I've got a problem, folks. . . .

I have a new addiction.  I admit it.  It doesn't come in a bottle or from a syringe.  It's more in the form of an app on my cell phone and I can't stay away from it.  If this keeps up, I may have to consider rehab.

It's called Magic Puzzles and it is turning me into a jigsaw fanatic.  At last count I have successfully completed 46 individual puzzles in the last two months, plus one additional "free" puzzle for each day of July and August.  Not to mention the fact that I have worked my way up to the next-to-highest difficulty level.  I definitely need help.

I'm starting to relate to the kids you see glued to their cell phones playing Pokémon and all different games.  This morning I finished off two puzzles from the Wild Animal series while supposedly watching Meet The Press.  One was a picture of a Madagascan lemur, the other a pygmy sloth from Panama.  Don't ask me what they were talking about on the TV, I was much too involved to pay any real attention to the latest on Donald and Hillary.

I've always loved a good crossword puzzle and the day wouldn't start right without my two cups of coffee and the Miami Herald's daily offering, but this new addiction is getting out of hand.

Any suggestions out there for a cure, short of losing my iphone????

Bad Stuff!  Stay away from it.

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Memories are made of this . .

I went to the Wolfsonian Museum on Miami Beach today.  If you've never been there it is the result of the astonishing collection of memorabilia from the 1850's through the 1950's by Mickey Wolfson, the very wealthy scion of one of Miami's first families.

The collections change every few months and the premier one right now is titled "Promising Paradise: Cuban Allure, American Seduction."  For me, it was a walk down Memory Lane, revisiting the years 1958 and 1959, when it was part of my job to fly to Cuba once a month and review all the major night club shows in Havana for the entertainment editor of the Miami Beach Sun. 

Paul Bruun, the man who hired me for this fascinating job, was the "Walter Winchell" of our town in those days, and it was his name that appeared in the newspaper on my written  reviews, but my name that appeared on the monthly check that he paid me. He also paid all my expenses to fly there and back and stay at one of the top hotels, either the Havana Riviera,  the Havana Hilton, or the Havana Nacional.  (The only thing he wouldn't pay for was my husband's airfare on Cubana Airlines, $25 round trip!  We managed to begrudgingly come up with that.)

But it was one particular nightclub in the exhibition at the Wolfsonian that mesmerized me today.  An entire room was dedicated to Havana's famous Tropicana Nightclub, and I knew it very well.  In addition to reviewing its incredible shows, held outdoors under the palm trees, with gorgeous showgirls  parading on catwalks through the trees, my public 


Exhibit at the Wolfsonian

relations firm was also responsible for representing the Club in the American press.  For that reason, I spent more time there than any of the other clubs we visited.

The Tropicana's gambling casino, in fact the entire club, was overseen by a man named Lefty Clark.  In truth, Lefty represented the Mob, the true owners of the club, but he was a very likeable guy who was extremely nice to me and my husband Ralph, who always accompanied me on my trips to Cuba (much to the annoyance of my client, Mr.Bruun, who was a well known lecher.)

We would usually show up at the Tropicana on Friday evening for the midnight show, having already reviewed the 10 o'clock show at one of the hotels, and would go on to do a 2am show before quitting for the night and heading back to our hotel room at close to 4 in the morning. Three in a night was my limit, and we would do another three shows on Saturday night before returning home on Sunday.  (Remember, I was a lot younger then!)  Since all the clubs knew who I represented, and that I was there to review, we were always seated next to the stage and I would just sign the bill for whatever we ate or drank. That was a good thing, since we were not exactly in the chips in those days and these were expensive places.

My favorite memory of the Tropicana:  Lefty Clark welcoming us on our arrival, giving me a hug and simultaneously handing my husband a $10 roll of quarters. "Go play the slots, Ralph,"  he would say, patting him on the back.  "Joan has to work." 

We were scheduled to go to Havana for New Years of 1959 but decided not to go because we had a party in Miami we wanted to attend.  It was a good thing we didn't.   If you know your history, Castro and the Revolution arrived on January 1st, 1960.  Haven't been back since, but I did have many memories looking at the Wolfsonian's presentation today..
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Menu/program cover
 

Desi and Luci. . . he played the Club very often

 

Ginger's upset she wasn't invited. Wasabi couldn't care less.

Friday evenings are traditionally "Wine Down Time", here at Grove Isle.  Especially if you own something with four legs and a full coat of hair.  In the winter, when it's cooler, the parties are held at our waterfront dog park.  Now that it's so hot, we've been making it to the bar at the  Grove Isle Club, but a nasty new rule that no dogs are allowed has made life difficult for our group.

I know, you're thinking now, "She doesn't have a dog.  What's she talking about?"  You're right, I don't.  I proudly represent the Feline Owners at our community, and although we're not actually invited, by this time the dogs all know me, so I manage to pass.

Last night the party was very special.  It was hosted by Henry Goodman, Sheila's malti-poo, and was held in his apartment (and believe me, it is his), and attended by four of his best friends.  Also along were their assorted owner/parents, but they were just there for the good wine and food.  It was the "four paws" night and they enjoyed it thoroughly.

Herewith the guest list:


Henry, the host (with his Mommy)

Brindle

Chloe

Mila

Oliver
 

Will somebody tell me why I wasn't invited????

Wine & writing. . .a great combination

My friend Sheila and I spent an unusual evening last night.  We both received an e-mail that the Miami Book Fair was holding something called First Draft: A Literary Social, described as "a monthly series of informal writing events that turn happy hours into great stories".   If that didn't inspire us enough, the fact that it also mentioned that drinks were on the house, had us up and moving.

We arrived at the Langford Hotel in Downtown Miami at 6:30 sharp to find a roomful of interesting looking people, mostly women but quite a few men.  With glasses filled  and bowls of pretzels on every table,  host Julie Anne Howe, explained that the evening's theme was "All The Rage", and that we would have ten minutes to write on one of three subjects:  "What I Won't Wear."  "What I Will Wear."  and finally "My Personal Style Monologue".

When the 10 minutes were up, the first 5 or 6 of the 10 or 15 people in the room would come up to the microphone and read what they wrote.  One girl wrote "I Won't Wear a Frown".  Very deep.  Sheila wrote "I Won't Wear Turquoise."  I had no idea she felt so strongly about the color.  Here's what I wrote. . you kinda had to hear it out loud to understand the deep emotion it conveyed.

"WHAT I WON'T WEAR" by Joan Spector

Who decided that women's pants had to be skinny?  A 20 year old, no doubt.  One of those Millenials we're always hearing about lately.

Skinny pants are for kids, or at least girls with Kardashian butts, not elegant adults.  We wear boot cut trousers, or flowing slacks that provide a little defense for those of us who still remember Gloria Vanderbilt's famous comfortable jeans.

No, I won't wear those skinny minnies.  So what if that's all I can find in my local department store.  I prefer to stand up for my rights, not to mention my octogenarian legs.

So I say, senior ladies, unite!  We have nothing to lose but our former good bodies.

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Not one of my finer pieces of writing but I actually got quite a round of applause from the audience.  It was truly a fun evening and the wine was fabulous.  Can't wait to go again next month.

My phone keeps ringing. . . .

I received an urgent phone call this morning informing me that I am in deep trouble.  My student loan has been flagged by the government, and if I click on the #1 button, I will be informed of a special plan to help me pay it off.  I can just imagine.

Since my last day as a "student:" of any kind came in early June of 1949, (I remember the date well, because I got married on June 12th of that year), I didn't bother clicking.  Actually, I wasn't aware that I still had a student loan. As a matter of fact, I never had one.

From my high school year book, ready to go to
college without a student loan!

In my day, your parents started putting away money for your college enrollment from the day you were born, and there were no such things as student loans.  Then again, unlike today's astronomical college prices, if I remember correctly, Syracuse University cost my parents about $250 a semester, plus the cost of my dorm room and food in the school cafeteria.

By the way, I've been on the "Do not call" list for ages, but apparently that's not stopping anyone calling from India or the Mid East.  Yesterday, the call was from the IRS, warning me, in a heavy accent, that I was again in serious trouble and had better call a certain number with all my information ASAP.  I guess that hefty check I sent back in April just wasn't good enough.

One of my favorite Miami Herald columnists, Fred Grimm, wrote recently about his annoyance with unsolicited phone calls at all hours of the day and night. He is on both the Federal and State "Do not call" lists, and what doubly annoys him is that the calls are all "robo calls", so there's no one on the other end of the line to hiss at or complain to.

That's my problem as well.  With the IRS call, I found myself shrieking obscenities into the phone although I knew full well there was no one actually there.  Obviously the scammers have long since done away with the "Do not call" lists, and somewhere I've landed on a lot of "Do call" lists.  Nice to know I'm so popular.

Just for the hell of it, I tried calling back one of the robo-call phone numbers.  According to a robo-call operator, "That number is no longer in service."  Gee whiz, what a surprise. I guess my student loan will just have to go unpaid for another 67 years!

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No expense spared. . .

Wasabi and Ginger are rescue cats, but they have long since turned into spoiled pets who run my household with iron paws.  The one thing they both insist on is availability of their favorite toys.  I'm not sure my bank account can keep up with their pressing needs.

Wasabi not only plays incessantly with his favorite "toy", but God help Ginger if she tries to even touch it.  Ginger, on the other hand, never heard the word "No!". . .not from Wasabi or me, her Mother.  Much hissing and snarling goes on over any attempt to as much as sniff his prized possession.  I admit to a little snarling of my own over the results of Ginger's favorite obsession.

I couldn't resist taking photos of each of them with their expensive playthings.  Thank you, Charmin, Cottonelle and Costco. What would the three of us do without you???.

Wasabi, on guard.  Don't dare touch!

Ginger, The Destroyer, at work.

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