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.