Living large on someone else's dime!

If you wonder why I don't retire already, it's because I love my business. For the past 53 years here in Miami, it has taken me to some fabulous places from Havana, Cuba in the early days, to Italy and Spain during my time with the tile and stone industry. Yesterday, it took me to West Palm Beach to the Rybovich Dock Yards, where I warily climbed a metal ladder to board the "My Max", a 113 ft. luxury yacht. I say warily because I was carrying my briefcase in one hand and my handbag in the other, leaving me precious little to grab on to as the ladder and I swayed in the stiff breeze. Needless to say, I made it to the deck safely, so let me tell you why I was there.

Possibly you are familiar with the Simon Company shopping malls around the country. So far, I've had the pleasure (financially and otherwise) of writing the copy for brochures on Mr. & Mrs. Simon's personal properties including a former 162 ft. motor yacht named Te Manu, their estate, Greystone, on Red Mountain in Aspen, two of their three homes in Casa de Campo in the Dominican Republic, and most notably their main residence, Asherwood, in Indianapolis. . .that's the one with its own 18 hole and 9 hole golf courses serving as the back and side yard. I spent three days living there last year writing that one, but that's another story altogether.

Apparently, Mrs. Simon, recently widowed, has decided to sell "My Max', which is listed at a mere $11.5 million, and yesterday's assignment was to hurry up and write copy so the advertising agency can design and produce the brochure in time for the upcoming Miami Boat Show on Feb. 11th.

I left the house at 7:30am in order to arrive at the boatyard by 9:30, driving up I-95, my most disliked highway. I drive a little sportscar and the trucks seems to get ever larger on that road. Personally, I'm a Turnpike girl, but Mapquest refused to show me the closest exit to where I was going, so I submitted, not too happily, to their insistance on their way which was the highway.

The yacht, which was built in Italy in 2000,had recently been totally refitted. . God only knows why. . .but as usual, Mrs. Simon's taste level is superb, and the interior,very art deco in style, is absolutely stunning. I don't want to sound picky, but I think I liked the Te Manu's more classical decor better. Don't tell her I said so. I think that one cost around $80 million, so it deserved to be more gorgeous.

Although CJ Walker, the professional photographer I've worked with on each of these Simon assignments, was already on board shooting, I bring my trusty little Nikon CoolPix (you know, the one that Ashton Kutcher is always playing with on those tv commercials) and take my own photos so that when I get back to my office and start to write I can visually remember what I was trying to say in my chicken scratch notes. My photos won't win any awards, but they do the trick when it comes to remembering details.

I suggested to the ad agency that I wouild get a better "feel" of the yacht if it took me out for a sail. . preferably to some place far away. . .but so far, I'm stuck at the dock. My favorite part of this ship was what the captain called "the garage". ( See photo.) The entire back wall of the boat opened electronically to expose a 16 ft. tender and every kind of water toy you could think of, plus fishing equipment and scuba gear. I might even put on a bathing suit for this one.

As Benard and I often kid his friend Harvey, there's rich, very rich and very, very rich. In this case, I think you have to add several more verys. Even in today's economic recession. Oh well, it was a fun day. . . .now back to reality.
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Photo caption: The ship's "garage" and the best I could do to capture My Max in all its regal beauty.

Baby, It's Cold Out There. . .

Call me a wimp, but I got out my ski underwear and my wooly gloves yesterday. The thermometer on my balcony said 40 degrees, with a wind chill of god-knows what, at 7:30am as I got ready to go out for my morning walk. I've been living in South Florida since 1957. I may not sound like one, (apparently New York is forever in my vocal cords), but I'm a southerner in my bones, and man, it is cold out there.

You gotta love Floridians when the temperature drops below 70 degrees. Even the dogs are sporting sweaters. Last night I got into the elevator to go to my apartment with a woman holding a chihuawa wearing an elegant pink and white striped turtleneck. I commented on the sweater and the woman, in all seriousness, asked if I'd like to see her hat. She then proceeded to proudly plop a matching wool cap, topped by a large pink pompom, on its little head. I just wished I had my camera.

I spent years skiing all over the world and never minded the cold. Apparently my brain accepted the fact that skiing and cold go together along with three layers of clothing and hot chocolate, or better still, hot toddy at apres ski. But here in South Florida, it's a different story. I can't complain to my daughter because the weather's in the teens in Charlotte where she lives, and they are expecting snow, so she isn't exactly sympathetic.

According to the weatherman on TV this morning, it's going to get worse before it gets better. This weekend we'll be dipping down into the low 30's. I may have to add a fourth layer or possibly dig out my goggles and ski mask for Saturday morning's walk. I feel sorry for the events people putting on "Taste of The Grove" this weekend. It's a very popular annual outdoor event in the parks and streets of Coconut Grove. Not exactly picnic weather, I'm afraid.

Any one for a frozen paella or a Cuban coffee popsicle????
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Photo caption: Ginger, ready for the cold weather.
By the way, my faithful bloggers, we didn't win the Ultra Pet "Pet of the Month" contest, despite all your much appreciated votes. We were beaten out by a very worthwhile competitor . .Jasper, aka Tiny Tim. . .a three-legged rescue cat. Wasabi and Ginger, in a show of good sportsmanship, sent Jasper their congratulations. Ginger is still not too happy about losing. . .she gave the Ultra Pearls in her litter box an extra hard kick when she heard.

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