Sunny 106

 So today would have been my mother's 106th birthday - or would it have been? She always celebrated April 13th, but years later when Wifey took her to an appointment for a doc, she learned that Medicare had her with a different birthdate -- I think April 11. We asked her about it, and she said "Oh -- who cares now? 13 is my lucky number -- that's my birthday. So there."

Classic Sunny -- not a fact based, worrying type of person. Luckily, she had my Dad, who WAS fact based and a worrier -- his taking care of life's business gave my Mom the freedom to be that type of spirit. After Dad died, I filled in his role -- making sure my Mom, who never managed stuff, learned about checking accounts, paying property taxes, FPL, etc...In fact, when it came time for law school, I applied to UF and UM, and sort of wanted to go to Gainesville for a change after 4 years in Coral Gables -- but figured Sunny needed me nearby, so I stayed in So Fla. It worked out just fine...

My Mom was loving and giving. When I made my first big money, and proudly told her about it, she answered with "Oh, that's nice, David -- you need anything for the girls?" She would never let me replace her furniture, which we joked would go to the mythical Wicker Museum upon her demise, nor pay for expensive things -- with 2 exceptions.

When she turned 80, and then 85, I took the whole family to SF and then LA to celebrate. She loved it -- having everyone together in places she loved. At the 85th, we drove to Colorado Blvd in Pasadena, to let her recall her WW II days where she lived as a newlywed with my Dad, who was on the Army base there -- and she worked for the Dean of CalTech. She recalled she would get coffee and a bun every am at Owl Drugs before taking a trolley up the hills to the CalTech campus. We stepped into the Gap store -- I asked the manager if he knew where Owl Drugs used to be. He laughed and took us outside -- we were standing in the Owl Drugs Building. What a moment across the decades.

I'm so grateful Mom got to meet my Ds -- into young adulthood. My youngest grandson has an S name -- after Sunny. He is sweet like she was. His brother's middle name, Hy, is after my Dad. We just learned that his graduation from kindergarten is set for May 29th -- great grandpa Hy's birthday. I take that as a happy message from The Big Man...

Speaking of Baby Man, he had a rough day yesterday -- a scooter crash where it landed on his index finger. D1 took him to urgent care -- sure enough -- displaced fracture. They splinted him up, and I called my dear friend Lew, a hand surgeon, and texted a photo of the x ray. Lew is in Ohio on a work gig, but said surgery IS needed -- a pin that will insure the bone heals the right way. He can do it on Monday -- but since his Broward hospitals have been shedding Pediatrics, on account of it's not a big earner, he'd do it at West Boca.

I think D1 will decide if she wants to wait, or possibly have it done this week closer to home -- Dr. Barry has a guy, but we needn't bother him for a finger...

The joy of parenting boys. Little Man already broke his foot -- the running joke is if you have active boys -- get to know ortho surgeons...

Hopefully Little Man swims through and gets back on the scooter...

But this am I looked skyward and spoke to my Mom. She was my first love. She was beautiful, and being loved by a beautiful woman gave me boundless confidence -- particularly with women. Of course, now that I'm near Medicare, I reflect how much easier life may have been as a gay man -- but like Jack Nicholson said, if I could just stomach the sex part.

It's funny -- I was always SO close with my Dad, I saw myself as a boy Dad, too. Turned out, I was to be a girl Dad, but now I have grandsons -- so I get more experience with orthopedic surgeons for issues other than scoliosis.

Back to Mom. She lived 30 years longer than Dad, and I'm convinced a big part of it was her ability to NOT internalize the anxieties of her family. She had moments, of course -- I remember her terribly worried when my sister's husband called to tell her that unless she sent $2000 to fix their roof, "your grandsons will be sleeping in wet beds." But it passed, and she came to realize all of her kids' life choices were theirs.

And oh boy, did she make us laugh -- often unintentionally. She had her own internal dialogue, and occasionally it would surface. To this day, 4:30 pm is "Grandma Sunny Time." Why? We were driving home, on Old Cutler Road, and out of nowhere she sighed and said "Ah...it's 4:30." Wifey looked at her -- was there a show on? Did she have to be somewhere we didn't know about? Was someone coming to our house to visit? "No -- I just looked at my watch." So -- Grandma Sunny Time.

I thank her for messing me up FAR less than most mothers messed up their kids -- particularly sons. I see a lot of that around -- well meaning Moms, who can't quite figure out how to cut the umbilical cord -- even well into adulthood.

Not Sunny. When I graduated 6th Grade, she wrote in my book "I admire you. I respect you. And mostly, I love you." I carry those feelings deep inside, now 13 years after her death.

And today I wish her, as they say on FaceBook, a happy heavenly birthday.

Bad Day At Pre Pinecrest Four Decades Past

 April 11, 1986 -- my friends and I were in the home stretch of our 3 year law school stint. We'd graduate the following month, travel to Tampa to take the feared Bar exam, and move on with our lives. But there was an awful tragedy that day near SW 122 Street and SW 82 Avenue, in what would later become Pinecrest, where we have lived since 2000. It was a tale beyond "Miami Vice," which was making our city famous then.

There were 2 owners of a landscaping company, Platt and Matix, who had met in the army. Later we learned they were white supremacists, loosely connected to the 2 creeps who brought down the Oklahoma City building. They raised funds for their "cause" by robbing banks and armored trucks -- all up and down the US 1 corridor in Miami. They shot and killed random people in the Everglades who were out target shooting to steal the cars they used. Platt was married to a French Jewish girl, Regina -- she was found shot to death in what was ruled a suicide. Matt's wife died mysteriously in Ohio, and he collected her life insurance. These were REAL bad hombres -- worse than the bogey man immigrants Trump warns about.

Anyway, the FBI staked them out that fair day -- meeting at the Home Depot on SW 136 Street that I visit all the time. They saw one of the stolen cars and trailed it -- pulling it over at a house on 82 Avenue, by an FPL substation on the west side of the Avenue. The FBI learned an awful lesson that day -- bad guys often outgunned them. The creeps had high powered weapons -- the FBI old school revolvers from the days of Melvin Purvis. A terrible shootout ensued -- Special Agents Dove and Grogan were killed, 5 other FBI agents shot, and finally, a true bad ass named Mireles, himself shot, took out the 2 pieces of crap.

Apparently the shooting is studied at length these days, and now the FBI is properly armed. It was an awful tragedy. And, this being Miami, the smallest town big city in the US, of course I had to have a connection.

When I was in undergraduate, I had a teaching assistant named Giselle -- she later went back to UM Law, Class of '85. We stayed friends, and a few weeks after the shooting, I saw her outside the law library, on a bench sobbing. Turns out, the French Jewish girl Platt married was her sister -- she told me the whole family knew the whole time he had killed her since she likely learned of his evil, double life, and after the Miami Shootout, as the event came to be known, the truth was finally out.

Giselle and my path, or at least life paths, would cross again, in 1993. Giselle married a FHP trooper. We were living in Wifey's high school house, while our Hurricane Andrew house, "mistroyed," as D1 adorably malapropped, was being rebuilt. One night I got a call from Manny, a neighbor. Any reason guys would be taking away my AC compressors at 9 pm? Nope. Another neighbor, Doug, a tough biker dude married to a Jewess who looked and seemed like Katey Segal in "Sons of Anarchy," followed the pickup truck with my stolen compressors as he told the cops where the truck was. Metro Dade and FHP pulled the truck over next to Killian High -- it was a Cuban guy from Hialeah who owned an AC company and figured he'd steal components from Andrew construction houses.

I went to the scene. His 11 year old son was with him, balling in the back seat of the trooper's car. The trooper, Rivera, said to the thief in Spanish "Dad of the year you are, eh?" Anyway, Rivera recognized my name as he wrote the report -- did I know his wife Giselle? I did indeed! He told me she worked for the Attorney General's Office and they were moving soon to Tally.

Meanwhile, Dave being Dave, Prudential paid for new compressors -- better ones -- and as part of the thief's plea deal, he had to pay me $3K! I agreed he needn't go to prison -- it was a first offense. But turned out crime indeed paid -- for ME -- the victim. Another Miami twist.

Back to the Miami Shooting. Last night, during my 2 hour break from sleeping, I read about the details again, and decided to look up my old friend Giselle. Turns out she died in December, in Tally, at 69. I don't think she ever had kids, and the death notice listed her maiden name again, so I assume she and the trooper were divorced.

I drive by the scene of the shooting at least several times per week. We may even go to Platea tonight, the great restaurant located right there. The Village named the part of the avenue after Dove and Grogan, and there is a placque there.

Our old accident reconstruction expert, Bill Fogarty, had his office just South of the substation. When I visited once, he walked me over to the substation and showed me the bullet marks -- still in the concrete. I assume Bill has passed on -- if not, he's nearing 100. 

But man -- how did 40 years pass since that fateful day? In October, those of us still living from Class of '86 will be 4 decade Bar members. If there is a reunion, which I'll skip on account of I haven't enjoyed ANY reunion since my high school's 10th, it'll be 40 years.

Wifey and I will celebrate our 40th anniversary in January. I have often fallen short as a husband, but never killed her and tried to make it look like a suicide like the white supremacist felon Matix did, right? At least I got THAT going for me.

I shouldn't joke, but at least after 4 decades, no one can claim, as my nephew of another mister Scott likes to always remark: "Too soon."

40 years is in no way ever too soon...

Through The Red Tape, It Appears

 So the company, Vitals, that works with the NYC Board of Health (must have been some sweet kickbacks there) was on point, as the younguns say, and they shipped my birth certificate in less than 48 hours. I made an appointment at the SSA office today, and then, like Petty said, the waiting was the hardest part.

But last night, we cruised up to The Palm, and had a stellar dinner with the Ds and their men -- 2 martinis, shared steaks, and a fish, and sides, which always makes me think of the late, great, Rob Reiner playing Jordan Belfort's flummoxed CPA Dad in "Wolf of Wall Street" when he audits a $20K dinner bill, and the Jonah Hill character said "the sides were expensive," and Reiner retorts: "What -- do these sides cure cancer???"

We drove home happy and blessed, and then this am I awoke, and did not go to Innisfree like Yeats, but rather to Cutler Bay. I arrived at 9:50 for my 10:10 appointment, checked in on my phone, and barely had time to sit my tuches in the plastic chair when I got a text to report to window 11.

A nice young Cuban American guy was there, and was completely competent, courteous, and professional. I showed him the certificate from Queens, and it seems we killed off 7/12 DOB Dave and replaced him with 7/18 DOB Dave. He then registered me for Medicare beginning July 1 -- the very reason for the season, and I was off -- he even asked me as a Queens native if I was a Mets fan, and I bored him with tales of my childhood when they won the '69 Series, but now I was all Miami Marlins. He was, too, though for 5 years living in Baltimore he went to Os games. Ah, baseball. To American Jews and American Cubans, though we may love football, basketball, and hockey (soccer --  yuck), baseball is our birthright...

I celebrated with a Greek omelette at LOL -- realizing I hadn't been there in months. I texted Scott, who LOVES the place, and he asked me who I had been cheating with. I replied Roasters, mostly, and a few trysts with Crema, and First Watch, and House of Bagels, and the newly opened H and H Bagels. Hey -- I got one wife going on 40 years, can't I have variety with my breakfast spots?

Tonight I plan to Zoom cocktail with Barry and Donna, and hopefully Eric and Dana if they're free -- probably the best lasting change from The Covid Plague -- our Friday pm get togethers without having to leave the comfort of our homes and battle traffic.

Oy, traffic. Last night, as we drove home around 10, we came upon the biggest boondoggle in Miami highway history -- the new double decking of the Dolphin. At 10, they close it and I thought it was only Eastbound -- so Wifey and I got stuck having to exit at 12th Avenue, and go South. I drove down Flagler, though old Miami, and then to The Trail, finally back to The Palmetto. Note to self -- after hours, avoid the Dolphin until completion in 2029, if alive -- take the Airport Expressway instead.

But tomorrow, traffic warrior Barry is driving to the 305 on a day off -- meeting us for dinner at Bahia Honda, a great local fish place Kenny turned us on to -- near FIU. It's actually right off both the TPK and Palmetto -- so only 20 minutes for Donna and Barry, and a tad less for Wifey and me.

And Sunday, we're seeing Wifey's friends at Miami Shores CC, and then a visit with the grandsons.

Some stuff is worth driving for. And next week I shall go online, as Rey suggested, and confirm my electronic admittance to true elderliness -- Medicare. Wooo.

Persia Endures for Now

 So our, um, colorful POTUS, The Donald, really outdid himself with the rhetoric: threatening to "fucking blow Iran back to the Stone Age" if they didn't reopen the Strait of Hormuz by 8 pm last night. Since the guy says so many outrageous things, probably high level geopolitical leaders didn't really take him seriously, but, sure enough, what's left of Tehran government came to the table, brokered by Pakistan, of all nations, and agreed to let the oil flow again. No end of Persia last night.

For me, who cares about #1, while trying to avoid stepping into #2 (an underappreciated hilarious Rodney Dangerfield line from "Back to School), the stock market futures are flying as high as Artemis II. Hopefully my family gets to recapture most of the losses this latest adventure cost us -- on paper, anyhow.

Who knows what the future brings in the formerly united states. It may well be that the absurdity wrought by The Donald and his lap dogs will cause an even greater pendulum swing to The Left, which in many ways I fear even more than The Right. Oh boy. My Ds and grandsons (2 here and hopefully more to come) will have to deal.

Back to #1. Per UPS tracking, my certified birth certificate copies are on their way -- due here later today -- so I can make another appointment and hopefully convince the Brazil-like folks at SSA that I am indeed who I have claimed to be since July of 1961, and not some other guy born 6 days earlier, as their records seem to show. Free Dave's Medicare! Maybe I'll get a T shirt made.

In other domestic silliness, Wifey got her new phone yesterday and got it up and running, so my Man Friday duties have ended, mostly. Cara was late to get the message and asked me to coordinate the Old Ladies Lunch, as I am calling it, set for Sunday. Cara, Ronnie, and Wifey negotiated a series of issues probably as complex as the Iran War deal -- driving distances, time, location, etc...They seemed to have agreed on the Miami Shores CC, so we'll get to see the grandsons early, before D1 whisks them to their typical event packed non school day.

Ah -- driving distances. We have a family dinner tomorrow at The Palm, since closer Christy's was full. Wifey didn't believe me -- I had to show her the web site to prove that yes, we MUST drive the extra 20 minutes each way as I claimed. Jesus Christ, as Paulie Walnuts said when seeing Big Carmine with his urine bag in South Florida -- "kill me right fucking now!"

Still, as Barry and I reaffirmed whilst FaceTiming the other night -- we are blessed with First World Problems, mostly. He told me how some new trainees, faced with three deaths in the PICU within a week, cried that it was "unjust." Yep -- sure is. Where is the justice when a precious child gets diagnosed with a dread disease, or drowns because an out of state AirBnb user forgets that most houses in South Florida have swimming pools, or gets hit by a car -- the unholy trinity of child tragedies.

I told Barry to remind the fledglings that there's a building right across 12th Avenue NAMED for Justice -- and it's pretty rare one finds justice there.

Still, we get snatches of exquisiteness. Yesterday I picked up, right in my back yard, a small coral rock with a clearly defined clam or oyster shell fossil attached. I'm keeping it to show Little Man, who is already learning about fossils -- to blow his mind with the fact that his native land is essentially a drained coral reef, and the limestone mostly the shells of ancient marine creatures. He and his brother are sponges -- walking through life taking in so much. Our job is to make as much of what they absorb good, and happy, and strained out of the bad and evil -- they'll learn of that soon enough.

But for the next 2 weeks, at least -- no bombing Persia back to the Stone Ages. And maybe the normal folks will indeed finally overthrow the mullahs...AND faddahs (I can never escape Alan Sherman playing in my head).

So steak tomorrow night. And CC food Sunday. I remain well over fed. Let's see if the stock market gets fat today, too.

My SSA Adventure

 So I had a 9 am appointment with the Cutler Bay SSA office, to get my birth date changed from 7/12 to 7/18. Turns out, even though I have been on SSA.Gov for years, when you actually want benefits, like Medicare or SS payments, they double check, and my online account was locked out to to the discrepancy -- so I had to go into the maw of the beast.

I got there at 815, and there were already 30 people on line. My "Brazil" fears were becoming real. But at 850, a guard asked for people with appointments, and 5 of us raised our hands. We got a different line, and by 8:55 I was seated by cubicle 31 with a drawn curtain. At precisely 9, the curtain raised to a nice young Black fellow asking if I was there for a new SS card. I laughed and showed him mine "older than your parents, I bet." Turns out he didn't have much of a sense of charm or humor.

I told him the issue. Did I have a birth certificate? I did -- the one they gave to my parents in Queen, NY in late July while JFK was president, and my mother mailed to me in 1986 so I could apply for a marriage license. I handed the darkened document to him, and he frowned, and then headed off to a "specialist."

"Nope -- you need a CERTIFIED copy." I told him it was the only one we ever had, and here's my passport, and SS card, and even my latest income tax return (I thought I was over-prepared).

Not happening, he said -- what I gave him had no seal! I tried to argue they didn't have seals back then, in Queens, a blue collar borough! I got nowhere, and he told me to go online with NYC Vital Records and they could send me a certified copy, or I could visit the office in Queens personally.

I recalled one of the most hilarious things my conseugro David ever said. When we gathered at City Hall in Manhattan, for D2 and Jonathan's legal wedding so D2 could go on Jonathan's health insurance, our fellow citizens were, well, let's say diverse. Turbans, saris, feathers -- you name it. David said "Wow -- this looks like the Cantina in "Star Wars." He nailed it! I imagine the Queens Vital Records office would be that to the nth degree!

So I moped out, and called D2, and interrogated her about Wifey's latest phone issue, which they were keeping from me. I'm not sure why -- so long as my wife isn't affected, Wifey's foibles don't anger me at all. D2 wasn't spilling the Tea, but it turns out Wifey has misplaced the phone AGAIN somewhere in our house. She has a new one supposably (Miami spelling) tomorrow via FedEx.

And D2 found the site I used to order my certified birth record, which should be UPSed here by late April. Assuming it comes, I will again travel to Cutler Bay, knowing an appointment really helps, and maybe be let back into the system ahead of July, when Medicare should start, and I can say adios to the $2200 monthly Obamacare premiums.

I'm thinking I WILL start getting SS when I turn 67 instead of waiting until 70. Might as well get SOME of the money back I paid in since my teen jobs in the 70s, and invest the proceeds rather than leaving it with the government. Probably when I apply, they'll ask for my Bar Mitzvah proof. Ha! That didn't happen until I was in my 30s, right here in Miami. I'll just bring Rabbi Yossi to the office if that happens -- they dig him in Miami Dade County -- he's a police chaplain.

Stadium Memories

 So we've had a fun first part of Pesach -- avoiding any actual seders the first night and having a VERY fun non seder, seder on night 2. The Ds, boys, Paul, Patricia and I all met at Casa D2, and Jonathan and I had a few Stoli Elit martinis -- Patricia had some  Harvester wine. No one else was drinking -- Paul's been teetotaling it for FAR too long, the Ds and Wifey....ugh.

Anyway, D2 read from her IPhone, we ate delicious Turkish take in, and had a terrific time -- even though Betsy kept shark-like appearing and stealing food from Baby Man, not to his happiness...

Last night, D1 dropped off Little Man on her way home from a Palmetto Bay dinner, and he spent the night. It was already late and he crashed -- I re-homed him early, and then  D2 came by, I drove her back to her place, and we had coffee with Jonathan -- deconstructing the holiday, of course.

And tonight is the grand opening of Freedom Park, the new soccer stadium butt next to MIA, and all I can thing of is its absurdity. First, I'd rather watch paint dry (my favorite metaphor for boring) than soccer, and the fact that the Mas family and Beckham built this thing exactly where you have to enter already too traffic choked MIA shows the power and corruption in our town. A neighbor was just complaining how it's taking months to get permits for an outdoor kitchen -- they slapped this 27K thing up in no time.

Whatever -- so long as I don't have to leave MIA around game times...

But I AM going to a sporting event tonight -- Kenny got some free tix to see the Canes baseball team play, on account of he's a retired Navy man and vets get free crap all the time. He DID retire as a captain, but it's not like he got shot at while he was on the Saratoga during Desert Storm...

He's bringing a few friends -- I haven't been to Mark Light Stadium in a few years, and always love it -- especially the memories of watching games with Eric and Barry in the early 80s. The Canes were always great but never won a ring until '82, sadly the year my Dad died, and so I missed the excitement. They won 3 more, and typically make the World Series, though lately they've struggled.

But on a typical Spring night, Barry would be studying Chemistry of some such, and I would say "Hey - Neil Heaton's pitching -- let's go." He would protest, but even before law school I was a convincing guy, and we would go -- what, I asked, would he remember more in decades -- Organic or P Chem -- or Canes games. I was right -- and he got into med school nonetheless.

Back in the day, the Orioles would Spring train in Miami, and they would play at least one game at Mark Light. I recall standing next to Ken Singleton and being shocked what a giant he was -- baseball is a game we less than stellar athletes think we can somehow play -- like Charlie Hough, with a beer belly and a multi pack cigarette habit. Maybe not so much...

So I'm off soon to meet Kenny and his dudes at Titanic -- a favorite place. It was KC Cagney's in college -- before that it was The Flick Coffeehouse, where the house comedian was  Gabe Kaplan, and Fred Neill, who wrote "Everybody's Talkin" used to play. A fellow named David Crosby played there, too, and one night met a shy blonde singer from Canada there -- they went back to Crosby's sailboat in Coconut Grove and worked on their tunes, and decided the coming scene was in Laurel Canyon in LA -- the blonde was Joni Mitchell. She probably doesn't remember anymore -- poor thing looks like she belongs in a nursing home.

Or maybe she has her memories still. I have mine -- and will create a few tonight.

Elder Abuse And Triggering a Memory

 So the Herald today began what will clearly be a series of articles about how DCF "kidnaps" elderly folks and places them in crappy ALFs and steals their money. One tale was about a retired accountant living alone and a hoarder, who went for an evaluation and ended up in a place in Hialeah that he called "Devil's Island." His niece in California was apparently the only Power of Attorney -- the article doesn't say why he didn't have competent local help -- and he spent a few years in poor care before he was placed in an apparently acceptable ALF in North Miami that he likes.

The article brought back a bad memory from about 15 years ago, when I was a Guardian ad Litem for a teenaged girl. Paul, he of more bleeding heart than I, got heavily involved with the program -- he was GAL for several kids and became friends with the Chief Judge at the time, Cindy Lederman. Paul convinced me to take the certification class, which was over several weekends in some dated facility in Allapatah, as I recall, and I became a GAL, too.

My first ward was an unusual teen. She came from a terrible background -- coke addict Mom with a series of boyfriends who beat up Mom and C, the girl, and when I met her, she was living in a group home for teen girls over by ZooMiami -- actually a very nice house on a nice street. We got to know each other a bit -- but here was the thing -- she was tested with a genius IQ. I saw reports from her teachers, and she was a talented writer. She was pretty, and I watched as she switched her demeanor -- speaking "white" to me and changing to ghetto when one of the other inner city girls spoke to her.

I met her over several months -- explaining that with her talents -- she could probably got to Harvard on a full scholarship -- just keep on the path she was on, having escaped a hellish childhood -- and she could be a female Obama. I even brought D2 with me on a visit -- home from UF -- to share happy tales of college life -- in hopes that would inspire C.

It was not to be. She got pregnant with her boyfriend, a convicted felon, and decided to keep her baby since "I will finally have someone who loves and needs me." Turns out, that's what's behind many teen pregnancies...

This led to a case management conference, which I attended by telephone. There were, no kidding, SEVEN paid DCF and fellow traveler people on the line -- psychologists, case managers, social workers, and their aides. All I could think of was my growing property tax bill and now knowing why it was growing. 

It was decided that the trailer C planned to move into when the baby came, with felon baby daddy, needed to be inspected. It was in DEEP Florida City. The 7 DCFers said to me "As GAL, you need to go check it out." 

I lost it -- reminding them of the group on the call, I was the only volunteer! Could one of them, paid nice government salaries, maybe make the visit? One of the bosses, a cool Black fellow I later met (he was flattered when I told him he resembled one of my childhood heroes, Walt Frazier) agreed, and asked one of the flunkies to make the visit. Lord.

Then C gave birth, and another conference. They told me they wished me to be GAL for the baby, too. I pointed out there could be no clearer conflict -- what if I decided the baby needed to be removed, but my existing client, C, wanted to keep the baby. The baby clearly needed his own advocate.

I got a call a few days later. They found someone who would be GAL for both -- my services were no longer needed. I got a copy of the Court Order relieving me of my duties.

Probably a better man and lawyer would have plowed on -- finding a new needy youth to help -- but my aversion to morons and moronic institutions won out. That was my last foray into the world of DCF.

Paul presses on, and I praise him for it. He goes bi-weekly to a grade school in Liberty City and helps out. He has befriended the principal, Lamar, and enjoys his time there with the kids. I am proud he does these things -- I plan to toast him tonight at our family's non seder, seder.

Wifey's friend Cara sold her condo a few years back for 7 figures and paid a huge entry fee into a concierge place in Aventura -- she lives in a regular unit, and is guaranteed admittance to ALF and nursing home if needed.

Cara is youthful and beautiful and I was kind of surprised at her decision. But she explained she has no kids or grandkids, no family (a younger sister in Arizona died of cancer) and she knew she needed to take care of herself in the future, assuming she declines. I get it.

When she moved in, the facility told her to invite all her friends for a dinner -- an obvious marketing ploy -- maybe one of us might with to cut an $800K check for admittance, too. We went, and the food and room were top notch. But then...as you walk to the elevators, there are a bunch of wheelchairs and drooling folks.

Recently, she invited Wifey and me to lunch there. I told Wifey it is my life's intent to NEVER set foot in a "retirement community" as the running joke on The Sopranos goes, again. So now Wifey is engaged in negotiations -- neither Cara nor her BFF Ronnie, who now lives where Paul does, wish to drive anymore, and Wifey and her bad back don't wish to drive to Aventura, either.

I imagine my former "client," C, must be in her late 20s now. When I was discharged, I told her to reach out to me anytime if I could help her. I never heard from her. I hope she is well -- her baby must be in high school now, himself. Hopefully his Mom's superior intellect has helped them along.

And as for Wifey and me? Hopefully we live right here in Villa Wifey for the duration -- bringing in aides if they become needed. As my neighbor the rich widow Judy said the other day: "As long as one of you is functional -- you're golden."

I guess we'll see...