Some things are more important than others. . .

My favorite reading partner at WLRN public radio on Tuesday mornings had a serious problem to discuss with me this week. We have a full hour to prepare for our on-air time, and during the past  couple of months we've discussed the state of the election, the state of the union, and the state of our kids.  But today was more serious business.

Marianne needs to decide on a name for her new puppy.

You have to be an animal person to understand the importance of this weighty decision.  Her family is currently holding a voting poll on the subject, with the daughter in Washington, DC standing firm for one name, son in NYC lobbying for another, and husband opting for a third.  The new puppy is a two week old red poodle and won't be arriving at the family home until early December, but Marianne is determined that the name have something to do with "red".  . . her latest entry into the race is "Huck", as in Huck Finn who actually, according to Google, had reddish hair.

The whole subject of animal names fascinates me.  Our first dog when I was a kid was named Frisky. . don't think that would play today where my current friends' dogs are named Henry, Lola, Lolita and Jake.  My daughter has a friend who named her rescue dog Vitruvius.  What can I tell you.

Our first cat was named Zeus because he came from Athens. . .Georgia, not Greece.  Zeus was an elegant bluepoint Siamese, so when we adopted a forlorn little rescue tabby with no fancy credentials, we named him Percy Pureblood.  I tried to enter Percy into a local Cat Talent Show once as "G. Gordon Kitty, Paper Shredder". (It was during the Watergate bruhaha for you who are old enough to remember.).

As most of you know, Ginger and Wasabi run the show around my house and J.W. Rosenblatt holds sway at the significant other's apartment. You'll find Jake and Zoey at Andrea's house. How they got their names is a whole other story.

I'll read again with Marianne on Tuesday morning and find out who won the poll.  I'm not betting on Huck, but you never know.
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Photo caption:  Waiting to be named. . .

Speaking of Third World countries. . .

You just can't help but be proud!

Only 48 hours after the election was called for Obama, Miami-Dade County has announced they have completed counting their ballots.  Well, not exactly completed, even though it seems like Obama is well ahead. They still have several thousand provisional ballots to count until they are ready to actually sign off on last Tuesday's election. 

Don't be so picky.  After all, the entire State of Florida was the only blank area on that frozen iceskating rink map at Rockefeller Center at 1:30 in the morning when Romney made his concession speech.  The whole State gave up counting around mid-night and called it a day. . . a very stressful day, to say the least, especially down here in Miami Dade.

Don't know about your ballot, but ours was ten pages long and written in three languages:  English, Spanish and Creole.  By the time you got to the spot where you could actually make your mark, you forgot why you were there.  If you didn't come in armed with either the Herald's endorsements or your own list, once you actually got in the voting booth you could count on being a minimum of a half hour to an hour if you were a slow reader.  No wonder the lines were so godawful long!

Our wonderful Governor cut our early voting days in half, and made sure there was no voting on Sunday, the traditional day for "church voters". . politico-speak for Miami's black community.
You have to marvel at those who stood for as long as five hours and until 1:30 in the morning in order to have their vote count.

On second thought, I am sort of proud of you, Miami Dade, even though once again Florida is the laughing stock of the election.  The set-up might have been terrible and the State Legislature and our Governor did everything possible to dissuede you from voting, short of putting up a fence and staffing it with dogs.  But you did prevail. . .even if a few days later than the rest of the country.
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Who let the dogs out. . . .

It was Howl-O-Ween at Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden yesterday. . .the once-a-year time when dogs are welcome in the Garden, and they came by the droves, ranging in size from miniature Yorkies to elegant standard poodles. and gorgeous Labrador retrievers.

When Benard and I climbed into the tram cab to begin our 10 o'clock tour, we were greeted by
close to a dozen four-pawed guests, sitting bright eyed and bushytailed on the tram seats, looking for all the world like they couldn't wait to hear us dispense fascinating bits of botanical information.

I cracked up.  Whipped out my iphone camera and began clicking away.  Believe it or not, these doggies were better behaved then some of the guests we've had on tours.  Not to mention that I don't generally insist on kissing my visitors on the top of their heads.

Our "dog day" wasn't over after leaving Fairchild, however.  We have a new "Paw Park" here on the island where I live, and while we don't have a lot of little kids, we definately have lot of little dogs.  (There's a weight limit of 25 lbs for a pet here.  Benard's cat, J.W. Rosenblatt, is in serious trouble of exceeding that limit, but that's another story.)

Word was out that Halloween was being celebrated, dog style, at our Paw Park at 5pm, with cookies and water for four-footed guests, and cupcakes and wine for the two-footed variety.  My friend Sheila and her dog Henry were dressing for the occasion, so Benard and I decided to attend and represent Grove Isle's feline fanciers.  (That's us guys who own cats, not dogs.)  My appropriate mask (see photo) was courtesy of  my nail tech, Kathy, who happened to be wearing it when I had my nails done during the afternoon and I snatched it off her head.

OK, so I'm a little long in the tooth to be enjoying dressing up for Halloween, especially since I just celebrated another birthday, but here's a secret. . . .in some ways, I'm still a little kid.  And I had a ball.
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Photo captions:  Dogs at Fairchild on our tram, ready to be fascinated by my tour!!!  The lady in the cat mask is moi. . that's Benard enjoying the fun. .

Once upon a time in pr land. . .

I had lunch with two of my favorite people today.  Nikki Konefsky and Adriana Sol are hardworking, successful partners in what we used to call a public relations company.  I asked them to describe Vine Communications, their six year old firm, in "25 words or less" and they both dissolved in laughter.

"We're working on that," grinned Adriana. 

I understood their dilemna.  The business has changed so much since my company was in its heyday, that I hardly recognize it.  The challenges that Nikki and Adriana meet and address for their clients on a daily basis bear little resemblance to the free wheeling pr world that I thrived in.  But the basics still apply. . creativity, attention to detail, understanding your client's needs.

Branding is the new watchword, and social networking a must.  We had a lively discussion over lunch as to the state of fees and retainers these days.  I'm not as far removed on those subjects due to my current free lance writing jobs, but I know all too well how important it is to be paid properly for your work. 

Nikki and Adriana are both married now with Nikki the mother of two adorable little ones.  When I met them six years ago, they were just starting out.and very young.  They still look like teen-agers but believe me, they have matured businesswise.  When I sit and talk with them I can't help but think back to my early days as the owner of a growing company as well as a working Mom.  Those challenges haven't changed.

I'm proud of them both.  How ever they finally decide to officially describe their business, they are handling it well. You go, girls!

Photo Caption:  Lunch at Jaguar in The Grove.  Nikki, Adriana and me.
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Different strokes for different folks. . .

Some people believe the "ultimate show" is found on Broadway.

The significant other's drean production is a little closer to home. It's the Annual Americas Food & Beverage Show at the Miami Beach Convention Center and I'm in a state of exhaustion having just returned from a two hour eating and walking marathon.

There is nothing Benard loves more than a good freebie and this show is absolute Nirvana in that department. With about 200 booths from all over the world offering samples to eat and samples to take, he is in total heaven. I do the eating.  He does the taking, this year filling up to the brim two tote bags with goodies.  The Show even provides the bags. . .what more can you ask. Check out the photo below taken when we returned home.

As a (former) very successful Sea Food Distributer, Benard still receives an invitation to the Trade Only Show. A few years back, he registered me as "Secretary", so I also receive a name badge. I think my job is to be sure we take home at least one of everything that is being given away. My personal favorite is a square package of something called "Ooey Gooey Chocolate Cake" by the Southern Sweet  Potato Company of Mississippi.   Don't ask the calorie count of that one.

In between endless bites of all kinds of seafood and lots of fried sausagey stuff, I managed to put away a cup of Key Lime Gelato, a cup of Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream and a handful of yummy white Brazilian chocolate. I washed them all down with cups of Coconut Water, something from Brazil that tasted like coffee soda, a few sips of some new energy drink, some fresh pineapple juice and a glass of red wine. And oh yes, a cup of freshly brewed espresso.

Don't wait up for me for dinner, Benard.  I think I need to spend a few hours in the gym.

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This way to the Convention. . .

I always knew my kid had all the answers.

That's daughter Andrea, at the DNC Convention in Charlotte. Can't wait to hear the questions she was asked and the answers she gave. My experience working the info booth at Fairchild Garden for various events taught me that the most popular question is always "Which way to the Ladies Room". Hopefully, hers will be more broad-based and that's not a pun.

Charlotte, according to Andrea, is in total convention mode for the next few days, so she is taking the time to volunteer. Should be an interesting experience. While I doubt they will have their "Clint Eastwood moment", you never can tell. According to humor columnist Dave Barry in this morning's Miami Herald, he's putting his money on Joe Biden's speech to do the trick. (I did like Obama's comment that "this chair is taken".)

Conventions, for the most part, are scripted and boring events these days. Unless, I guess, that you're there and invited to all the fancy parties. The results of this election are not so scripted and far more important for my future, Andrea's future and the future of my grandson,and his family. I'm both a woman and a senior, so it's not hard to know which way I lean.

Whichever way you lean, please be sure to vote. That's my message for today. It's an important one.
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The fury of Andrew revisited. . .

Twenty years ago come Thursday, a Category 5 chainsaw called Hurricane Andrew cut a swath of ruin like no storm before it.
The Miami Herald, Sunday, August 19th.

You had to be there to truly understand it.

August 23rd, 1982 was a Sunday. When word came that Andrew was coming our way, the island on Biscayne Bay where I live was evacuated. At mid-day,I packed a few things into a duffle, stuffed my two cats, Pasha & Sasha, into one carry cage, and drove inland, south, to my daughter Andrea's home in Kendall. A really bad move. Who knew.

I'd been living in Miami since 1957 and the arrival of "hurricanes" was considered a good reason to party. So fear didn't enter into our consciousness as reports about Andrew started to flood the TV and radio news.

At Andrea's house we were two women, mother and daughter, and a 14 year old boy, my grandson Adam, plus 5. . I said 5. . .cats, my two and Andrea's three. As night fell and the wind and rain were definitely getting worse by the minute, we were faced with the fact that the entire back of Andrea's home consisted of floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors and no shutters (In those days I had no shutters on my waterfront condo, nor did any of my neighbors. Today they are mandatory.)

Suddenly aware of our vulnerability, we frantically searched for something to protect us from the possibility of broken glass. The only thing we could come up with was a series of 6' high cardboard posters with lifesize portraits of Adam in various sports outfits. . left over decorations from his recent bar mitzvah celebration. Hastily attached to the glass doors with tape, they would intermittantly be lit by lightning throughout the long night as we huddled together in the darkness on the hall floor.

We turned out to be one of the lucky ones on Andrea's block. She kept her roof on because her front door opened out and didn't blow in like so many others. For nine weeks after Andrew there was no electricity in her area as FPL struggled with downed trees and broken lines. Looting was rampant and Andrea was gratified to find many of her neighbors sitting on their front steps with a shotgun across their laps and signs that read "You loot. We shoot." And they weren't kidding.

My island survived Andrew with lots of damage but in better shape than Andrea's area. Our electricity came back in a little more than a week and my apartment welcomed a steady stream of friends who were still without and were dying for a hot shower. Hurricanes can really make you shift your priorities.

I don't find hurricanes funny any more. No one who lived through Andrew does. It may have happened 20 years ago, but in some ways it seems like yesterday. Reading about it on the front page of the Herald today brought it all back.
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Photo caption: Andrew approaches South Florida in full intensity.