34 And So Much More

 So 34 years ago today, on a Monday, I took Wifey to South Miami Hospital for a planned C Section -- D2 was joining the band. D1 was a C Section, and Dr. Debbie spoke about a VBAC, which to me sounded like outer space stuff but was an acronym for Vaginal Birth After Caeserean, but it was not to be. So they epiduraled Wifey, while D1 was home with my suegros, and soon after we had a bouncing (biggest baby in her First Grade Class, it turned out) baby girl.

My suegros brought D1 and she kissed her on the head and said in her Minnie Mouse voice "My sister!" And so it was. Truth be told, D2 was NOT a pretty baby -- huge head, and bad skin. Wifey knew it, too, friends would visit and Wifey would say "I love her but I KNOW she's not a pretty newborn." Hmmm....and now years later, all the needed therapy...Ha. Just kidding.

By the time she was several months, she had indeed become beautiful, and as a toddler could have been a model, with a very shayna punim as my suegra often remarked. We think she's still kind of beautiful, as in VERY, and more importantly, kind and smart. In my email I reminded her she was the only Phi Beta Kappa in the family -- admitted as a junior, which was a big deal. I think, no, I know, I am more proud of this than she is -- she just somehow kept getting As in everything. 

And, as Dr. Barry, who adores her, used to point out, she was the worst kind of straight A student: complaining after each exam that she failed, she was dropping out, etc...only to go silent later, and have us find out MUCH later that she got an A on the test.

This past year, I have given her a new nickname: "D2 the Wise," on account of she is. She understands the "yooman nature," as Wifey pronounces it, of our wacky family better than any of us, and though I am the patriarch, we typically treat D2 as the Rabbi -- her advice is the most sound, almost always. Her beloved Jonathan knows this, adores her, admires her, and fears her just the right amount -- she kept some of the temper from her toddler years that led to epic tantrums -- some so bad, I'm convinced it prevented couples friends who witnessed it to refrain from having kids...

To tonight, I had planned to visit the grandsons for a few hours, and then from there to Miami Beach for Italian, but instead spent yesterday, with D2, fetching D1's boys whilst she returned from SF. It was a "golden day" -- with the boys, D2, me, and enormous puppy Betsy.

Wifey is on the IR (injured reserve) list for now with her back and hip issues, and hopefully will return to games this season. But for now, she's sticking close to home. Adios to my designated driver.

So instead, I think I'll Uber to the Gables, and Jonathan will drive me to The Beach, have dinner, and then Uber home. I figure it's a luxury I deserve -- especially since I pay the bills. D2's dear friend Ashley is in town with her wonderful husband Kyle -- staying at an old Beach Hotel while their toddler is home in Atlanta. Kyle's Dad is a MAJOR Gator, and minister, and I love giving Kyle the business about Cane superiority the past years, and getting to sing to the Jewish Ashley the Bobbie Gentry song. Yeah, annoying. After several drinks tonight the chances I DON'T sing "Son of a Preacher Man" are pretty slim.

Meanwhile, we still have Lemon, D1's sprite Spaniel, who went nuts before when we heard scratching at the back door -- it was an iguana seeking entrance and warmth. I went out with a shovel to pick it up and toss it over our stone wall, and Sarah, the tough little foreperson on our roofing job, saw me and said "Ay, no -- in Nicaragua we eat them." She then picked the creature up by its neck and tossed it -- spotting an even bigger dead one which she tossed as well. Brave woman -- which is required being the only female roofer I've ever met.

But D2 and I were reminiscing about past birthdays. When she was 25, and in NYC, D1 and I flew up -- Wifey was having another bad spell, I think. We had brunch at Sadelle's, home of the wildly expensive smoked fish tower -- now they have a spot in the Grove. Then we went to Sammy's Romanian, where there was MUCH drinking of vodka, eating of high cholesterol food (the dark joke is that heart disease from Sammy's food killed more Jews than the Nazis), and then MORE vodka. The Ds cut me off, but then Grant, D2's friend and Paul's nephew, tapped me under the table -- he had MORE vodka for me in a glass. The night ended with D1 herding me back into the Ritz on Central Park South, and being amazed I woke hangover free, though I had consumed as much as any frat boy she saw at UF. The key is ONLY vodka -- one whiskey or tequilla mixed in, or worse, wine -- I'd have needed an IV.

But D2 is the reason for this season, and we all celebrate the blessing she is to all of our lives. My goal, more than which college she picked, or how she did, or her career, was she choose the right life partner -- and she sure did -- a true gem of similar Ashkenazi stock, the grandson of Survivors, like D2, but here via Venezuela instead of South Miami Hospital.

I will toast him tonight, along with my precious Ds, and dear friends Ashley and Kyle -- with Wifey in absentia. I'm sure she'll want a full recap when the Uber driver drops me off later this evening.

And D2 begins her 35th year. Wow. As D1 likes to quote, now that she's a mother, the days are long but the years are short. May our beloved D2 have scores more of them, in good health, as her Grandma Sunny always added.

Shedding Ownership

 Wise, Buddha-like sages tell us to minimize our possessions -- particularly as we age. Well, officially as of last month, Wifey and I individually own two tiny plots of real estate anywhere in the world: a couple of cemetery plots at Mt. Nebo in Kendall, up against the Palmetto Expressway and near Dadeland Mall, where Wifey worked as a teen and I spent a lot of time roaming around as a law student.

Villa Wifey is now legally owned by a trust, in which Wifey and I are trustees. Also, the mortgages we gave to the Ds and Jonathan, so that they could afford houses in absurdly expensive Miami, likewise are now held by the Trust, not Wifey and me individually.

Fine estate lawyer Mark Grand has now completed his work. I still have to send the letters to brokerage houses to switch ownership there as well, but that's less important, since the Ds are already beneficiaries to all accounts and when Wifey and I spin off this mortal coil, ownership passes to them without probate.

It's simply a legal title change, of course, but I figure I can take Buddhist street cred now: "I don't even own the house where I have dwelt for 1/4 a century, it's owned by the Universe through a Trust..."

I really do get comfort knowing we've simplified things as much as we can for the Ds. Actually -- not true -- we still have a lot of CRAP they'll have to donate or toss when the time comes. I really stopped enjoying stuff after Hurricane Andrew, where I watched things I thought I cared about all waterlogged and strung with pink fiberglass insulation. I mean, I like SOME stuff -- TVs and my computers, a few books, and my firepit. But honestly, if a thief came through and stole about everything else -- I would laugh.

The point of the Trust was so the Ds automatically take the house "when the time comes." I was curious how professional death lawyer Mark referred to these events -- he said simply "when you pass." I thought that was nice but still accurate.

It still makes me chuckle when I encounter people who are in denial about mortality. Within a few weeks, I heard from 2 -- pretty old folks with a HOST of health issues that would prevent me from writing them any life insurance, saying "Oh -- I have decades -- it's in the genes." Hey -- I hope they're right, and live to 100. I think the chances of that for Wifey and me are the characters from an old Hollywood Western -- Slim, and None -- and Slim left town.

Hell -- later today I have to stop by Walgreens to pick up refills for two of my daily prescriptions -- a statin for cholesterol and drops that keep my creeping glaucoma at bay. Classic old guy stuff. Dr. Eric tells me the statins have truly revolutionized Cardiology -- he used to treat a lot of heart attacks and now far fewer -- these drugs truly prevent them. So maybe I'll get to leave due to something other than a bad heart -- which got my Dad at 63. Hell, this coming September, I'll have outlived him by 2 years -- playing with the House's money, as I always say.

The roofers continue in earnest -- here each day at 8 -- work until 4. Kevin and Jose, my two contacts, had said it would take 3 weeks -- today marks the end of week 2, and it seems to me it will take longer. I joke that this yuuuuge place Wifey made me buy for her is the reason. She rolls her eyes -- I fell in love with this property at first sight -- the whole thing was MY idea -- a true oasis for my young family a quarter century ago.

And now some Trust owns it -- hopefully the Trustees aren't jerks. If they are -- well -- they can be revoked.

Heartless Hens And Empathetic Spouses

 So yesterday I took wifey to see our family ortho, Julio Robla, but she saw his terrific PA Jason instead. Sadly, the third period of her bad back is, well, back. I'm calling it the Third Intifadeh, which Wifey asked me not to, but to me its apt -- living during a period of anxiety and pain -- normal things don't happen. Of course, even bad back pain doesn't equate to suicide bombings at Tel Aviv cafes, but I always DID have a flair for hyperbole.

The news, as I expected, was anatomically pretty good -- typical age related changes in her hip and lower spine -- and Jason ordered a hip MRI just to "make sure" before prescribing a course of physical therapy. As to her back, she gets another epidural injection in March, though now she may move it closer if she cancels a cruise she was going to take with her BFF.

Spinal pain and disability is a queer duck, medically. As crack radiologist Dr. Kenny reminded us last night, before we learned about the heartless hen, MRIs of ALL older folks like us will show some bulging, herniations, etc... and yet some of us are fine while others are left essentially homebound. Even Jason told us about patients he sees who are "big, tough, young athletes" literally in tears from hip bursa pain that isn't even surgical.

I think the next step will be other modalities of therapy -- these seemed to bring ends to the prior 2 intifadehs, um, periods of bad back pain -- hopefully they work again. 

And as for me, well, I need to work on better empathy, it seems. MY spinal aging is, per CT scans of my neck, FAR worse than Wifey's -- the last report showed "moderate to severe" stenosis. My GP said technically that meant I should get a neurosurgical consult, but I declined. I opted instead for some PT, and in a month or so, under Jason's and his boss Julio's supervision, the pain went away, mostly.

And I tend to adopt the philosophy of Dr. Barry -- at least YOUNG Dr. Barry, who always reminded me that if you weren't undergoing a bone marrow transplant for awful cancer (apparently one of the worst treatments there is), or your child wasn't terminally ill from leukemia -- well then, as the Millennials say, STFU.

Turns out this is not good marital advice, as Barry has learned from his OWN wife, who like Wifey, suffers from a litany of health complaints -- all of which limit her greatly, but none of which are terminal. Barry and I discussed this last night -- we BOTH need to be more empathetic -- at least so long as we wish to ensure a greater degree of , to quote the great document, domestic tranquility.

Anyway, after the visit, I dropped off Wifey and then left for Ghee, a local Indian-ish restaurant, where Barry, Norman, and Kenny and I met for wine (or wine based cocktails -- I really prefer a restaurant with a proper liquor license) and some tasty apps. We talked of ships and shoes and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings -- a great fraternity of students pre-class.

Rabbi Moshe led us in a discussion of how Rabbis ought to "get into the real world" along with mere Talmudic/Torah reasoning before offering advice. The humorous example was a chicken brought home from a kosher butcher, and prepared by a young girl with her pet cat nearby. Although the chicken had been robust and healthy before it met its ritual slaughter, the girl claimed it had no heart.

An investigation began -- was the thing kosher for eating? Maybe the heart dropped to the floor and the cat ate it. No, the girl testified, a spleen had done that, but there was no heart. The rabbi consulted a university anatomist -- could there be such a thing as a living, heartless hen? Well, the unsaid misogynistic thoughts of most of the men could say sure -- look at my ex girlfriend or ex wife. 

But the discussion remained at a higher level -- in addition to Barry and Kenny, there's another doc in the class -- an older eye doc at Baptist. There are also Norman, an active lawyer, me, a mostly retired one, and Jeff, one not a lawyer since 1994.

Our group of 5, as Norman noted, sort of hijacked the class, and I enjoyed it thoroughly, even the puns (Rabbi Moshe said some info was in the appendix -- I noted the appendix was NOT a vital organ like the heart).

We also discussed a form of RFK, Jr. quackery that arose in Europe in the 1700s -- the thought that many people were buried alive, and to fix this, authorities mandated waiting periods where the community had to wait for putrefaction (love that word -- haven't used in a minute) -- and these "mortuary houses" turned up no actually living corpses. Of course, these decrees went against Jewish law, which says we bury as soon as possible after death. THAT led to great discourse as well -- I reminded Kenny of the Munchkins' proclamation of the Wicked Witch -- she wasn't MERELY dead, she was really, most sincerely dead.

Of course, the main draw of the class for me (akin to Canes football) is the bonding with my posse.

Hell, if we found a similar class at UM NOT taught by a Rabbi, where we could all meet, that would do the trick, too -- we'd just switch restaurants from Kendall to The Gables.

So I have my work cut out for me as the first month of 2026 draws near a close. Think more deeply about The Big Man and His laws, versus healthy discussion and debate, and be more empathetic with Wifey on her journey back to health.

Good thing I'm mostly retired. How would I have the time for this otherwise?

A Happier Anniversary

 Ten years ago, we buried my father in law -- of course, very sad. But 6 years ago, we married off D2, in a weekend celebration that was truly magical.

D2 and Jonathan chose the Betsy, on South Beach, which was where Wifey and I spent our 10th year anniversary, and where, by the sea in front of said hotel, I asked Wifey to marry me in 1986. Since then, the property got a major upgrade, and the rehearsal party was one SERIOUSLY alcohol fueled get together, in a room that apparently, at one time, housed Meyer Lansky's boiler room operations.

Our guests drank doubles and triples, and what was budgeted as a $5K event turned into one for $15K. Luckily, D2 negotiated a major discount, with promises that her husband's private equity company would consider the venue for future events. She did some FINE lawyering.

The main event took place on the roof -- Atlantic to the East, Downtown Miami with the sun setting to the West. The light seemed artificial -- like a Hollywood lighting director contrived it, but it was natural. I like to think the Big Man smiled down on the union of two Holocaust Survivor grandkids...

Wifey and I told D2 and Jonathan to go have a nice dinner on us -- I think they may wait until the weekend on account of a LOT of dinners out lately. But the memory of 6 years ago still brings smiles. Based on my study, 99.7 % of the guests had a terrific time...

Meanwhile, last Friday I was faced with a choice: to grind, or not to grind. In our law practice, Paul ALWAYS ground the people, and I was the sweet one -- the "good cop" in the age old scheme that, amazingly, still works. But over time, I became more like him, and he more like me, and so I chose a grind -- over an incompetent employee of FIU.

In 2010 we started a scholarship there, to help Dietetics MS kids get over the internship hump. Over time, the fund grew, with annual contributions and a healthy, tax free stock market growth, and all was well. In 2024, the woman I worked with, Smilka, left to take over at St. Thomas -- replaced by a, well, an idiot.

The first thing the new person did was ask if we might split up our gift to the FIU Art Museum -- she was friends with the Director. Nope, I told her -- not art patrons. And FIU did a VERY nice thing all the years of our gifts -- they gave us free tickets to the South Beach Wine and Food Festival -- biggest in the US. We'd take the Ds, or friends, and always had a great time -- a few years in a row we went to TrishaYearwood's barbecue event and she played a few songs -- the more famous husband with the cowboy hat was hidden away.

Another year I was to share a table with the legendary Sam Cooke -- an FIU Music consultant. I was WAY excited, but he was home with an injury and instead we met only his nasty wifey -- a Jewish lady -- and her daughter and son in law. The son in law was the lead singer from "In Living Color," and the fellow acted like HE was Sam Cooke. Still -- great afternoon.

Anyway, when Doreann called, I asked about the upcoming Festival tix -- she said she'd get back to me, and never did -- even with more emails and calls. So we just sort of forgot the program, and never heard from them -- until last December, when I got a report from the Giving Office showing me how the Fund had grown.

I emailed them, and asked if Doreann was still even employed, and a month later, she called me, all happy. "It's been a minute!" she said. No, I corrected her, it's been years -- I wondered if I offended someone. She realized she had ignored me, and tried to blame the fact that she did more corporate than individual donor work.

So I subtly ground her, like Paul would have, and told her we just gave more to other charities -- Rabbi Yossi NEVER forgets to call. Also, we gave gifts in memory of Dr. Barry's Mom -- including to the Jackson Foundation, even though that money was probably stolen by a criminal director who just pled guilty. Ah, charity...

Anyway, we did our part at FIU. And certainly, UM -- my decades of giving there led to NOT getting tix for the Natty game -- which was actually fine -- we had a great time watching on TV without the hassle.

So my curmudgeonliness continues. But man -- 6 years ago -- still in my 50s -- that was one HELL of a great weekend...

A Decade Ago

 So after a one year FaceBook (tm) hiatus, on account of a mentally disturbed former relative who I inadvertently contacted, resulting in scary responses, I am once again checking and posting on that Boomer platform. And I must say, the best part is the "Memories" that pop up on the daily feeds -- they truly provide mileposts into your past.

Sure enough, today's had pictures of 2 long gone family dogs -- Vienna, the strange rescue who lived a long and comical life, and Molly, the Basset Hound who lived a short and comical life. Molly came first -- a surprise gift to Wifey to ease the loss of D1's leaving for college -- and it's as if Molly knew her life's mission -- she died at just 4, being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer while we were in the Bahamas on a trip celebrating both Ds' graduations, from UF and Palmetto High.

Vienna got a much longer run, after we were going to "foster her" after she was found literally running the streets by D2's friends, and kind hearted Susan took her in but was already dog overloaded. I still recall the afternoon D1 came over, an atypical day for her while she was at FIU Grad School -- it was a set up -- to get me to agree to accept the squat, brown dog, who looked like she was pieced together with parts of maybe 3 different breeds. Well -- it worked -- and she was the smartest dog we ever had -- an escape artist who always seemed to return or BE returned by neighbors -- she truthfully brought us a lot of joy.

Alas, poor Susan died, too -- from an awful stroke while visiting her son and his family in Texas -- she was returned to Miami for treatment and rehab, but never recovered. I reached out to her widower Steve -- took him and his boy Spencer to dinner once during Susan's hospital time, and was politely rebuffed with my offers after she passed -- I understood -- he had a LOT to do. I'm thinking I'll reach out again next month -- Wifey's due to go on a cruise, and so I'll be a single grandpa, too, though thankfully only temporarily. We'll see -- Wifey's bad back has reared its ugly head again -- I think the third intifadeh may have begun -- hopefully this one is shorter duration. But last night she wasn't even up to a 24 minute drive to Doral to meet Barry and Donna at Basilico -- she said she couldn't even sit long enough for the drive or dinner. They said I should have told them -- they'd have simply come to Villa Wifey for takeout, but I know Wifey was just fine alone with her NetFlix and phone.

Anyway, bad backs and dead dogs aside, FaceBook (TM) memories recalled a more significant event -- 10 years ago today we buried my father in law Richard. He had spent the final years of his life at Miami Jewish -- in nursing home care, which was rather tolerable. His time there overlapped with my Mom's time, and so we got to visit both of them together often -- but Sunny died a few years before.

At the very end, he got great care by Seasons Hospice, which also cared for Sunny, and they were terrific -- in contrast to the evil Vitas, which literally abandoned my mother in law due to "staffing shortages" as Rachel entered the bottom half of the 9th inning of her life -- at The Palace. What a mess that was -- luckily a compassionate nurse got her the needed morphine even though she wasn't his patient -- turns out that Hospice takes over even in the home facility -- but fortunately the late suffering was just over a few hours. Bastards. I'll never forget that.

But, the memory is of Richard -- the amazing life he lived -- you could make several Hollywood movies about his tales of survival of the Holocaust with his brothers and one sister who made it out alive. The closest I ever come to wanting to face punch someone is when they deny the Holocaust -- Wifey's parents' families didn't simply disappear into the ether.

The good news for the end of my suegro's life is though he was diagnosed with Alzheimers, he never forgot who his family was -- visits by Wifey and the Ds and the dogs and his "First Wife," as he jokingly called my suegra, always enlivened him.

And his survival and long struggle to have a baby, with Rachel, brought me my life partner now going on 4 decades, and the Ds which, along with the grandsons, are my dearest gifts.

My in laws were of course SO damaged by the Shoah, and Barry always reminded me that entitled them to a HUGE berth in the things they did or said, and I always remark that they taught me how to be the father in law I now am -- largely by NOT doing many things Richard did.

But he DID love his family fiercely -- it would have been nice if he mat his great grandsons -- but as Tony Soprano used to say -- year, but what are ya gonna do?

Meanwhile, a decade ago I was nearing 55, still not yet an old man. I've put on a good number of miles since then -- physically as well as emotionally -- like Buffet sang: good times and riches and son of a bitches -- I've seen more than I can recall.

My goals 10 years ago were still professional -- there was still an ongoing, real law firm, albeit abridged from our glory days. Now, I just want to finally get on Medicare -- half a year away -- and maybe even get back some of that Social Security I paid into for so long.

I saw an email the other day that made me laugh -- a younger man thinking he was a hero for working for his family -- his "a$$ off," he wrote. Yeah -- I worked mine off too -- actual ASS -- no dollar signs -- because that's what a man does, or ought to . No medals for that, in my world.

Richard was the same way -- he never made much money, but always did what he could for his family -- failed businesses, and finally a steady income as a carpenter -- his family's business back in Lodz, Poland pre War.

So lots has happened in the past decade. Trump was beginning his first term, and most reasonable people thought if we could just get through it -- things would be ok. Then the great American electorate said, after the doddering Biden and incompetent candidate Harris: "Hold our beer."

A plague came and largely went. My anxiety caused weight loss, fearing I would lose my first born grandson, came and went, when it became clear the virus was indeed the "Boomer Remover" early pundits predicted.

D1 is bringing the boys over later -- and leaving her skittish Spaniel with us for a week as she travels. She returns just before D2's 34th!!! birthday dinner -- the Day the Music Died and our blessing was born.

Time indeed, like the Scottish Jew Woolfson sang, keeps flowing like a river. It's nice to be around to mark its passing.

Back To School

 So last night was the first of the latest 6 JLI classes -- an analysis of rabbinic answers since the time of the Torah. I must say, as Ed Grimley said, it was a terrific time for me.

Barry, Norman, and I met at Apamate Bistro, a new casual Venezuelan place that opened around from the original Roasters, and had a fine meal -- fresh chicken and ceviche, and old school prices. From there we mustered at the Chabad Center -- Kenny's time to lose his Chabad virginity, as it were.

The class had some new faces, and Jeff was there. I had thought he had skipped one -- his comically busy schedule confuses me, but he assured me he had told me he WAS coming. He never joins us for pre class dinner, though -- always on his way home from some event or another.

And then Rabbi Moshe took off -- a discussion about the basic of Rabbinic answers -- with examples from 1300s Spain, and a tragic Holocaust tale, and one involving King Henry VII, which I never knew. The material was thought provoking -- some good questions -- and truly food for thought in the way the Venezuelan fare was food for belly.

Distilling to the essence, Rabbis are to answer life's questions using, of course, Torah, which to the Orthodox, is The Big Man's Owner's Manual for Life, and whose mitzvot are the only true way of connecting with Him.

Moshe gave a great analogy -- about a simpleton walking the campus of Princeton, who happens upon Einstein. Even though the two are one completely different levels, Einstein asking the simpleton the time, and the fellow answering it, rather than explaining where he bought his watch, how his day was, etc...allowed for the two to connect.

There was dark humor, of course, as there always must be when discussing my Tribe's history. When King Henry VII sought scholarly basis for trying to get the Pope to allow his annulment from Catherine of Aragon, he wanted some Old Testament backup. Problem was, Jews had been expelled from England a few hundred years earlier -- so he needed to reach out to Italy...

Yep -- when you need a plumber and you banned them, it occurs to you maybe not such a good idea when the toilet backs up...

Anyway, as D1 pointed out, my mood lifts the day after class, and indeed it does. I'm meeting her and BFF Alyssa for lunch later -- I haven't seen the prodigal third daughter since she had her baby boy. I look forward to catching up.

And the next 5 Wednesdays are set -- as Kenny said, when he showed the syllabus to Joelle, a law professor, it seems more a law class than religious one. Indeed -- that's the key -- and why I enjoy it so much.

The underlying message is one of Torah and Judaism, but the analysis and questioning are ethics and morals -- all influences welcome.

And maybe next pre class dinner, there'll be an adult beverage or two -- that never hurts...

The Racket On The Roof

 Well, as Villa Wifey was built in 1997, the house where so many precious memories were made needs a new roof as it nears 3 decades of the Tropics.

In 2005, after Hurricane Wilma, the wind loosened the clay tiles, and I had a fellow spend an entire day re-fastening them -- I was amazed he did it, and that gave me another 20 years. Over time, leaks appeared, but never inside -- they were above the many porches or "loggia" to use the Italian term, Richard and Jennifer designed and installed. Each time there was a repair, I called Andrew Palmer, except for a detour to Infinity, which did good work once but then tried to rip me off a second time ($10K for  a repair Palmer did for $3K) and so the 3rd generation Miami company have been my dudes since.

Last year, I asked Kevin, the young roof maven, when it was time for a new roof entirely. He said "You'll know -- sort of like when a person knows it's time for joint replacement surgery. The leaks will multiply, and start appearing inside, too." The clay tiles can last forever, but the paper beneath them, the ACTUAL layer that keeps out the weather, does not.

Sure enough, last rainy season Wifey had some comical drips onto her head as she watched TV during a storm. So I scheduled the job for the dry season, and gave a deposit.

It's funny -- the job costs a bit below the entire cost of our second house -- well into the 6 figures. Well, not ha ha funny, but interesting funny. At first I was going to go with metal, which lasts nearly forever, but it would change Villa Wifey from a neo-Med house to a VERY large Key West-type cottage. I was ok with that, but smarter heads prevailed -- and I ended up sticking with the clay tiles, which, I am told, are stronger than they were in 1997.

Kevin tells me this will be another 30 year roof, which gets me to my mid 90s where the next roof will be someone else's concern.

Anyway, they began work yesterday, and it's loud. If I didn't know better, I'd swear there were large men up on the roof banging away with sledgehammers!

Luckily, they were gone by 4 yesterday, as I was driving to NE Miami to re-home Little Man, who spent a lovely Sunday with Wifey and me. We ate, and read, and Wifey did some homework. He took his bath in our oversized tub, which he assures us is his favorite. We lizard hunted. We watched cartoons.

D1 is of the belief that down time for a kid is not so great. Wifey and I believe the opposite. After there were BAFL (bagels at first light) we hung about -- a lot -- before I drove him home.

Around 6, Barry and Scott arrived. I ordered DiNapoli, and began my work as a human drink blender. I have perfected a simple bartending move: I hand squeeze 2 mandarin oranges into a cocktail shaker over ice, fill with good vodka (yesterday was Stoli Elit) and serve. I keep 'em coming. Jonathan and D2 arrived, and we got Jonathan to join the martini Club. They were going to order healthy food -- yeah -- after a few of Grandpa Dave's drinks, that turned into pizza and ziti. Kenny and Joelle arrived, and for him it was beer -- Joelle had a Negroni, which I simply chill frorm the pre-mixed Ketel bottle.

By the time of kickoff, all were well lubricated. The game was a good one, but at the end, the Canes fell short. As Scott noted, Dave's martinis and DiNapoli dulled our pain -- plus the knowledge that we didn't have to fight epic traffic, or spend large parts of our kids' future inhertitances.

Joelle left after the first quarter, and D2 and Jonathan at half time. Josh arrived from his mysterious place of watching first half. The game ended. We toasted to a fine year.

Kenny spent the night in D2's old room, and this am we went to Roasters and then he walked across the street to MetroRail it home to the Grove.

He's joining Barry, Norman, and me starting tomorrow for the JLI Adult Ed Class -- 6 Wednesdays of some deep thought and discussions about the nature of decision making -- as seen through Rabbinic eyes. Kenny's going to love it, though an avowed atheist. You don't have to believe in the Big Man to be Jewish, any more than you used to not have to be Jewish to love Levy's rye bread (great ad campaign of yesteryear).

Meanwhile, the banging will continue -- Kevin said the roof job will take a full 3 weeks. Hopefully afterwards I'm good to go until my grandsons are well out of college and into adulthood.

Man -- that would make this cool, rocking grandfather in the USA VERY old indeed...