was, they were convinced I was going to pass out at the cut and figured they'd get good purchase. But no -- I held the little guy during the cut -- and he did fine.

Next thing, his Tia Avi (the name he now calls her) and Jonathan got married on Miami Beach. He was there, but secreted away in a room, lest he get ill in his unvaxxed state.

And then things were normal -- oh, except for a worldwide pandemic!!!! Talk about tensosity, as my late friend Alan's neologism says. But D1 was vaxxed, and the hope was the little guy got some of her antibodies. A year later, the plague still raged, but he started pre school anyway -- and is loving it.

And today he turns 2! Wow. The damned plague is still here -- surging again, but far less scary now that we're all vaxxed 3 times, and there are treatments.

We kind of adore the little guy. First -- despite very slim parents, he, well, isn't. At his 2 year checkup yesterday, his doc said he was 65th percentile in height and 90th percentile in weight. She wants D1 to go heavier on the veggies and less on the fruit. I think the pediatrician is fat shaming -- hey -- he used to be 95th percentile! But the boy DOES love to eat.

Last week, his friend Tomas was being fed pancakes at another toddler's house. Our boy looked at them with total lust -- until Tomas's nanny gave him some.

Also -- he has an adorably cute personality and voice. I can't be objective, but I think he's hilarious.

He speaks mostly Spanish, and some English, mostly due to Wifey, who speaks ZERO Spanish. The other day he said he was eating "tomates," and Wifey corrected him to "tomatoes." He'll get it figured out.

We're off in a bit to spend the day with him. School is out for Winter Break, and Wifey and I will play with him and read to him.

Our family has been amazingly blessed by the Big Man. And today we celebrate the biggest blessing of all.

97!

 So today my suegra turns 97. Wow. Although she has declined quite a bit, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she makes the century mark. She's the essence of the word survivor.

Last Sunday, D2 and Jonathan returned from a friends' wedding up in Sanford, which I guess is near Orlando. I say I guess because I have truly become one of those crotchety old guys who rarely goes north of the Miami Dade/Broward line. I used to travel all over the state for business, and of course there were 9 years of visiting Gainesville for the Ds, but that's in the rear view mirror. Now I'm that guy who agrees I absolutely do NOT live in Florida. I live in Miami.

But anyway, the Pinecrest Roomies as Jonathan has named us returned, and Wifey and I were going to the Palace for a visit. D2 wanted to come along, and Jonathan, too, realizing his abuela by marriage may NOT be around much longer.

Given my dark sense of humor, I noted that it would be a mini version of March of the Living -- where Jews visit Poland and the Concentration Camps, to reflect on the horrors of our past, and then fly to Israel, where the celebrate and party in modern cities. I promised after the downer of the visit to the ALF, we'd go have a nice dinner and drinks. As I said -- my dark humor.

So Rachel was awake and in bed, refusing to eat her dinner except for the cake. Diabetes/schmiabetes. She has been living for years essentially on sugar.

The hospice nurse Marta was Colombian and spoke little English, but Jonathan was able to translate. Rachel went in and out -- sometimes she knew who Wifey was, and sometimes she confused her with D2. Strangely, though she has had a fraught relationship with me -- she ALWAYS knows who I am. Funny how the brain works.

After an hour or so, we left, and after our usual squabble about choosing a restaurant, we went to Cafe Catula, a neat place on Galloway off Sunset. It was early, and so mostly empty, but as we ate the crowd arrived. The food was terrific -- great fresh fish and Jonathan and I shared some oysters. I had two Ketels to soften the sadness of the visit, and we enjoyed ourselves.

We returned home to watch the season finale of "Succession," the HBO show we all watch together on Sunday nights. Mission accomplished.

And now we get to enjoy the final days of 2021. I like to be optimistic about the coming year. Lately that's been a fool's errand. As '19 ended, I seized upon the metaphor that 2020 would be a year of "perfect vision.," as we had a new grandchild, and D2 and Jonathan were to be married. Well -- there were great things, of course, but also a deadly pandemic, which caused great anxiety because of our little man and the unknown effects on him.

And then, it was adios to 2020, and a new year of only great things. Ha. As if. On January 15, Wifey had a stroke, and that set the tone for the first half of the year, with manifold doctors and rehab visits, and my unexpected early turn into her medical concierge and butler.

Thanks to the Big Man and Team Wifey, my dear friends who advised so well on her care, she was recovering nicely, and then one of our best friends, Elizabeth, dropped dead on a hiking trip in Utah.

So this coming year, I'll keep my predictions and optimism to myself, thank you very much.

Our plans, though, seem to be set. I DO enjoy celebrating NYE, and last year was a non starter because of the plague. This year, I get to watch the Canes at noon, and then at 8:30 we're meeting Kenny, Joelle, and their returned for the break son Adam, along with friend Diane, at Salvatore D's, an Italian place we love not too far from home.

Maria, Salvatore's wife, told me they have their regular menu, which I appreciate, as they don't rip off diners like many places with "special NYE packages."

Meanwhile, D2 and Jonathan are having some of their friends over the house after they return from a sailing trip on Biscayne Bay. It'll be fun to crash their party after our dinner -- and hopefully ring in '22 with the Millennials. 

But more significantly to our family, our beautiful grandson turns 2 on Friday. Wow. Lots went on while he grew from a peanut to a hilarious toddler. Wifey and I will take him out Friday to a local park -- no preschool that day -- and Sunday D1 is having a party for him.

Somehow 2 turns into dropping off at college faster than you can imagine.

And his great grandma is still here with us. What do you know?

It's A Cane Thing

 Dr. Barry and I have discussed this for close to 40 years now: we care entirely too much about the Miami Hurricanes football team. When we were in college, at least, it was understandable -- we attended school with the players, or some of them, and 18-22 year olds didn't have much else going on.

But as grown ass men, some of us even grandfathers, it's a bit embarrassing that we care so deeply about the exploits of 18-22 year old men, and how well they run around a field and catch, throw, and kick.

Well -- we did something about it. We shifted our passion instead to the drama about who would be the coach! And in that regard we got exciting news: Miami native and double Cane Mario Cristobal was hired to take over the team.

For those of us who attended the U at a certain time and place, the love of our team runs deep. I have a friend I'll call Dave, since that's his name, who was a year behind me in college. He didn't do well enough to attend UM Law, and so went to Harvard instead. From there he clerked for a Federal judge in Miami, but then took a job with a top law firm in Chicago. His family lived outside the Windy City.

Well, and this is true, 5 years later he realized he was sickened each Saturday when all anyone cared about was Notre Dame football. He took the Florida Bar, and came to work for a leading firm in Miami, where he is now the managing partner. He changed the direction of his life and career because of the Canes.

The sad thing is, I totally empathize. I really couldn't imagine moving away and missing the games -- particularly when the plague passes and tailgate parties become normal again.

My closest friends and I all attended UM -- either college, or grad school, or both. And we have so many amazing memories tied up with the team.

On January 2, 1987 the Canes lost to underdog Penn State in the National Championship game. Freaking Vinny Testaverde, who to me will always be a bum, threw 4 picks. The following day was my wedding day. Several of my groomsmen turned to me after that game sealing interception and said "Wedding is off now, right?" They were only partially kidding.

So I'll keep claiming I don't care about the fortunes of the team as much as I used to, but it's not true.

And as Norman and I just said this am, on a call to each other, we are VERY excited about the upcoming season, with Super Mario at the helm.

Ah -- if only I fell in love with opera.

People Want To Be Connected

 So I've noticed an interesting thing about people -- particularly those who reach a certain age and never marry or have kids: they hunger for connection.

Often pets take that role in their lives. We have friends who absolutely treat their pets like their children. I mean, I like our dogs well enough, but they're not the same as my humans. To some -- they are.

A friend passed away last year -- she had been married and divorced, and had some long relationships, but never any children. But one of her boyfriends had 3 kids, and our friend saw herself as their stepmother, particularly to the youngest girl, now about 30.

This girl had a troubled life -- heroin addiction for starters. But she moved to Broward, a capital of recovery centers, and seemed to be on the right trail. Our friend would always make it a point to visit her while she was here -- and I got the sense the young woman was reluctant to continue the relationship.

And then, a few years ago, the young woman got married -- a rather large wedding in West Broward -- and our friend wasn't invited. Wifey and I were heartbroken for her -- after all the attempts we saw our friend make, and the continuous efforts to keep a relationship -- the ultimate snub.

The young woman had a baby, and our friend kept up with her -- and then another snub: a limited invite to the baby's birthday party, which came with a warning that many of the guests would be Trumpers, and our friend was NOT to mention her passionate anti-Trump feelings.

We thought at that point, our friend would get the hint -- let the young, troubled woman be.

And then I learned that, indeed, the rebuffing woman was one of the beneficiaries our our friend's will, along with her two brothers, who likewise had lukewarm feelings towards our friend.

I get it. Even though the feelings weren't mutual, in her mind our friend wished to believe she "had children."

It recalled another similar incident, where an old man I knew had a long term girlfriend. He died, and left his condo to a nephew who had zero to do with his life -- although he was decent enough to leave his long term girlfriend a life estate in the condo so she wouldn't have to move.

Here, too, the fellow wanted to have a "legacy" - some connection to family after he died, even though the beneficiary nephew had about nothing to do with him.

To the nephew and our friend's ersatz stepkids -- I say "Score!" They benefitted financially just based on circumstance -- not because of any truly loving relationship during the decedents' life.

When a person leaves money or gifts in a will -- they do it without having to hear any criticism from those living with them. In our friend's case, had she consulted me, I would have urged her to leave her legacy to charity -- she was a passionate supporter of nature -- instead of an undeserving young woman.

But that would have shattered our friend's fantasy of connection -- even if it was one sided. I hope when the young woman gets her check, she at least thinks warmly of our friend. She's a recovering addict, and won't be toasting with alcohol, I suppose. But maybe a coffee mug skyward -- giving thanks to the generosity she didn't deserve.

Dog Hero

 So one of the nicest parts of D2 and Jonathan and Betsy, the enormous puppy, living with us has been the dog friendship between Betsy and Jagger. Jagger looks like a purebred Yellow Lab, but is half YL and half Golden Retriever, and he's one of those dogs so suffused with personality that the whole neighborhood loves him. Betsy as well.

The two romp together like wild stallions -- leaping and rolling and running together. The sight of it never ceases to make us all laugh, and Betsy, in mornings and evenings, struts up to Jagger's owners' front door, and if the humans are home, gets let out.

Well -- yesterday there was dog drama. Jonathan had Betsy, and Rod was with Jagger, but Jagger was wearing a new type of training collar. As the two rolled together, Betsy's teeth became entangled in the collar, choking her best friend.

Jonathan sprung into action. He was able, despite the twirling, more than 150 pounds combined of dog mass, to get the collar loose. But then, to his and Rod's horror, Jagger lay motionless on the ground, tongue out. He was totally unconscious.

Jonathan pumped on Jagger's chest, and blew into his mouth, and sure enough, Jagger came to. He came home and related the whole affair to D2. It was scary -- but thankfully Jagger is totally fine -- confirmed by a visit to his vet.

I told Jonathan that the Torah says that if one saves a single life, it is as if he saves the whole world. I assume the same applies for dogs Jagger's young owners came by with a nice bottle of wine to thank Jonathan -- with a message "From" Jagger -- with paw prints, and everything. Jonathan, D2, and I shared it last night -- a lovely red, from Napa.

So my son in law is a canine hero, and in my dog crazed family, therefore a hero to us.

Wifey said it's nice to know that if anything happened to HER, Jonathan would jump into action. Well...(insert mother in law joke here).

But horray for Jonathan. Jagger barks in approval.

Nice Health News

 So today I had my yearly physical, with Dr. Mary, who took over the practice of our long time doc, Dr. Dave. Mary is a member of MDVIP, a concierge company that charges a yearly fee to give you old style access to your doc. Wifey dropped out a few years ago -- thought it was a waste of money -- but I am of the belief that if something ain't broke -- don't fix it. So I stayed.

One of the benefits is an old style, executive check up. I was there 2 hours today -- EKG, hearing, grip strength, full scale neuro workup. Also, they do a comically detailed blood analysis -- not only cholesterol, but how big the cholesterol clumps are. My friend Eric says a lot of it is bullshit, but Mary believes in one particular marker -- for inflammation, which she says is predictive of future stroke and heart attack. And thankfully, my results are all either optimal or near optimal. Except...

Somehow I gained 35 pounds since last year. Ha. Somehow. It's called eating like a pig. The first year of the pandemic took away my appetite, and started me on daily 10 mile anxiety walks. And I dropped -- to 220 or so. Well, I'm still walking and exercising, but the appetite came back -- and so there's now 35 more pounds of me. So I have my project for 2022 -- go for the gold -- lose the weight again. I'll do it.

One of the things they do is take your blood pressure in all 4 extremities -- and each side is supposed to match up. Mine did, and amazingly my BP was normal, despite my too large size. I figure I can bring it to low normal with the weight drop.

But speaking of food -- last night was a fun one. Wifey was in the Gables at a birthday dinner, and Jonathan was working late, so I prevailed upon D2 to have dinner with me. I suggested Captain's Tavern, an old school place where the old gringos of our area like to go. D2 doesn't like it, but we compromised on eating in the bar.

Sure enough, after our delicious conch chowders and my martini, D2 got a text from her friend Michael -- asking if her Dad was at the Tavern. Ha. Turns out Michael was there with HIS parents -- giving me instant restaurant cred. We stopped by their table to say hello on the way out -- with Jonathan's takeout meal in tow. He said it was delicious.

And my visit reminded me: we often bring in stone crabs for NYE from either the Tavern or Golden Rule. Last year, at the height of the plague, we made NYE just our family. I'm thinking this year maybe stone crabs again  -- to celebrate the coming in of 2022 and hopefully a year where the plague is on the downside.

Meanwhile, my suegra turns 97 soon. Sadly, she's mostly out of it -- last visit she barely spoke to Wifey. But she somehow trudges on. After her birthday, our amazing grandson turns 2. Wow -- that was fast. D1 and Joey are planning a get together at a party space near their house. 

And then, the following week, the world will recognize a HUGE birthday. Lights will be lit, and festive ornaments will be hung. It's WIFEY'S birthday! It coincides with another Jew's birthday who was born, also, in the Middle East. But Wifey is the reason for our season. She hasn't decided yet how she wishes to celebrate.

After NYE, we have yet another event: our 35th wedding anniversary. Talk about the flying by years -- not sure how 3.5 decades have gone so fast. But they have.

After that, D2 turns 30 on Groundhog Day, and our holiday season will be in the books again.

So it's nice to get good news from the Doc. Nothing is permanent, of course -- like Tom Petty sang in his lullaby: "We're all right...for now."