Head Service

So this morning I have back to back services for my head, to use a body metaphor. At 8 I see Lucy, the dental assistant I've been seeing for decades, for my thrice yearly cleaning, and at 930 it's back across town to Dania, my haircutter for 25 years.

I am indeed a loyal patient/customer. I saw Dr. Milton and his staff since law school, and then when he retired, went to his suggested colleague, Larry Huber. Luckily, I seem to have inherited my paternal grandmother's teeth -- she died at 97 with all of them. I have had exactly three cavities my entire life -- the last of which was filled when I was 12. So Dr. H and I just catch up about grandkids and grown kids, and Lucy does the real work. She is very skilled and pleasant -- I don't mind the visits at all.

I wonder also how much credit I owe childhood dentist Charles Levine for my dental luck. He offered what was then cutting edge: a coating on the teeth which was dried with an ultraviolet gun. Maybe that protection was enough to get me through young adulthood, where I would go years without seeing the dentist. 

Wifey more than makes up for my lack of contribution to the dental economy. She is always going, with new and complicated issues involving gums and cavities and "deep scale" cleanings. Hopefully the Ds favor their father's side in the dental area.

I met Dania when D2 and her girl Lindsay were in kindergarten. I learned she cut hair, and started seeing her. In 1/4 century, I "cheated" on her just once. I figured my loyal patronage got me special favors, and once asked for a next day appointment before going on a trip. She was unavailable. Annoyed, I went to a barber in Sunniland, who was less than half the price. He also did a crappy job. I came crawling back.

During Covid's early days, I also missed a few appointments -- my son in law Joey actually did a fine job on me with his haircut contraption. And then, Dania came over and serviced me on the front porch. It's nice to get back into the shop again -- Lindsay has a baby, and she and her husband Rob, a school boyfriend, moved home to Miami from Texas, so Dania is very excited.

Her husband, not Lindsay's Dad, still wants out of Miami, though. He was born in Havana, but finds Miami too Cuban for his liking. I always get a kick out of that when Dania reminds me -- he thinks he'd be much happier surrounded by gringos in North Florida.

My busy day continues after the head services. I meet Paul and Stuart for lunch -- they're coming to Dadeland for a meeting we have with a TV lawyer about a dispute over a fee. I'm pretty confident the matter will NOT settle, and we will litigate against the fellow I call Saul Goodman, on account of the fact that he has ads just like that wonderful character from "Breaking Bad" and "Better Call Saul." We'll see how it goes.

In any event, I shall be attending this meeting with newly sparkling teeth and a cute haircut, as Wifey always notes. I don't think our unworthy adversary will even notice. 

Back To The Falls

 So we have an open air mall nearby that we used to frequent. Hell, it opened when I was in college, and it was a hangout then. There was a UA theater, and since Barry's weekend job was at the UA theater in Davie, we'd get in for free movies. They had a great Mexican place, El Torito's, which is Spanish for The Toritos, and we'd frequent their happy hour. Mike in particular loved their margaritas. Back then I was more of a Kahlua and cream guy, embarrasingly.

The place was destroyed in Andrew, but rebuilt,and our frequent date night -- dinner, maybe at TGI Fridays, or Los Ranchos, and then a movie. It was a major teen hangout for the Ds -- they'd shop and see a movie, or use a drop off at the Falls as a pretext to then be taken to some questionable house party. We've been learning these truths years later. And now D1 has a boy who will likely pull the same stunts with her. The circle of teens...

Anyway, we don't go there much anymore, except for a place called Bulla, which is actually on the curtilage. Ha. That's a word I haven't used since 1L year. But they built Bulla attached to a parking garage, and they have fine tapas.

But last night, sort of last minute, we invited our neighbor and friend Gloria to dinner. She lost Ben 2.5 years ago -- he was a health nut who had a sudden heart attack while running in our 'hood. I walk.

Another neighbor, Denie, had told me that Friday she and her husband had a good meal at a new place that opened where TGI Friday's used to be,  and so we decided to give it a try. We drove over, and all three agreed we almost never visited the Falls -- for no particular reason. Wifey and Gloria noted all the new stores, and the demolished Bloomingdales. I was thinking about all the JAP jokes that involve Bloomingdales, but kept them to myself. Gloria is Italian.

We got to the place, whose name doesn't stick, but has "Food" in it, and there was a sign -- saying opening Monday. Gloria, the smartest girl in the room, usually, and I, not the smartest boy, surmised that there had been a soft opening which Denie attended. So we decided to walk to Los Ranchos, a Nicaraguan steak place, and try our luck there.

It had changed since our last visit. It had gone downscale -- paper on the tables, and most of the tables not cleared off. But the hostess brought us to a corner table, and we sat, even though Wifey trying to say "three" fell upon Spanish only ears. She held up 3 fingers.

I sat under a blinking light. The waiter came over, and couldn't understand Wifey's request for "water with lemon." When he realized we only spoke English, he kind of annoyedly took out a pen and motioned me to circle what we wanted to order. And he flounced away. But wait, I thought -- what if we had to describe how we wished our churassco cooked? And then I looked at all the dirty tables. And I invoked Dad's Rule.

Dad's Rule is that if your initial greeting or experience at a restaurant is poor -- get up and leave. Things only get worse. Gloria was aboard -- Wifey -- who is slightly allergic to having to walk elsewhere -- protested. We outvoted her, and walked out -- both Gloria and I got bad vibes.

We walked around to Bulla's and had a very nice meal. Wifey was starving and ordered paella while Gloria and I were still reading the menu. The waitress told Gloria the fish special was cod, which Gloria usually doesn't like, but the young lady offered a deal: try it, and we'll take it back if you don't approve. Gloria pronounced it delicious.

We talked of our grown kids -- Gloria has two accomplished sons, and one son in law -- and our wonderful neighborhood. Gloria is like me -- wants to die here. Wifey would like to die elsewhere. But she is roughing it and staying.

One of the folks who moved in the late 60s is putting her house on the market. Ellyn serves on the HOA with us -- she's taking advantage of the absurd prices of late, and moving to an apartment on Brickell. She summers in Maine, and was getting tired of a big house as a 70 something year old single woman. Wow -- over 50 years in our 'hood.

Ellyn is born and raised in Queens, and when we hosted the HOA Exec meeting, her and Wifey's Bridge and Tunnel accents were out in force. Gloria is from The Bronx, but lost her accent, and the other two members there were from Michigan and a Miami native -- so they got a kick out of hearing the B and T banter.

We wish Ellyn well.

For us, it was a lovely Sunday night -- and happily home early. For a change, no TV -- I played DJ on the Sonos, and finally got Wifey to listen to the lyrics of Dylan's pretty new "Key West" song. She loved them.

I gave her my little music lectures, about local guys like Fred Neill, who wrote "Everybody's Talkin At Me." It was a nice nightcap.

And Wifey was inspired. When we woke up today, she was not only singing "Monday Monday," she was reading me song facts about the song -- the first #1 single for the Mamas and Papas.

How about that?!

And When I Die, And When I'm Gone...

 My father DETESTED the funeral industry. He read exposes about how they preyed upon people at their most vulnerable, upselling them when they couldn't afford it. He was also a proud Jew, but rebelled against the "hocus pocus" part of it, as he said, and put his body where his mouth was: he prearranged cremation instead of a funeral, lest those "bastards rip him off." My mother followed suit, reminding us often in the later years that "I prepaid the Neptune Society -- don't let them charge!"

My in laws, in contrast, felt strongly about a traditional Jewish funeral, and back in '04 Wifey found them 2 gravesites in Mt. Nebo in Kendall, "slightly used," I joked, but actually second market -- sold by a family who had moved away from Miami and no longer wanted them. My in laws also proudly paid for all funeral expenses -- on a monthly plan, and all was set. Or was it?

Monday am, I got a call from the friendly Director at Mt. Nebo, who said that while he had record of the prepaid gravesites, he found nothing about the funeral services -- stuff like the casket, rides around town, etc...Wifey is NOT the best keeper of records, but she had the contracts, and I took photos of her mother's and emailed it. 

"Oh yes - there it is! Your in laws bought their plans during the merger of companies, and that's why they slipped through the system! We're all good to go."

It occurred to me that it made no sense that the gravesite contracts were in their records, but not the funeral service. So -- was it really a harmless mistake, and an attempt to have us pay probably $6K improperly, or was it nefarious? I know what my Dad would have said. Bottom line was, the only charge was for copies of the death certificates -- no big whoop.

In any event, Hashem and Delta cooperated, and Rabbi Yossi made it back in plenty of time. Wonderful Nechama, his amazing wife, came as well, and though Wifey had asked for just immediate family, Joey's parents asked if they could come to honor Rachel -- and Cipora said of course.

It was blessedly overcast at the gravesite. It started to rain, but stopped before the shoveling of soil -- so the weather more than cooperated.

Yossi read the prayers, and asked us to speak. I simply couldn't resist one mother in law joke, a true one: as I stood about to talk about Rachel, it occurred to me it was the first time in nearly 4 decades that I could speak without her interrupting me. But then I thanked her -- for the gift of my life partner, who in turn gave me the greatest gifts of the Ds, and their husbands, and the amazing grandson.

And I shared something I never had before. My life is largely the soul/blues song "When Something is wrong with my baby...something is wrong with me." And even when I suffer with Wifey and the Ds through their darkest times -- whether sadness or physical ailments -- I always take comfort knowing they come from true Survivor stock -- and will somehow emerge from their crises. That has always brought me comfort.

Wifey spoke about how she always felt loved fiercely by her mother, and how Rachel's optimism about life got her through the immeasurable tragedies of her younger days.

The Ds spoke of happy memories, and also feeling immensely loved, and how their Sabta was a role model of love and strength. 

This was no background woman -- she always let you know her feelings and thoughts, sometimes to comical effect.

After some more prayers, we set about the actual work of a "Full burial," the orthodox tradition of having the family cover the casket with the soil before the rest of the hole is filled. Ricardo, Jonathan, Joey and I did the work -- again -- in blessedly mild conditions. And then we said our goodbyes.

Rabbi and Nechama left to go back to their works -- they're in the midst of building a new Friendship Circle and shul -- to serve hundreds of special needs kids.

My consuegros left to fetch the Little Man from camp -- and the Ds and their men came back to the house. I poured martinis and we toasted Rachel over lunch from Roasters. Afterwards, Wifey retired to the couch for a nap, and the kids left. I followed with a vodka flavored nap.

So a true matriarch of our family now resting peacefully next to her husband of nearly 70 years. She died with the love and respect of her family -- and they thank her for all she meant to them, and lessons taught.

Brava, Rachel. A life early tragic, and later resurrected to one of true meaning. I guess I'll even miss being interrupted...

Rest in Peace, Rachel

 My mother in law Rachel died last night, at the Palace, in Kendall. She had just passed the 97.5 year mark. She had stopped drinking anything on Tuesday, and lapsed into unconsciousness, so we knew the end was imminent. But a person's death is still shocking, and Wifey cried and cried deeply last night, as she was with her mother as she took her final breath.

I had left Wifey at the Palace for the vigil, and drove back close to 11 pm. Since Rachel was under the care of Vitas Hospice, they had to be the authority to pronounce her, and about midnight an affable fellow arrived -- their chaplain. He asked if we were Christian and wished to pray, and I told him thanks, but we were all set in that Department -- the prayers were similar, but we don't talk about the son, only Dad. He understood. The also affable driver came from the funeral company, and after the paperwork was done, explained that they would be taking Rachel's body to a facility in North Miami Beach, and from there to the cemetery in Kendall when we had a date and time for the burial. We're hoping it takes place tomorrow afternoon -- our Rabbi Yossi Harlig is coming back from a Brooklyn wedding, so Hashem and Delta Airlines willing, he'll make it home tomorrow.

What a life Rachel had! She was born 12/15/24 in Sosnowiecz, Poland, sort of a small industrial city. She was one of 7 siblings, and had a loving, wonderful childhood. Her father was a flour salesman, who sold to local bakeries, and they were solidly middle class, by pre War Poland standards. But when Rachel was a teenager, the ugly Winds of War came, and the Nazis took everyone. Rachel's entire world of people were brutally murdered, except for one younger brother Alter, who, like Rachel, miraculously survived concentration camps and slave labor camps.

After she was liberated, Rachel went to a DP camp in Feldafing, Germany. There she learned her third language, German, to go along with her native Polish and Yiddish. Hebrew and English would follow -- fully fluent in 5! languages. After Feldafing, Rachel emigrated to Haifa, and joined the IDF. There she met a tall, handsome soldier in Special Forces, my father in law Richard. They would marry and together fight for the creation of the State of Israel.

Rachel desperately wanted a child, but couldn't conceive. Finally she became pregnant, but tragically had a still born son in 1952. In later years, this seemed more tragic to her than the Holocaust -- she talked wistfully about that baby who was not to be. She and Richard saw "Professors" in Jerusalem, I guess early fertility specialists, and they were not optimistic. But then, just like the miracle birth in Israel in December some 2050 years ago, there was an even BIGGER one in 1956 -- a beautiful blue eyed baby girl, who would become Wifey someday -- 30 years later, to be exact.

Life in Israel was tough, and Rachel and Richard had surviving siblings in the US, and so emigrated here in 1960. They first moved to Miami, and then NY. Wifey was, for a time, literally a kid in a candy store, as her father owned one in Garden City Park, and they lived behind it. When Wifey was entering dating age, they feared the lack of Jewish boys, and so moved to Canarsie, where there were more of them. Being tone deaf about practical things, they then decided to pull Wifey out of school in the middle of her junior year at high school in Brooklyn, and relocate back to Miami, in 1972. Wifey was no worse for the wear, making friends at Killian High School, and ultimately meeting a barely legal boy when she was living in Kendall. That was me -- the original boy toy.

Anyway, Rachel got a job that she loved -- working at gift wrap at Burdines in Dadeland Mall. She took great pride in her work, and had customers who would only let her wrap their items. Her years there led to a comically small pension -- from Macy's, which bought Burdines. She receives about $30 per month.

Rachel and Richard retired around the time D1 was born. Oh how they adored their granddaughter, as well as D2 who came three years later. They moved to Century Village in Pembroke Pines, where several of their fellow Holocaust Survivor card playing partners (not friends, as Richard always made sure I understood) had relocated.

And Wifey took her parents on their private March of the Living, and later, took Rachel alone back to Poland. She loved it. Though Poland was the place that took so much from her, it was also the place of a happy childhood and early adolescence.

My father in law was diagnosed with Alzheimers in his mid 80s, and we moved him to Miami Jewish Home. Rachel, through rides arranged by Wifey, visited him several times each week. Right after he died, in January of '16, she insisted she MUST move -- it was THEIR apartment, and she wanted to spend no more time there. Of course, she had lived there for years when Richard in Miami Jewish, but Rachel sometimes had her own internal logic.

So Wifey redecorated a 2 bedroom condo we owned in Palmetto Bay, after we kicked out the nice schlumpy tenant who had been there nearly 10 years. Poor Lenny -- he had come to really feel the place was his, because I never raised the rent. I reminded him we were month to month, and it was time to go. He sadly moved away.

After a year, Rachel HATED living alone in the apartment. It was time for the Palace, a luxury ALF in Kendall. She lived there most of 4 years, but began to decline, sadly. Finally, 4 months ago we switched her to the nursing home, and the decline continued.

She did get to meet her great grandson, even through the Covid restrictions at the Palace. The two of them locked eyes outside on the patio. They had a connection, even though Rachel was already losing it. They smiled at each other. 

I like to think the enormity of  surviving the Shoah long enough to have a great grandchild resonated with my mother in law. It was really something.

Fast forward to last night. Vitas Hospice was short staffed, and the nurse leaving at 7 said she would be back in the am, but no one was there to sit bedside. So Wifey did -- I drove in a nasty T storm to Publix and CVS, bought her a phone charger and some dinner. I got a dozen donuts for the Palace nurses.

I drove home, and called the funeral folks -- to see about transport. While I was on the phone with them, Wifey clicked in -- Rachel had died.

Wifey was balling. She had never been in the presence of someone dying. It was peaceful, and yet shocking.

I drove over and we waited for the hospice rep to arrive -- they had to pronounce the death. A very nice Baptist chaplain came to do the task. He asked if we wanted to pray with him. We said thanks, but different team. He understood. The transport man was there, and we left as they were taking Rachel to a facility in NMB I called the hotel for dead people.

This am I spoke to the funeral director -- we're set for burial at noon tomorrow. Rabbi Yossi is coming on an early flight -- he's due home by 10. He has a backup rabbi in case his flight doesn't make it. He also is a wise guy -- he suggested maybe Mark Kram as a backup rabbi -- knowing that Kram bolted out a week before he was to marry Wifey and me back in '87 for a last minute free trip. Kran soured us on organized Judaism for years -- until our friendship with Yossi and Nechama. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Anyway, if all goes as planned, the Ds, Jonathan, Joey, Wifey and I (not sure about the adorable grandson) will gather and bury Rachel next to the love of her life -- my father in law. They were married nearly 70 years.

Wow. What a long, long, meaningful life. Years ago, Wifey's friend Maureen had Rachel over for a lunch with people studying the Holocaust. They asked Rachel how she survived. She replied: "Because I am an optimist. I always look forward to things getting better." And so they did. And she leaves a beautiful legacy, literally out of the ashes.

Erev Father's Day

 So tomorrow is the po relation of Mother's Day, and I'm just hoping to not spend it in the cemetery. Actually, I guess that won't happen, as my Suegra is still among us. Remarkable -- day 4 with zero water or food.

I'm guessing the privations she suffered as a young woman, in the camps and slave labor places, conditioned her body this way. I know for a fact she went for long stretches with no food, and I'm guessing little, if any water. It must have prepared her body for this end.

But back to FD. The last one I got to celebrate with MY beloved Dad was in June of '82. He may have been in the hospital for that one, recovering from the heart attack he had suffered. He recovered and got out of the hospital in early July -- only to die of a massive MI on July 14, 1982. So I've been fatherless more than three decades now.

As Tony S says -- it sucks, but hey -- what are ya gonna do?

I never got over Dad's death. We were so close -- he was like a grandfather and father in one, as he was 42 when I was born. He was my best friend, and I'm someone who was always blessed to have very dear friends -- going back to grade school.

I remember well the end of my Spring semester of 1981, when I was sure I was going to disappoint him. After years of pre med studies, I came to the conclusion that med school wasn't for me. Getting Cs in science classes and As in humanities may have done the trick. I went to see Dr Davidoff, one of my mentors, a brilliant neurologist who let me work in his lab one summer, and even included my name on two scientific journals. He tried to talk me into staying the course -- saying if I got decent MCAT scores, he would do all he could to get me admitted somewhere. But I didn't want it, and thanked him.

His wife Judy, an English professor, talked me out of my first idea of getting a PhD in English and teaching. In the early 80s, Stanford and Harvard English grads were waiting tables -- it was the tail end of the Baby Boom, and academic jobs were scarce. Judy was the one who suggested law school, since I could read and write critically -- might as well have a profession where "a nice Jewish boy like you could support a family some day." Boy, was she right.

But I went home to Delray to break the news to Dad. I expected at least a negative head shake. Instead, he said "What took you so long? I always knew you weren't really a science guy. You won the English student of the year in high school -- that's what you should study. You'll figure out how to support yourself -- you're a sharp guy." Wow -- did I love him so then.

My junior year, the first with no science classes, I got a 4.0. I still recall well coming home from my summer job at Jordan Marsh in the Town Center Mall in Boca, anxiously awaiting my grades in the mail. One day I walked into the Florida room, and Dad was in his recliner, holding a letter. He put up 4 fingers, and smiled. He had opened my grades, of course, and was beaming. We probably celebrated with some corned beef sandwiches at a local deli -- he ordered Cel-Ray soda, I'm sure. He was OG Bronx deli man.

So precious few of my friends have living fathers, and I envy them. I spoke to Norman the other day -- his wonderful Dad Max is nearing 95 and doing wonderfully. He's taking Max to Ruths' Chris tonight to celebrate -- I'm so happy for him.

Dana's Dad Ron is with us, still -- I see him on Dana and Eric's weekly Zoom shabbat,and he looks well. My friend Kenny's Dad and Mom just moved into an ALF. Kenny is in an even smaller fraternity -- someone our age with BOTH surviving parents. Not many of those.

So this FD, I'll be thinking of Hy, as always, and be grateful for all the love and support and guidance he gave me for nearly 21 years. He died 4 days before I turned 21.

And I'll kvell about MY girls, the Ds, and my grandson. They feel like they know my Dad, even though he was gone long before they were born, as I try to imitate him as a father each day.

Not Yet

 Wifey and I became friends with an older couple, Helene and Alan, many years ago. We met through our Rabbi and Rebetzin, and liked them very much. Wifey saw Helene, a true mentsh of a mom and grandma, as a bit of a mentor.

Sadly, shortly after they moved to Atlanta to be close to their grandkids, Helene was stricken with terminal cancer. She tried experimental treatment in Seattle, but the end came nonetheless. I still recall, though, Alan telling us about her final moments.

Helene was surrounded by all her family, and she was mostly asleep. Her breathing softened, and the family drew in, thinking she had passed. She opened her eyes, though, and said "Not yet." Typical amazing Helene -- everyone broke out laughing. But the time did come shortly afterward, and she drifted away.

A few years later, Alan was visiting Miami, and had coffee with an old acquaintance, Doreen. Doreen, a South African Jewish lady, lost her husband around the time Helene had died. Well, coffee led to Chapter 2, and Alan sold his Atlanta place and moved back to South Florida. I haven't spoken to him in awhile, but think he and Doreen live in Weston now.

I'm reminded of this because of the vigil for my mother in law. As of early today, her breathing is still strong, vitals fine, but still can't be roused. After Wifey called Vitas Hospice, who has been getting paid a fair amount to do fairly little, they agreed to send a nurse 24/7. They also put in an order for morphine, if needed. So far it's not needed. But today is Day 3 of no water or food, so who knows? The Big Man alone, of course.

I came to the office to avoid my house, as Wifey has her decorators there replacing our old clutter with new clutter. Apparently this is something that becomes essential after living in a house for 20 years.

I know nothing about interior design. But I do know we used to have a set of very large, comfortable dining room chairs that had to go, to be replaced with a set of small modern ones with the comfort one finds at a driver's license waiting room. Isn't that a lyric from Percy Sledge's "When a Man Loves A Woman?" "When a man loves a woman...he agrees to comically uncomfortable chairs...if that's the way she says it oughta be..."

D2 and Jonathan are en route to ATL, and we have the enormous puppy. I was drifting into a post workout nap yesterday, when she began barking maniacally at the pool guy outside. I recalled how much I missed having her at the house. She's actually a sweet, huge puppy, but not a dog for older people...

I think we'll go see the Little Man and his parents tomorrow afternoon. We already celebrated an early Father's Day, so that's in the books.

And as for Rachel...well, she's resting comfortably at the Palace.

Is This The End, My Friend?

 My ancient suegra is 97, and has recently been precipitously declining. Five months ago she moved from the ALF part of The Palace to the nursing home, totally immobile, but still mostly aware. Over the past weeks she barely rouses, and when she does, seems to have zero idea who any of us are.

Yesterday the nurses called to tell Wifey she had stopped drinking or eating the day before. I drove to the Palace after a lunch meeting on Brickell, and met with the nurse. Rachel was deeply asleep. The nurse shook her, almost violently, to attempt to rouse her. Nothing -- just peaceful sleep. Obviously, they can't give her anything by mouth that way, and we do NOT want them to place a feeding tube or IV.

Wifey arrived, and got into bed with her Mom, holding her. She has accepted that the end may well be approaching. She is sad, but dealing with it, of course.

The Ds are visiting today. I told D2 it was still ok to go to Atlanta, since no one knows when the end will come. If need be, she'll come back early. 

I called Rabbi Yossi, just to see if he's in town. He is, but leaving Monday and Tuesday -- to see his ailing father in Crown Heights. He wisely noted that there's truly nothing to do ahead of time -- Rachel already has her funeral arrangements made -- and when Hashem decides the time is at hand, the time is at hand.

Still, I'm OCD, and already have a Relief Rabbi in mind -- young Rabbi Dovi, the Brazilian guy. We met when he was a young assistant at the Shul of Brickell, and now he started his own congregation in Aventura -- mostly catering to Brazilian Jews there. We've kept in touch, and if needed, I will call upon him to come to Kendall.

When we contemplate the death of elderly parents, we recall our other experiences, and today I was remembering what turned out to be a funny memory.

It was May of 2012, and my Mom was to be discharged from Delray Hospital to Miami Jewish Home. I had gone to Gainesville to fetch D2 for the Summer, and the plan was to stop at Delray, fetch Grandma Sunny, and bring her to the nursing home. D2 was keen on spending some quality time with her Grandma, knowing there weren't to be years left. We wheeled Sunny to my car, and put her into the front seat. D2 was in back, playing on her phone.

Shortly after I got on I-95, Sunny was out. I nudged her a bit. Nothing. Oh crap, I thought -- she freaking died right there. 

I immediately recalled how my Dad died in my arms 30 years before, I was STILL messed up about that, and now I was visiting another death upon my darling daughter -- as she happily texted away.

I figured there was nothing to do but keep driving to Miami Jewish -- the staff would help me there -- and it would be a record short stay at that facility for Mom.

I chatted with D2 as if everything was ok -- figuring she'd freak if she knew she was riding behind a corpse.

And then -- around Hollywood -- Mom awoke. "David -- where are we???" Ah -- gracias to the Big Man! She was alive!

We continued on to Little Haiti, got Sunny settled in, and then drove home. There was no trauma to the undergrad!

Sunny would live there 11 more months -- apparently the textbook length of stay at a nursing home for a person at the end of life. We celebrated her 93rd birthday on April 13, 2013, and she was present but not really. She raised her glass of soda and said "Happy New Year, Everyone!" She died 2 weeks later.

So we'll see with my suegra. I did some research, and typically someone lasts no more than 3-4 days without water. But my suegra, a Survivor in every sense, seems to defy odds. She was by far the most obese person in the ALF, and ate almost exclusively sugar. She was no worse for the wear.

Might she keep on living for awhile? She might. Big Man knows. But today the Ds want to say their final words to her -- just in case.

And if this is indeed her end -- drifting from a deep, pain free sleep to the Great Beyond, at 97.5 years old , well, there are far worse ways to go.

Lyft and The Kafkaesque Experience

 So my friend and financial advisor Pat was in town, and asked me to meet for some cocktails before he had dinner with his hosts in the Gables. I agreed, and suggested we two old gringos go to Captain's Tavern, the local headquarters for old gringos. I figured I would Uber over, have a few adult beverages with Pat, and then Wifey would come later and we'd have dinner, and she would drive me home.

Alas, Wifey is in clean out mode, as her decorators are coming Friday to replace our old clutter with new clutter, and so she begged off actually attending dinner, but would in fact fetch me, as long as I brought her her favorite, the lobster tail, in return. Seemed like a plan.

I rarely use Lyft, but thought maybe I'd keep the account active, and their price for the 8 minute drive was $9.99, whereas Uber wanted $11. So I updated my payment info, and summoned Lyft at around 3:35, since they claimed to be 6 minutes away, and it was a short trip. Pat, like I, is VERY prompt, and I knew he would be at the bar at 4 p.m. 

So I walked outside, and followed the driver's progress, and then, nothing. I texted him -- "Are you lost?" No response. So then I called, and got a fellow who spoke ZERO English. This is one of my pet peeves.

When Uber and Lyft petitioned Miami Dade for permission to operate, one of their promises was that, opposed to Miami Dade's comically bad taxis, each driver would speak English. We minority gringos welcomed this. I was once in a taxi with a nice Creole only speaking man, on a trip from MIA to my then Kendall house. It had been a long day, and I dozed off, waking to realize we were in Broward County! I somehow communicated to the man his mistake, and he drove me home, and then said "$150." I laughed, gave him the $40 the trip should have been, and he gave me the finger and drove away. So I figured the English speaking nature of our new service would end that stuff. I figured wrong.

The driver was clearly upset and confused. I tried, in my limited Spanish, to explain how to get to my house. He wouldn't listen -- just excitedly trying to explain to me all he was going through. I have a feeling he may have driven to 66 Street -- in West Kendall. But after 2 tense calls, I realized I was late to the Tavern, and said "Cancel. I'll drive."

I got to the Tavern a few minutes late, and greeted Pat and my Ketel and tonic, and I got the out of state number again -- the driver. Dude was relentless. I told him I was to arrive at the Tavern BEFORE 4, it was now 415, and what part of "Cancel" didn't he understand? I figured that was it. Again, I figured wrong.

The Lyft app chimed again. This moron had handed me off to another driver, Yoel! I texted him that I was already at the Tavern -- cancel the trip. Dude texted back "I am new driver -- you cannot cancel my trip."

Now I'm two drinks in -- it's a full hour past when the Lyft idiots were to have me at the Tavern. So I called the number -- Yoel spoke English -- he said he was 5 minutes from my house. I told him to knock himself out -- I was long at my destination -- maybe he'd like to come to the Tavern for a drink? He hung up, but then I got another text "Yoel will be arriving shortly. Be ready."

So I texted back -- could he water check my mailbox for me while he was there? My need for a ride was now 1.5 hours late. He texted back: "I am new at this. Why you being so mean?"

Then I got the last text -- he had waited for me, and when I failed to arrive (I guess I could have driven home for him) he left. I was being charged $5 for the aborted drive.

Meanwhile, Pat and I caught up nicely, and discussed the markets. We planned strategy. And then Harris and Ruby appeared -- our dear friend Elizabeth, who passed away - Ruby is her sister. They were at the bar, and Ruby texted Wifey that she found me at the bar with a tall Irish person with very attractive hair.

Pat left, and Wifey decided to come by after all -- to see Ruby and Harris. I ordered our dinners at the bar, and Wifey walked over to the table and chatted for a bit. Her lobster tail came, as well as my halibut -- flown in that day and delicious.

Since I abridged my drinking due to Lyft's incompetence, I drove home, as did Wifey. It had been no harm, so no foul.

I checked my Amex, and there was no charge. I had bought Lyft stock after the IPO several years back. It dropped, and never rose to the level I paid. Now I see why -- it's a crappy company -- especially compared to Uber.

Maybe I'll sell my shares today -- I'll take the loss to offset some gains in something else.

I always joke that when I call a ride share, I fantasize I am Thurston Howell III awaiting his chauffer. Not with Lyft -- I feel like the poor guy who can't fit on the overstuffed city bus.

Puck you, Lyft. I'm exclusively an Uber mentsch now.

Letting Go Of the Anger

 So 4 years ago this August, Paul and Stuart and I suffered a betrayal by a man at least I considered a friend. His Christian name is John, but after what he did, stealing cases in the middle of the night, and skipping out owing Stuart thousands in back rent, I renamed him Fredo, after the treacherous, not too bright brother in Godfather. And Fredo he remains.

For awhile, I had a lot of anger towards him, I was a good friend -- I got his daughter into UF through the influence of another friend, Pat. His daughter, who I'll call Elizabeth, since that's her name, was sort of on the bubble as an ok but not stellar student at Palmer Trinity, and Pat, who had some leverage with UF back then, greased the wheels for her.

Later on, Fredo needed back surgery, and found a 6 month wait for the surgeon he wanted. Again, I used my contacts, got him in, and even drove him and spent hours waiting for him at JMH because he had no one else to give him a ride. His daughter Elizabeth isn't a big fan, on account of the fact that he may have raided some of her trust money on account of his being broke ass.

I ought to have known better than to let him into our inner circle. A wise friend, who I discussed this with, asked me how a UF Law grad, in his early 60s, was broke ass after a decades long career as a lawyer. A WASPY UF Law grad at that! Well -- I tend to , or used to, practice the halo effect. When I consider someone a close friend, they become somewhat angelic in my mind -- I put a metaphorical halo on them. I

I answered this wise friend that Fredo's wife was dying of melanoma, and he focused on his daughter, and that's why he suffered professionally. Turned out it was wrong -- at his wife Kim's funeral, none of her relatives or close friends even mentioned Fredo -- it was all about the daughter Elizabeth. Fredo was broke because he was a lazy POS -- and left a trail of failed partnerships because of that laziness. He was a very good con man -- still is. After he left us, he went to a major advertising firm , the principal, Robert, I call Saul Goodman. I predicted he'd last there 2 years until his act wore thin. I was off by 6 months, but damned if he didn't convince another firm, up in West Palm, that he was an asset and they should hire him. He'll be fired there by Spring, I am confident.

Of all the cases he stole from Stu and us, only 2 are left to be worked out. On one of them, Stuart, at my strategy, witheld the back rent Fredo owed instead of paying him the fee agreed to. Fredo was livid, but realized he was stuck -- he DID owe the money.

Now there's one case for us, and one for Stu. Stu tonight sent me a pleading on his case, wherein Fredo claimed that he did all the work, even though it was using Stu's rent free office and Stuart's secretary, and thus Stuart should get none of the fee. Stu sent me Fredo's motion.

I didn't get mad -- I just laughed. Despite being a PI lawyer, Fredo is a died in the wool Republican, and he just showed he was good at alternate facts, like his hero Trump. I suspect ultimately the fee dispute will be settled.

What's really sad is that the firm that got the result is a different one, and my friend Joel's former intern Todd is a partner there. I would hope Todd would take control, realize the right thing is to pay Stuart his money, and move on. But maybe greed will blind the ultra liberal Todd. I have no dog in the fight, but look foward to seeing if Todd values friendship over a few dollars. We'll see.

So no more anger towards Fredo. Rey, a former partner, continues to loathe him. Fredo begged Rey to keep him on long past the time Rey realized he was worthless, and then Fredo sued Rey!

Not me. Fredo is, like the namesake in the movie was to Michael, nothing to me. Not a friend, nothing.

And he's certainly not worth any anger.

Innkeeper Again

 So last weekend we were rained on, not just cats and dogs, but lions and Great Danes. Pinecrest apparently got 13 inches.

Unfortunately, the apartment D2 and Jonathan are renting in Sunset Harbor had a leak -- into the bathroom, but pretty serious. The management company came out and put in big industrial fans and a dehumidifier, but the result was an apartment with noise levels like being on the tarmac at MIA.

D2 and the enormous puppy stayed over after our early FD celebration -- Jonathan was headed to Nashville early Monday, and so just went back to the apartment to sleep.

Wednesday, Jonathan returned from Nashville, and went to his office in the Gables. D2 and I met him for dinner at one of my favorites -- Captain's Tavern. Jonathan got there early and got my favorite table in the corner of the bar. He had never been before -- only had their takeout. He found the place just as musty and gringo as he had thought -- we had a delightful dinner, with martinis and very fresh fish.

Today, around 4, D2 and the puppy left, to fetch Jonathan in the Gables and then head home to a fan-less, and hopefully dried out apartment.

I barely had time to prepare for my next set of guests: Wifey and Edna. Well, Wifey isn't technically a guest, but the two of them are coming from their stay at the Setai on the Beach -- Edna flew in from ATL to see her girl Lauren who was staying there. We're meeting at Platea for dinner -- the new best restaurant in Pinecrest, which, despite demographics a restaurant owner would salivate for, has very few really good restaurants.

I think Edna is spending just one night, and is off to ATL tomorrow.

My innkeeping duties resume Thursday -- but only for a canine client. Betsy is coming back -- D2 and Jonathan are heading to see friends in ATL, taking advantage of the new Juneteenth federal holiday -- and returning Monday. They'll fetch the enormous puppy then. But she won't be away long.

D2 and Jonathan are finally getting to , hopefully, go on their long plague delayed honeymoon late July. We'll dog sit then.

I love having those near and dear stay here, although sometimes the absurdity of our house occurs to me.

Friendly handyman Nestor was over today, to replace the leaking toilet valves and flush flaps -- some are original, from 1997, and look like animals chewed them up.

He does a lot of high level houses -- 8 figure places in the Grove and Miami Beach -- so our house is kind of typical for him.

Still, I realized we have SIX toilets.  I contrast that with most of my friends who grew up on LI in Levittown with large Catholic families -- one bathroom for 9 or 10 people. We had three in our house -- one in my parents' bedroom, one in the hall, and a half bath down by the washer and dryer, which used to regularly flood until we got sewers instead of cesspools.

I had a long talk yesterday with Wifey's friend Cara -- she just put her condo on Venetian Island up for sale. Her late husband bought it in the early 80s for $40K -- she's going to get well north of $1M. She wanted to bounce off options about her next place -- and asked if I ever wanted to move to a condo.

Nah. I'm social, but LOVE being able to NOT see people if I choose.

Plus, if we had a condo, it'd be tougher to be an innkeeper. And then I'd lose one of my jobs.

Friendly Neighborhood See You Next Tuesday

 Probably 10 years ago, I was approached by a location scout as I sat by my pond, and he asked me if I was interested in having Villa Wifey used for a shoot for the then hit show "Burn Notice." I was, and was so excited about it, didn't even negotiate the $4k they offered for the day -- all of it outside. I later learned they'd have paid double, but it was so fun I didn't much care.

They also paid our across the street neighbors Bob and Elizabeth to use their yard for parking, and on the day of the shoot it was something to see. A scene involving a brown van crashing through our front gates, that was on the episode for all of 20 seconds, took an entire day to shoot, with a crew of more than 50 people. D1 was in grad school, and she came by to watch, and they send us a DVD of the episode. Very cool. I hoped they would ask again, and they didn't.

A few years later I got a call from another location scout, referred by the Burn Notice guy. They offered $10K to use our pool, but it was for a hard core porn shoot, and I politely declined. I'm no prude, but didn't want my house so memorialized. Maybe that's why we haven't got more offers.

Anyway -- our neighbor Denie hit the location lottery for today -- a very huge commercial is being shot at her house, inside, and though the star is supposed to be a secret, we learned it's an NFL wide receiver who goes by ODB. We all got an email blast telling us about the event, though Denie lives in the far corner of our 'hood and typically only people who live in those 4 houses would be affected. EXCEPT...

I was walking with my neighbor Ellen today, and she shared the chisme. Every neighborhood has its asshole, most have their bitches, and we have a bona fide, everyone agrees, See You Next Tuesday. I'll say her name rhymes with Rita, but with a different middle consonant, and she is indeed a piece of work.

She lives next to a dead end street that used to be an entrance to our 'hood off busy 136/Old Cutler. Before we moved in, the entrance was cut off, as people would use it to shortcut to Ludlam, and speed through. But the no longer used street, which is now mostly grass, is state property. Rita, and her husband, who I'll call Ray, since his name rhymes with that but with a different first consonant, treat the area as if they own it. They clearly do NOT.

Anyway, the location manager, a lovely Venezuelan who I met named Madeline, knocked on Rita and Ray's door, told them she knew the land was state owned, but as a courtesy was letting them know there would be vehicles parked there for the day. Rita and Ray erupted -- claiming it was THEIR property, and they would call police, the FBI, the CIA, the Mafia, and a strike force from Homestead Air Force Reserve Base if anyone DARED to park there.

Madeline begged off, since getting a state permit to park a few vans was onerous. Ellen told me the tale as I walked past the See You Next Tuesday's house, and sure enough, they had dragged a fallen tree branch across the area, lest someone try to park there.

As a concerned Floridian, wishing to keep state roads and former roads clear, I dragged the limb away. It let me burn off my anger at these 2 creeps who are an embarrassment to the 'hood.

We walked the 3 houses down, and Ellen introduced me to Madeline. She was so nice, and I assured her that we are proud of our neighborhood, pride ourselves on being friendly, and was sorry about her experience with Rita and Ray. She and Ellen started laughing --they had already labeled Rita a Venezuelan Spanish version of See You Next Tuesday -- and Madeline gave me her card.

I would love it if we got another film shoot -- and our surrounding neighbors would welcome it, too.

I truly don't understand people who live in a house probably now worth north of $2.5M, that they paid less than $1M for, with 3 adult kids who are all apparently doing very well, and yet remain fully miserable assholes. They truly only seem to get happiness bullying others over stupid stuff.

Well, as the old cliche goes, the show must go on, and indeed it is. I just walked past, and the location is a hive of activity. I asked the friendly young Pinecrest cop if ODB was there yet -- he had no idea who or what was being filmed, but quickly told me he was a huge football fan and would be asking for an autograph.

The neighbors across the street, newly moved in, were outside, with their toddler and gorgeous baby girl. One of the grips had the toddler moving little traffic cones "to help out the production." My grandson would have been in heaven had he been over. And the little baby girl? I'm already talking with the parents about a possible fix up in years to come with one of my grandkids.

I guess I ought to just ignore the miserable people. I have zero doubt Riv, um Rita is inside her house, looking intently at her security cameras and making sure no one trespasses on her falsely claimed property.

Whatever. Karens are one thing. We have a universally acclaimed See You Next Tuesday. Maybe my neighborhood ought to feel proud.

Another Jazzy Sunday

I appreciate jazz music, but don't often listen to it -- EXCEPT on Sunday mornings. I put on WDNA on my Sonos and enjoy it in the background, as I surf the web and drink coffee. I support the station, too, and wear a nifty WDNA ball cap they sent to say thanks. This year I'm due a T shirt, too.

Yesterday I attended a lovely graduation party. Wifey opted out -- she wasn't in the mood to socialize after moving around some boxes in the garage that got wet from the torrential rains we had. Our garage floor is the only surface that ever floods. Apparently our house was built high up -- an engineer checking it out fof the insurance company told me it was 40% higher than required by code. But the garage sits next to the area where the pool is, and when the pool overflows, the water seeps though the concrete.  An engineer said the problem could be fixed -- excavate around the garage wall, and seal it -- cost would be about $50K. Eh -- I can live with the wet floor that occurs every 3 years or so.

So there was a nice group of folks at Chris and Mary's house. Some of the people brought plastic syringes filled with run shots -- flavored jello infused with rum. You squirt the syringe into your mouth, rather than have to extract the jello from the little plastic shot glasses. I tried one -- tea flavored -- and thought wow -- what'll they think of next?

Marlowe is headed to NYU J school for a master's -- she wants to be a foreign correspondent. Her brother is off to FSU to study Criminology -- and partying. They're two wonderful kids, and I properly complemented Mary and Chris on a job well done.

D1 just texted: she and her men are 25 minutes away. D2 and Jonathan are coming a bit later -- they love to sleep in Sunday mornings.

If it gets late enough, I'll make them martinis with the Beluga vodka I got as a gift. I sampled some Friday night -- it is indeed excellent -- the Johnny Walker Blue of vodka.

The bottle came with a little hammer and brush contraption, and I used the trusty internet to figure out why. Each bottle is sealed in clay, and you use the hammer to break up the seal, and then brush the fragments away. A gimmick, of course, but I DO enjoy the rituals of adult beverages.

My man Stu's Dad Bill, a wonderful octogenarian, once explained why he much prefers a cocktail out at a great bar/restaurant to one at home. "When you hear the bartender shake his shaker, it's Pavlovian. You KNOW a good time is to follow that evening."

It's funny -- my Dad was no drinker. The most he'd ever have was a beer with dinner on occasion. I NEVER saw him drink "hard liquor," even once. He claimed it was bad for his prostate. I guess the fact that he died WITH prostate issues affected me. Plus, he never went to college, which is where alcohol became a much bigger social lubricant.

So we'll see if today's early Father's Day turns into day drinking, or not.

Either way -- when I get my Ds and their men together -- it's a fine day.

Even better than jazz on WDNA playing in the background. 

The Track

 So yesterday Paul and I had some business in Hallandale, and afterwards decided to get some lunch. I know my man so well -- one of his favorite places in the world is Gulfstream Park, where you can gamble on the ponies, and eat great food at Christine Lee's.

He invited the Mrs, and I suggested we call our old friend Allison, who lives in Broward as well. I also invited Wifey, but knew there was zero chance she'd wish to fight Miami traffic -- but she DID want some dinner brought to her. And so it was off to the track.

Paul insists, and I support, a totally 1950s style, patriarchal system at the track. The men put up the money, and the women split any winnings. Curiously, even the most feminist guests we've hosted over the years do not object to this set up. So we funded our day with $100 each, and Allison and Patricia each netted $66 at the end -- the losses were reasonable.

But we had a delightful time. Allison and I were law school classmates -- we just celebrated our 36th anniversary of finishing up that less than fun course of study. We were in our mid 20s. I'm now knocking on 61's door, and a grandpa, to boot. I ran into Allison in 1990, when we tried a case against each other. Her then husband Mark, a kind of a schlumpy guy from LI, represented a homeowner whose dog attacked and bit our client, leaving a facial scar. I won the trial, but the homeowner, who had no insurance, declared bankruptcy, and the client never saw a dime.

A few years later, near Xmas of '94, Paul and I had just started our firm, and were attending the holiday party in our building. Allison was working for her divorce lawyer. We three clicked, sort of like the Mod Squad without a Black guy, and Allison came to work for us. 

Those were heady times, and Paul was with Allison at Capital Grille when he encouraged a well dressed attorney at the bar to ask Allison out. Steven became her husband, and their two girls just graduated high school. Alas, the marriage didn't last, and, for the record, as Wifey likes to say, I NEVER liked Steven. Ha. So there.

Anyway, we talked of days passed and those to come. Allison and I practiced the shoe theory of martini drinking: one's not enough, and you don't need more than two.

I brought home some delicious chicken to Wifey. She loved it.

Today is an Annie Lennox kind of  a day: Here comes the rain again. An early tropical storm, which was a hurricane that crossed Mexico, weakened, and is now again strengthening over the Gulf, is headed our way. Not much wind, but we're supposed to get a total of 7 inches of rain through tomorrow night.

Tomorrow afternoon dear friends Darriel and Paul are hosting a double graduation for their grandkids Marlowe and CJ. Marlowe finished UF's J School, and is off to the City for a Masters at NYU. CJ finished Palmetto High and is off to FSU, which is kind of funny since his parents are both Gators. His sister, too. It happens.

Darriel and Paul had to move to Virginia last year if Paul wished to keep his sales job with the medical supply company. Paul just turned 60,and wasn't keen on finding a new company at his age. So they're in Richmond now, and liking it, but missing Mary and Chris and the kids in Palmetto Bay.

Hopefully we'll be able to ford the puddles ok tomorrow for the open house. Other than that, we plan to stay high and dry.

Meanwhile, I cracked open the Beluga vodka I got as a thank you gift for agreeing to officiate a wedding, even though Covid kept me away. It is delicious -- I plan to make martinis for my sons in law Sunday at our early Father's Day get together. D2 and Jonathan are going to ATL on actual FD, since it's a 3 day weekend with the newly minted Juneteenth. I got a chuckle that they're going to the capital of Black America on that holiday. They didn't find it funny at all, just politically incorrect of me to even note that.

So, as usual, I lost at the track. I embody the old cliche: lucky in love; unlucky at cards.

And that's just fine.