Treasure Coast Telenovela

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck to Jodi and her family. 

Finally! Something Good For The Rich White Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do We Have A Chance At Community?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Man bless them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Stations of the Cross in Kendall

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

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

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

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

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

My Rabbi unwittingly visited the Kendall stations of the Cross.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes Into Each Life Meatloaf Does NOT Fall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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