MUSING S FROM JOAN #7

My grandson, the lawyer, calls me the Human Dictionary. He is positive that I not only can spell anything, but I also know the meaning of every word in the book. A slight exaggeration of course, but in truth, my “spelling gene” stopped short at my daughter’s doorstep and was not passed on to my grandson either. They both owe a heartfelt “thank you” to the inventor of spell-check.

My daughter Andrea holds a BA degree in Journalism and is a whiz in marketing and public relations, but definitely can’t spell the word definitely. She persists in adding the letter “a” where no “a” has gone before. In desperation, I once bought her a necklace made of copper wire at an art fair that could be custom designed with the wearer’s name. Hers spelled “Definitely”. It didn’t help.

Words have been my business for more than half a century, but my sister and I owe our extensive vocabularies to our Mother. She was always sending us to the dictionary for the correct spelling and meaning of some new word. As kids, we were required to use “the word of the day” at the dinner table each evening, using it in complete sentences. This resulted in some odd dinner conversation but it certainly did wonders for our vocabularies. My Mother’s choice of words was sometimes a little over the top. The first time I heard the word “chauvinist”, was over a plate of meatloaf. You try working that into a sentence at 12 years old.

I am addicted to crossword puzzles. My significant other and I do “dueling puzzles” and the first one to complete the day’s offering in the Miami Herald is more than likely to phone the other with feigned sweetness to offer “help, should you need it.” We would both rather die than accept the offer.

My love of words extends to all sorts of games. My friend Ed Gadinsky still hasn’t forgiven me for beating him twenty years ago in a hard fought game of “My Word”. “My Word” is a board game, similar to Scrabble, and I trumped him at the last moment with the word “bobeche”. Ed, who is major competitive, to say the least, insisted there was no such word. Never mess with an experienced writer of interior design. Out came the dictionary (there was no Google in those days, and besides we were in the outback of North Carolina at the time), and voila! Victory was mine.

By the way, you probably own a bobeche, you just didn’t know it. A bobeche, dear friends, is the glass or metal cup that catches the dripping wax on a candlestick or candelabra. Look it up on Google if you doubt me. Esoteric, yes, but a winner that day. No wonder Ed sulked for the rest of the evening.

My secret vice is writing jingles. As my family and friends all know, give me a good excuse and I will write a celebratory “Ode to (fill in the blanks)” for the occasion. When Andrea grew up she received a “birthday ode” from her 16th birthday to her 21st when I laid down my pen only to pick it up again for her wedding poem. (No, I did not write a poem for her divorce or for either of mine, in case you were wondering.) My grandson Adam’s list of poems includes his graduations from high school, college and law school and, most recently, his 30th birthday. (I can’t imagine how I missed his bar mitzvah.) Even the significant other was the recipient of a poem in honor of his 80th birthday celebration. I enjoy writing them. You’ll have to ask my family and friends how they feel about receiving my rhyming chronicles of their lives.

Everybody needs a passion and I guess writing is mine. A couple of years ago I would have told you my passion was skiing, both downhill and après. I still enjoy the après part, (especially a well made sour apple martini or a nice pinot grigio), but strictly on level ground these days. Whatever your personal choice, I believe passion is necessary to keep you thinking young.

I believe that so passionately, I think I’ll drink to that.

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MUSINGS FROM JOAN #6

I have never written a fan letter in my life but I am considering writing one to Dave Barry, the columnist. I’ve come to realize it isn’t easy being funny on a regular basis, and I have new respect for his ability to continually turn out marvelously funny columns on demand for so many years. They say most comedians are more like tragedians in their personal life but I can attest that Dave Barry is as funny in person as he is on the pages of the newspaper.

I had the pleasure once of sitting next to the columnist and his son Rob, who was a teen-ager at the time, at a Miami Dolphin game. Barry was a friend and colleague of my late dear friend (and two-time Pulitzer prize winner) Gene Miller. Gene had four seats on two rows, so Dave and his son were sitting directly in back of us. It was one of the few times I paid no attention to the game on the field because I was laughing so hard as the voice in back of me kept up a running, totally hilarious commentary, on each play as the game unfolded.

But back to being funny. The only person I know who really considers me funny is my childhood friend Judy. We met when we were six (she insists we were actually five, but she is wrong) and we still giggle when we get together. Judy visited me recently in Miami and we spent the day, just the two of us, at the Zoo.. We laughed our way through the various animal exhibits, collapsing in hysterics at the rhinoceros compound. Don’t ask me why, we just find each other funny. You have to know us to understand.

A few years back, someone suggested a game where you are required to ask your friend/spouse/partner to describe you in one word. After some thought, I described my significant other as “caring”. He thought for a minute and described me as “organized”. I was horrified.

“Organized!””, I shrieked. “What kind of description is that? I was hoping for “sexy”, maybe “stunning”, I’ll even settle for “smart”. But “organized”. . . .you gotta be kidding.”

“No,” he shot back. “I’m sorry, but you are one of the most organized people I’ve ever met.”

I think he meant it as a compliment even if it wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for. But the truth is, I am organized. My sign may be Llibra, but I have Virgo rising, which makes me a list maker. As my daughter will tell you, because she is cursed with the same problem, my lists are done in perfect outline order, starting with Roman numeral I, moving through capital A and down through arabic numeral 1 and small a. Nothing makes me happier than to be able to draw a line through a competed item on my list, and no day is truly completed until all the items have been crossed off, or if necessary, moved to tomorrow’s list.

I think it’s the result of 60 years of business life. Maybe now that I am semi-retired, I can get him to change his word. I’m afraid “gorgeous” is out, and I think I’m a little long in the tooth for “cute”. I believe I’ll work on “elegant”. A really “caring” man should agree to that, don’t you think???

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PS: The caption for this photo should read "Organizing Wasabi & Gimger". That's a joke, folks. . nobody could organize those two, they never saw a list they couldn't chew up and spit out, all over my rug.

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MUSINGS FROM JOAN #5

Ask me anything you want to know about carnivorous plants, I’m the Queen of The Venus Flytrap. Why, you ask, do I happen to have in depth knowledge of such an esoteric subject? Because I’ve sold a ton of those little insect-eating suckers in the last five years as a volunteer in the kids' area at Fairchild Botanical Garden’s Annual Ramble.

Which brings us to the subject of volunteering and senior citizens. Now that I am semi-retired due to the present economy. . .ok, I’m out of work for the first time in my adult life. . .I am following in the steps of my significant other and becoming one of a vast army of senior volunteers who do an incredible amount of mostly unsung good work.

For a long time I have laughingly called Benard “America’s volunteer”. This is a name I coined for him because I never cease to be awed by this retired businessman’s jam packed schedule of volunteering.

An incredibly active man at 82 years of age, who still sports a gorgeous head of silver hair, stands 6’2” tall, and just recently started using a cane which makes him look more distinguished than ever, he serves as a tram guide at Fairchild Botanical Gardens, is a house guide at Vizcaya Museum, teaches “Safe Driving for over 55” classes for AARP, guides school tours through WLRN public TV and radio studios, works in the media department at the annual Sony-Ericcson Tennis Tournament on Key Biscayne., and serves on the Board of Directors of our condominium complex where he is the head of the Security Committee. Phew! That’s what I call a lot of volunteering.

Using him as my role model, I began volunteering seven years ago as a guide at Vizcaya, and in addition to my stint at the Carnivorous Plant booth at the Fairchild Ramble each year, when time permitted, served as a docent for Art In The Garden. Currently I help out on Monday afternoon’s with inventory in the Garden’s busy gift shop. I am a whiz with the plastic gun-like apparatus that spits out little price labels, and can price up a carton of objects faster than any other volunteer, according to the paid employees. Every little accolade helps these days.

Because I am dyslexic with numbers, I have never really mastered the art of card playing or mah jong that many of my friends enjoy, and I’m not much of a shopper. So how does a newly semi-retired Type A person fill up their days? Good question. I’ve been working on it.

My friend Jackie decided I should take a painting class with her and it has opened up a whole new world. The class is part of the program for seniors at OLLI, an acronym for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, located on the University of Miami campus in Coral Gables. My classmates may all be seniors, but they are remarkably creative artists, and I am amazed at some of the work they turn out. We work in acrylics and our teacher, Daphne, who is also a senior, has the patience of a saint.

As I haul out my paints, my easel and all of my paraphernalia, I can’t help but think of my Mother who took up painting at the age of 70. At the time I remember thinking, wow! how amazing of her to start something new at such an advanced age. (Need I remind you I am almost a decade older!) In retrospect, I realize that my Mother never stopped learning. She was always taking classes. Always interested in learning something new. I know I inherited her “writing gene” and I realize now I must have also inherited her need to continue to learn. But I’m afraid I was behind the door when they passed out her “painting gene” She was damned good and veryone in the family vied for one of her primitive-style paintings. I’m not so sure my family will be vying for mine.

But that really doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m having a ball with it. And whether you are 17 or 79, isn’t that what it’s all about?

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Joan Spector lives in Miami, Florida and is president of Joan Spector Public Relations, Inc. She is pleased to report that the economy may be starting to creep back. . .an old client just called with a paying job! Whoopee!

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #4


My grandson, the lawyer, sent me an incredibly thoughtful, extremely insightful overview on the state of my stock portfolio the other day. I haven’t a clue what he was talking about. . . .he lost me right after Dear Jo. . . .but I was definitely impressed at the depth of his financial knowledge and grateful that in the end, he approved of my diversification..

What I really want to know is, when did the little towheaded boy who used to hold my hand when we went looking for shells in the sand at our beach house, turn into this 30 year old maven of mutual funds? When did this role reversal take place? Obviously, while I wasn’t looking. Because there is no doubt these days that he is a helluva lot more knowledgeable about stocks, bonds, and the market in general, then I will ever be.

I have learned how to text message on my cell phone for only one reason. If I want a quick reply from my grandson, I know I can always get one that way. He rarely answers his cell phone during the business day, and e-mail may wait till the evening, but a short text message does it every time. Not another soul in my circle of friends even knows how to text, much less sends me a message. Not even my daughter. . .who sports one of those annoying Blackberrys that is constantly making strange sounds. . . does text messaging on a regular basis. I think she was forced to start when she found out I was doing it..

Yes, we are truly living in an electronic age. My grandson’s wife is a 2nd grade school teacher in Jacksonville. She teaches a “gifted class” and her students are amazing. I know every one of them by name as well as who is good at what, although I have never met them in person. How do I know? Because Amy regularly blogs about her class to the students’ parents, who keep up on what’s going on with videos and still photos of the kids at work as well as postings of their actual writings and projects. Incredible! If you still have a vision of 2nd grade teachers as little old ladies in sensible shoes, forget about it. Believe me, you never had a teacher as good looking and creative as Amy. It’s no wonder her kids love her.

I am the first to admit that I am not your average grandmother. I don’t bake. I don’t roast. As a matter of fact, I actually don’t cook. A friend of mine once presented me with a pillow for my den couch that reads "All I Make for Dinner is a Reservation". That sort of sums it up. Years ago, I used to try, but in all honesty, I was never very good at it. My excuse was always that I was a business woman and busy being a wife and mother. Something had to give. In my case, it was cooking. As a matter of fact, as a teen-ager, my daughter rebelled against her mother, as most teenagers did, by doing something most teen-agers didn’t. She became a gourmet cook.

When my grandson was in his teens I asked him once if it bothered him that his grandmother didn’t bake cookies. His answer: “Hell no. You have great seats for the Dolphin games, the Heat games and the Panther games. I can buy cookies.”

So much for Martha Stewart in our family. A good sports event will win out every time.

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #3

Someone once said that dogs come when called, cats take a message. My cats didn’t get that memorandum. They not only don’t take a message, they expect me to hold the phone for them.

Wasabi and Ginger are brother and sister “rescue cats”. Rescued, actually, from the not-so-mean streets of downtown Fort Lauderdale. I found them on line at a website called http://www.strayaid.com/. I was looking to adopt some abandoned water soaked kittens from Hurricane Katrina, but their adorable photos and catchy names (you have to be a sushi eater to appreciate the joke) were too much to ignore.

To regress for a moment: My much loved pair of 16 year old pedigreed Siamese cats had recently gone to that great litter box in the sky, and I was in need of someone to talk to around the house who would truly listen to what I was saying. Pasha and Sasha not only listened to my every word, but were elegantly cool and truly regal. Together, they could thread their way through a forest of precious Baccarat crystal without causing so much as a quiver among the glassware.

Wasabi and Ginger, on the other hand, are right out of the “hood” They have never seen a piece of bric-a-brac they couldn’t break. They have managed to do away with several large pieces of raku pottery that I treasured. They have resurfaced the arms of my den couch in an artful thatch pattern. (It is politically incorrect to declaw these days. I had to sign a statement to that effect when I adopted them.)

To my awed dismay, they discovered early in their kittenhood that, given a fast start, it was entirely possible to climb those interesting walls in the living room right up to the ceiling. Little did my interior designer know that his innovative idea to put Berber carpeting on two free standing walls would scare the hell out of visitors who sometimes arrive to find one of the cats casually hanging upside down from the ceiling.

Although advertised on the website as being part Siamese, perhaps because of their pale coloration when very young, it quickly became evident that Ginger was growing up to be a short haired tabby, small boned. light weight, and tough as nails. Wasabi, on the other hand, evolved into a long haired Maine Coon, with all the weight and heft of that breed, and a marshmallow of a personality. She leads. He follows. Knocking over everything in their path as they go.

More times than I can count, they have managed to knock a fiberglas sculpture of a tall, narrow boat off the wall in my entrance foyer. Despite our best efforts to nail/screw/glue the sculpture securely to the wall, little seven pound Ginger begins its ultimate downfall by utilizing the point on the bottom of the boat to vigorously scratch her back each morning. This insures that any type of wall fastening we have used, and believe me we have used many, is now significantly loosened. Once finished scratching, she steps daintily aside to make way for her brother to finish off the job.

Packing 14 pounds of furry muscle, Wasabi’s end run from the bedroom to the kitchen, where breakfast is waiting, provides enough speed and torque to dislodge the poor boat from its moorings and send it tumbling to the floor, time and time again. Luckily the artist is very much alive or he would be turning over in his grave at what’s happening to his masterpiece.

Why do I put up with them? Good question. Who would wake me up with kisses in the morning to let me know it was time to open his favorite can of cat food? How would I put my make-up on before going to work if Ginger wasn’t sitting on my dressing table watching my every move and nodding her approval? (She is such a girly cat.)

Klutzy, yes. But funny always. And supremely lovable. I guess you have to be a cat person to really understand.

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Joan Spector lives in Miami, Florida and is president of Joan Spector Public Relations, Inc. Her next post will explore the pitfalls of volunteering from her point of view. She can be e-mailed at jspec0963@aol.com.

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #2

REFLECTIONS ON BEING 79 1/2 YEARS OLD. . . .by Joan Spector

My grandson, the lawyer, tells me that I am the only computer savvy grandparent in his and his wife’s extended family. That’s not much of an accolade considering that neither of her two sets of grandparents even own a computer and the sole grandfather left on our side has trouble opening an e-mail.

Which brings me to the subject of Facebook. If you’re not familiar with the name, just ask your grandchildren. Believe me, they know all about it. I don’t want to sound boastful, but I have not only discovered Facebook, I am now a member with an astonishing roster of young and middle-aged people throughout the country who have agreed to be my “friends”, thanks to this remarkable website.

Don’t ask me how it works or how all these people found out about my page. Every day when I open up my computer somebody else whose name is vaguely familiar is requesting to “be my friend”. I am an equal opportunity Facebooker. . .I accept every request with pleasure, send back a friendly note, and away we go. Bosom buddies!

I am also learning a whole new language because Facebookers, schooled in text messaging, no doubt, don’t bother with full sentences and little niceties of perfect grammar. As a once-and-forever English major, who has made her living writing for the last half century, a well formed declarative sentence dies hard, but I am getting the hang of it.

Now that I am an old hand at Facebook, I have introduced it to my 82 year old sister, the true techno-nerd of the family. A woman who was literally carried on the palms of his hands by her doting husband before he passed away almost twenty years ago, she could today pass an electrician’s licensing exam with one hand tied behind her back. . She has personally installed her latest computer, DVD player and TIVO apparatus, making my pretty respectable knowledge of those machines pale by comparison. And did I mention she is also a gourmet cook?

But back to Facebook and the entry into a whole new world that it offers. These days I find myself privy to the back and forth conversations of my grandson and his friends on their “walls”, as well as a whole bevy of people of all ages who have invited me into their cyber space. I admit at times what they have to say makes me flinch, but I am also awed by the level of their interest in finance, politics and world affairs as well as their addiction to Fantasy Football.

In case you are interested, you can sign up by going to facebook.com. Ask me to be your “friend”. I’d love to.

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Joan Spector lives in Miami, Florida and is president of Joan Spector Public Relations, Inc.

If you are a cat person, you are going to want to read her next posting. She can be e-mailed at jspec0963@aol.com..

Musings by Joan #1

REFLECTIONS ON BEING 79 1/2 YEARS OLD. . . .by Joan Spector

50 was a piece of cake. 65. . .no problem. Even 75, I like to feel, was handled with a certain sophisticated aplomb. Mostly because I was still actively involved in business, felt great, looked pretty good and was convinced that 75 was the new 60. I’m sure I read that somewhere and I always believe what I read.

With the arrival of 79, a slight warning bell went off deep in my subconscious. My God,
next up is the Big 80. Impossible. Unthinkable. Down right depressing.

The first piece of evidence came at my most recent bone density test. I have been
exactly 5 feet tall since my sixteenth birthday. (In my head I have always been on the statuesque side, but that’s just in my head.) When the technician began to intone my height for the records, I could swear I heard the words “4 feet., 11 and. . . .”

“Stop, I yelled. I wasn’t standing up straight. I demand a recount!” Patiently, she waited as I sucked in my gut, fluffed up my hair, and finally said, “OK, now I’m ready. Measure away.” 4 foot 11 and ¼” came the response. My mouth opened in protest. .”Don’t push it,,” said the tech, with a warning look.

That evening at dinner with my significant other, I moaned about my terrible height loss. “What’s ¾ of an inch, for heaven’s sake?” he protested, looking down at me from his 6’2” Olympian height. “The difference between cute and gnomelike,” I snarled back. Only someone who used to be 5 feet could understand.

The real hell of this insulting height loss is the fact that I’ve also lost the ability to wear those sexy 3 1/2” heels that line my closet shelves and always made me feel tall and graceful. Nowadays, they hurt like a sonofagun after 15 minutes standing, much less dancing, at some friend’s grandson’s bar mitzvah or wedding. According to what I read, the fat that used to be in the ball of my feet and made walking in stilettos a piece of cake, has immigrated to other places in my body. So much for tall and graceful. Where did I put my Nikes? I think I’ll go out for a walk.

The other day I was musing about the state of my arms. This was caused by the frightening thought that I might have to put on a bathing suit due to the fact that we were taking a Caribbean cruise with three other couples. Worse still, it meant the necessity to buy a new bathing suit since the last one obviously had shrunk, caused I am sure, by chlorine in some long ago pool. Here’s the good news. The ship ran into a stretch of bad weather. All the women in our group agreed it was too cold to lie out at the pool. Phew! That was close.

Back to my musing. . .I was thinking. . . if the good Lord said I could have one body part restored to the way it looked when I was 21, what would I choose? Arms? Legs? Waist? Breasts? We’re not talking plastic surgery here. This would be instant gratification, the kind that only the Deity could provide. Oh, the possibilities. I still haven’t decided, but I’m working on it.

Speaking of plastic surgery. . . .I’m a believer. Been there, done that, and ever grateful to Dr. Larry Robbins for his artistry. My chin line still looks pretty darned good, if I say so myself. Thanks also to Bobbie Brown, Estee Lauder, and all the others who have kept me moisturized, buffed and bronzed throughout the years. And let’s not forget that genius of hair coloring, my hairdresser, Louis. What would I do without you? .

Two marriages and two divorces later. One wonderful daughter and one incredible grandson. Two rescue cats who run my household with iron paws. A thirteen year relationship with a great guy. Still, I have to admit that for the last fifty-plus years my identity has been strongly tied to my business life and the success of my public relations agency. My mother’s “writing gene”, as it is known in our family, has been an enduring gift that has stood me well, both financially and emotionally..

80 years old? I can handle it. I think I read somewhere it’s the new 70.

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Joan Spector lives in Miami, Florida and is president of Joan Spector Public Relations, Inc. She has recently discovered Facebook and is now “friends” with a whole new world of interesting people. She can be e-mailed at jspec0963@aol.com.
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