CHRISTMAS DAY, 2009

I was brought up to believe in Tzedakeh, the Hebrew word for charity. But in the busy world we live in, for the most part that has always meant making a financial contribution to various charitable organizations. In all honesty, while the kind of help that comes in the form of a check is welcomed and very much needed, it is usualy a lot easier than giving of time and personal presence. Today, I found out something interesting. It doesn't give quite the same sense of satisfaction.

I tell you this because Benard and I just returned from an incredible morning spent at the Community Partnership for the Homeless in downtown Miami where we helped pack 310 box lunches in the dining hall while other volunteers distributed toys to a hundred or more excited kids who otherwise would have nothing to smile about on this Christmas day.

The food was actually donated by the Ford Motor Company, but the toys and the volunteers were recruited by the Greater Miami Jewish Federation. I read about it on line a few weeks ago and since money isn't flowing as freely these days, I decided to sign both of us up to appear at the Center at 8am this morning.

The Community Partnership complex, a 400 bed shelter for men, women and children, is not in the greatest part of town, as you can well imagaine. In fact, neither of us even knew the place existed although we both volunteer regularly at WLRN, the public radio and TV station, just two blocks away. When we arrived at 7:45 (Benard is always early), kids who live at the shelter were already playing in the concrete courtyard and watching big eyed as volunteers began arriving loaded down with toys.

Most of the volunteers, about 30 in all, were complete families - parents and mostly young kids. Each of us received a sticker with our name on it and were handed t-shirts to wear. After depositing the two giant stuffed toys we brought with us in the toy area, we elected to help with packing the lumch boxes . We soon had a factory line set up at a long table with Benard and some other volunteers stuffing each box with one sandwich, one container of macaroni salad, one package of cookies, one bag of chips, an apple and a cellophane package with plastic fork, spoon & paper napkin. I worked at the far end of the table with a 12 year old young man named David Kimmel. We were in charge of closing the boxes after they were filled, not an easy process, as we were quick to realize. With a little practice, we soon became a well greased machine, amazingly fast at our work, especially when we were joined by David's mother and older brother Jack

The Kimmel's were just one of the families who brought their children with them this morning to help those a lot less fortunate . The kids were all terrific, working as hard as the adults. Benard and I were certainly the oldest volunteers there, but I don't mind telling you, we both held up our ends of the table. Once the lunch boxes were stuffed, closed and counted, we decorated the hall with Christmas stuff. Before leaving we decided to offer the brand new brightly colored t-shirts we had both been wearing over our own clothes to two of the older kids still hanging around the toy area. Both were gladly accepted. That done, we we were off. Tired but feeling good about what we had just accomplished. Amazing! It really is better to give than to receive.

Merry Christmas, everybody. Make it a happy and healthy New Year.

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Photo captions:

1. Anxious time for the kids waiting for their presents

2. One very happy little boy - he couldn't wait to play

3. Benard working the line

4. The "closers" - David & Me

Is there a "Pet Owner's Anonymous" out there???

As Andrea's friend Doreen so wisely noted, "This is no longer about the kitty litter."



We, (Wasabi, Ginger, Andrea and Mommy, as I am known in the cat world) are 15 days into UltraPet's "Pet of The Month" contest and currently locked in a death struggle with an impossibly gorgeous Maine Coon named Lea. Ostensibly, the cat (or cats, in our case) who ends the month with the most votes, will be enriched with a year's worth of Ultra Pearls, the ultra-fancy kitty litter brand that my rescue-cum-elitist cats prefer.

Listen, you guys, it's a tough economy. Every little bit helps.

We made the semi-finals easily with the photo shown above. It looked like a slam-dunk for Team W&G. Many of you who read my blog were kind enough to vote when I sent out a mass mailing asking for your help. 98% of the cats in the semis had one or two votes at the most. Moral of this story? Don't count your kitty litter before it's in your litter box.

At the end of week #1 we were lulled into complacency with a substantial lead when competition popped up in the form of this obviously high class feline named Lea, owned by Don & Tammy S.(All owners go by first name and initial. . this is a top secret operation.) "They're power voting," Andrea hissed on one of our increasingly frequent phone calls regarding the evening's vote count. "What's with these people? Where are they coming from?"

"They're coming from out of the woodwork, that's where," I moaned. With our competitive juices now in full bloom, we both sprang into action to round up more votes for our team. Where to go now? We had already opportuned close friends, family and passing acquaintances. I considered asking the mailman whether he had an e-mail address. One day, I actually found myself ending a business e-mail to a client with brief instructions on how to vote. Fortunately, she was a cat person and understood the importance of the situation, but I realized that the situation was starting to get out of hand. Doreen was right. It was no longer about the litter. It was about family honor. It was about not letting that beautiful purebred take away the prize from my two little "hoods". It was about getting this damned contest over with already so I can get my life back.

OK, let's get down to business. We know there are more important things in your life right now, but brother, could you spare a vote? Just go to http://www.ultrapet.com/ , Click on "Enter The Pet of The Month" contest. Click on "Vote here for the etc. etc. contest". A page of cat pics will open up. Scroll down five pics on the left hand column to W&G sitting like perfect statues on my shelves. Click on the photo and follow directions to vote. Most important!!! Once you vote, Ultra Pet will send you a validation letter to your e-mail. If you don't click on that e-mail to validate, your vote doesn't count. If and when you do vote, please let me know what e-mail you used so I can follow up from my end.

In closing, I would like to note that Wasabi, Andrea and I will be eternally grateful for your help in our quest for the cat version of the Heisman Trophy. I plan to cry copiously when we are awarded the first bag of litter. Ginger, on the other hand, really doesn't give a damn. . . .she knows she's the best. # # # #

Photo caption: Ginger (left) and Wasabi (right) display their interest in the fine arts by posing as sculptures on my shelves. If they break something, I will kill them both.

Back for Black Friday

MUSINGS FROM JOAN

I’m back. A month and a few weeks older and not much wiser. Please note, I’ve gone “green” in my decorative efforts. . .but back to my “Musings”

Dateline: Charlotte, NC, the morning after Thanksgiving. It’s Black Friday!
5am weather report: Snow in the mountains, 37 degrees in the city

In eight decades I have managed to ignore this ridiculous day, but grandson Adam’s wife, Amy, has convinced Andrea and me to accompany her to the Mall which opens at 6am. Thank God she doesn’t want to go to Best Buy. . that opened at midnite and people have been lining up for hours out in the cold

Adam’s posting on his Facebook page last evening is worth quoting: “ I think my wife, my mother and my grandmother have been smoking some really good sh*t while I was out of the room, because they are planning to be at the Mall at 6 in the morning.”

Actually, we didn’t get there until 6:30. I am wearing three layers of clothing and wondering how I got talked into this..You have to understand. . I’m a catalog shopper and rarely go to a mall. Even my sister, the professional shopper in the family, would think this was nuts. Amy, if you ever wondered whether we love you, now you know for sure.

A big shout-out to Andrea’s sainted friend Sandy who invites us to park our car at her house and then drives us right up to Macy’s front door to avoid having to find a parking space. Got to admit, the bargains were pretty damned good, especially when Amy and I found out we got an extra 11% off for being “foreigners” from Florida. You had to be a mathematician to figure out all your discounts, including the coupons that Andrea had printed out for us the night before.

I won’t bore you with the details but I can tell you we made our way from one end of the mall to the other, stopping only for sustenance in the form of cinnamon & sugar pretzel sticks at a handy kiosk. One needs a sugar high to keep expending that much energy that early in the morning. Andrea whined a lot about finding herself constantly in the “petite” section of every store. . .that’s what you get for shopping with your height challenged mother and not exactly towering daughter-in-law.

We emerged from the mall 4 hours later to gratefully accept Sandy’s ride back to our car. Today’s photo was taken outside her house before we headed for home and Adam who was watching his 104th football game of the weekend and barely acknowledged our arrival.

It was definitely an experience. The crowds at this mall were not as bad as we expected. . . . only a scattering of dazed looking husbands, with the longest line in front of the Apple store where obviously they were giving huge discounts.

It was a wonderful weekend, just being with the kids. I’ll go shopping with you at 6am anytime Amy. . .just give me a head start to put on a full face of makeup and several layers of clothing. I may be 80, but I’m still game.

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Photo caption: Three generations survive Black Friday!

MUSING #35

It’s happened, folks. Early this morning, a few minutes after midnight, on October 19th, I officially hit the Big 80!

I don’t feel a day older, in fact, I feel great.

This has been an unbelievable weekend, full of love, laughs and lots of family and good friends. Actually, it all started more than a week ago when my daughter Andrea arrived to celebrate her 40th high school reunion. That started the trip down memory lane that extended right through this morning when I delivered my friend Judy to the airport for her return trip to Connecticut. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

Andrea and I kept reconnecting with different periods in our lives. Hers started with her two day high school reunion, meeting up with people she actually hadn’t seen in 40 years. According to her old friend, Paul Goeld, she rated in the “Top Five” of all the female returnees. Three women, two of whom she didn’t remember, informed her she had been “mean to them in high school because she never talked to them,” and five graying and balding men confessed to having mad crushes on her in those years. Andrea protested to the women that she was not mean and her aloofness was because she was very shy. A likely story. As for the men. . you’ll have to ask her.

On Tuesday evening Benard, Andrea and I gathered at the bar in my apartment to practice making my favorite drink, the Sour Apple Martini. I was determined to serve
them at the cocktail party we were throwing for a few hundred of Andrea’s and Adam’s old friends on Friday evening. Since Benard was to be the designated bartender at the party, we felt it was necessary to perfect the recipe before springing the concoction on our guests. It took three separate batches to get the drink exactly right after which three very bombed “tasters” went their separate ways: Andrea immediately fell asleep. Benard went to his condo board meeting and doesn’t remember what he voted on, and I have no recollection of what I did. I believe it was the stems on the maraschino cherries that did us in.

Friday afternoon, Adam and Amy arrived from Jacksonville with great-grand-dog Layla. Grove Isle doesn’t allow dogs over 25 lbs on the island and Layla, while svelte and girlish, is definitely pushing the envelope in that department. Fortunately, on my "approved list " of non-terrorist types in the gatehouse computer, Layla Anker - small dog, is listed right under Adam and Amy Anker. When Adam patiently pointed this out to the guard at the gate, who initially refused them admittance, they were whisked through without further ado. The good news is that the only person the guard could complain to about her obvious non-small size was the condo’s head of security. . .who just happens to be Benard. Also arriving on Friday afternoon, my very special friend Judy, who has celebrated birthdays with me since we met at the age of six.

Friday night’s cocktail party was a total hoot and I don’t mind telling you that the Sour Apple Martini’s were such a giant hit that Benard had to eventually post a “sold out” sign when we ran out of Pucker, the stuff that makes them green. Adam reconnected with his friend Andy from high school days. Amongst the throng of guests was one delicious six month old baby, courtesy of the Forman family, one adorable four year old great-grand niece courtesy of parents Ana and Craig, one very well behaved, slightly overwhelmed dog and two dumbfounded cats who never came out of the closet, not to mention approximately 25 others including Amy’s parents, Al and Robyn, who drove down from Fort Lauderdale. Everyone talked like crazy, drank and ate up a storm until late in the evening. The vibe was excellent.

Saturday dawned and late morning we assembled out by the Grove Isle waterfront for the family photo shoot, with Benard wielding the camera and Judy in charge of Layla (when she wasn't in the pictures). When the 90 degree heat proved impossible, we retired to our building lobby and finished up the shoot there. Good results! See photos above.

OK. It’s Saturday evening and time for "Queen For A Day" to have her moment. And what a moment it was. Hosted by Benard, Andrea, Adam and Amy, and held in a private room at a wonderful restaurant in downtown Miami called “Dolores But You Can Call Me Lolita”, we were 24 in number and it was a spectacular evening. . .first lots of drinks and tapas, then a sit down dinner. Andrea acted as MC with Amy and Adam joining her to note my penchant for writing poems for every family occasion, and turning the tables by writing an “ode” to me. It was hilarious and I loved every second.

After the main course it was Benard’s turn to toast (or roast?), I’m not sure exactly which. He was equally terrific, noting at one point my insistence during the early years of our relationship that he learn to love pro football and particularly the Miami Dolphins. When I patiently tried to explain what a tight end was, he thought I was talking dirty. He also noted we will be celebrating 15 years together on November 2nd. Wow! Time flies when you are having fun.

OK, enough. Thanks, everyone, for your good wishes and great comments. This is the last of the blogs under this heading. I can’t believe I started this more than 6 months ago when I really was 79 ½. Don’t give up on me. . .I’ll probably be back. . it’s been great fun.
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Photo captions: One of the family photos. / The birthday girl with her tiara and wand, a gift from the Sandstroms.

MUSINGS BY JOAN #34

Volunteering has its ups and downs. Mostly it is very satisfactory, but sometimes it leaves you shaking your head in wonderment. I had one of those days on Saturday.

Both the 'significant other' and I have been guiding at Vizcaya Museum and Gardens on Friday afternoons for many years. We both love this fabulous 100 year old home that belonged to industrialist James Deering and sits on Biscayne Bay just a few blocks north of where we live. Like most guides, we pride ourselves on knowing the contents of the home extremely well and love to tell all the wonderful stories about life at the mansion in the early 1900s.

But back to my experience on Saturday. Earlier in the week an e-mail had arrived from a member of Vizcaya’s staff, desperate for a volunteer to lead a reserved tour on Saturday morning at 11am. “Reserved tours”, we are taught, mean the group has paid in advance and usually gets preferred treatment.

Benard was out of town and since I had nothing special planned, I volunteered to take the tour. On Friday, when I was at Vizcaya for my regular tour, I ran up to the administrative offices to find out something about the Saturday group so I could be fully prepared. Not so easy. No one had any information other than the unpronounceable name of the group which seemed to be very French and had something to do with a saint. I worriedly mentioned that I don’t speak French, and was assured that they would have a translator with them.

Saturday morning I showed up several minutes early to read up on any thing of French provenance in the house, with emphasis on any items that smacked of Louis XV. Primed to impress with all my wonderful francophile knowledge, I felt reasonably sure I was good to go despite any language barrier. Promptly at 11am the guard at the front entrance informed me my tour had arrived and were on their way in. I muttered “Bonjeur, mesdames et monsieurs” a few times under my breath, the absolute limit of my French, and walked out to the entrance foyer to greet the group which I envisioned had just arrived from Paris via Air France.

Actually, they hadn’t come from quite that far. What they had done was come by bus from the area in Miami known as Little Haiti, about ten miles north of Vizcaya, and they were a group of 21 middle aged-to-senior citizen ladies and one or two gentlemen, all dressed in their Sunday-go-to-church best. They only spoke Creole, the language of Haiti, with a severely limited knowledge of English, and there was no translator. I had a feeling I was in deep trouble.

Forty five minutes later, I was exhausted and strangely exhilarated. I didn’t understand them very well and they certainly didn’t really understand me, but they were having a wonderful time. I found that if I spoke very slowly, did a lot of pointing, and enunciated like mad, about half of them could follow along. The rest just looked around in awe as we marched through the house. For some ungodly reason, one little lady sidled up to me at one point and asked me in pigeon English, "Meester. . .he Jewish?". I’m not sure what she saw in the house that made her ask that, but I stifled a giggle and responded that he was a good Presbyterian, of impeccable Scotch/English ancestry. I could literally hear Mr. D. turning over in his grave at that question.

Bottom line, it was a learning experience for all of us. Haitian refugees all, now living and working in Miami, they were on a wonderful church outing to an absolutely beautiful waterfront mansion unlike anything any of them had ever experienced before. I found myself wanting desperately to make the visit memorable for them, and hopefully I did.

As I said goodbye to the group at the end of the tour, the woman who seemed to have the best command of the English language stepped forward, smiled at me, and said in a soft but clear voice, “Lovely presentation.”

I’ve never had a better compliment in all my years of guiding.
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Photo caption: Magnificent Vizcaya, circa 1916

MUSINGS BY JOAN #33

No, I wasn’t at DisneyWorld with Donald & Daisy, but it was a magical morning! I was actually volunteering with Hands On Miami this morning and my job was to help paint an outdoor mural on the grounds of the Robert King High government housing for senior citizens.

Who knew that the event was co-sponsored by Disney and would turn into an incredible mix of literally hundreds of very youthful volunteers who were there to clean up the riverfront and plant a vegetable garden? Also on hand: a slew of uber-efficient black T-shirted Disney organizers, several bands playing loud Latin music, huge bunches of colored balloons, paparazzi galore to capture the moment as Dade County Mayor, Carlos Alvarez welcomed Disney and the volunteers, and TV crews from both Spanish language and regular morning news shows. The popular Spanish morning show, “Despierta America” actually filmed their entire morning segment on the grounds overlooking the Miami River.

I went with a friend from my art class, Patt Soto, who whispered to me at one point, “I think we’re the oldest volunteers here.” Patt is all of 61. Duh.

I believe the moment she noted that fact was when all the volunteers were asked to put on their Mickey Mouse ears, jump up and down and wave wildly to the TV cameras. Did I mention that the temperature was in the 90’s by this time and we were standing out in full sunlight? Yes, we waved. No, I didn’t jump up and down. Give me a break, guys.

The ears came in a very nice black canvas tote bag packed with all kinds of goodies that was handed to each volunteer as we entered the area at 7am. (We left the house at 6:30 in the pitch dark.) The bag contained among other things a bright turquoise T-shirt we were asked to wear while we worked, the black cap (yarmulke?) with giant ears, and a baseball mitt sized white glove with four fingers ala Mickey himself. I think it will go well with the outfit I am planning to wear to my 80th birthday dinner party.

Patt was a better sport than I. She wore her ears all morning as she painted. I graciously donated mine, as soon as possible, to Lexi, the little daughter of Serge Toussaint, the Haitian-born artist who created our mural. Serge had painted the outlines for two murals of sea scenes on free standing concrete block walls and we were to apply the color under his direction. As Patt put it, I was the good guy splashing on white paint. . .she was the bad guy, following up with black. I soon graduated to purple for the big fish’s gorgeous serrated fin. Please note the beauty of my art work in the accompanying photo.

About 15 of us painted without stopping from 8 to 10:30 when Serge pronounced the murals complete. It was a learning experience and great fun, not to mention the satisfaction of knowing that you have contributed something to your community.

I loved every minute of it, even if I was the oldest volunteer there. If you come to Miami I’ll be glad to run you over to admire our work.
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Photo captions: Daisy, Donald , Patt & Joan with artist Serge Toussaint.
The volunteer artist at work

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #32


Frank Bruni, the former N.Y. Times restaurant critic, wrote a fascinating article on the Huffington Post today about “memoirs and memories”. Basically he wrote about how selective our memories are, and how sometimes we discuss something that we remember so vividly with someone who shared the moment, and we find that they remember it totally differently. Other times, someone will talk about an important memory and you will have absolutely no recollection of the event..

This happens frequently with my sister and me. Sometimes I wonder how we grew up in the same household and remember things so differently. My favorite memory difference is the question of who was our father’s favorite. I know it was me. She insists it was her. I guess that was his genius as a father, we both are positive that our memory is the correct one..

I had a long time friend, we grew up together from the age of 12, who stopped talking to me several years ago because of an incident that she claims occurred that obviously pissed her off big time. I have absolutely no recollection of the incident which apparently involves my leaving her dinner party early to watch a Dolphin playoff game, The fact that I didn’t remember anything about it, made her even madder, and she still isn’t talking to me. My feeling to this day is that Dolphin playoff games don’t happen that often. You have to have priorities..

My daughter Andrea and I sometimes remember things differently. Just the other day she told me she remembers walking our dog Eloise with her father and on returning home seeing flames shooting out the kitchen window. I admit that I burned down two kitchen stoves during that marriage,. . once I decided to take a shower and apparently neglected to return, the other time I was entertaining guests in the living room and got carried away with the conversation. . . but the stove was nowhere near the window and besides the kitchen was in the back of the house and couldn’t be seen from the street. She is adamant about her memory and I’m too unfamilar with stoves of any kind these days to argue. Speaking of memories, I lost the instruction book on the convection oven here in my condo and can't remember how to turn it on. ( OK, Andrea. . so I've never turned it on. . .I can remember that.)

It’s nice to have one friend who shared your growing up years and does remember important times and places exactly as you do. Judy and I walked to school together every day of our high school years, we lived in the same apartment house, and we can still remember vividly what we wore on what important date, where we went and what we did. We borrowed each other’s clothes, giggled a lot, majored in boys and were not exactly deep. I learned to drink straight shots of rye followed by ginger ale and used to sneak out my bedroom window after my parents went to sleep. Luckily we lived on the first floor. At sixteen, it’s hard to imagine you would someday turn 8o. Actually, it’s pretty hard to imagine at 79 and 11/12ths. Judy reached that milestone in May. I love her attitude about it. . .she’s still not sure whether she’s going to accept the number.

I’m not sure either. I’ll let you know in 27 days.
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Photo caption: Memories of a great stone crab dinner. I may not cook, but I sure can serve!

*Haiku - According to Google: a form of Japanese poetry, consisting of 17 moras (I think that means syllables), in three metrical phrases of 5, 7, and 5 moras respectively. (Don't count mine. . I'm a little off, moras-wise.)









MUSINGS BY JOAN #31

I have never written a haiku* in my life, but I was moved to write one in honor of last Friday night’s dinner. I’m not sure if haikus are allowed to have titles, but mine does. My apologies to any haiku purists in the group.

THE SAGA OF BENARD’S
BOEUF ALA BOURGUIGNONNE

Julia’s recipe
Three hours on feet in kitchen
Beef stew

We never should have gone to see that movie. Ever since, Chef Benardo, aka the significant other, has been determined to make this very fancy dish whose recipe actually takes four pages in Julia Child’s “Art of French Cooking”. I admit the results were totally delicious. It’s the first beef stew I ever ate that could give you a buzz due to the entire bottle of Merlot wine that went into the pot along with the longest list of ingredients you can possibly imagine, including a few items I never heard of before.

The recipe requirements for this “simple but delicious French dish” ( can’t you just hear Julia warbling that sentence?) are so extensive that Benard decided to make it the day before the scheduled dinner party. It was a good thing he did. He was so exhausted when it was finally done that he was forced to take a long nap immediately afterward.

For the actual dinner, he donned his authentic white chef’s jacket with his name embroidered over the pocket. It was a gift some time back from our friend Pamela and the dinner party was in honor of her birthday. I grabbed my camera to memorialize the moment as he ceremoniously tasted his simmering culinary creation. I’m pretty sure he’s not planning to make it again. Not in this lifetime, at least.

For the foodies out there, we started out with champagne and crudités before moving to the dining table where Chef Benardo served his triumph accompanied by buttered noodles and fresh asparagus. Does anyone know how to say yummy in French???

I set the table, of course. The napkins looked truly elegant. I’ll send you my recipe if you’re interested.
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Photo caption: Chef Benardo taste-testing his Boeuf ala Bourguignonne.

MUSINGS BY JOAN #30

In this morning’s Miami Herald there is a full page article about a rescue cat named Nora who is making a fortune for her owners by playing the piano. According to the article, she plays in perfect rhythm and on key. (This is a cat we’re talking about folks.)

Nora has several million hits on her website where she can be seen in various videos playing away with both paws and keeping perfect time. She has done the talk (meow?) show circuit, has a fast selling line of T-shirts, gets endless requests for her "pawtograph", and has had a “Catcerto” written especially for her by a famous Lithuanian conductor (I am not making this up) by the name of Mindaugus Piecaitus. When the Maestro premiered his epic work with the Klaipeda Chamber Orchestra in June, Nora performed her solo purrfectly, and was seen via a full size video screen set up in the concert hall.

I bring this to your attention not because I wish to further publicize Nora and her astounding musical ability, but to complain bitterly about my two totally useless cats who are sleeping on my desk as I write. After reading the article in bed this morning, I actually had a long chat with Wasabi on the subject of any latent talent on his part. He licked my nose twice and went back to sleep. I don’t think there is much of a market on You Tube for that sort of work.

Ginger, my girl cat, is a lost cause talent-wise. She couldn’t sit still long enough to play a chorus of Chop Sticks, much less allow anyone to video her doing it. Besides, which, I don’t own a piano at the moment so the whole project is out of the question. It never occurred to me to ask the Stray Aid people three years ago whether they had any rescue cats with musical talent. Or any talent at all for that matter, other than sleeping. I don’t think the fact that Wasabi is a notoriously picky eater has any potential either. Moneymaking? Hell no. If anything, they cost money. I’ll know better next time.

Obviously, there are people out there raking in the money by figuring out how to work the internet to their benefit. I just haven’t figured out how as yet, or who exactly my market would be. There seems to be a limit to how many almost-80-year-olds are sitting at their computers playing video games and thinking up Face Book pages that might go viral within 24 hours. Actually, most of the people I know who heard the word viral would ask the doctor for an antibiotic and take to bed. (In all fairness, I must admit that my sister and I play Farkle on line regularly. That’s Facebook’s highly addictive video dice game, if you're not a player. Currently, she’s beating me, but don’t count me out.)

If anybody has any great ideas, I’m open to suggestions. Be glad to cut you into the profits, or better still, I’ll send you one of my do-nothing kitties. Maybe you can teach them how to play for pay!

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Photo caption: Nora, ready for her next solo. Check out her technique.

MUSINGS BY JOAN #29

Was there ever a time when I didn’t depend on the internet to connect me to my business, my family, my friends. . . the outside world???? I know it was probably not much more than a decade ago, but it seems like forever. I am as addicted to checking my e-mail as any heroin addict and today I am suffering from serious withdrawal.

Comcast, the company that prides itself on the “blazing speed” of its internet connections, has been down to a slow crawl in my computer for the past three weeks. Crews of technicians turn up every few days, spend time (a) at my computer in my den/office, (b) behind my dresser in my bedroom, (c) peering into the air conditioning closet out in the hall, and (d) huddled together in the electrical room across from my apartment. They shake their heads, talk back and forth in totally incomprehensible Spanish, and leave, always promising to return, God knows when. I gather they are looking for a lost splitter. At the rate they are going, it would be quicker to find the lost city of Atlantis.

As of 8am this morning the slow crawl came to a total halt, and along with it, my telephone service. Blessed be my cell phone, without that, I would cease to exist today. At the moment, it is 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and I am waiting (not so) patiently for the supervisor, Rudy, to show up with his crew and see if they can work some magic to help the situation. He definitely knows I exist. He has at least ten messages on his cell phone from me, each more pathetic than the last..

Rule #1, should this catatrophe happen to you, be sure to get the supervisor’s cell phone number and that of any tech who seems to have a clue what he is doing. This allows you to circumvent calling Comcast’s main number about your problem and the resulting necessity to give up your mother’s maiden name, the street where you grew up, and your first born child, before you are allowed to speak to a live human being, somewhere in Mombasa, who immediately puts you on hold.

Do I sound bitter? You’re damned right. I know this is the day that some potential client has called with an incredible job and needs it immediately and is willing to pay heavily for my priceless service. Except that my phone isn’t working and neither is my computer, so by this time he’s crossed me off his list and gone on to the next name. I think I may cry. Actually, I am saving the tears for Rudy, if and when he ever appears. I plan to pull out all the stops so that he feels so guilty about this poor old lady’s problem that he never leaves until I am back on the internet and receiving lost phone calls.

Obviously, this blog will not be posted today. When and if you do get to read this, you will know that thanks to Rudy, I am back on line, I've gotten my e-mail fix, and all’s right in my cyber world.

For the right price, I might even sell you his cell phone number.
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Caption: Back on line and back in the world. Amen.

MUSINGS BY JOAN #28

My significant other is a man of many talents. I’ve written about his culinary artistry at our nightly dinner table and the long term benefits I enjoy from his penchant for shopping regularly at Costco. Forget about the fact that he is tall, handsome and charming and there is a waiting list of lustful women here at Grove Isle just ready to pounce if ever I should falter. (Not to worry, I will beat them off with my ski poles if they get too close. I’m small, but it’s not a good idea to cross me on matters of the heart.)

But there is a whole side to this man that only his daughter Paula and I know about. . .the side that comes equipped with an awesome box of tools and can fix absolutely anything you need fixed, thereby defying the myth that Jewish men are all thumbs..

Sunday was fix-it day in Apartment 705. My cats, Wasabi and Ginger, have once again managed to loosen the Berber carpeting that covers the two free standing walls that lead from my living room into my kitchen. In the past we have slathered adhesive innumerable times to the back of the carpeting, but W & G are not to be denied. This time, Dr. Fix It arrived with an intimidating new weapon. . .a glue gun. I don’t want to bore you with the details, but those little mothers are stuck for eternity now. What a display of sheer power! I watched in awe.

Then, as long as he was on a roll, I mentioned that the handle to my broiler oven had come apart. (My sister was unkind enough to express surprise that I actually ever used the appliance enough to break the handle.) He fixed that with the aid of a pair of my tweezers and the phillips head screwdriver from my handy Leatherman set. Why, you ask, do I happen to own my own Leatherman? It was a thoughtful gift from Benard during the early years of our relationship before he realized I prefer jewelry. Prior to the airlines getting crazy about such weaponry, I used to carry it with me when I traveled, in case I was suddenly faced with the need to unscrew something.

I didn’t want to push my luck, so I only tentatively mentioned in passing that the knob on one of the kitchen cabinets was loose. He tightened that with a butter knife and went on his way.

I think my karma must be very positive when it comes to men who can fix things. I am the daughter of a man who was happiest making exquisite Early American-style furniture and kept every appliance in my Mother’s home in perfect working condition. And in all fairness, while my first husband would have simply looked confused if I told him something broke, my second husband was really very handy when he chose to be.

I know you are all green with envy and I don’t blame you. However, I don’t want you to think I don’t hold up my end of the relationship. Who do you think understands how to select and order this week’s Netflix? Who leaps in to help when there’s a problem on the internet? Who sees to it that we actually have a social life and don’t become total weekend hermits? Most importantly, who makes him laugh and who. . . .well, that’s more information than you need.
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Caption: Mama’s Handy Dandy Leatherman. . everyone should own one.

MUSINGS BY JOAN #27


It takes a village to keep a woman looking good these days. I remember with great nostalgia my coiffure back in 1957 when I arrived in Florida. My hair still didn’t need the talented ministrations of an expensive hairdresser. It reached the middle of my back and I would toss it up on top of my head in a bun or wear it in one long single braid.
I could swim, wind surf and snorkel all afternoon and show up at a posh restaurant for dinner, perfectly groomed, with my hair still damp.

Ah, those were the days. If you are wondering why I am waxing nostalgic, it’s because Louis, my once-and-forever hairdresser, the guardian of my hair color formula, has had the temerity to fall down and go boom, breaking his femur and rendering himself unable to make it to the salon for my monthly cut and color appointment. I’ve been trying to wait out his return, but my bangs are obviously growing faster than his bone is knitting, not to mention the unmentionable that is threatening to take over my roots. I know this subject will not resonate with the males who receive my blog, but I defy you to show me the woman older than 18 who can go it alone for more than a month without a little professional help.

My nails, on the other hand, (or actually on both hands), are looking terrific. Would that everything else on my body had stood the test of time so well. That’s because Kathy, my wonderful nail tech, has the great sense to stay upright and unbroken. I visited her this morning for my regular appointment and I never fail to be fascinated by the conversations that fly back and forth at Salon Trio, Kathy’s nail salon. I am an anomaly in the salon – a non-talker – mostly because I bring the crossword puzzle from the Miami Herald and work away whenever my left hand is free to hold my pen. When Kathy works on my writing hand, filing, applying acrylic and polish, I lay down my pen and listen to what’s going on around me.

You’ve heard of the cable shows “The Real Housewives of New Jersey / Atlanta / Los Angeles" etc. etc? Welcome to “The Real Housewives of Pinecrest”. These are funny ladies, many with young children, others doting grandmothers, still others, successful business women. And boy, can they talk.

Kathy, and her partner Nicole, are the caring repositories of everyone’s life histories. They know all the details, both good and messy, about their clients’ kids, husbands and boyfriends, including infidelities, illnesses and a million other pressing issues. I have to admit that even I, on occasion, will give her a run down on what’s happening in my life. She certainly heard all about Adam & Amy’s wedding, both before and after. I remember we had several serious discussions about what color polish I should wear that would go well with my bronze satin gown. Since I never vary from my French manicure, that was not exactly a riveting problem, but we did finally opt for a touch of glitter in the colorless over coat because of the importance of the occasion..

It takes a little (read a lot) longer these days to be ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. I am beholding to a whole litany of product lines to take the giant step from my wake-up face to my public face, but then again, who isn’t. (You guys don’t know how good you have it. You get up, take a shower, get dressed and leave.) But I’m not complaining. I feel inordinately lucky that I am still healthy and full of energy at this ridiculously advanced age. I can still walk several miles in the morning (my daughter complains I walk too fast for her) and I am obsessed with completing the daily cross word puzzle. Actually, my newest obsession is a highly addictive dice game on Facebook called Farkle that my grandson's friend Lucks sent me. Who knew I was such a virtual gambler! Most exciting, I am busy at work again and feeling productive.

It doesn’t get any better than that.
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Caption: A small segment of the "willage of products" in my dressing table drawer. I need all the help I can get these days.

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #26

The hot new movie for foodies is “Julia & Julie” and I am looking forward to seeing it very soon. I can mentally envision Julia Child’s old TV show on public television with her inimitable voice and often hilarious commentary. I believe she invented the “5 second rule” that I live by. You know. If something edible drops on the floor and is picked up within 5 seconds, it is perfectly fine to continue cooking/serving/eating said item.

Watching Julia on TV is about as close as I have come to gourmet cooking, but my daughter Andrea seems to have inherited a cooking gene that certainly didn’t come from my side of the family tree. My mother’s entire spice repertoire began and ended with salt, and, in a bow to her Hungarian heritage, an occasional dash of paprika. A garlic clove would have left her puzzled. Every recipe she ever cooked apparently came with the words “cook until extremely well done”. I thought liver was supposed to taste like shoe leather until I was an adult. My sister, on the other hand, is truly a gourmet cook, but we have always considered her unquestionable ability to be a family aberration. So Andrea’s love of cooking and total ease with the entire process never ceases to amaze me.

I tell you this because I just returned from a weekend in Charlotte that included a dinner party in my daughter’s home Saturday evening. The menu was Chicken Piccata accompanied by broad noodles and fresh string beans. Dessert was strawberries and blueberries on sponge cake topped with whipped cream.

We were gone from the house most of the day and when we returned home around 4 o’clock I worriedly inquired whether we should get started working on dinner. Andrea responded by taking a nap. Since I don’t nap, I set the table and stood around wondering what else I could do to help. In desperation, I redid my make-up and checked my e-mail. The guests were due at 6:30 and when my daughter finally arose and meandered into the kitchen it was already close to 6.

I watched in fascination as she deftly prepared the chicken, washed and cut the ends off the beans, and fired up the professional style gas stove. Andrea’s home has a spacious open kitchen centered by a large granite-topped island. A far cry from the isolated and closed in kitchens that I grew up with. Guests never seem to make it to her living room but prefer to gather around the island, drinking wine, nibbling on appetizers and keeping her company as she cooks.

Bernice, arrived first, carrying a bottle of red wine, followed a few minutes later by Doreen, carrying a bottle of Pinot Grigio. A few minutes later, in came Linda Joy, laden down with two loaves of freshly baked bread and the appetizer de jour, some kind of delicious flat bread covered with interesting veggies that I was unable to identify but tasted wonderful. Andrea popped it into the microwave to heat up and never missed a beat flipping the chicken fillets and stirring the piccata sauce. I had to get my camera to document the scene with the steam rising from all the pans and my daughter (my daughter?) calmly presiding over the entire business between sips from her wine glass.

I know I sound like a proud mother, but the dinner was marvelous, the wine flowed, and the company was great. These are all interesting women from varying backgrounds, both business and cultural. I enjoy talking to them and listening to what they have to say. Doreen, a transplanted Brit and recently retired business owner, just installed an English garden at her townhome. Bernice, an IT marketing specialist in her business life, brought over samples of the beautiful beaded jewelry she has been making in her spare time, and Linda Joy, a banking executive and certified Master Gardener, hauled in enough mature iris plants from her garden to distribute some to each of the women.

Lest you think I never entertain in my own home, I love having company for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. I set up a stunning cheese platter and know how to purchase a great dip. My bar is stocked with the best vodka and scotch and some really interesting wines. There’s even some designer beer in the fridge.

After that, as the pillow on my den couch so aptly puts it, “The one thing I make for dinner is a reservation.” Bon appétit!
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Photo caption: Chef Andrea at work!

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #20

I received a lovely e-mail from a gentleman in Peru the other day. He wished to thank me profusely for all the help I gave him recently in securing $2.3 million in funds from his late uncle’s estate and wanted me to know that my share of this bounty. . .I believe it was a nice round $500,000. . . .would be in the mail shortly. I can’t wait. All I have to do is contact his solicitor, etc. etc. I'm already imagining what I will do with all this largesse. . possibly a nice diamond ring????

There must be something about my e-mail address, because today I received an e-mail from a Reverend Johnson in Canada who has a contract with someone in Nigeria and has asked God to help him get paid. Apparently, God gave him my name and somehow, through my good graces, the Nigerian government has come through with his money. He wants to show me how grateful he is for my help by sending me $900,000. You have to admit, this is a better deal than the Peruvian offer, so I guess I am moving up in the world. All I have to do for this wonderful offer is to get in touch with his secretary, a Mr. Robert Denis, and the money, which I have so clearly earned, will be forwarded, post haste (Add a few more carats to the ring!)

I have obviously been very busy helping people secure all sorts of huge payments, simply out of the goodness of my heart. It’s so heartwarming to see how grateful they all are for my phantom efforts. What’s not so heartwarming is the idea that some people actually fall for these scams. That’s a scary thought.

Scams are nothing new, but they seem to be proliferating these days, between Madoff with his billions and Miami’s penchant for Medicare fraud. I have to admit that in the past I have been guilty of only giving a cursory glance to my credit card bills and bank statements. These days I have learned to spend a little more time reading exactly what they say and I never fail to be amazed at what I find that doesn’t belong there. I’ve learned to call Customer Service and ask questions.

Even those of us who consider ourselves too smart to fall for such schemes can find themselves victims to the art of not “opting out”. Twice I’ve had to extricate myself from this little beauty. Once when my Macy’s bill suddenly started charging me for “fraud protection”. . . .a quick call to the accounting office revealed that I had not “opted out” from that new service, meaning that I had unknowingly accepted it. . . .and second when my Master Card billing had a $9.99 charge for something called “Personally Yours” for two months in a row. I couldn’t place the name or match up a bill so I called. Sure enough, it turned out that something I had purchased on the internet had apparently offered an additional service that I didn’t notice. Since I didn’t say I didn’t want it, they decided I did. The good news is that in both cases the charges were reversed.

While those who know me well know that I refuse to think of myself as a senior citizen, I do realize that many of these scams are directed towards those of us of a certain age. I can’t help remembering years ago when I was going over my 90 year old mother’s mail one day and was startled to find that she had recently become an active member of the Sierra Club. If you’re an ardent hiker of mountains, lover of wild life and a lifelong outdoorsman, you will be familiar with that organization. My Mother was afraid of dogs, much less bears and mountain lions, so I can’t imagine her ever indulging in those types of activities even as a young woman. Apparently, she had received something in the mail and voila!, she was a member and they were asking for payment.

That one was easy enough to undo, but bottom line, you gotta watch what you sign these days. As soon as the check comes from Nigeria, you’re all invited to a party. I'll be wearing my ring.

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Photo caption: What I’m buying as soon as the check from Nigeria arrives.

MUSINGS BY JOAN #24


The significant other and I dined “ala carte” at Costco’s the other day. “Off the cart” might be a better way of describing it. We didn’t miss a single sampling, and when it came to the chicken dumplings in hoisin sauce, we shamelessly returned for thirds.

Benard makes it his business to be highly complimentary to the ladies manning the sampling carts. Marshalling all his considerable charm, he admires their cooking skills and shamelessly walks away with the lion’s share of goodies.

The Costco Phenomenon fascinates me. I don’t get to go very often as I am not a member. I tried using Benard’s membership card once when I went with a friend, but I was refused outright when the girl at the cash register noted that I didn’t have white hair and a beard like the photo on the card. Actually, Benard shares his card with his good friend Harvey who does have white hair and a beard, and I don’t look much like him either.

They are very ritualistic about their frequent visits to Costco. . . .preferably sans women. They roll up and down every aisle and always take the same route, whether they are at their favorite store up in North Miami or the new one way down south in Kendall. There is method to their madness and nothing can deter them from their course. That’s why wives and significant others are rarely invited . .we tend to disturb their rhythm by roaming aimlessly, and horrors!, even skipping an aisle now and then.

As a retired sea food distributor, Benard always spends time inspecting the extensive fish counter and commenting to anyone listening on the freshness of the day’s offerings. That’s fine with me. We unexpectedly had a fabulous stone crab dinner the other night thanks to the fact that Costco was celebrating a Seafood Festival Sale on the day he and Harvey happened to be there.

What truly amazes me about Costco is its reach. The most surprising people are fans. A case in point. Last year our friend Pamela asked us to join her and a very important out-of-town client for dinner at a local restaurant. This gentleman, whose primary residence is in Iowa, had served in President Reagan’s cabinet and most recently been sent by the Bush Administration to attend some high powered meeting in Iraq. You get the picture. We were willing to bet he wasn't planning to vote for Obama in the upcoming election.

We were to show up at her house first for drinks and hors d’oeuvres and I seriously fretted about what we could possibly find to talk to him about all evening. I didn’t have to worry. Early on, he and Benard got into an animated conversation about Costco’s wonderful return policy and by the time they got through swapping their exciting experiences returning a remarkable variety of items, they were fast friends forever. Pamela and I sat there dumbfounded. It’s nice to know that Costco is an equal opportunity shopping world, with both Republicans and Democrats happily frequenting its aisles..

Since I do a minimum of cooking in my apartment, Costco’s super size quantities are not exactly my cup of tea. However, I am forced to admit I’ve been benefiting for years from Benard’s penchant for shopping there, and not just dinner-wise. Personally, my favorite place to shop for paper towels, Tide and toilet paper, is the always well-stocked storage closet in his apartment. The price is really right. Even better than Costco.
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Photo: My favorite purveyor of all things Costco.

MUSINGS BY JOAN #23


My cell phone bill arrived the other day, and according to Sprint, I’ve been indulging in an inordinate amount of something called Casual Data Usage. For a moment I thought (hoped?) this might be akin to Casual Sex, but while my memory isn’t always so terrific these days, I am quite sure I would have remembered that.

I checked last month’s bill and apparently I wasn’t dabbling indiscriminately in this Casual business during that period. In fact, as far as I can tell from all my cell phone bills, I was definitely into something new and different between June 15th & July 15th. Intrigued by the possibilities, I decided to visit my local Sprint office in Coral Gables.

First I must tell you that my latest phone is a snazzy little silver and black Katanya model by Sanyo (see photo) that supposedly does everything but cook breakfast. Most of it is wasted on me as I use it primarily to make and answer phone calls and check the time, with an occasional text message to or from my grandson Adam. I am aware that I can find out what movie is playing in town, check on the state of the next hurricane, play a whole range of electronic games, and upload music. None of which I actually know how to do or have any real interest in doing..

But I do on occasion use the camera in the phone, and lest you think I am truly technologically challenged, I am proud to say that I took the lovely photo of my cat, Wasabi, that serves as the screen saver on my phone. My apologies that it doesn't show up in the photo.

I once actually forwarded a phone photo to someone’s computer, and I remember the occasion well, because I had no idea how to do it and had to have outside help.

Andrea, Adam and I were in California for Poppy Artie’s memorial service. Arthur Mogull, Andrea’s biological father and Adam’s grandfather, had a legendary career in the music business, and a number of very famous people attended the service which was held in a large theatre. I preface this by saying that my grandson has spent a lifetime frowning in annoyance as his grandmother, with her ever present camera, insists on capturing. as he likes to put it, every second of his life. That day I didn’t have my camera with me, but I did have my cell phone.

When Adam was introduced to Olivia Newton John, who reportedly owed her discovery to his grandfather, she reached over to give him a hug. My grandson, the photo hater, turned around and hissed in my ear: “Jo, take my picture. . .quick! Don't forget to focus.” I whipped out my cell phone and memorialized the moment, much to his delight. He quickly forwarded it to his e-mail and all his friends, and I still don't have a clue how he did it.

I tell you that story because those of you who regularly read my blog know that I recently attended the Mango Festival at Fairchild Gardens. I didn’t have my camera with me, but I was so impressed with the Mango Auction that I used my cell phone to take a whole series of photos of the auction action. Back home I spent the better part of two hours, unsuccessfully trying to transfer the photos on to my computer, finally giving up and going with a photo of the official festival poster that I swiped off the internet.

Fast forward to my visit to the Sprint office. You guessed it. Casual Data Usage is not as exotic as I imagined. Actually, it's damned expensive. While my uploading efforts were ineffectual, the Sprint time clock was running big time. Apparently my plan doesn’t call for unlimited internet use like most kids take for granted these days. The nice young man took pity on me and offered to have the exorbitant charge removed from my bill. I had a sinking feeling he did it because I reminded him of his grandmother, but I was glad to get the credit.

Just for the hell of it, I asked him what I was doing so wrong. It turns out I was one click away from success, folks. Just one small click away. I may have to try again one of these days. Just as soon as the economy improves.

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Photo Caption: My cell phone. . the cause of it all!

MUSINGS BY JOAN #22

So what if the afternoon temperature was close to 100 degrees. Mango lovers were out in droves at Fairchild Tropical Gardens last weekend for the 17th Annual International Mango Festival, a combination entertainment/educational/retail/ agricultural event that is greatly anticipated in our part of the world.

We attended on Sunday, the second day of the event, and while “America’s Volunteer”, aka my significant other, shuttled hot and exhausted attendees loaded down with sacks of mangoes, to different parking areas, I conscientously taste-tested various mango chutneys, passed on sampling the mango beer, and treated myself to an ice cold mango smoothie, after which I retreated to the Garden House to attend my very first Mango Auction.

My attendance at the auction had more to do with the fact that the Garden House is air conditioned than my desire to purchase some rare albino mango direct from Mombasa. With that in mind, I entered the building to find literally hundreds of people holding mango-shaped paddles with numbers on them, and a real live auction in full swing.

Think Sotheby’s folks, except the auctioneer up on the stage is not hawking some priceless painting. Like real auctions, serious purchasers were able to view the items up for sale, all of which were displayed in various size heaps on both sides of a long U-shaped table extending down the center aisle of the large hall. Each platter of mangoes sported a printed card explaining the fruit’s exotic provenance. . .where it was grown, what special flavor to expect. It reminded me of descriptions for rare bottles of wine. It was actually damned impressive for someone whose only other close encounter with a mango was in the produce department at my local Publix.

Once.the auction started, the professional auctioneer would first hold up the platter of fruit in question, usually containing no more than 3 or 4 pieces, describe it in glowing terms, and then hand it off to one of a bevy of pretty girls who would saunter down the center of the U-shaped area, holding the platter aloft and posing, for all the world like a model on Project Runway.

I can’t remember most of the names of the offerings, but a few that caught my attention because of the high prices they brought were the Mallika from India, the Rare Diamond from South Africa, and the Ataulfo from Mexico. In all honesty, they looked pretty much alike to me, but then I am admittedly a Johnny Come Lately to mango expertise. A truly hot number was the Nam Doc Mai from Thailand. Those little beauties really caused a stir when it was their turn on the runway.

As the bidding on the Nam Docs began, paddles started raising and lowering around the room. $90, $90, $90. . . .do I hear $100????? . .$100, $100, $100. . . .the auctioneer intoned. A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. Cameras flashed to record the historic moment. (Need I remind you we are talking about a platter of 4 mangoes here? Even by my lousy arithmetic, that’s close to $25 a fruit. I couldn’t help but wonder if the eventual winner was planning to eat them or frame them.)

I must admit I left before the auction was over. It was now after 4 and I sought out Benard and his shuttle/golf cart to find out when we could go home and take a shower. The festival was scheduled to end at 4:30 and his shift didn’t end until 5. By that time the huge outdoor Fruit Market area, selling all different types of mangoes to ordinary folk like us, was getting ready to close up and close out.

We bought a box of 9 gorgeous plump specimens for $3. Sorry, I have no idea where they came from, but I had one for lunch today and it was delicious. I hope the guy who paid more than $25 for his, enjoyed it half as much.

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Photo caption: The Fairchild Mango Festival, home of the world's only Mango Auction

MUSINGS BY JOAN #21


A friend of my daughter is considering having a bumper sticker made that reads
“Free Michael Jackson. . .Bury him already.” She may have a point. The coverage has certainly been over the top

But then, again, the music business has always been over the top. I couldn’t believe all the fans standing around outside the Jackson home, and then I remembered back to the early 40’s when my sister and I would skip school and take the train to NYC so we could stand in line at the Paramount Theater with all the other bobbysoxers to see, Live! On stage! Frank Sinatra!

I can’t remember the movie that was playing, but in order to see Frankie, you had to sit through the main feature, the Pathe News, a couple of shorts and a cartoon. The stage show would come on between the features, and we would sit in the theater the entire day just to yell and scream and swoon when he finally came on. Actually, you could never hear a word he was singing, because everyone was screaming so loud.

One day our aunt, who lived in NYC, invited us to go to a war bond rally that was held at Bonwit Teller department store on 5th Ave. The big draw was that Sinatra was scheduled to make an in-person appearance. My sister and I were really excited to be this close up to our idol and when they announced that if you purchased a $25 war bond you could come up and kiss Frankie, we both rushed up, gave our father’s name and address, bought two bonds, and collected our kisses. Don’t ask what our father had to say when we got home. We protested we were being patriotic, but he didn’t buy that story for one second.

Other than Sinatra, I can’t remember being a true “fan” of any other singer or movie star. I did have a friend for many years where the sole basis for our friendship was that we kept a Sinatra scrapbook together when we were 12 years old.. Twenty-or-so years later, when my parents were packing up to move to Florida from their home in Mt. Vernon, NY where I grew up, I remember my mother calling me to plaintively ask “would it be all right if she threw out the scrapbook, or did I still want to keep it.”

In retrospect, I guess I was as rabid a fan of Frankie in those days as the Michael Jackson followers are today. We are talking the war years when it was patriotic to have a Victory Garden to grow your own vegetables and chickens to lay eggs. We had a chicken coop in our back yard with three hens. . .apparently I was studying King Arthur in school at the time, because our hens were named Lancelot, Rebecca and what else? Sinatra. I have no idea what happened to the birds when the war was over, but I can remember getting hysterical when my mother suggested that she cook them for dinner.

But back to MJ mania. . you have to be amazed at his longevity, if nothing else..When my 30 year old grandson was a little boy, he loved watching Michael on TV. When it was time for him to graduate from kindergarten, I bought him a Michael Jackson jacket, bright red with gold braid and epaulets, and a shiny white glove. He insisted on wearing it to the graduation ceremonies, and the photo on today’s blog was taken at that event. I believe he was the only Beth Am graduate so garbed that day.

He’ll probably kill me for this, but you gotta admit, he was adorable!

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Caption: Adam at 4 ½, doing his Michael Jackson imitation.

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"Rust Angel" / "She" / "Gnarly"
Mark de Suvero, Sculptor
Fairchild Tropical Gardens

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #19


I like to believe that the significant other and I are not the only ones who occasionally forget things. Maybe occasionally is not exactly the word I am looking for.

For several years now, one of my Channukah/Christmas gifts to Benard is a large leather bound appointment book. He keeps it open on the side of his desk, and is religious about writing down theatre dates, doctors’ appointments, and all the miscellaneous trivia that make up our daily lives. If I want to know where we are supposed to be two months from now, I can depend on finding it carefully noted on the pages of his beloved appointment book.

All of which makes what happened last Saturday even more ridiculous.

Around 10am my phone rang and the following conversation ensued:

Benard: Joan! I just looked in my appointment book and today is the Mango Festival at Fairchild Gardens and we are both supposed to be working it. I’ll pick you up at 1.

Me: Gee, that’s strange. I don’t have it on my calendar. Good thing you remembered.

Fast forward to 1pm . .we are in the car, on our way to Fairchild Gardens.

Me: I can’t understand how I didn’t have the Festival on my calendar. I could swear it was some time in July. How could I be so wrong????

Benard: (Long pregnant pause) You know, you may be right. Now that I think about it, I seem to remember Julie called and asked me to fill in as a tram driver today.

Me: Oh.. (Under my breath. . .so what am I doing here???) I guess I’ll see if they need .some help in the gift shop even though it isn’t my regular day.

Fast forward to the Visitors Center at Fairchild and the Volunteer’s Check-In Desk

Lady behind desk: Hi, Benard. What are you doing here today?.

Benard: I’m supposed to drive the tram.

Lady behind desk: Are you sure?. Your name’s not on the schedule for today.

Benard: It isn’t???

Lady trying to be helpful:Maybe you’re here for the Mango Training Session???

Benard & Joan in unison: The what????

So what would you like to know about mangoes, folks. . . .and yes, the Festival is in July. and yes, we will be working it, me in the kid’s area and he driving the shuttle. The really fun part about the one hour training session we obviously attended were the endless samples of luscious ripe mangoes. Absolutely yummy!

When we stopped laughing at all our screw-ups, we decided to treat ourselves to a private ride around the Garden. With all the recent rain, everything is lush and beautiful. Fairchild is one of the most important tropical gardens in the world today. If you’ve never visited it, you definitely should...

Benard commandeered a golf cart (there are some perks to being a tram guide & driver, even if you are there on the wrong day) and off we went for a close up look at the huge Mark de Suvero metal sculptures that have been on display throughout the Garden’s Lowlands since December and are shortly leaving us. Although I have passed them many times on the tram when Benard is giving his tour, neither of us has ever actually gotten close to them. This was our chance, and I had my camera with me (because I was going to take pics of the Festival, remember???)

The first thing we did when we got back home was to look at the entry in the appointment book. I didn’t feel it was necessary to point out that it quite plainly said Training after the words Mango Festival. But what the heck. Call it serendipity. The day turned out to be absolutely delightful. . .and definitely unexpected.

Incidentally, he is scheduled to fill in for a tram driver. . .but that’s next Saturday. We’ll both try to remember.


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Photo caption: Mark de Suvero sculptures at Fairchild.
Top to bottom: "Rust Angel", “She”; "Gnarly"

MUSINGS BY JOAN #19


It occurred to me recently that people from all over the world spend a fortune to visit South Beach and we haven’t set foot there since Benard’s 17 year old grand-daughter came to Miami with three friends and couldn’t wait to visit what they obviously considered Nirvana On The Atlantic. If I remember correctly, they also couldn’t wait to get rid of us once we got there. Incidentally, that grand-daughter just completed her third year of medical school, which gives you a rough idea of how long ago that visit occurred.

Why do I mention this? Because I am in the process of creating a “to do” list for Benard and me. If we’re not going to visit the polar bears in the Arctic this summer, (“1 on my travel wish list) or take a luxurious cruise to some foreign port, we are at least going to check off my list of South Florida places I’ve been meaning to visit, or in some cases, revisit, after many years..

My significant other is a remarkably patient man. He just smiles as I rattle on about new additions to my list. Since he has to accompany me on these adventures, he deserves extra points for going along with some of my stranger destinations.

Here’s a short list that is open to daily revision::

1. Take an airboat ride in the Everglades and eat lunch at the Seminole Indian reservation. See alligators. Try not to get attacked,

2. Drive to Cassadega in the middle of the state and visit with some of the 270 psychics that
live in this fascinating little community. (We did this when we first met more than 12 years ago and the psychic that Benard communed with asked him “Does the name Joan mean anything to you???? How could you not love this place?.)

3. Actually spend an afternoon at one of our condo community’s three swimming pools and maybe even get wet. Just kidding. Only if there’s a total eclipse of the sun. Then I may consider putting on a bathing suit.

But back to South Beach. One of the items on my list was to have lunch on Ocean Drive at one of the many chic sidewalk cafes that march down the non-ocean side of that fabled thoroughfare as far the eye can see. We did that last Saturday. It was a hoot.

First we had to make a decision as to which café to choose. This decision was taken out of our hands by the young man hawking the café at the Colony Hotel. His salesmanship was awesome. His charm unmatched . He had us at the mention of the $6.99 Lunch Special. (We found out later that iced tea and lemonade cost more than the lunch, but by then we were having too much fun to care.) Anyway, we succumbed to his mesmerizing pitch and were seated at a table for two, right on the sidewalk, with a 180 degree view of the passing parade, coming and going, .

You had to be there to fully appreciate the diversity of South Beach tourists. In a brief overview. and I do mean brief. . .they come in all shapes and sizes with an incredible amount of t & a.. Some spectacular. Some should have looked in the mirror before they ventured out. Tattoos are definitely mainstream these days. So are teeny tiny bikinis, huge designer handbags and small yappy dogs.

We spent two hours over lunch and enjoyed every minute. Next time I’m going to try one of those giant-size Mojitos that the couple at the next table were drinking. Hopefully we’ll get back there sometime soon. I have a great idea! Why don’t you come and visit us. . .we’ll give you the tour. I’m sure our new friend at the Colony Hotel Café will be happy to welcome us back. We’re old hands at this South Beach stuff now.

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Photo: A view of Ocean Drive on South Beach. I stole it off the web, that's why there is writing across it! Sorry about that.

MUSINGS BY JOAN #18

I don’t consider myself a shoe freak, but I have to admit I have trouble passing up a DSW store. (For the uninitiated, that stands for Discount Shoe Warehouse). I mention this because yesterday I returned home with a really wonderful pair of silvery metallic sandals only to be faced with the fact that I already own two perfectly fine pairs in the exact same color.

My rationale for this lack of fiscal discipline is thus: three pairs of shoes from DSW are equal pricewise (or possibly less) to one pair from Sak’s. Now if you are talking Jimmy Choo’s or Manolo’s, I am way ahead of the game financially. I think you have to be a woman to understand this line of thinking..

What really bothered me about the new pair of sandals was the fact that I was wearing one of my other pairs when I bought the new ones. I don’t want you to think that I am totally dimwitted and never noticed the resemblance. I did. But the pair I was wearing have their own odd story.

I am very fond of this pair. They are very comfortable and very Italian, with a nice wedge heel. I owned them for a full six months and was wearing them one day when someone said to me, “Joan, do you know you are wearing two different color shoes?”

My reply was,”You’re crazy. What makes you say that?”
Her answer was succinct. “Because one is silver and the other is bronze.”

As soon as possible, I removed both shoes, and I’ll be damned, they were two different colors. (See photo above!) I found it hard to believe that I had never noticed because I wear these shoes quite often. They go so well with everything.

With this incredible discovery, I sat ruminating about my sudden color blindness when I suddenly noticed that on the sole of each shoe, right below the words “Made in Italy”, was imprinted the shoe size in easily readable lettering. Just for the record, I wear a 6 ½ Medium. Clearly printed in black on the sole of the right shoe was the number 6. “Hmm,” I thought. “That’s odd.”

Now I turned to the left shoe. . . I swear I am not making this up. . . imprinted in silver, bright and shiny, was the number 7.

How did I get out of the store with two different color shoes in two different sizes and nobody noticed, most notably me? I wanted to blame it on the salesperson. If I was in such a daze, where was she/he? I considered trying to return them and ask for one matching pair, whichever color or size they could come up with. But I had been wearing them for six months and decided it was best to just go on ignoring the situation. (Is it any wonder my family calls me the Queen of Denial?)

So here I am. with three sets of matte silver (and one single bronze) metallic shoes. . .actually four, if you count the pair of pumps with 3” heels that are also in the same color. But, since they are closed toe, I’m willing to feel they don’t really count. As they like to say in the fashion magazines, silver is the new black, at least in my closet.

Should I, or should I not, return yesterday’s pair? To be or not to be, that is the question.

Me and Hamlet, we have a dilemma.

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Photo caption: The un-alike pair of metallic sandals. Pick a color!




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MUSINGS BY JOAN #17

I have a new respect for the power of water.

Why, you ask? Because my daughter Andrea and I just spent a full week without it. Actually, it was available, just not where we were living, 9200 ft. up in the mountains of Colorado, in a metropolis called Divide.

Divide is a stunningly beautiful mountain setting with a killer view of snow capped Pike’s Peak. We were visiting Andrea’s half sister and my “surrogate” daughter, Alison, her husband Jon and their “family”. . .three large rescue dogs and six assorted cats. Neither Alison nor Jon ever saw an animal in distress that they didn’t immediately take to their collective bosoms

The arrangements were for Andrea and me to stay in a wonderful A-frame home perched on the side of the mountain, about a quarter mile from their home. The house was not only delightful, but for the first 24 hours, totally normal. Then the water pump stopped working.

It was the start of the weekend and there was not a plethora of plumbers in Divide, so Jon and several of his friends tried to work their magic. No luck. The faucets, and need I mention the toilets, were dry as bones. Our elegant bathroom with the huge marble Jacuzzi tub stood reproachfully empty.

As a stop gap measure, each time we visited Alison & Jon’s home, we would haul back 5 gallon plastic jugs of precious water. We became very scientific in our distribution of these jugs, with one jug saved for “cooking” purposes. . the morning coffee, an afternoon cup of tea, a glass of water to take morning vitamins and evening pills. Even an occasional handwash. (God bless the bottles of antibacterial waterless hand foam I happen to have with me!) The rest of the precious liquid was doled out for, you guessed it, flushing purposes.

The house had three bathrooms and we assigned them thusly: Andrea owned the bath on the lowest level of the house. I owned the one on the main level. ( And never the twain shall meet.) We shared the one on the loft level where we slept. This one was reserved solely for “light use”.

Once the weekend was over and no plumber was still in sight, Alison and Jon urged us to move into their home, but we were feeling like pioneer women by this time, and as I said, we had the situation down to an exact science. Despite the fact that at 9200 feet a flight of stairs leaves sea-level Floridians and North Carolinians gasping for air, we had become very adept at lugging our water jugs up and down the stairs of our three level home.

Every couple of days we would arrive at Alison’s home with clothes in hand for a hot shower. Wow! What a luxury. We had to be careful not to overdo it, because Alison & Jon’s water came from a cistern that had to be refilled once a week, and we didn’t want to leave them in a waterless state as well. Colorado, we learned, has a severe water problem. Water is limited and very expensive. Who knew????

We had a fabulous week, despite our lack of liquidity. The incredible aspen trees had just burst into bloom and all around us was such beauty it was a delight to sit on our deck, read a book, and enjoy the beauty of nature. I’ve been to Colorado skiing many times, but this was my first experience of spring in this area.

Nobody cooks like Alison. . . .we literally dined every evening surrounded by Maggie, Louie and Bodhi, the dogs, with cameo cat appearances by Molly, Ellie, Sophia, Zoeie, Cleo and Mr. Miles Davis. We visited the wolf preserve one day, the fabulous mountainside zoo in Colorado Springs another. One day was spent in the adorable western town of Manitou Springs where we lunched in a castle. Another morning we breakfasted at The Hungry Bear in Woodland Hills, famous for its giant pancakes.

The week flew by and before we knew it we were in the airport at Colorado Springs, headed for home. Before boarding my plane I visited the ladies room and spent five minutes washing my hands with delicious hot water. The lady standing next to me thought I was nuts, but I was in heaven.

I will never take water for granted again. That’s a promise.

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Photo caption: The view of Pike’s Peak from the deck of our house.
The kids from the top: Bodhi, Maggie (with Jon), Louie