Covid Irony

 So last July, at a wonderful engagement party, afterwards I became enraged at Rob, an old friend. Rob is a Trumper, anti vaxxer type, and, like all of the invitees, was told to either be vaxxed or get a Covid test before coming to the party. Rob did neither, and we hung with him all evening. At the time, Wifey was still only 6 months post stroke, and when I found out Rob hadn't tested -- I cut him off on social media.

He ended up getting Covid -- a very nasty case -- and nearly ended up in the hospital. He recovered. I learned that he was being invited to the big wedding last weekend, and by now I was over the Covid anger -- we hugged, and caught up. His boy Matt came up to me and told me I was a hero of his -- as a Dad and husband. It was lovely. Rob and I are fine going forward.

On the other end of the political spectrum is the rabbi who performed the ceremony. She's very close to the bride's parents, and VERY much a lefty. One would think she was a safe person when it came to Covid. One would be wrong.

The week before the wedding, her husband came down with Covid. He missed the wedding. She tested Friday, and was negative, and when I saw her Friday at the rehearsal dinner, I assumed she was like Wifey and me -- recently recovered from Omicron, and therefore not at all at risk of Covid or transmitting it -- even though her husband was positive. Turns out that wasn't so.

Two of my most Covid paranoid friends actually drove this rabbi to the wedding, and home afterwards. And, the rabbi was maskless throughout -- singing much of the ceremony to the 250 guests, and doing the priestly blessing to the couple, which I call the Vulcan Mind Meld, as Leonard Nimoy contrived that trick as Mr. Spock based on his orthodox background.

Well -- came the news Monday: she came down with Covid. I KNEW my friends the drivers would get it, or at least one of them would. And sure enough, on Wednesday my friend was so diagnosed. He got an anti viral treatment today, and will hopefully be fine.

But the irony struck me. A "Safe" person wasn't at all. Knowing she hadn't gotten Covid, but her husband had, she ought to have masked up, and certainly not driven 2 hours with vulnerable friends. She did none of that.

The good news is that the damned plague doesn't seem to be hospitalizing most people, and is killing far fewer of them. But it shows the damned thing is out there, and we cannot assume people like us are safe, while idiot Trumper types are dangerous.

Wifey and I are going for our 4th jabs Monday, and in truth, I wonder if it's a waste. My friend who has Covid from the viral rabbi got his 4th a few weeks ago. The problem is the vaccines seem designed for Delta, and we're now 2 major variants away.

Still -- we'll get the jabs, and probably the latest iteration that's supposed to come in the Fall. And we'll hopefully manage risk -- but that is hard.

Dr. Barry told me a long time ago about a famous study -- about people who ask only friends and relatives to donate blood before elective surgical procedures. The thinking is they don't get blood from "dirty strangers." Sure enough, the study showed a HIGHER rate of blood borne disease from the selected population! Simply, turns out that Uncle Phil is a secret IV drug abuses. He has hepatitis. And cousin Jill? She used to sleep with the closeted gay guy...

The point is, managing risk is VERY difficult. As for now, Wifey and I have both HAD Covid, likely Omicron, in the past 4 months. We've been thriced vaxxed. 

We're going out to South Pointe tonight to meet our friends from England, Sandra and Dave. It'll be a crowded steakhouse. Sure -- there's risk. How will we deal? Well, for example, I'm not rushing to go to any indoor events for awhile. If someone gave me great seats for a Heat playoff, I'd go, but that'll probably be it. No concerts interest me these days.

And now I have the wisdom that much of my conventional wisdom was wrong. Anti vax, Trumper, not too bright Rob was no danger. Ultra lefty rabbi, probably an NPR listener and reader of the Times daily, was much a danger.

Ya never know...

A Yahrzeit

 Today is my beloved Mom's yahrzeit, the anniversary of her death. My friend Rabbi Yossi always asks if I wish prayers to be said during morning services, and I politely decline -- Mom was not at all religious. But I honor her memory each year -- her yahrzeit comes 2 weeks after her birthday, and so it's easy to remember.

She spent her final 11 months at Miami Jewish Home. My friend, and former office manager Mirta used to visit her. Wifey's best friend Edna had given Mirta a side gig -- visiting her father, who was at the same place, and just sort of overseeing things. She did the same for my father in law Richard -- which resulted in comical scenes with Meyer and Richard sitting out in the lovely garden, with the much younger woman, comparing notes about their days as ladies men.

My father in law, indeed movie star handsome in his days during and after his stint as a dashing soldier in the IDF, used to say, in his Yiddish accent, that he would never throw a rock in a kindergarten in Haifa, lest he strike one of his bastard children. Wifey was always relieved she was never contacted by a fellow Israeli claiming to be her half sibling. It's probably a good idea for Wifey to not take and register that 23 and Me stuff -- who knows what secrets from the 50s would emerge?

But anyway, Mirta would visit, and later on I would use money from Sunny's Special Needs Trust to pay her. The Trust money would all go back to the state when Mom died anyway, to pay the Medicaid lien, so why not get it to a friend instead, at least on a small basis? Mirta would have gone for free, but I insisted.

And the strange thing is, Mirta said this wheelchair bound, somewhat cognitively impaired woman had, according to Mirta, the biggest impact on her life of anyone she met. Sunny's unfailing optimism, despite being stuck in a nursing home, resonated with her. I mean, Mom impacted her family greatly, but not so much in those final months. For Mirta, who never really knew her as a young, vital woman, it was those last days. Mirta grew to love her.

Well -- on Mom's last birthday, April 13, 2013 (lots of 13s) we gathered for a last party. The Ds were there, as were my Florida sister and brother in law, and their former daughter in law, along with her lovely girls -- now finishing grad school and starting college. Sadly, Mom's favorite grandchild stayed away -- he claimed that seeing his grandmother in her declined state "freaked him out." Whatever.

Also my Tampa niece and her husband were there, with their 2 lovely kids. We ate pizza and cake. Mom was awake but disoriented -- she raised a glass to everyone and said "Happy New Year!" We laughed. Vintage Sunny -- find a way to have everyone laugh hysterically.

After that day, she declined. About a week later, she was mostly unconscious, and struggling to breathe. I met with the nurses and social worker, and said it was time for the on campus hospice to take over. Uh oh, they said -- there was a problem: Dr. Levin didn't "believe in hospice" on account of the fact that he was an orthodox Jew and felt life must be fought for at all costs.

He called me, and we spoke. He had a comical, Jackie Mason accent, even though he was Israeli. "David -- we can put in a feeding tube, and then a ventilator -- she can live on!" No, I replied -- that was precisely AGAINST her wishes, and I was her surrogate. If he wouldn't write the order, I told him, I'd have another doctor take over her final care and get 'er done. He relented with "Well -- at least we had the conversation of alternatives." We did -- I was happy to assuage his guilt. Putz.

And then came the miracle drug: morphine. It quieted her breathing -- got rid of the awful struggling for breath. On April 12th, I knew the end was near. Mirta stayed on late -- she made sure the morphine kept coming, even though the staff grew lazy at night. We spoke near midnight and I told Mirta to go home.

I got up early the next morning. The plan was Wifey was coming later -- her BFF Edna was there, to visit her parents -- and Wifey to visit her father. A fun movie is "Hotel For Dogs." Not so fun was "Hotel for Dying Ancient People," but that's what we had.

Barry had called -- he wanted to come visit Sunny, too. I told him where to meet me.

I drove to Little Haiti, and was getting gas next to Miami Jewish. As I was paying, my cell rang. It was the social worker -- Sunny had just died. I told her I was literally 5 minutes away and would be right there. I arrived to a strong scent of disinfectant -- I was grateful they dealt with the final bowel movement. Mom was peaceful on her bed -- looking so tiny. I thing she has shrunk to about 70 lbs. It was, indeed, time to pass on.

Barry came in, and of course my black humor chided him for always being late -- this time to miss seeing my Mom alive. We hugged. And then I heard Wifey and Edna coming loudly down the hall, pushing my father in law in his wheelchair. He was freaked out by death. I tried to wave my arms, but the two women were, as usual, engaged in the kind of conversation where they block out everyone. Finally I yelled -- "Wifey -- turn around -- she's dead!" They got the message and returned Richard to his room in another building, and then came back.

The large man from the funeral home came, and put Mom in a blue velvet body bag. I kissed her head the last time, and Barry, Edna, Wifey and I stood at attention as they wheeled her out.

I called D1. D2 was up in Gainesville. She and a grad school friend met our party at Soyka -- the cool restaurant a few blocks from MJH. We ate, and toasted Sunny. And that was it for her final day.

She was cremated, and her cremains (I love that word) were shipped to me. They arrived the day before Mother's Day, appropriately. D2 had come back from UF, and the Ds and Wifey were out shopping. I put the box with the cremains on top of a desk and when they returned, said "What -- you don't greet your Grandma Sunny?" They were creeped out, of course, but stopped in their tracks -- first time we had the remains of a dead relative in our house.

My Florida sister was on a cruise, I think, and my California sister was dealing with the aftermath of  a crisis involving her oldest. So I made the executive decision -- Sunday -- Mother's Day, we drove to Mathesson Hammock, which has easy access to Biscayne Bay, part of the Atlantic, where Mom wished to join Dad, whose cremains were spread there 3 decades before.

It was against the law to spread ashes like that -- you're supposed to be a few miles off shore -- but Mom was a famous scofflaw and would have appreciated the final gesture of lawlessness.

We walked into the mangroves, and I spread the cremains. And then, something quite miraculous happened. A flock of beautiful white butterflies flew gently past us. I'd never seen their like before, or since. We accepted the spiritual gift of that from beloved Sunny.

So -- as per wishes, she's in the ocean, like my Dad. Whenever we're at a coastline, we speak to her. D1 lives a few blocks from Biscayne Bay, and always says hello to her grandparents, and introduces them to the beautiful little man. And that warms me.

I honor your love to your family, Mom. We'll all miss you terribly and forever.

The Last YellowHouse Bride

 D2 was fortunate, like her father and sister, to make very close friends in college. There formed a foursome of girls who joined the AEPhi sorority the same year: D2, Ali, Ashley, and Catherine. Catherine and D2 were already friends since Middle School, but grew closer at UF. Ali was from Long Island, and Ashley from Boca.

They all lived in the sorority house their sophomore year, and for junior and senior years rented a house across the street. A savvy investor bought 3 houses, and painted them blue, yellow, and a creamsicle color. D2's posse rented the Yellow House, and lived there very happily for the second half of their undergraduate careers.

They soared academically, with D2 and Catherine invited to join Phi Beta Kappa as juniors, no mean feat. Ashley and D2 got Masters in Business degrees in a single year after their bachelors. Ali got a Masters in Child Life, and now works comforting sick kids at Mt. Sinai Children's Hospital in NYC, with her canine partner, the beautiful Professor. Catherine moved to Atlanta and tore up Emory Law -- graduating Law Review and scoring a job with a top Atlanta firm.

Most significantly, they all chose wonderful life partners. D2 met Jonathan at UF -- they married just over two years ago. Ali married Blake, a fellow Gator, in a wonderful wedding in the Bahamas, where everyone dived into the pool.

Catherine met Jacob, who was in Dental School at UF, after undergrad at UGA. We especially relate, since we both despise the Gator football team. He practices dentistry in Atlanta now -- and I was thrilled for him when the Bulldogs won the ring this year. Their wedding, which Wifey and I were privileged to attend, was at the Rusty Pelican on Key Biscayne, and was beautiful. It also had an ending we'll always remember: a gruesome single car accident, where a woman passenger was impaled on a medium sign, closed down the bridge for hours. We all were trapped there, and so walked back to the mainland in a true Miami carmageddon. Wifey couldn't walk far, and slept on a chair at the restaurant until 530 am, when the bridge reopened.

The rest of us Ubered to the Grove, and got rides from there. But Cath and Jacob are happily together in Atlanta. Oh year, Ali and Blake have a beautiful baby boy, too.

That left Ashley -- the final Yellowhouse bride. She's been dating Kyle for awhile -- also a Gator undergrad, with a law degree from Texas. He's an IP lawyer -- they also live in Atlanta. And this weekend, they're marrying in Austin.

D2, Ali, and Catherine are, of course, all bridesmaids. Wifey and I get to dog sit the enormous puppy over the weekend.

I'm so thrilled for all of them. My college and law school friends are still my brothers and sisters 4 decades on. I know these 4 yellowhouse ladies will be the same.

A picture popped up on FaceBook -- the 4 of them posing in front of a Gator statue, on graduation day. That seemed just a few years ago -- somehow it was 2014 -- 8 years. Caramba.

I've been hearing "Sunrise, Sunset" in my head a lot lately. Saturday Loni and Mike's tow headed little boy became a groom, too. Children grow older...

Wifey and I grunt a lot lately around the house -- creaky bones and joints. She's 4.5 years older than I am. We never forget our age. And yet, we met when we were 22 and 26. I was just starting grad school. And those decades seem to have flown by.

So here's to Ashley and Kyle. The final Yellowhouse, class of '14, wedding. Now I hope the other 3 get on with the business of babies, too.

Unwelcome

 So the Ds know this -- I want all of their friends to move back to Miami. Luckily, many have, after what I call sabbaticals in other parts of the country. Other than the absurdly high cost of housing here, it truly is a wonderful place for young people. There is never a lack of things to do -- from the 4 major sports (plus soccer, I guess) to the best cultural offerings south of NYC. And the biggest events -- hell, F1 is running in May, an event that makes the Super Bowl seem minor league.

At the wedding Saturday night, I was chatting with one of my favorites of the Ds' friends: Ben. He and D2 have been close since Middle School. They went off to UF together, and Ben became very close with D2's dear friends.

After UF, Ben did Teach for America at a poor school in the Bronx, and now has a permanent job there. He is, I have zero doubt, one of the best they have -- caring, compassionate, extremely smart, and dedicated.

His younger brother is a prosecutor in town, and his youngest is doing Teach for America in LA. 

So I cornered Ben, who is himself a product of Miami Dade public schools, and told him it was time to come home -- bring what he learned in NYC here -- be close to his parents and brother, and live the superior lifestyle Miami provides. 

He shook his head. Never, he said, as long as the Republicans and DeSantis control things. Ben came out several years ago, and said he is proudly gay, and wants to have a family someday -- how can he do that in a place that has now legalized anti-gay policies?

I tried to give him my usual response: I agree no one can live in Florida -- they have to live in Miami. But Ben said he would discuss it with me someday at length -- the wedding wasn't the place.

I get it, and I understand. If you're told by the government you're not welcome -- would you want to be here?

It's a pity. Ben is a gifted man -- and will someday be, I have zero doubt, a wonderful Dad. We lose out not having him.

But as for me -- well, of the luckiest things about my life, and I have manifold lucky things -- having my kids here is paramount.

I just got a FaceTime with D2 -- walking the enormous dog along Biscayne Bay at their apartment. And she told me she has dinner plans tomorrow with D1.

Thursday our English friends Sandra and Dave are in town -- staying on Miami Beach, very close to D2 and Jonathan.. They're leaving on a cruise Friday, and we have dinner plans -- Smith and Wollensky -- maybe we'll see some ships passing on the Cut.

After dinner, I told D2 we'd come by and fetch Betsy. We run a hotel for dogs, and D2 and Jonathan are headed to Austin Friday for a wedding -- Betsy will vacation with us. I saw her best friend Jagger today and told him. He wagged his tail at the thought of romping with Betsy this weekend.

The wedding is for Ashley -- the last of the Yellow House friends to marry. Her fiance is Kyle -- the son of a preacher man -- the only one who could ever move her. Ha. As if I can EVER avoid hearing that song in my head when I think of Kyle. He's an IP lawyer in Atlanta, and a terrific young man. He stayed here with Ashley over NYE a few years back and we got to know and admire him.

D2, Catherine, Ali, and Ashley -- sorority sisters, and roommates for 2 years in the above described Yellow House. And they all married very well -- and Ali has an adorable baby. I sure hope the other three catch up in that department -- particularly D2.

Maybe things will change here politically. DeSantis barely won -- and the Democratic candidate was a clown who ended up drugged out in a hotel with a male escort -- so maybe he wasn't the strongest opponent.

Hopefully a majority of voters will thing Desantis and company have gone too far with the culture war stuff -- worried about sex and abortion more than things like property insurance and funding health care. I guess we'll see.

It'd be nice to be welcoming to good people again.

Don't Stop The Party

 So we eschewed Uber, and instead drove to Brickell. I'm not sure why -- I really, really dig Uber. Each time I summon the car, I feel like Thurston Howell from Gilligan's Island -- like a very rich guy with a chauffer. I probably ought to use it more. But last night we drove the girly Lexus sedan to the Four Seasons.

I hadn't been to the building in over 10 years -- it's still elegant. I took a photo of Wifey standing under an enormous Botero sculpture of a not quite anatomically correct corpulent woman. And then we went to the event space.

I ran into Rob, a fellow I had some tensosity with last July, as he came to the engagement party for the couple without a Covid test -- putting newly recovered Wifey at potential risk. But like most folks, I am OVER Covid -- even if it's not over us, and as Wifey and I are triple vaxxed and both fought off the damned plague in January and March, I'm not too concerned. And so we caught up with Rob, and his boys, one of whom, Matt, is an accomplished LA artist. He came up to me and hugged me and said I was always a rold model to him -- as a husband and Dad. Aw. He is doing well in that regard, with a beautiful wife and baby girl back in LA.

The ceremony was lovely -- the party came in to a string version of "Beyond the Sea." The officiant was Jamie, who I told Barry, sitting next to me like the junior high boys we remain, that I call her a RWT. What's that? A rabbi without testicles. We stifled our laughter, of course.

Lili and Jeff were masked up -- they have a Duke graduation for their youngest in a few weeks and don't want no Covid messing that up.

The vows moved us, or me, at least, to some wet eyes. Chris is such a genuine and amazing young man, and he spoke about how lucky he is -- with parents who gave him the world, and friends who are true brothers and sisters, and yet the luckiest thing ever was having his high school girlfriend at his side to start life's journey.

Rachel said she knew she was going to marry Chris when they met, at 18, even though he was moving to LA for college and she headed to Atlanta, for Emory. And Rachel, quiet and sweet, gets what she wants -- and she knew that a teen meeting at Palmetto High would lead to a chuppah someday.

I told Wifey there was a lot of dust in the room -- hence my wet eyes. She smiled -- sometimes her emotionally blocked husband lets it go.

At the cocktail hour, we caught up with Arnie and Ronnie -- Arnie was Mike's Dad Ed's longtime partner -- he finally retired from law at 78. Of course,we talked about times of old in the law biz.

The drinks poured, but I knew I was going far more modestly than I did at the rehearsal dinner. I simply can't drink heavily 2 nights in a row.

Dinner was delicious -- a band with a DJ kept the gringo crowd moving -- and then there was a surprise guest -- Sebastian the Ibis. He danced around, and lead a CANES cheer -- as both Rachel and Chris have their grad degrees from the U. Wifey posed for a snap with our beloved mascot -- a Cane by marriage.

I told Loni the truth -- in the nearly 40 years I've known her, she never looked more beautiful. Wifey concurred. Maybe that's why they had us sit at the groom's parent table -- with Chris's aunt Jeannine, her husband Ray, the grandma Marci, and Darriel and Paul. It was delightful.

We left around midnight. The Ds also had big nights. D1 and Joey were at a wedding on the Beach -- her friend Caroline. And D2 and Jonathan were taken to a place on the Miami River by some corporate lawyers thanking Jonathan for a deal they worked on -- and D2 sampled well, it seemed, their mezcal.

And now it's a quiet Sunday. Wifey is sleeping in. I have coffee and jazz on WDNA -- my go to Sunday am music. And think back upon the young, fecund people who are taking over the world -- as they should.

And as for Chris and Rachel, to steal a Paul Williams lyric, they've only just begun. And it was delightful to be a part of that.

It's A Nice Day For A White Wedding

 Ah young Chris -- a wonderful young man. He's Mike and Loni's son, and we known him his entire life. We attended his baptism at a local Catholic church, and I helped hold him -- telling the very funny priest I was Jewish. He said I was therefore and older brother.

This turned out to be very funny years later, when Chris's mom learned she was halachically Jewish. Her Mom Marci never bothered to tell her family she was the product of European Jews -- she married Don, and lived a Catholic life. But genetics reared its head via a Christmas gift from Ralph, Loni's brother in law, who learned that his wife, Loni's sister, was 50% Ashkenazi. How could that be? Well, when your Mom is Jewish, that splains it.

So Chris's high school girlfriend Rachel had no questions about her upbringing -- her parents are garden variety Miami Ashkenazim. Chris went to USC, and Rachel to Emory, and they both came home to UM for grad school -- Chris law, and Rachel an MPH. They're delightful, and last night was their rehearsal dinner, hosted by Mike and Loni.

They picked Trulucks, my old club. Victor was there, hustling to keep up with the thirsty partiers. Wifey said she wanted to drink, too, and so we Ubered to Brickell. She had several proseccos, and I many martinis. It was delightful -- catching up with old friends.

Amanda and her wonderful boyfriend were in from LA. I told the young man, after several drinks, that I had only met him twice, but got excellent vibes from him. Amanda is like another daughter to us. I then told him maybe it was time to have a second wedding for Mike and Loni. He laughed, and said it was coming. That made me very happy.

Wifey and I saw with Darriel and Paul -- dear friends who had to relocate to Richmond, Va after Paul's company gave him the choice of moving or retiring. At 59 he wasn't ready for the latter, and so they sold in Kendall and bought in Va. They're happy there, but miss terribly their grown kids and grandkids. Marlowe is graduating UF in May, and Paul and I joked about having to endure a visit to Gatorland. The good news is that the J School graduation is in the O Dome, less odious to we Canes than the Swamp. The bad news is that the speaker is Tim Tebow. Yuck. But Marlowe is off the NYU J school in the Fall, on full scholarship. We've known that girl was a star since she was in Middle School.

The party moved to outside tables, and it was lovely. The tall buildings surrounded us -- it was a gorgeous night. The food was great, and the laughter hearty. Our Uber got us home in about a half hour, but I slept the sleep of multiple martinis.

Today the friendly Venezuelan appliance installers are back. In the "Nothing is Easy" Department, turned out we were storing the wrong compactor -- they had to fetch the stainless one -- and the Thermidor top needed a cut. So Miguel is back with his special saw, and we will have our stove top in soon.

As for the fridge -- well --we got a call from Junior yesterday. He got in several of the big Kitchenaids -- but without the anti-fingerprint finish. Wifey said no, no , no. Junior said we might have to wait awhile -- I told him with my temp unit, I was fine for the duration.

Tonight we head back to Brickell, to the Four Seasons, for the big wedding. I think 300 people are invited. Since I know a bit about these big ass events, I'm estimating tonight is a $250K party. Ah. Very nice to attend when all I have to do is tip the valet.

I think we'll drive tonight -- I don't heavily drink two nights in a row, and I think Wifey is good for awhile.

So congratulations to Rachel and Chris. To 120, as the Italians say. When you watch a little boy grow up to be a fine man, and he finds his besheret, well, that's some fine stuff right there.

Some Guys Have All The Luck

 So I have a second cousin named Gavin, and he found me on FaceBook (tm). He's a nice fellow, I think in his mid 50s. His mother Arlyne was the oldest of the first cousins on my Mom's side (I'm the youngest). She died a few years back, after a very tough life beset with serious mental illness.

But Gavin graduated college and joined the Army, and retired, best I can tell, as a full colonel. He married later on, and has 2 teens -- he lives near Boston. I attended his son's Bar Mitzvah on Zoom during the early days of the pandemic. And lately, Gavin's been posting from Aruba, where he's on a family trip.

Someone asked him if he made the itinerary using military services. No, he replied, his in laws booked and paid for the entire trip! Wow. What a concept.

My father in law, may he rest in peace, last paid a tab for us the year before I graduated law school. I would always pay, of course, but he never even made a feeble attempt to pick up a check. He had a son in law who was a big shot lawyer, and that was that.

Wifey paid for several big trips for them, including two visits to Poland to see their childhood homes. It was a sort of March of the Living done privately, without the happy Israel part. Also, when my in laws (specifically my mother in law) decided she needed to move condos within Century Village, to have a place on a fake lake, we had to buy the unit so they could be "on the vater."

Paid trip to Aruba? Ha. I mentioned this to Wifey, and she said "Well, you always pay for the Ds and their husbands -- so there IS in law paying!" Yes -- but I was talking about being the payee, not the payor!

Also on FaceBook is another lucky son of a bitch, who I'll call Craig, since that's his name. Craig is an old friend who has a law practice, and was never particularly successful. And yet, he always had an air of elegance about him that belied his economic station -- dressed nattily, and spoke like a country club member.

He divorced his second wife, the baby mama, and settled into a nice middle class life with a condo in West Kendall. He never killed himself at work. And then, his FaceBook photos changed from Disney to Paris. Literally -- his trips moved very upscale. Hmmm... had he finally hit it big? He had, but not at his law firm -- with a girlfriend.

He started dating a VERY rich divorcee -- her husband founded a major company here in town. She's loaded. And Craig seems to happily moved up in that regard.

Wow. I never had a woman take ME to Paris. Some guys have all the luck.

It's ok. I inherited the idea that men are to be noble mules from my Dad. He always picked up the tabs at dinner. In fact, a running joke was when we were out with my sister and brother in law. My much younger than my Dad bro in law would ask for the check. The server would often look surprised -- traditionally the oldest man grabs it. My brother in law, a CPA, would then audit the charges, hand it to my Dad, and say "Yes -- it's correct, Dad. Thanks." It always drew laughs.

So no in law paid trips to the Caribbean for me, nor trips to Paris paid by a rich girlfriend. And when my sons in law TRY to pay, I always remind them of the great scene from the Sopranos, when Meadow's boyfriend Finn secretly pays for dinner, to thank Tony for his generosity. Tony goes nuts, and throws Finn against a wall, saying "This is MY family. I pay! Someday you get your own family, you can pay!" Poor Finn slinks away, apologizing for what he thought was a proper gesture.

The Ds men and I enjoy retelling the tale at dinner. They know it's my pleasure to treat my family. But I can still joke about longing to be a gigolo, can't I?

Appliances

 So our classic First World problem may be nearly over: as I write, today, the friendly Venezuelan guys are here installing several of our new appliances. It's been quite a slog.

Last year, Wifey decided we needed new kitchen appliances. Truth was, the built in fridge was barely working, and the gas stovetop's exhaust fans had given up the ghost during the first Obama administration. The dishwasher and compactor and double oven were fine, but Wifey had appliance racism: she despised them because of their color. She decided it was time to go stainless steel instead of white.

We went to Bouche, a local dealer who does mostly upscale kitchens. The owner and his son are hilarious -- barely time to talk to you. They were precisely what Wifey needed, to overcome any indecisiveness. Bouche measured and told Wifey what she COULD have. We picked out and put a deposit on a new fridge, oven, stovetop, compactor, and dishwasher in record time.

Alas, Covid was going on. Everything was delayed. I bought a temporary fridge from Home Depot, which, because of their incompetence, ended up being free. Yay! An $1800 gift from the Republicans in Atlanta!

Bouche delivered all the appliances except for the fridge. That still hasn't come in -- it may be a full year before we get it.

But Abraham, the friendly cabinet maker, had removed our old oven in order to build out space for the new one. Months passed, and finally in February, we needed an oven for the caterers for D2's birthday party. So Miguel came and installed the oven -- but left the rest of the appliances in the garage.

Finally, in late March he called -- he could do the stovetop, compactor, and dishwasher. But then I got Covid, and we had to cancel. He was to come last week -- he had to cancel again.

But the big day is today, and he's putting in the new range and exhaust fan with his assistant. This new one will have 5 gas burners instead of the 4 plus electric griddle the old one has -- the better to NOT cook on more than one of them. I'm typically the only one who uses the stove top -- Daddy eggs, or pasta on Fridays for my Zoom. But I guess if anyone ever decides to cook, it'll be good to have 5 gas stovetops.

Once they're done, the only remaining thing will be the big ass Kitchenaid fridge. Bouche says his supplier shows May. Whatever -- we're fine with the interim fridge. It makes ice well, so my martinis are properly chilled. When the new one eventually comes, I may have a plumber put a supply line in the garage so I can install the temp fridge there -- and have another icemaker, for alcoholic emergencies. I'll see.

All I know is -- these are the kinds of problems I like!Waiting for new appliances -- ah...

Wifey assured me that since she wanted this project, she would be in charge and I wouldn't have to do anything. Ha. She's leaving soon for PT -- I get to stay here with the installers and pay them and learn how to use the new stuff when they finish. I saw that coming like a freight train at night.

Hey. If I want to be the big man in my family, that means I do, essentially, everything. That's fine.

Tomorrow we may see the Little Man. Well -- I plan to definitely -- Wifey may have plans with her friend Jodi. He's really at the age where he is delightful to be around -- watching him process the world in his hilarious way.

The other day D1 told him to stop picking his nose. So he covered his eyes -- if he couldn't see her, clearly she couldn't see him. She snapped a photo which is already one of my favorites.

We have a big weekend ahead. Our dear friends Mike and Loni's boy Chris is getting married -- to his Palmetto High sweetheart Rachel. Friday night there's a rehearsal dinner at Trulucks -- my old clubhouse on Brickell. 

I was there 3/24, before I came down with Covid, and saw Victor, my longtime friend and bartender. He said he would be on duty Friday night -- martinis with him, and dear friends, well, that'll be swell.

Saturday night we return for the big event at the Four Seasons. I think it's 250 people -- I LOVE a huge, first class wedding -- especially when I don't have to pay for it.

Mike's group of old friends, and his sister, are already circulating a text group in anticipation. Jeannine said "Look most forward to seeing everyone at the formal tailgate on Brickell this weekend." I added one of my favorite videos: Tom Petty's "I've Got A Room On The Top of the World Tonight." 

I love that as a theme -- a wonderful affair can shut out all of the noise and problems of the world -- to let us celebrate and focus on the love and commitment of two fine young people.

Yes -- we seem to be coming out of the dark of this plague. And it appears we'll have new stainless steel appliances to show for it.

I Could Write A Sonnet About Your Easter Bonnet

 So yes -- I'm that Jewish guy who loves the fact that the best Christmas song of all time (White Christmas) and best Easter song (Easter Parade) were written by a Jew. Actually -- it makes me proud to be an American -- the best part of our mosaic of cultures -- like the Irish taking in lowly corned beef to mix with cabbage and raising it to St. Paddy's Day classic.

Today there was a great chuckle for our text group of gentlemen with rapier wit. Our very own Jackson Memorial Hospital posted a Passover greeting, with a pretty young woman slicing a challah! An alert executive (Barry) advised the VP of Communications, who happens to be Jewish, and the post was immediately removed.

I added that it reminded me of the tale, probably apocryphal, of the ad agency guy who got fired after putting up an ad for Home Depot: "Good Friday Only: 50% Off All Lumber And Nails."

It's good to laugh during Holy Week -- Ramadam is going on as well, so that makes for a Holy Month.

Meanwhile, we had a banner seder-lite here yesterday. I went early to Joanna's, and fetched Wifey's order of brisket, turkey, salmon, matzah ball soup, chopped liver, and various veggies. Joey was able to figure out our new oven, which for some reason was set to Celsius, and we all enjoyed a feast.

I made fun of Wifey's overordering -- we only had 6 of us. Ha. I forgot. The Little Man eats as much as any grown up -- to him, matzah was a 2 fisted affair.

I poured Tito's martinis for my sons in law and myself. Joey requested Tito's as it's all potato based -- my Ketel uses some grains -- so a no no for Passover.

After my second, I got a bit mushy, and shared with our family how, the night before, it came over me how lucky Wifey and I are about the men our Ds chose to marry. Yes, there have been periods of tensosity, and some broigis, to use the great Yiddish word for family feud, but Joey and Jonathan treat our Ds like the princesses they are, and I'm eternally grateful for that.

After we ate, Wifey stayed back to rest, and we paraded up the street with Betsy. We called on her BFF Jagger, and he was let out for a happy romp. His parents Rod and Daria were preparing for a triple celebration: Rod's birthday, meeting their son's future in laws, in from Texas, and, finally, Easter. But Jagger just wanted to play.

The young-uns left, and Wifey put on the last episode of a show about Pam Hupp, the nice appearing Missouri Mom who killed her mother, best friend, and a hapless dupe she tried to use as a fall guy. Renee Zellwegger was terrific, but we both fell into epic naps -- mine Tito influenced, and Wifey's just fatigue.

It was a banner day.

Today I went out for my constitutional, and ran into a bunch of happy neighbors -- we all greeted each other with Happy Passover and Happy Easter. The Easterites had family or brunch plans; the Passoverians were already lamenting missing bread and pizza.

I regaled a group with a meme that said Jews got gefilte fish and Christians chocolate bunnies and WE'RE the Chosen People?

Wifey and I will chill today. My neighbor Eric said he may stop by with a gift -- his boy Jack is a freshman at Iowa, and he bought me a Hawkeye T shirt -- to go with the other Big 10 shirt I favor: my Maryland Fear The Turtle one -- given to me by Scott, my nephew of another mister.

Ah, Passover and Easter. Nice when they coincide.

So This Is Pesach...And What Have You Done?

 The Days of the Unleavened are upon us. I got a chuckle to start the holiday -- a text greeting from my friend Berl Goldman, UF Chabad Rabbi. He sent greetings to "Goldberg." Later on, he sent an apologizing text, saying he can't rely on tech. Apparently D2 got one, too. "No Problem," I replied, "A very happy Pesach to you as well, Rabbi Uminer" I said, using the name of our mutual friend in Boston. Much haredi laughter ensued, and I even got a call from Rabbi Uminer, who bragged that Robert Kraft, the owner of the Patriots, was coming to HIS seder. Wow. His brother in law Rabbi Yossi, my Rabbi, needs to up his game. In the way our people were freed from slavery, Yossi needs to be freed from the schleppers in Kendall, to the promised land of the machers, like Robert Kraft.

Meanwhile, we had a lovely first seder. Jonathan's parents invited us. D1 and Joey and the Little Man were invited to Joey's brother's house -- so it would be full on Ashkenazim for us this year -- no Sephardic at all.

Jonathan's folks had, I think, 12 of us, including the family matriarch, Judy. She truly is the queen - last night dressed like Elizabeth Taylor, but with more charm and finesse. She told us tales of learning music as taught by the nuns in the convent in Budapest, where she hid at her parents' plan during the Holocaust. To this day, she knows more of the Catholic liturgy than any Catholic I know.

And Judy brought a friend, whom we had never met. Ibe is her nickname, and she was amazing -- a true outlier. She is 96, walks and cooks (she made the gefilte fish and 2 kugels) and was sharp as a tack. She and Judy are friends from Caracas, where Ibe and her family went after leaving Israel.

Ibe is Hungarian, and was fortunate to have a father who read the writing on the European walls in 1940 -- he took the family to Palestine. Ibe was 14. Her father, like my consuegro David's father, was in the Irgun, and helped found Israel. Now Ibe has family in Colombia and Israel -- most Venezuelan Jews have high tailed it out of there.

Ibe asked where my people were from, after we chatted a bit. I told her my maternal grandparents were from Bialystok, and my paternal grandparents from Czernovitz. Bialystok didn't impress her, but her eyes lit up at the mention of Czernovitz. "I knew it!" She said that Czernovitz was like Vienna -- a center of Jewish intellectualism, and charm. She said she had a boyfriend in Israel from the same city, and I was just like him -- handsome and smart and charming. 

Wow. It made my night. I ain't never been flirted with by a 96 year old before! Somehow Wifey wasn't threatened. But I was amazed. I know precious few people in their 90s as vital and together as Ibe -- my buddy Norman's Dad Max comes to mind.

Sure enough, a few day before, we visited my ancient suegra -- 97. Rachel is mostly out of it. She's bedridden. She had zero idea who Wifey and I were -- and Wifey is her only child. I joke that a few thousand years ago, folks made a big deal about a kid born in Bethlehem. A BIGGER deal was made in Haifa in 1956 when Wifey was born to her Survivor parents. But, alas, Rachel's savior is faded to her now.

But anyway, it was a delightful dinner. Jonathan's uncles were there -- funny and charming men, as was his brother Dan and wife Melanie, visiting from Kansas City. I asked Melanie whether she and Dad were the only Latin Jews in KC -- she was pretty sure they are. And Jonathan's lovely young sister was there  -- smiling and quiet as usual.

Somehow we were there until well after 11 -- and the time flew by.

Today, the Ds and their men and the Little Man are coming! I already fetched the food from Joanna's. We'll have a quick, toddler friendly seder -- more to teach the Little Man than anything else. 

Wifey has set a lovely table. Her friend Cara was going to come, but was a late dropout. I'm kind of happy -- it's nice when it's just the immediate family -- we can all let our chopped liver down.

So Pesach 2022 is in full swing. As usual, I think about Bob Marley, and his lyric about mental slavery -- we need to free our minds from that, since ain't nobody making my peeps build pyramids these days.

All I know is, I sat at the table last night, observing Jonathan's wonderful family, and I gave thanks to the Big Man -- for both of my sons in law.

I saw my friend Courtney the other day -- Joel's wife. Her oldest has to decide on where he attends college -- UF or USC. She had little sense of humor -- as if this were the biggest decision of his life.

I gave Courtney my usual advice -- spend time talking to your son about his life partner -- THAT is crucial. Whether you wear and orange and blue or red and gold t shirt, much less so.

All I know is, I feel like my Ds chose Harvard and Yale for their husbands. And for this, I am extremely grateful this Pesach.

F ing Hate That MFer...

 So after a week away from the gym on account of catching the plague, this week  I resumed my twice weekly meetings with Juan. He's a great guy -- former Triple A MLB player -- and mutual friend to many of D2's childhood friends. But I hate working out -- so whenever I see him, I think of Leon from "Curb."

Sure enough, on Tuesday, I got winded fast, even though I was only away for a week. The plague is no longer infectious in me, but I still sound nasal, and am still coughing a bit -- kind of like getting over a bad cold or flu -- it takes awhile.

Today, Juan said it was time for my high tech evaluation -- some scanning machine where you stand on it, it rotates 360, and comes up with a life-like avatar complete with all of your fat and posture and other imbalances. 

Being a viejo verde, I asked Juan if he would show me some of the scanned avatars of the fitter, young women who go to my gym. He would not. Fine -- I'll stick with my own. Juan says it's an invaluable tool in showing proper exercises for his clients -- which joints bear most of the job of keeping my excess weight upright, for instance.

Juan did show me HIS avatar, and how he favored his back right heel. This, he explained, is from his long career in baseball -- a right handed batter is often putting weight on his right heel. I asked him, then, if my left arm, which I use for hoisting my fork and cocktail glasses, is much stronger. Turns out it is.

So I'll keep up with this exercise thing. Almost every day I try to get in at least 7000 steps -- D1 sent me an article that claims that is the sweet spot for inflammatory disease protection. It sure doesn't hurt to walk more, but getting to 7000 seems to be a reasonable daily goal. This am, I'm just waiting for pre sunrise to begin my constitutional.

Tonight there's another Zoom set of get togethers -- Eric and Dana's at 6, and then mine at 7. D2 and Jonathan are gone, and so I prepare my Publix meatloaf without judgment.

Saturday they're bring back the enormous puppy -- they have a late wedding, for Jonathan's older half brother, and don't want to leave Betsy alone. On Sunday, we'll drive her back to the Beach -- on our way to Lauderdale for dinner with friends.

Hopefully Little Man and his parents can join us there, too. If not, we need to see him early in the week -- Wifey and I get withdrawal symptoms if more than a week goes by without being with his adorableness.  

I certainly understand when people have grandkids who live in other states. I see why it leads to a lot of airline expense.

So I'll continue my love/hate with Juan. I have to be able to chase my grandson.

Remembrance Of A Case Past

 So today I drove to the office, and traffic stopped me in front of 1492 South Miami Avenue. It used to be called the Columbus Building. Get it? Ha.

As I looked on the place, now headquarters of a big realty company named after the Spanish name for beer, or close to it, I had a funny memory.

The building held the office of a defense firm -- one of the lawyers was a fellow named Bruce. I'm pretty sure he's long gone. Over the years, Bruce defended several of our cases -- he was competent, and a nice guy in that old Riviera CC Republican sort of way.

My old boss Ed had a friend who was also a defense lawyer -- nicknamed Clem, after his middle name. Ed usually detested defense lawyers -- to him, they might as well have been Nazis, as they worked to keep money out of the mouths of grievously injured people -- often children!

But Clem was ok -- probably because Ed had taken advantage of him in several cases. Plus, they enjoyed drinking together. Clem was a partner at an old white shoe Miami firm -- Downtown. He had a secretary named who put in a LOT of overtime. She was a cool lady, and the two of them had an interesting method of billing hours: they'd take files many afternoons and book a room at the Mayfair Hotel -- so as not to be disturbed.

I always admired their commitment to the practice of law. Poor Clem died years ago, young, He was a chain smoker, and I think lung cancer got him. But back to the tale.

As he and his secretary were making their way to the Grove, an FPL truck ran the light at the complicated intersection where you head to Key Biscayne. Clem was hurt pretty badly -- taken to JMH by ambulance. He recovered, except for some permanent nerve damage that weakened and de-sensitized his hand.

He hired my old boss Ed to represent him. Bruce was defending the claim -- it was clear liability, and Ed and Clem thought Bruce, as a matter of professional courtesy, would settle the case for full value without much fanfare. Ha. As if! Bruce got all the dirt on Clem and his afternoon work-capades, and had Clem seen by a neurologist who of course opined that Clem's nerve damage was coincidental to, and not caused by, the accident.

My job was to take Clem to his depo -- at 1492. And that's where I saw something I still recall. Bruce was questioning Clem about the nerve damage -- wasn't Clem making it up? Clem sat back in his chair, and put his lighted cigarette into the palm of the affected hand, and slowly put it out! Wow. Even Bruce gasped.

Clem showed rather graphically that he was indeed hurt.

The case ended up settling. Years later, I was at Capital Grille, and Bruce was at the bar. He called me over, and we laughed about the deposition. I asked him if he felt like a jerk for torturing Clem, instead of recommending a quick settlement. He said "Hey -- I gotta make a living, you know."

And so things remain. The simpleton plaintiff's lawyer thinks there are favors to be obtained. Doesn't happen.

Sometimes you have to burn yourself to show you're really hurt.

Millennials Moving On

 I really, really, dislike moving. I used to have to help friends do it in the early years of college, grad school, and shortly thereafter, and never like it. It's one of those chores, like fetching or dropping someone at the airport, that many do but most can't stand.

Well -- in my 61st year, and now at the stage I do little out of a sense of "I ought to," I have a new protocol: I only help move, or provide airport service, to Wifey, the Ds, and my sons in law. Actually -- there was a recent exception: my nephew Henry. He stayed with us, and had his bulky camera equipment, and needed a drop at MIA -- so I did it for him. But other than that, I avoid it like my rabbi friend avoids treyf.

Yesterday was one of those times: moving day for D2 and Jonathan. Most of their stuff has been in a storage pod -- a company called Pack Rats. They fetched the furniture and Peloton from their Grove apartment, put it all into a single pod, and kept it these last 9 months. So the plan was they were going to drop it off and move it to the new digs on Miami Beach.

Would I drive Wifey's SUV over to the Beach, laden with some boxes and suitcases? Of course I would -- and so early yesterday we caravanned -- Jonathan in his Jeep, and D2 and I in the aging Lexus. D2 put "Hamilton" on the sound system -- a song called, I think, "You Belong To Me," and asked if I would always sing it. In my mind, however, was the Beatles' "She's Leaving Home" - much sadder. Of course, D2 really left home 12 years ago, for Gainesville, and in '15 moved to NYC. So this "leaving" is far less melancholy -- in fact, I'm thrilled that she and her husband and enormous puppy will have their own life again.

As we drove, we chatted happily, and noted all the new construction along US 1. I still call it South Dixie, which D2 pointed out is no longer allowed -- it's now Harriet Tubman Highway. Yeah -- like I'll ever call it that -- probably when I stop calling the Canes and Dolphins Stadium Joe Robbie. D2 FaceTimed her sister -- and the Little Man regaled us with his adorableness -- we showed him "Jonfin" in the next car. The Ds made fun of how I'm the only one who calls streets in Miami their real names, like "The Dolphin Expressway," or "Ludlam Road." I am that dinosaur.

We arrived at the apartment, and Jonathan tried to convince the "Ain't Nobody Got Time For That" security guard to let us use the service elevator, even though it was 8:45 and moving was permitted at 9. Apparently a call to a supervisor did the trick, and we were soon parked,and schlepping the stuff to the 15th floor.

The place is bigger than their West Village apartment -- about the same rent -- and instead of a view of a brick wall, this one has a view of the Bay, and the Easternmost part of the Cruise Port. Sure enough, a big ship was berthed. Below the horseshoe shaped complex, there are two dog parks, for Betsy. Apparently after I left, a friendly Doodle walked into their open apartment to say hello. D2 took that as a good omen.

I drove for home, and stopped at Coral Bagels. I chuckled to myself -- I never really like the place -- I thought about the joke about the shipwrecked Jew who built two shuls on his island -- to have one where he NEVER sets foot. But  I was starving, and found a spot, and so went inside. And then, for 15 minutes -- nothing. Two angry looking waitresses ignored me. The fellow in the next booth finally placed an order, and said in a great B and T accent, "I thought you was never coming!"

I took THAT as an omen, and got up and walked out. Yeah -- I AM become that cranky old guy -- leaver, prematurely, of breakfast places.

I stopped at the Chase Bank, in order to deposit some nice sized checks for Wifey. My suegra is in the nursing home, and the only thing she has to contribute now is part of her Social Security. Wifey is finally allowed to keep the German reparations payments as her fee for being the Case Manager -- and, she received the nice sized security deposit she had given the Palace for their ALF.

So we're finally done with having to pay out of pocket each month for my suegra's care -- not totally Medicaid and just part of her own monthly pension. The sad part is that Rachel is really out of it -- barely talking anymore -- never wants to dress or exit her bed -- just spends the hours watching old movies with subtitles, and, I hope for her sake, living in her happy memories.

She had a very happy childhood -- until, as a young teen, it turned tragic thanks to the Nazis. But she survived, and went on to have a wonderful life -- blessed with a loving husband, and her version of a messiah -- Wifey -- the beautiful blue eyed baby girl she had even after "the professors" in Jerusalem said she likely wouldn't be able to have a child. And Wifey gave her adoring granddaughters, and we were always able to support her -- but now little of that seems to be relevant.

It's just a matter of keeping her fed, clean, and comfortable, until the Big Man decides her time is at hand.

But meanwhile, as for Wifey and me -- back to empty nesterhood -- almost. D2 and Jonathan left the enormous puppy here for her final night -- they're fetching her this am, and we had a quiet night.

Wifey attended the neighborhood HOA meeting without me -- I'm still testing Covid positive, and though I know I'm likely no longer radioactive, decided to skip lest I kill someone. Wifey said they had record turnout -- over 50 people -- which I attribute to all the new residents -- 1/4 of the houses sold over the past year.

Wifey told me of several of the new neighbors who made it a point to seek her out to talk about her "charming husband." Alas -- none of these nice ladies would be mistaken for Sofia Vergara -- maybe Sofia's Mom -- so it was nice to hear, but, well, whatever...

Today I head back to the gym -- after a week of Covid recovery. This weekend we're taking a rare trip North of the Miami Dade/Broward line, for dinner with our old friends Lew and Maria -- some Italian place they love in Lauderdale. Ah, life continues.

Changing Jab Protocols

 So I make all decisions based on the medical brain trust of Barry, Eric, and Kenny. When Wifey had her stroke, I called them "Team Wifey," and they were amazing -- parsing for me all the data and helping make all the decisions that drove her treatment and recovery. And of course, when it comes to matters of Covid 19, I read tons, but end up doing whatever they do. And recently there was a change.

So the CDC came out with a recommendation that oldsters like us, above 50, get a FOURTH jab, on account of the waning immunity the miracle vaccines provide. At first, my boys said they were going to wait - probably until the Fall -- since that would provide maximum protection going into what will probably be the worst part of the season -- late Fall and Winter.

So I figured I'd wait -- and was pretty confident of my and Wifey's immunity -- having both had the damned disease on top of three jabs. But the dudes changed course -- Kenny and Eric both decided to go with #4 -- Eric got his the other day.

So last night, I scheduled my dose -- for May 2. I figure by then any remaining vestiges of my active disease will be over. Wifey had her Covid in January, and got the antibody treatment then -- so she's going to wait and go with me. I joked that we'd "make a day of it." She laughed.

I was referring to my Mom and the later stages of her life -- when friends' funerals became common place. Often she and her sister Lorraine would have to decide whether or not to attend -- there were so many. Often one or the other would say "C'mon -- we'll go -- we'll make a day of it." By that they meant enjoying the bagels and lox at the shiva, and maybe afterwards going shopping, or maybe to a movie.

It was the activity of the old. And I'm there.

My Dad used to say that all of his fellow WW II generation guys in the pool would discuss two things: doctors and CD rates. Back then, you could get near 20% on your savings, and none of my Dad's cohort bothered with the stock market -- why should they? So each 6 months, they'd bank shop -- getting the highest rate of their $10K certificates of deposit -- and even, sometimes, a premium like an appliance.

And they would compare who was the best local urologist or cardiologist, etc...

The province of old folks -- talking about their doctors.

My dentist Larry is 74 -- and very youthful. He had kids later -- his twins are just a bit older than D1 -- and D1 knew them in high school.

Years ago, Larry said he and his wife were out with two other couples they'd been friends with for decades -- they all went to Miami Beach High together. He said, per usual, the conversation, after catching up about their grown kids or grandkids,veered to the health ailmants.

Larry, a sweet guy, told me he literally slammed the table at the Gables restaurant -- and said "Enough!" He said to his friends, look -- we all have ailments -- some very serious -- but how about tonight we leave them outside? He said they did, and had a far better time.

When Wifey and I were in our 20s through 50s, the conversation was almost never about health issues -- and our dear friends were, and are,doctors!

I plan to try to follow Dr. Larry's example -- enough with who has what -- where it hurts or doesn't -- what chronic condition is bothering each of us most.

We're older, but it'll be nice to try to recapture some of the youth -- enough about pain, or fatigue.

On the way home the other day, Wifey recited to me her list of appointments for doctors and therapy -- podiatrist, PT, dermatologist, etc... I turned to her and said "Stop distracting me, you temptress!"

We laughed. It's very easy to be all about the problems of aging, if you let it...

One of My Favorite Holidays

 Most people stop "celebrating" April Fool's Day in junior high, though some fellow frustrated comedians and wisacres continue through college and beyond -- pulling off fake news stories and other pranks. I am one of those wiseacres.

I love pranking people, generally in a non-cruel way, and so have embraced April Fool's Day into the beginning of my now seventh decade on this planet.

Some years I stuck to leaving friends messages to call "Mr. Fox" or "Mr. Wolf" with the phone number for then named MetroZoo. Most years I'd tell people that Wifey was pregnant -- not exactly sure that was a reliable laugh getter -- but as Wifey approached Medicare age, that white lie lost traction.

D2 was the victim of one of my bouts of silliness. When she was in first grade, she had a friend named Amelia, who was adorable and small. I told D2 that overnight, Amelia was in excellent health, but had shrunk to one foot tall. D2 was to treat her friend as if nothing strange happened, but she might have to carry her around Leewood Elementary in her back pack that day -- before Amelia "grew back." D2 got the joke when we picked up Amelia at her house for car pool, and learned at that early age that she had an eccentric father. I like to think that builds character in a woman.

In 1992, friends Pete and Gene had referred us a great case -- back when rental care cases were big deals. Their secretary's boyfriend, a handsome Kiwi working for a Latin American company, was seriously hurt by a drunk in a rental. Thankfully, he recovered fully, and became one of my few former clients who became friends. But there was a substantial settlement offer, and the case was near conclusion, and Pete actually went out and leased a Benz based on the financial windfall due him within weeks.

He called to report on that, and I told him that the defense lawyer got surveillance of our client running a marathon, and skydiving. The injuries were faked -- there was no offer. Silence on the phone, and my stunned friend hung up. I'm mean, but not cruel, so I only let things go on for a half hour or so before I called him to remind him about this awful news on the first of April...He laughed while cursing me heartily. It was one of my signature AFD moments.

FaceBook (tm) has made things easier and harder. You'd think anyone who knew me would know not to believe ANYTHING I posted on AFD. You'd be wrong.

Today I posted that Pitbull's manager knocked on our door and said that PitBull fell in love with our house -- he insisted on having it, and offered us $6M. Even in crazy real estate market times, $6M for our house is absurd -- and so I posted we had no choice -- we were to be out of the house in 10 days. And I'd be telling our neighbors at Monday's HOA meeting to expect visitors like DJ Khaled and Rick Ross and Fitty, instead of the usual parade of boring doctors, lawyers, and finance nerds who typically visit us.

Well -- most got it right away. A few friends, even VERY smart ones, believed me. But one neighbor, who I'll call Roberta, since that's her name, started texting and calling me -- repeatedly. She was near apoplectic -- she and her wife LOVE the soporific nature of our 'hood and were freaked that someone as wild as Mr. 305/Worldwide might be moving in (forgetting that if my lie was truth, her value would skyrocket).

Roberta, though a lawyer who ought to be skeptical, previously believed me when I posted a photo of plastic flamingos that were orange and black for Halloween, stating that they were bred that way for ornamentation. She was outraged and ready to call PETA because of this exploitation. So I guess I should have seen it coming. But she's a B and T New Yorker, for Pete's sake! Really?

Again, mean won over cruelty, and I actually returned her call on some kind of FaceBook messenger voice thing I had never before used. I told her not to worry -- neither she nor her wife would be called upon to do any twerking on SW 66 Avenue.

I think she may hate me now.

So -- another successful AFD is in the books. I can't wait to teach this to my grandson. He's smart -- I can tell he'll be an able pupil. Maybe we'll start off simple -- with some rubber snakes we tell his Mom are real...

There's no fool like an April Fool, I always say.