Dog Sitting on NYE

 So D2 and Jonathan are thankfully, both now COVID negative, and therefore can socially distance with their friends. Today, D2 asked whether we would dog sit for a few hours, while they met for a birthday get together in our 'hood. Of course, I said, as my NYE plans during the day consist of taking a nap.

So Wifey just left to fetch her prescriptions at the Walgreens Drive Through, and I'm here with the Sonor playing Reggae. I've always loved Reggae on NYE -- I guess living in the Tropics, it seems an appropriate music to end the year.

I heard a Toots and the Maytals song for the first time: their cover of the John Denver classic "Take Me Home, Country Roads." Of course, they substituted "West Jamaica" for "West Virginia," and it occurred to me I'd much rather visit Jamaica than WVA. In fact, a trip to Jamaica is on my post Covid list.

Wifey and I honeymooned there in 1987. We could only afford 4 nights at a resort: Half Moon Bay, in Montego Bay. We loved it -- day trips to Ocho Rios, and a very chill pole voyage down the Martha Brae River. We took turns reading Steinbeck's "East of Eden," a novel in the hotel library. It was lovely.

On the trip home to Miami, I sat next to a real cool guy -- retired commodities broker from Chicago. He had spent an entire year in Negril, the resort town on the East Coast. He regaled me with tales of the place. When he learned how much I loved Key West, he said I MUST see Negril. I made a mental note -- a place to visit someday, even though I'm not much of a ganja guy -- I prefer vodka. I'm guessing they have vodka in Negril...

So Betsy, the enormous puppy, is curled up near my feet like a big rug. She whined for her parents for a few moments, but is now fine. The Special Needs Spaniel is sleeping on the couch, and the strange rescue Vienna, is on her bed enjoying the sunlight streaming in through the window. Jonathan accurately calls our house the house of misfit dogs, and he's right. But on this most chill afternoon, it's nice to be infested with canines.

Around 6 we'll head to Kenny and Joelle's -- nice bottle of red in tow. I'm hosting a 9 pm Zoom with our usual Friday night group -- the goal will be to try to stay awake until at least 10. We'll see...

My cheerful mail carrier brought me a late Chanukah gift: D1 had a small painting made of our house, Villa Wifey. She knows how much I love living here, and sent it with a beautiful message of how much love and support I give my family, and how this house is the center of that. I got a little teary eyed.

Speaking of honeymoons -- Wifey and my 34th wedding anniversary is January 3. Negotiations are underway among the Ds about where we get together -- a park near D1, or the park near D2. I'm happy if everyone just comes over here, and let the beautiful grandson and many dogs enjoy the company.

34 years. Wow. We'd only just begun -- two young adults starting a life together. We were absurdly blessed with the best daughters in the world, both of whom married wonderful men. And now there's another generation starting his second year on the planet.

Wifey asked me if I foresaw this. Truth is, I did -- I wanted us to be a foundation for a wonderful family, and we were -- caring for declining parents, helping nephews along, and now enjoying the fruits of our hard work. Each day and each night I give thanks to the Big Man for His manifold blessings.

So 2021 -- c'mon in! Hopefully it'll be a year of healing, instead of infection. And it'll be nice to have dogs around for the ride...

Shpilkes

 Shpilkes is a Yiddish word meaning, essentially, having ants in your pants. My in laws, particularly my mother in law, used it often -- especially when describing bored children.

As we go through the plague, I observe the different people I know, and what shhpilkes they have, and how it manifests in their lives.

Everyone seems to have their own rules about what is acceptable behavior to prevent catching the dread disease.

We chatted with some friends the other week, and mentioned that we have our housekeeper visit bi-weekly. Oh no -- they're not "up to that" at all -- having someone go through the house who has been with, who knows? And yet the same person decided, in the midst of COVID, to undertake a major in house renovation, which involves having multiple construction guys over daily! This has been going on for weeks and weeks. And yet, to her, with that type of shpilkes, it makes total sense. I understand.

For us, seeing the Ds and their men and the grandson is sacred. On Wifey's birthday D1 and her men were over, and while there, D1's dear friend, her husband, and baby girl, newly in from Chicago, came over. We stayed outside and distanced, of course, but it was an act Dr. Fauci, my guru in all of this, would have discouraged.

The next evening, D2 and Jonathan came over. It was a cool evening. Could they have some friends over, staying outside, to gather around my fire pit? Of course they could -- and the 2 young folks snacked and drank and laughed. I served the drinks, masked up of course, and mostly stayed inside watching what turned out to be the most exciting Dolphins game in decades -- Fins won on a last second heave by the relief QB Fitzpatrick.

Again -- would Dr. Fauci have approved? Probably not -- and yet having these people precious to me having a great time was supreme.

The Ds think I've become a bit paranoid about COVID. They may be right, but I like to think I'm a pragmatist. Wifey and I will hopefully get the vaccine by April or so. My doctor friends have already been fortunate to get theirs. With the end likely in sight, I joke that I don't want to be that schmuck who dies in March.

Dying last year would have been acceptable. The Ds could have told our grandson, and hopefully grandkids I never met, "Well, Grandpa Dave died in the early days of the awful pandemic." But telling them "It was a shame -- he died with only a few months or a month to go before he got vaccinated" seems like the height of black humor.

Dr. Barry calls me "Mr. Obituary," for good reason. My dark humor causes me to always share news of death, particularly among guys near our age. My guilty news reading pleasure, the NY Post, had an article about an Israeli guy yesterday. He got his COVID vaccine, and died the next day -- of an unrelated heart attack! Ha. He was the embodiment of my wish -- to become immune to COVID so I can get on with the business of dying of something else!

I don't know. Another friend and I talk all the time about preventing the disease. And yet his lady insists they go out -- daily -- to stores and restaurants. She just took a trip to South America to see her mother! And, he tells me, they made dinner plans for New Year's Eve at a restaurant that will be packed with snowbirds who have descended upon their part of Miami. Again -- shpilkes strikes.

One of my favorite memes says when all of this is over -- we'll sit around, looking back on it, and laughing. Well, not ALL of us.

In the mean time, maybe surviving comes down to shpilkes control. Can we control our urges for a normal life sufficiently to get us to the point where we can safely have a normal life? As the old radio show said: only the Shadow knows.

So 2020 slouches to its end. My friend and broker Pat sent me 2 very fine and expensive bottles of wine -- about damn time! He typically doesn't send gifts, which I forgive since he had me invest relatively heavy in Apple stock back in '03, and investment that has pulled up our portfolio nearly 2 decades later. But this year he did gift, and I appreciate it though I'm a vodka and not wine drinker.

Ken and Joelle have invited us over for NYE for drinks and apps. I'm bringing one of the expensive bottles -- they ARE wine folks and will appreciate it. I'll have a glass, too. We can toast to a better year to come.

I set up a ZOOM cocktail party for 9 pm -- maybe my usual Friday night group of dudes can have a nightcap. Whether we stay up until midnight remains to be seen. But I look forward to toasting with that august order, too.

And the second bottle of 3 figure wine? I'd like to be able to take it to the Palm in July, if the Big Man gets me to my 60th birthday. I'll pay the corkage fee and toast with my family -- sitting around and laughing -- hopefully all of us.

If shpilkes allows.

Wifey -- Our Personal Lord and Savior

 So it's noche buena in Miami, and in year's past we would be invited to some party or another. A favorite is Joel and Courtney -- Joel's Italian, and makes a big tenderloin and great pasta, and we'd drink and eat and laugh. Their parties reminded me of the ones I had on Long Island as an adolescent -- they'd always make room for the stray Jewish kid like me.

This year, with the Plague, no parties. But we're getting ready to celebrate the BIG DAY, December 25 -- Wifey's birthday.

I am forbidden from any longer "for the rest of your life," mentioning her age. I tried to get her to change her view on that. The way I see it, the Big Man gives us each year, and by being ashamed of the number, it's a form of ingratitude. My Dad got few years than Wifey has. But no dice -- she doesn't like the increasing numbers, so it's just "Happy Birthday."

Alas -- no D2 and Jonathan. They're awaiting COVID results, but even if negative, I think will want to sit on this Wifey-mas. But D1 and Joey and the beautiful grandson are coming, along with the Spoiled Spaniel. We'll bring in lunch, and hopefully get to take a long stroller walk with the baby in cool temperatures -- predicted for tomorrow.

I'm proud of a small tech triumph. When I tried to use my library computer, a Lenovo "ThinkCentre," it wouldn't boot up. I texted Carlos, my computer guy, hoping to get him early, but he was already on his way to Mass. I quickly told him to wait until after Christmas -- I have a working desk top in the den.

But then I thought -- hey -- maybe I can fix this. Somehow I uninstalled Windows, reinstalled it, and here I am -- I already tested the printer.

I realize these machines have just gotten easier and easier to operate -- but still -- this is a first for me. Maybe you CAN teach a 59.5 year old new tricks. Wait -- am I not allowed to mention MY age? Nah -- I tell everyone...

So 2020 slouches towards its completion. Last year at this time, I was full of hope for the best year ever. Then there was Trump and Covid. But, there was also our grandson growing, and D2 and Jonathan marrying, and, all in all, a pretty nice ride around the sun.

Big Man willing, 2021 will be more peaceful, and more healing instead of infectious, in many ways.

Our family's holiday season always runs from around T Day though early February. D1's birthday is near T Day, then Wifey's is on Xmas, our wedding anniversary is January 3, and now, of course, the little man's birthday is the week before Xmas. To me, the season ends with D2's birthday on the Day the Music Died. My birthday is July -- I'm an outlier.

So we're right in the midst of things. Wifey's birthday, our anniversary, and then D2's birthday, to end/start the year.

And tomorrow, it's happy (            ) birthday, Wifey!

Cousin Week

 I'm not close to my cousins, and it's a bit sad. FaceBook (tm) has allowed me to keep tabs on some of them, and that's mostly the extent of our connection.

Growing up, I was pretty close to the cousins on my Mom's side of the family. One, Michael, was 5 years older than I, and was a mentor to me from adolescence on -- he was the cool cousin, with the conversion van, and great taste in music. His sister Janet was just a year older than I -- we were the youngest first cousins. They'd throw great parties at their house up in Spring Valley, when my Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Abe were out of town, and I attended several. Some fun times.

Wifey and I invited all of my first cousins to our wedding. The following year, I decided to try to resuscitate the "Cousins Circle" my mother always had. Wifey and I invited about 15 of the cousins, who were all living in South Florida, to our house. They all accepted. Wifey and I bought a few hundred dollars worth of food, a big expense to us at the time, and stocked the bar. At the time of the party, only my cousin Jeff and his wife Lynn showed up. I started calling around, fearing that maybe an entire generation of Goldsmith cousins had been wiped out in some fiery crash on the Turnpike. No -- to the person, they had just blown it off -- each busy with other things that night.

Jeff and I drank a lot of the Absolut, and the four of us had a nice time, but that was my last effort at trying to be the cruise director for a cousin get together. By the time the Ds got married, we invited none of the cousins -- so much time with so little contact had gone by. The parties were filled with Columbian and later Venezuelan cousins from my sons in law. Their families were different.

But this week there was contact -- with two of my primos, Barry and Steven. Barry is my Aunt Dottie's son, now 67 and recently widowed from his beloved English wife Jackie. He called me about a simple legal question -- a fender bender involving a golf cart - but we talked for over an hour. Actually, he did most of the talking -- he's quite the raconteur. 

He told me about the final days of his beloved wife -- she developed Alzheimers Disease in her mid 60s, poor thing. Thankfully, his son and new daughter in law live close by -- they bring him great joy.

Barry told me that he always admired the relationship I had with my father. His Dad, Arthur, a fellow WWII vet, was a good man but not giving with affection. Also, he owned a business and dealt with the mental health issues of my Aunt and Barry's older sister Arlene, now dead. Barry said he always decided that if he had a son, he would be best friends with him, like my Dad and I were. And it worked out that way.

He told me that for the first time in his life, he has no responsibilities to anyone but himself. He's retired, and his son and daughter in law are very independent. When the plague leaves, he plans to get in his car and drive -- visiting casinos all the way to Vegas - and then driving to see his sister in Oregon. Ride on, Barry!

The other call came from Steven, my father's sister's son. He's the polar opposite of the outgoing Barry. Steven is a lifelong bachelor -- living in the Jackson Heights co-op where he was brought home as a baby. He's nearing 70, too.

He's a loner type, and just wants to live his life in peace. Alas, the building is changing, and new neighbors seem out to annoy him -- accusing the very quiet man of playing his TV too loud and moving around furniture.

He's dealing now with the things threatening his quiet life. I gave him some suggestions, but complying with the requests of the new persnickety neighbors will require he spend a bit of money. That is not something he easily does. I wish him peace. I wish him well in the only home he has ever known.

My Ds have 4 first cousins. Two are completely out of their lives. Another has battled major issues of mental illness and drug abuse, and seems back on track. One of the four has contact with the Ds, but lives in California, so the contact is limited. I guess it's just the way life worked out.

My friend Jeff has a comically large cousin presence in his life. Whenever we talk, he tells me about one or the other. I'm not sure I'd prefer that, either.

Our grandson has one first cousin -- a lovely little girl who lives just blocks away. I'm guessing they'll grow up very close -- in the way my son in law Joey is close to his cousins, too. At the one year old birthday party I was looking into the future, as I watched the baby and toddler.

Several months ago, I called my cousin Jeff, who lives in Lauderdale. We talked for quite awhile. He battled and beat leukemia, the disease that took his mother before she turned 70. His daughter is soaring -- a girl who always wanted to be a doctor, and fought hard, and won. She's a GI doc in Broward, married to a cardiologist. They have lovely young daughters.

Jeff's sons are doing well, too. The youngest, who also had some mental health issues (it runs deep in our family) surprised him with a wildly successful business -- a pizza place that has become quite the spot in Lauderdale. Jeff was thrilled talking about it.

Jeff and Barry and I all made plans to get together after the virus eases. I'm not sure we will, but I would enjoy it -- sharing tales of our colorful but deeply flawed shared genetics.

In the mean time, I wish all of them well.

Time Makes You Bolder

 Wifey loves the song "Landslide," by Stevie Nicks. I do, too -- it's such a lovely reflection about a young person realizing that time marches on, for the world and herself. Seems like a lot of that's going on lately.

Of all things, for me the realization is coming from law schools. Our close friends Mike and Loni's boy Chris was always an adorable tow headed, gravelly voiced kid -- happy to tag along with his older sister Amanda and her BFF D2. Often, then D2 and Amanda were doing girlie things, Chris would be off by himself playing with toy soldiers and other boy stuff. That period of his life is etched in my memory.

Well -- he graduated from law school, passed the Florida Bar, and is working as a real ass lawyer. This whole process seemed to take a few months to me.

Also, Rabbi Yossi and Nechama's boy Mendel. When we met the folks who would become our guides back to Judaism, Mendel was a baby -- the first of what became NINE siblings. We figured Mendel would stay in the family business and become a Rabbi, but instead he ended up at UF Law -- and he was just sworn in yesterday as a Florida lawyer. Alas, he doesn't plan to practice -- he's already working in Finance in Ohio, but the fact is somehow another baby became a lawyer -- right before my eyes.

Mendel's classmate at UF happened to be Courtney, the daughter of my friend Darren. According to Mendel, Courtney was the star of the class. She also happens to be a beautiful young Black woman -- I figured she would end up on Wall Street or some other high 6 figure job. Well -- she sailed through the Bar, too, and is working as a Public Defender in Tampa -- she wants a career in public service. I was joking with Darren -- he figured she'd become rich. She will -- rich in her contributions to life.

I remember Courtney, also as a young girl, at a party my friend Steve hosted for many of his cop friends and fellow travelers, like me. That pretty young girl with the braided hair is now also a full grown lawyer.

Meanwhile, a big family day approaches: Wifey's birthday. She's a Xmas baby, and the Ds have taken to calling her day Wifey-mas. This year we won't be doing her usual request -- going to see a movie together, followed by Chinese food. But D1 and Joey and our beautiful grandson will be coming over -- D2 and Jonathan will have to settle for FaceTime on account of Covid, and we'll bring in whatever Wifey chooses.

The truth is, her greatest source of joy lately is that baby grandson. He happens to look an awful lot like his mother, D1, although a much fatter, male version. But he has D1's sparkling eyes, and to Wifey, she gets to play with her beloved first born over three decades later. She never tires of his company -- in fact she can't get enough of him. It's beautiful to see.

So, indeed, as Stevie sang, children get older. And we're getting older, too. Wifey is sensitive about her age, and so I never share it -- except to say it's the subject of a catchy Paul McCartney tune from the Beatles' "Sergeant Peppers" album.

The plague burns on. My doctor friends have all gotten, or soon will, the vaccine. I'm hoping to get the jab sooner than later. Our governor says all Floridians should get it by February. Since he's as accurate and truthful as the outgoing cartoon character president, I don't believe him, but I hope he's correct.

In the mean time, it's wonderful to watch the young grow and mature. Even if they become lawyers.

On the Street Where I Live

 "On the Street Where You Live" is, in my opinion, one of the great songs among the Great American Songbook. It's from Lerner and Loew's "My Fair Lady," and I used to sing it when I visited D2 and Jonathan in the West Village.

I would typically walk South on 5th Avenue from my hotel in the Flatiron District, and when I turned to their street, the amazing Victoria architecture would inspire me to burst into song. When Wifey was with me, she'd sing along. When I was on my own, people would think I was just one of the many crazies extant in NYC anyway. But I didn't care -- I was excited to see my kids, and be on the street where they lived.

Now, thankfully, they're back in Miami, and their street is Bayshore Drive, on Sailboat Bay in Coconut Grove. When their new house is ready, their street will be Coconut Avenue, a street of now modern duplexes where dogs happily walk their owners to the dog parks and Grove Center.

I love the street where I live. On Sunday morning, it was completely quiet, and I imagined I was in Jamaica, in an exclusive part of Montego Bay, with the tropical vegetation and large houses. It was perfect weather, and my only companions were the peafowl and squirrels, competing for the berries that recently fell from the trees. I never want to live anywhere else.

So a lot has gone on lately. Our beautiful grandson turned one, and we celebrated with our consuegros and his two uncles and aunt. D1 bought him a "smash cake," and I thought he'd just play with it, but the not skinny one year old dove in like a Rotweiler with a hunk of raw meat -- he'd have devoured the entire thing if D1 and Joey allowed him. When they took it away, he had a look of true anger on his face.

My suegra used to say you're either a fresser (eater) or you're not a fresser. This boy is a fresser.

Anyway, the only sad part is that D2 and Jonathan had to stay away -- Jonathan tested positive for the virus. Thankfully, he's only had mild symptoms, and D2 tested negative, but they're stuck quarantining for the time being. Looks like they'll have to miss the big holiday coming up Friday.

Of course, that's December 25th, the birth of our personal lord and savior: Wifey. She has asked that I not keep bringing up her age, and so I have thus agreed, even though she's going to be the age sung about by Paul McCartney in a very catchy tune from "Sgt. Peppers."

I'm not at all shy about talking about my age. Big Man willing -- I'll turn the big 6-oh in July. My Dad never got to see 64, so for me, each year is a gift to be proud about. But then, I'm a dude...

My long walks continue. I try to reach 10 miles daily. On the day of my grandson's party, I walked 5 miles in the dark, since I guess it's become a somewhat healthy addiction.

And the walks are, thankfully, all beginning and ending on the street where I live.

LWD Adventure

So it's a lovely December week in the 305. The jabs, as Dr. Barry taught they call vaccines in Europe, have begun. It'd be great to get one, but it appears I'm pretty far down the line. That's ok -- just keep hoping I avoid the plague for the coming months.

The Electoral College met, and made it official: adios to the worst president in my lifetime. Hopefully the nation can set about healing -- from the plague - and the deep divisions the narcissist opened up.

I walked around the 'hood yesterday -- got in nearly 11 miles -- and then we FaceTimed with Wifey's BFF Edna and her man Marc, in Atlanta. It was nice -- a lot of laughter as Edna and I drank -- Marc had some, too, and Wifey was her usual "high on life" without the need for alcohol.

This am I set about my morning constitutional, and as I cleared 4 miles, I happened to see a small poodle sniffing around by the Murphy's house. I've come to know all the dogs in my 'hood, and this one wasn't one. I approached her, and saw she had Xmas ribbons in her ears, and a collar with tags. She trotted right up to me. She had tags, and her name was Luly, and there were 2 phone numbers. I called the first.

A fellow with a Spanish accent answered, and I asked if he was missing a poodle. He seemed mostly annoyed, and asked where I was with the dog. I told him, and he said he lived across busy Ludlum Road. He would look for someone to fetch the dog, and I told him to call my number when he was coming -- I'd carry the little girl home and wait.

She was very sweet -- I'm guessing close to 10 years old, and well cared for. She was a classic LWD, as the Ds call them -- little white dogs - very much in favor among women and girls of means.

I got a water bowl for Luly. She wasn't thirsty. I realized nearly 20 minutes had gone by and I hadn't heard from the owner, so I called the other number on Luly's tag. This time a woman answered, and was far more appreciative and concerned. She was in Orlando, and men were at her house doing work -- the dog must have gotten out. She seemed a bit flummoxed at what to do.

Her name was Ingrid, and she was lovely. I offered to walk Luly home -- I was on my am walk anyway. She said she'd open her gate when I got there.

It turned out their house was directly across Ludlum from the back of ours. It meant Luly had escaped becoming LWD road pizza. That would have been awful.

I walked her up the sidewalk, and called out to a painter. He came over, but was unable to open the gate. I put the poodle down, and she slinked right under the gate. Aha! That explained the wayward dog.

I told Ingrid her puppy was safely returned, and that I lived in the house on the other side of the stone wall. Funny how you get to meet neighbors sometimes.

So my walk had a purpose today -- re-homing a sweet little poodle. I'm not a fan of her dog daddy, though, but that's ok.