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!