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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