Lives Well Lived

The following posts may be broken into several sections. It is difficult for me to say everything I want about this subject. There are a lot of memories and emotional components that might get in the way of brevity. I apologize in advance and will absolutely understand if you don't want to follow or go along for a prolonged ride. It might get wordy. I am not sure how it might turn out, but I will try hard not to make it pedantic and deathly boring. I will also try to infuse some humour. There will definitely be some sap and for that, I apologize.

There is a conversation to be had about our "stuff". George Carlin began this dialogue back in 1986 with his brilliant soliloquy. I highly recommend you watch it. Not only is it wickedly funny, but it is truly an excellent distillation of conspicuous consumerism. Carlin was truly on the cutting edge of modern philosophy; an iconoclast ahead of his time. 

It is easy to dismiss the things we keep as unimportant. 

"Why the hell did Bubby keep a drawerful of rubber bands? What was she thinking?"

Bubby probably filled a drawer with what we see as junk because she grew up when everything could be used again. Bubby wasn't necessarily a hoarder, but rather an early adopter of environmentalism. She understood the value of renewable objects. Tossing that stuff into the trash was anathema for her. It was her "stuff" and judging it from across the chasms of time seems disrespectful.

There are so many memories attached to our stuff. The Playbills I keep from live theatre performances are of no value. They are simply printed magazines with pretty covers. But when I see them, the joy I felt sitting in those theatres comes flooding back in jubilant waves. What is the harm in holding onto them? 

The same goes for artwork or chachkas that are accumulated over a lifetime of collecting. Maybe you have mugs or little silver spoons purchased during your travels. Perhaps you are a connoisseur of local artisans. If you are a traveller, buying some knickknacks brings back memories of adventures well-spent. Surrounding oneself with "stuff" can bring joy and contentment. I am certainly not advocating hoarding or a troublesome addiction. I am merely looking at the memorabilia we all collect. At this moment, I am having a difiicult time seeing the downside.

Which brings me to the reason for all of this nostalgia. We are at a point in our lives where we are dealing with downsizing my parents' "stuff." This isn't the first round of divesting. They have moved several times in the past decade, so all of us who are involved are well-versed in the task. This time it feels different, more permanent. As such, there are many emotions that need to be managed and many egos that need to be stroked.

As I write the first of these posts, I am sitting in The Southern Home. It is unusual for us to be here in the heat of a South Florida summer, but my parents recently sold their condo and we were tasked with cleaning out their "stuff". This space is filled with memories from their globetrotting days. They were true collectors of local artisans from all over the world. When we first started this exercise back in the winter, knowing that they would be selling, I watched my mom wander around the apartment in a wistful haze. She and I would decide on what needed to go; I would take it out of the cupboards to mark it for removal; and then twenty minutes later, I would find it back in its original location. It didn't matter what the object was. It could have been a broken serving dish or a drawerful of dried-up pens. My mom found comfort in knowing her "stuff" was where she left it. While Toronto is where their family is, South Florida has always been home for them. Over the past three and half decades, this was the place where my parents thrived. Their relationships, their social situations, and their activities were all far more engrossing and engaging down here. They didn't simply visit for five months of the year. They lived here. My mom and my Other Mom would spend weeks at a time here, just the two of them, while their men commuted back and forth between the countries. The memories here are vivid and colourful and the sadness at them having to part with this place penetrates my soul. 

We knew early in the spring that The Husband and I would be the ones to deal with the sale of this place. (We didn't know how quickly we would have to rearrange things in order to fly down, but that story is for another post.) After all, we are also here a lot and we fully understand the importance and magnitude this space has for both of my parents. My brother and I have the luxury of being on the same page when it comes to my parents' and helping them to continue to live their best lives. Not all families are this fortunate, so I will count my blessings. Walking into their condo on Tuesday was heart-wrenching for me. I could hear my aunt's voice. I could smell the cookies baking. I could see my dad sitting at the pool. Thirty-six years came flooding back in an instant. It was a lot of years, and yet not enough. 

Some of their most prized stuff was shipped to grandchildren and beloved families in Toronto. Some were given to dear friends down here. The buyer wanted a few things, so The Husband made some deals. We had building friends walk through and take mementos. We gifted some things to workers in the building who are forever sending items back to needy families in Cuba and Central America. (We also gifted the staff here all of my dad's booze and told them to have a blowout fiesta in his honour.) Photographs were lovingly boxed to be shipped at a later date. We cancelled their phone number. The same number they have had for thirty-six years. We called charitable organizations to take the furniture. And we called the junk people for the broken and battered "stuff". We did it all in five days. Thirty-six years of memories and "stuff" dispersed in five days.

I have cried more than once during this exercise. I have silently told Marie Kondo to go fuck herself on numerous occasions. The Husband has been my rock. He celebrated his birthday in the middle of this week. It is not an ideal way to celebrate, but he has been unbelievable. He has given me the space to work the problems, and more importantly, the space to grieve. Nobody has died, but a chapter of our lives has closed. (Once again, another post.) 

I wrapped a few small items to take home to my parents. I packed a small mezuzah designed by Agam and a small ceramic gator. They will find places of honour in my parents' new space in Toronto. I also shipped home my mom's favourite wine goblets. I hope to have a toast with her when they arrive north. Because in the end, it isn't just stuff. It is a reminder of lives well lived.

He will have a place of distinction in Toronto

Thanks for reading. We fly home tonight and I will continue this series of aging and downsizing when I return to The True North Strong and Free. 

Mrs Green, In the Kitchen, With the Mugs Part 2

A few devoted readers, who, it seems, have nothing better to do with their lives but lovingly devote their time to reading this vanity-induced space of complete garbage, have asked over the years when my book is coming out. The answer is always the same. I am simply incapable of writing anything longer than it would take these wonderful friends to read in the time that it takes waiting for their Wifi connection to run out on the subway platform. If I could come up with an idea for anything more substantive than what is produced here, I would have started it years ago. Instead, I keep subjecting all of us to this useless drivel. I am profoundly impressed and honoured that anybody is still reading this crap and I do promise that if I can find some profound meaning or independent, creative, and original thought that might be better than this bullshit, I will put cursor to screen and brain-fart it out. Until then, you are all stuck with this codswallop. (That paragraph was an exercise in synonyms. How many words can Dawn find that mean bullshit without her using a thesaurus. I impressed myself.)

When last we left our heroes, they were marvelling over the beauty of their newly renovated kitchen at the Southern Home. The "comes very highly recommended" contractor had come to finish off the last of his tasks and to clear out the mounds of garbage that his workers had accumulated over six months of less than linear work. To call the place a fucking mess is being very kind to fucking messes. There were empty boxes filled with construction waste strewn everywhere; piles of sawdust on the balcony from where the workers cut and shaped cabinetry; empty water bottles all over the counters; a white chalky shmutz lined the bathroom sink from where they mixed the grout; and there was dust so thick on every surface in the apartment that you could actually see track marks from where the summer insects had held their Olympics. These guys are very good at their jobs but neat and tidy they are not. The task of cleaning was set before us. Our jobs, should we choose to accept them, were to scrub, polish, and shine this place to a level that could pass Dawn's inspection. It was a herculean task but manageable.

Add to that, there was the task of rehanging and repositioning all of the artwork that had been stored. Keep reading. That comes later in this post.

The Husband took on the balconies and the windows. He is so very good at this. I would hire him out to make some extra cash off of his talents if I could figure out how to do it without it coming off like indentured servitude. After five scrubbings of the balconies and two more of the windows, we can finally view the vistas without thinking that smog has permanently descended on South Florida. His back and his knees weren't getting him anywhere quickly but there is a satisfaction that comes from a job well-done that transcends even the most gruesome pain. You buying this crap? He complained for days. It's a guy thing. I tackled the bathrooms, the floors, the kitchen cabinets and countertops. I dusted and washed and wiped and mopped for four days. Four days! I kept wondering how long I would have had to clean if we had decided to gut the bathrooms too.

We moved the kitchenware back into cupboards, measured drawers for inserts that still needed to be purchased, and searched in vain for the spice bottles that I know I stored somewhere but were now playing hide and seek. We tested the oven and microwave and stared longingly at an empty refrigerator in the hopes that it would provide sustenance. We braved Publix to restock the pantry and to repurchase the spices that I'm convinced had jumped into the Intracoastal Waterway to escape the noise and dust. We made a trip to Whole Foods, another to Walmart, a third to CVS and we still weren't even close to replenishing our reserves. The tasks seemed daunting but by working together like the synchronized machine we have become after thirty-three years of marriage, we whipped the place back into shape.

We bought the drawer inserts and a spice rack and new spices to fill it. And just when they were all properly settled and alphabetized, the old spices miraculously jumped out of their hiding places, yelled "Surprise", and expected a warm reception and some space in their new digs. Of course, they did. Anybody need some turmeric? How about cumin? I have a shitload of cumin.

And then The Husband set about the final task of rehanging the artwork. Most of it was fairly straightforward. We had left the hooks in the walls for the paintings but the three-dimensional climbers were tricky. They required a deft hand and a light touch. Have you met The Husband?

And....he dropped and broke one. 

Before the fall

After the fall

You know that sunken seasick feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when your partner yells "Shit" from another room? I swear I wanted to hide in the bedroom until Chanukah.

No judgement. No anger. Just a pragmatic response to determining what the FUCK do we do now. Well, we bought the suckers from a South Florida artist so let's see if he has a remedy. He answered our panicked email within minutes. Really? Who does that? Send the afflicted climber back to him via FedEx with a prepaid return label and he would repair it. He didn't ask for money. Really? WHO DOES THAT? After spending three days trying to figure out which empty box to pack him in, The Husband did as instructed and shipped our damaged climber off to the nether regions of Miramar for surgery. He arrived that same day and within thirty-six hours was back in FedEx's hands for his return trip. Really?? WHO DOES THAT?? He is expected to be back on the wall later today. (I'll post a photo as an update.)

I know. I know. I still haven't explained the title of these posts. I promise you all that I am getting to it but really, what's a shaggy dog story without the matted and tangled shaggy hair.

Tune in tomorrow. Same Dawn time, same Dawn URL.

Mrs. Green, In the Kitchen, With the Mugs Part 1

I have an old friend who posts long rambling stories on Facebook about his trials and tribulations. They are usually extended over several days, always hilarious, and usually end with a conclusion so ridiculously mundane you question your investment in the time spent reading them but know that you will be right there along for the ride the next time because...well...this is really the best that Facebook has to offer, our connections with old friends.

I have a blog for such ridiculousness, so I hope that you all might indulge me in the same manner that I do my friend. This story will be told in several parts and therefore several posts.

It all started with our kitchen renovation at the Southern Home. It always seems to begin with a kitchen renovation. This entire blog began as a kitchen renovation. We had been putting off this much-needed makeover for at least five years. There are always better ways to spend one's money than on an expensive remodelling in a place we use as our home away from home. That isn't to say that we don't use our kitchen here. We do. A great deal. But every time we got close to agreeing that we should proceed with the project, something far more important and, honestly, more desirous diverted our attention and funds. This year, we were backed into a corner by our thirty-five-year-old appliances. The refrigerator was singing like Louis Armstrong on meth and the dishwasher was leaking so badly that a grotesquely mouldy towel, inserted between it and the sink, had become a permanent fixture. The appliances were giving us fair warning of their impending demises. It was time to heed the death rattles and jump headlong into the hell that is home renovation.

As home makeovers go, this was actually the least painful of any we have done throughout our many years together. We decided early on that the best way to handle the mess and disruption was to simply pretend it wasn't happening. In other words, we went home in March and left the work to a "came very highly recommended"contractor. We had every intention of flying down in the summer to check on the progress, but life got busy and that trip never happened. Our "came very highly recommended" contractor figured out our game fairly early on in the process and knew that there was no real rush to finish the job until sometime in the fall. Out of sight, out of mind is definitely a two-way street.

As an aside...if you find yourselves in need of a home renovation, moving out and forgetting it exists is the best way to go. Anybody who has ever lived through one can attest to it being a hellscape. Find someone you trust to manage the project and then get the fuck out. It could save your marriage and your relationship with sanity.

After the High Holy Days in September, we mentioned to our "came very highly recommended" contractor that we were planning on being down at The Southern Home sometime before American Thanksgiving. His response reminded me of an old joke from the comedy album You Don't Have to be Jewish.

A guy walks into a shoemaker and says:

Guy: You're not going to believe this but I was going through my closet and came across a very old coat. While going through the pockets of that coat I found a ticket for a pair of shoes I dropped off more than 10 years ago. I know it is a longshot, but I thought that since I was in the area, I might check and see if you still have the shoes.

Shoemaker: (in very old-world Jewish accent) What are you? Crazy?? You think that I might still have a pair of shoes still here that you dropped off more than 10 years ago? Meshuggah!

Guy: I realize it's a bit farfetched but could you please check?

Shoemaker retreats into the back of the shop. 

Shoemaker: Hey, Mister. These shoes, were they black patent leather?

Guy: Yes.

Shoemaker: And did they have silver heels?

Guy: (Very excited) Yes, Yes!!!

Shoemaker: And did they have gold-braided tassels?

Guy: Yes, Yes, Yes! You found them!

Shoemaker: THEY'LL BE READY, TUESDAY.

Our "came very highly recommended" contractor told us that not to worry and that they would be finishing up the job shortly after we arrived.

In total fairness to him, there were only a few things to touch up when we arrived (including a non-functioning oven) but he did show up within a day of our letting him know that we were back in town to make all of the necessary improvements. He is a great guy and I would absolutely stamp him with my "comes highly recommended" seal of approval. A true mensch. That isn't always easy to come by in his profession.

The story is just getting interesting and I haven't even explained the title of this post.

If you would like to know what comes next, tune in tomorrow. 

Same Dawn time, same Dawn URL.

Kitchen before

Kitchen after

An Update on our Plumbing Problems

A quick update on our internet/cable/hot water dilemma.

When last I left you all, our shomer shabbos, Toronto-born plumber was banging on our very ancient hot water heater in an attempt to repair damage caused by the installer from Telecom B. We were forced by our condo building into making the switch from Telecom A (which, for the record, had NEVER damaged our hot water heater) to Telecom B and in the process of hooking us up, the Cutie Techie knocked something loose from our hot water heater that seems to have been a holdover from the Reagan era. My hero the Jewish plumber was able to provide us with a fix that cost us $350.00 (an emergency plumbing call is not cheap) which I seriously considered billing to either our condo board or to Telecom B. I was talked out of that maneuver by my dad, who as a member of the condo board, (insert Seinfeld reference here) assured me that I might as well cover myself in honey and throw myself into the bear exhibit at the zoo.

All seemed to be functioning fine until this morning when I noticed that the hot water coming out of the tap in the kitchen was rather tepid. The Husband, always one to leap in and solve my problems, told me to just let the water run longer. Thanks, dearest. I'll remember you to the bears. The final straw came when my morning shower was about the temperature of warm saliva. The Husband went to check on the water heater and sure enough, it was stone cold. The circuit breakers had been tripped, so he reset them and while the water heater started up again, it was only temporary. He opened the unit up to discover that all of the insulation that covered the wiring was drenched like a toddler's diaper. While The Husband is a trained electrical engineer, this fix was beyond his abilities. Another call to our Hero Jewish Plumber was in order.

After a three-minute conversation, Jewish Plumber tells us not to throw good money after bad on a dying appliance. He knows exactly the unit we require and if it is in stock, he can have it installed tomorrow morning for the bargain basement, post-Chanukah special price of...wait for it...$1800.00!A few calls later and we are now eagerly awaiting his arrival tomorrow morning. (As an aside, I should say that this kind of service amongst tradespeople down here in South Florida is highly unusual. It was more likely that I actually would have followed through with the honey/bear thing than get a plumber and a new water heater here on twenty-four hours notice. On that count, we are very fortunate and I am seriously considering submitting this man's name for canonization.) The only real good news to come from all of this is that we caught the leak right away and there was no other damage done.

So....by the time this whole mess is finished, we will have spent $2150.00 in order to have our cable company switched over to Telecom B. I figure that the yearly savings from this switch will amount to about fifty bucks a year on our cable bill, but it will take about 43 years before we recoup our investment from the installation.

Explain to me again why this was a good idea!

Internet or Hot Water? Which would you choose?

If you had the option, would you trade a questionably cheaper and marginally better internet/cable TV service straight up for functioning hot water in your home?

I ask because it seems as if that is the Hobson's Choice we have been faced with all day today. 

This ridiculous situation, that we are STILL experiencing even as I type this, has its roots beginning last March when a few very angry unit owners in our Southern Home were wholly dissatisfied with the telecom provider in our building. Using some anecdotal evidence and a few miserable encounters with Telecom A as the basis for their arguments, these angry Floridians and Snowbirds managed to convince the condo board to investigate switching to Telecom B. After some wheeling and constructive horse trading, the deal was struck to move the entire condo building over to Telecom B. Needless to say that when a few dollars are at stake and the opportunity to stick it to an unattentive and nasty Telecom A is in the offing, a certain demographic of condo owners/board members jumped at the opportunity to endorse the switch.

Of course, not everybody in the building was attentive or even aware of the impending change. Despite countless emails, phone blasts, flyers, and in-person communication, there were and still are many in this building who have not signed up with Telecom B, even though the full impact of the switch-over will be felt in the early days of January. In other words, if you haven't booked your appointment with Telecom B by now, the chances are you may be relying on a dial-up internet and analog television in 2018. I wonder how many of us still have to physically pull our ample asses out of a chair in order to change the channels? And without internet, one can't even Google those statistics.

I was hard-pressed to find ANYBODY in this building who could explain what the shift from A to B would mean to me the consumer. 

"What channels would we be receiving?" 

"The channels will be great", I was promised." 

"Are there channels that will be disappearing?"

"The channels will be great", I was promised.

"Will our internet speed be better?"

"The internet will be great", I was promised.

"Will we still be able to access On-Demand?"

"The channels will be great", I was promised.

"But....you will be saving a lot of money."

"How much?" I asked.

"So much", I was promised.

Needless to say, The Husband and I were extremely skeptical mostly because we have dealt with too many telecoms both at home in Canada and here in Trumplandia before, and they are all equally horrible. So, we both have an "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" mentality when it comes to those magicians who deign to keep us internet-enabled.

After a balagan of a sign-up process that saw dozens of seniors convinced that stormtroopers were coming in to confiscate their televisions and led many to believe that they weren't going to be equipped with HD television and would be returning to the three channel universe of the 1980s, we were given this morning between 8:30am-12:30pm as our designated change-over time. Telecom B's technicians swarmed the building today in a vain attempt to prove that they are indeed better than their heated rivals over at Telecom A.

Our cute-assed techie did indeed arrive within the allotted time and he did indeed seem to know exactly what was necessary in order to complete our transmutation. And then....the fun began.

Our wiring is accessed via a box just above our very ancient, but still serviceable hot water heater. In order to get our internet/cable functioning, Cutie Techie needed to work in that box. All of a sudden, The Husband and I heard a squeal coming from Cutie Techie's general vicinity. 

"Umm....I think you have a leak", he said.

 The Husband ran into the room to help and indeed noticed that through the course of his work, Cutie Techie had gently elbowed a corroded pipe off of the hot water heater and it was now spewing water into the laundry room. No damage done, but no hot water for us. 

Two hours later, we now have a new cable/internet service that seems to be faster and cheaper than what Telecom A was previously providing. Yay us! Except that now we don't have any hot water.

We placed an emergency plumbing call to our service contract repair company, who is almost as decent and reliable a company as Telecom A, which has now been jettisoned. Service Contract employee shows up, looks at the job, tells us that he can't fix the problem, suggests we replace our ancient hot water heater, and tells us that he can't guarantee it will be in before Christmas. The Husband is having none of that and promptly starts to scout out plumbers. Six calls and six hours later, a very skinny (no plumber butt required) and very Jewish plumber (he doesn't work on Shabbes) arrives at our door, looks at the problem, can't guarantee the fix will work, and says that it will cost $350.00.

So, our financial savings that were coming from the switch to Telecom B have now all been eaten up for the next three years by a plumbing problem caused by them and the fix from an emergency plumbing call that may or may not work or last for very long.

IF IT AIN'T BROKE, DON'T FIX IT!

A really wise motto to live by.

Somewhere Out There

When I was a young mother way back in the era of presidential blowjobs, (Ah...those were the days.) it wasn't uncommon for me to find myself play-acting the part of single parenthood. As part of his job, The Husband would travel each week to Boston while I stayed home and took care of the boys. This arrangement went on for well over a year and while it was a challenging time for all of us, it was what we needed to do to stay financially afloat. We were both miserable. The Husband and I, while perfectly capable people as singles, much prefer our lives together than apart. We actually like each other and love spending time together, even if it is in the mundane activities of the every day. When that Boston contract came to a merciful end, we both promised each other that we would attempt to minimize the time spent apart as much as we possibly could.

We have pretty much kept that promise over the years to the best of our abilities. Yes, of course, there have been boys' trips and exclusively girls' excursions throughout the years and yes, I have flown home from Florida for work many times and he has as well. We understand that time apart is just as important to our marital success as is our time together, but we like to minimize those periods as much as possible. And...we always always always call. Every day. At least once. No matter what time, no matter how late and no matter the time zone. And a big high-five to the brains behind texting, Facetime, and Skype.

When I retired and decided to spend as much of the winter as possible in The Southern Home, we both understood that he would come and go as his business demanded. Over the past few winters, he has managed to flip the script and is now hoping to spend more time this year without snow than with. But, he still will have to travel north on occasion and one of those trips was made this week.

He has been infatuated with the moon-risings since we have been here and as we approach the winter solstice, I must say that I understand his attraction. The clear southern skies have made for some fairly spectacular images and this week's full moon reflecting off the water was simply stunning. I have been sending him pictures all week of the lunar waxing and waning. Last night, he returned the favour from his perch in our Northern Home.

I posted my photo on Facebook and he followed suit in the comments. My favourite real estate agent/friend commented: "Nice to see you two can share the moon when a couple thousand miles apart."

It was honestly one of the nicest things I had heard or thought of in a long while. It isn't Facetime, texting, or Skype that has us linked, but rather it is knowing that we can still share an ordinary splendour even though we are at opposite ends of the continent. 

I immediately thought of this clip. Yes it is hokey and yes it is mushy, but give me a break. 2016 has been such a tortured trip around the sun, that sometimes hokey and mushy are exactly what we need. 

We will reunite this weekend, but I don't think that any moonrise will equal the one we shared this week. Sometimes, togetherness can happen at a distance. Thanks to my Real Estate Agent/Friend for reminding me.

My Husband The Plumber

There is never a shortage of issues confronting us when we arrive at The Southern Home following our annual eight-month hiatus. This isn't surprising. As with any home ownership, things break and crumble with age and weather. In past years, we have had to deal with washing machines that have walked across the floor locking us out of the laundry room, leaky toilets that have left us puddles on the bathroom floor, a garburator that rusted through causing a lake in the kitchen every time the dishwasher was in use, dead palmetto bugs big enough to saddle, broken light fixtures, a defrosted freezer, hurricane shutters that won't open, and twice we had leaks from upstairs neighbours causing enough significant damage in our unit that we had to re-drywall, re-plaster, and repaint. Ah...the joys of condo life. We have been here long enough to know that there will always be some fresh hell sent to challenge us or just plain aggravate us upon our arrival. Of course, this year was no different.

We arrived in the early evening on Saturday. We really weren't planning on arriving until Sunday morning, but heavy rain throughout our drive in Florida really repressed any notion we might have had of stopping for a meal, snacks, or bathroom breaks. There was a dogged determination apparent in The Husband's demeanour that basically said "Enough of this f***ing drive already. Let's just get there." As a result, we were both quite spent upon our arrival and in no mood for bullshit. But, bullshit has a way of finding us. While I got to the unpacking, The Husband set to the task of attempting to open the hurricane shutters. The first two were no issue, but the main one's lock was rusted through and stuck like a son of a bitch. No amount of brute strength, banging, jiggling, or angry cuss words were going to move it. When after countless attempts he finally broke the key off in the lock, I think his angry epithets were heard down in South Beach. Knowing that this was a lost cause in the dark, he moved on to check the rest of the apartment figuring that he would deal with the shutters after a good night sleep. All seemed well until he turned on the main water. (It is a condo regulation that we absolutely must turn off the water when leaving for extended periods of time. The plumbing in this building can only be described as f***ing crap, and as such we have had major leaks over the years. Turning off the water is supposed to help alleviate some of those concerns.) I heard an odd whooshing sound coming from the bathroom and then a plaintive call that sounded like a cow singing James Brown's "I Feel Good." 

Me: "What the f*** was that?"

The Husband: "The toilet is singing to you."

Me: "I'd prefer it didn't but if it has to, I would prefer James Taylor to James Brown."

The Husband: "I don't think it is offering a choice."

While the toilet kept up it's mournful wailing, I kept the faith that this was a temporary situation akin to the broken key currently jammed into the lock on the shutters. The major difference was that the lock while aggravating, didn't have the ability to keep us up all night bleating like two cats in heat. We were simply too tired to deal with it and we were certainly not about to call a plumber at 9:30 pm on a Saturday night. I had no desire to contribute to some pipe jockey's kid's college fund. We climbed into bed with the sounds of Marley's ghost wailing in the background.

But, I married one of the only Jewish handymen. He is really good at fixing things and refused to be waylaid by a broken key or a melancholy toilet. The shutters were successfully opened the next morning, and while he did manage to remove the offending key, he is succumbing to having a professional come to service them and replace the lock. The toilet was another matter. After ascertaining that the flapper inside the tank wasn't sealing properly, we figured out that the offending noise was being caused by a decreasing water line that in turn caused the toilet to run and sing. The flapper needed to be replaced, but given that we had a myriad of tasks to accomplish on Sunday, like groceries, we decided to leave it for one more day. That was a mistake. On Sunday evening, the moaning increased to levels that would have made Tibetan throat-singing monks envious. At 1:00 am, I arose and turned off the water in the toilet. I had to awaken The Husband (how he slept through it I will never know) in order to tell him so that he wouldn't accidentally make a mess the next morning. By first light, I was at Walmart hunting for a replacement flapper. 

My husband the handyman went straight to work. Five minutes later it was Goodbye James Brown; Hello Sounds of Silence.

The Husband is many things, but never once before have I mistaken him for a plumber. He isn't crazy about getting his hands dirty and toilets are not really his thing. But he is my superhero when it comes to stuff like this and I have nothing but admiration for his myriad of hidden talents. If I had known about this when we first met, I might have encouraged this side of him. There is big money in being a plumber. But for now, I think that he will content himself with today's win. Anyway, my parent's toilet is sounding like Barry White. He is going downstairs to silence that one too. 

 

Almost Wordless Wednesday

My final Almost Wordless Wednesday for Blogapalooza comes from earlier this year and serves as a reminder as to why I love the Southern Home so very much. This shot was taken while we sat on our balcony. This little guy just kept stopping by for regular visits during the latter part of March. He was fun and frisky and we were in awe. The best experiences in life are the ones you simply can't anticipate.

Road Tripping Redux

The Husband and I have completed our annual pilgrimage to the Southern Home and I must say that every year the drive down is filled with more tedium than excitement. Not that I am looking for excitement, mind you. I had enough of that to last me a lifetime the year that we were waylaid for six days by a massive snowstorm in the midwest with nothing to eat but Pizza Hut. (None of us has set foot in a Pizza Hut in more than twenty years.) No, I am perfectly fine with the mundane. But I must say that even after all the years, I am struck by how the little things on a road trip seem to stick with me. This year was no different and offered up a few choice impressions.

• I have never been in the United States for their Thanksgiving. (Sorry Canada. Ours is a pale imitation.) Not ever. I have always envied Americans and their observance of this most secular of holidays. It is an amazing concept. A holiday that cuts across religious lines, is quintessentially American in its origins, involves an entire nation, and allows for gluttony on a national level. What's not to like about that? Watching Americans prepare for this holiday from afar has always been filled with envy and a twinge of sadness. But seeing it up close, even from the limitations of the Interstates, is a revelation. Our hotel was decked out in harvest paraphernalia. The roads were jammed with college students returning home for the holiday in cars packed to the windows with bags of dirty laundry.Thanksgiving specials and flyers were in the windows of even the tackiest of gas station souvenir shops. (I made do without the two-for-one turkey jerky offered in South Carolina.) But my favourite Thanksgiving interlude on the road came from Canonburg Pennsylvania. By sheer chance, (it is almost creepy how by chance this is) we have stopped in the same small town for four years running. It must be that we come through the same stretch of road at approximately the same time every year, given our penchant for starting out early in the morning, or we are just looking for a Subway so that we might be able to eat something vegetarian that doesn't taste like rubber.Whatever the explanation, we once again stopped in Canonburg in order to eat and pee. This year, the only other patrons of the shop were a father and his young son all decked out in pilgrim costume, complete with hat. (I have to say that the hat made the ensemble.) The boy was talking animatedly about John Alden, Myles Standish, and turkey. It reminded me of those days long ago when my own boys would participate in school productions and chatter incessantly about all they had learned. If ever we question the reasons for making holidays fun, interactive, and filled with family and friends, one need only to have watched this little guy exude excitement for the day. It was truly special.
• The border was quiet when we crossed. We were the only ones in the Nexus line, but the heightened security given the Paris attacks was intense and not surprising. We were grilled for several minutes as to the registration of our car, what we were carrying, our professions, and why we were travelling back and forth this winter. We were asked for dates and about the contents of our belongings. We didn't mind, but this was the Nexus line. One can only imagine what the non-prescreened people went through.
• There was many a deer sighting on the road this year. Some live, many not. Bambi and his extended family were actually quite brazen in their appearances, foraging at the side of the road as if it were a Hometown Buffet. It was almost as if they were saying "Hey, we're not turkeys. We have nothing to worry about at this time of year." Of course they probably weren't thinking about the constant barrage of 40-tonne trucks barrelling down on them at every pass. There were deer parts littering the highway all the way into the Carolinas. I suppose Georgian and Floridian deer are smarter than their northern cousins, and stayed away from the Eisenhower-inspired death trap.
• This must be the week that American snowbirds make their way south en masse. It is migration week. So many RVs. So many campers. So many retirees with absolutely no idea how to drive the monster trucks they have purchased. Some are hauling their entire lives in a bus; others are merely hauling SUVs, boats, bikes, and seadoos. It is a wonder any of them reach their destinations safely given the fishtailing, swerving, and odd lane changes. There were times I hung on and just  quietly uttered the Shema hoping for the best. 
• As per usual, The Husband and I fought over the radio. I am perfectly happy with my Broadway channel, while he just drives and stews until I change to a different station. I don't mind The Bridge, but the playlist is limited and I draw the line at the constant repetition of Eagles and Fleetwood Mac tunes. I mean really? How many times in 24 hours does one need to hear Say You Love Me? I say 4 is plenty. So we switched to The Coffee House, a channel that plays hits reimagined acoustically. But Sting waxing with poetic angst on Message in a Bottle put me over the edge. We returned enthusiastically to Broadway. I was struck by some of the ironic music experiences we had. Carly Simon's Anticipation played as we were stuck in a traffic jam outside of Charlotte, and Carolina Day by Livingston Taylor was on as we crossed the state line between the two Carolinas. Coincidence? Probably, but it was still weird.
• The Sunshine State was definitely not. We crossed into Florida and the rain started....hard....and it stayed that way for the next 5 hours. The only positive is that we had no real impetus to stop so we made it down in two full days rather than two and half. 

It is so nice to be here. Of course there are a myriad of problems in the condo that need to be addressed. Aren't there always? A defective toilet flapper is causing one kimode to wail like James Brown. The storm shutters have a rusted lock, meaning that we can't open one side. A call to the experts is on the docket. But the season has begun. Hello South Florida. Nice to see you again.

Routine Is Not An Ugly Word

One of the many things that I had hoped to accomplish following my retirement was to dispense with daily schedules. I really wanted to let my life choices dictate the clock and the calendar, rather than allowing the clock and the calendar to dictate my life choices. I certainly didn't have any grand notions of existing within a "Freedom 55"  commercial at the still very youngish age of 52. Me sail away on a schooner? Yah...not with my motion sickness. Instead, I saw the the future as a giant tabula rasa that could only be limited by personal preferences.

Naïveté is a peculiar circumstance.

While it is true that part of my mind knows that there is nothing stopping me from staying in bed until late morning on occasion to luxuriously read the newspaper, another part screams obscenities at me if I laze around for too long. My reason says "Relax. Take your time.", while my body yells "Enough already you lazy arse. Get your shit together and let's get moving." And so it is that I find myself back into an early morning exercise regime. 

While I am comfortably ensconced in The Southern Home, the majority of that activity consists of a lengthy early morning walk, either around the neighbourhood or down on the beach. After all, we have all been told that sitting is the new smoking, and since I have never so much as taken a puff, I figure that I need to get some real value out of my $99.00 FitBit Flex. 

It's funny. Even though my schedule has become much more fluid and flexible, the world around me, both human and natural, obviously still adhere to theirs. During those walks, I have encountered the same school children waiting for their buses, the same landscapers going about their business, the same locals exercising their dogs, and the same customers at Starbucks purchasing their morning caffeine injections. That's normal and to be expected. What was gloriously unexpected was my encountering of the same wildlife, in the same locations, doing exactly the same things every single morning. There is the squirrel in the park who actually responds to my mother's call and expectantly waits for bits to be dropped. (I won't allow her to give in to her better urges simply because he is a squirrel and I consider his northern cousins to be mortal enemies.) There is the large orange iguana who has taken up residence with his family in the mangrove trees abutting the Intracostal near our home. But I am most totally engaged with these White Ibises who cross my path daily.

As you can see, they are unfazed by human involvement and they are just quietly going about their morning routine, which usually consists of breakfast and crossing the street. Note to self: Resist urge to tell Ibis crossing the street joke.

They are awkward looking creatures who are as ubiquitous down here as sparrows are up north, but there is something about their patterns that has me mesmerized. I see them every single morning on my walk, and then miraculously, every single evening at dusk, an entire flock (I'd like to think it is the same birds) flies in perfect formation low in the sky right in front of my balcony. I could swear that they are dipping their wings in a familiar salute to me as they pass. (I have tried on several occasions to grab a photo or video clip, but they simply move too quickly and I am simply not that great a photographer.) I know it seems crazy, but it feels like my own remarkable interspecies moment. I have actually taken to parking myself on the balcony for an hour or so before dusk waiting for my friends to arrive. It is a magical moment that I now joyfully anticipate.

Yesterday as I watched my new friends perform their evening ritual, it struck me that schedules aren't the evil notions that I had made them out to be. Rather, it is how and what we choose to fill them with that truly matters. So far, mine doesn't suck.

Packing

I have been doing a great deal of packing lately.

Some of it has been done with great excitement and great anticipation.

Some of it has been done with profound sadness and much stifling of tears.

Packing is one of life's true paradoxes. We want to transition to different experiences and exotic locales, but we can't seem to accomplish that task without dragging copious amounts of "stuff" along for the ride. We accumulate, we hoard, we collect, and we stockpile believing that we will need it all someday, but in actual fact we use but a small fraction of our accrued shit. (Check out the brilliant George Carlin's take on "Stuff" which I have included at the bottom of this post.)

And yet...

There is something about this paraphernalia that gives our lives balance and meaning. We rescue old and faded photographs from the back of a drawer, knowing that we can't bear to toss them in the trash for fear of forgetting. We rescue baking supplies and recipes so that we might recreate that which can no longer adequately be produced. But we so very desperately want it to be, so we pack them away. We compartmentalize. We move forward while one foot remains firmly embedded in the past.

When we journeyed to the Southern Home at the end of December, it was done in haste and with escape from misery in mind. There is no question that I was running away and I packed the way a 5 year old might if he was planning his getaway. There was no thought, no planning. Just a "get me out of town" mentality to go with some clothes, some toys, and my passport.

Packing to come home has been a very different experience. There is careful calculation and examination of what it all means. This place has always been my oasis, my haven, my retreat. But as I prepare to return to Northern climes, I find myself not simply packing tangible items like clothing, but also fond memories of this locale that has now been irrevocably changed for me. It is still my Southern Home, but it is a little less idyllic because she is no longer here to share it.

I pack to come home. I pack to move forward. I pack to remember.


)

Time for Toronto

As I prepare to return to the land of my birth later today, I have been spending some time ruminating over my most recent sojourn to The Southern Home. Contained below are some basic thoughts.

Things I WILL NOT miss about South Florida

• The increasingly aggravating chihuahua across the hall. Deathtraps have begun to invade my dreams and I am concerned that I might act upon these primal emotions.
• The slamming of doors in the halls of the condo.
• The ridiculousness of people who dress their dogs in tutus, feed them from restaurant tables, and push them around in infant strollers. Oh my God!! They're dogs!
• Publix on Hallandale Beach Boulevard! A gang fight just waiting to happen-walkers vs wheelchairs!
• The Hollywood Circle. A piece of roadway designed by a sadistic bastard who obviously bases projects with visions of hell on earth dancing in his head!
• The tragic-comedy that is the Republican primary process and the myriad of ads and robocalls accompanying it. We all know that Romney will be the last out of the clown car, so just get on with it and leave us all with some degree of peace.
• My defective and rather noisy washing machine that seems to be planning an escape route all its own.
• The f*#% you attitude that is so pervasive amongst so many down here-whether they be on the roads, in a store, in a restaurant, or at the beach. I understand the principles of individual liberty upon which this country was founded, but when your liberties trample upon mine I think that there is a problem. No, it isn't ok to make a left-hand turn from the right-hand lane directly in front of me. No, it isn't ok to cut in line to avoid the twelve people behind you and then swear like a sailor when called out on your behaviour. No, it isn't ok to honk your horn at the old woman with a walker who couldn't navigate the crossing in the time provided. No, it isn't ok to skunk somebody else's parking spot. No, it isn't ok to walk directly in front of me at the store and stand there figuring out what you want without any regard to my continued presence. Some civility training and basic manners reminders would go a long way.

But, all of that aside.....I have come to understand that this stuff is a small price to pay for.....

Things that I WILL miss about South Florida

• The world existing in true colour, rather than the many shades of grey so apparent at home during the winter months.
• The warm temperatures and soft breezes, rather than the mercury dipping lower than a high school boy's pants and winds that chill from the inside out.
• Spending time with my parents.
• The simplicity I have attached to life down here.
• Reading. I read voraciously down here.
• On Demand television. I have to say as a Bell TV customer, we miss that at home.
• Internet shopping. Canada is still playing a huge catch-up game with the US on internet commerce. It is easy, inexpensive, and really fast down here.
• The dolphins and manatees that have been visiting with increasing regularity. They constantly remind me of my love for animals, my love for the oceans, (even though given my seasick history, I probably shouldn't be travelling on them) and that when I watch these glorious creatures I feel heaven and earth touch.
• My lack of socks and shoes.
• My lack of a coat. 

I look forward to seeing my Canadian friends soon and I look forward to my timely return to my Southern Home.

Dayenu!

OY!! What a day I've had. You be the judge. Dayenu! (On Passover we say Dayenu!-It would have been enough. Trust me. Today? It would have been enough!)

Had I only had a decent night's sleep? Dayenu!


Had I only woken refreshed and not cranky? Dayenu!


Had I only been able to sit in the sun today reading and not fallen asleep in my chair? Dayenu!


Had falling asleep in my chair not caused a sunburned face? Dayenu!


Had my sunburned face not caused a more than painful experience in the shower? Dayenu!


Had my less than satisfying shower and cranky behaviour not caused me to drop body lotion all over my bathmat? Dayenu!


Had the unclean bathmat been easily cleaned? Dayenu!


Had I not needed to throw said bathmat into my faulty washing machine? Dayenu!


Had I not absent-mindedly closed the laundry room door after starting the machine? Dayenu!


Had my bathmat been properly centred in the machine and the machine not decided to go for a walk? Dayenu!


Had the walking washing machine not blocked the closed laundry room from the inside? Dayenu!


Had the other door on the outside of the laundry room opened and not been painted shut? Dayenu!


Had the hinges on the laundry room door been on the outside as opposed to the inside? Dayenu!

Had the washing machine been empty rather than filled with water making the machine twice as heavy to attempt to move? Dayenu!

Had this event/catastrophe happened before 5:00 pm so that the engineering people in the building were still here working? Dayenu!


Had any of the people I brought in to attempt said move had an arm reach longer than a strand of linguine? Dayenu!


Had I been born with an easy going nature rather than type A so that the idea of a blocked laundry room door with a wet bathmat held within didn't drive me to distraction as we headed out to dinner? Dayenu!


Had our dinner companions reached us to inform of their illness before we drove all the way up to Lauderdale? Dayenu!


Had I been able to ignore the situation upon my return? Dayenu!


Had I thought enough to call my 6'5" neighbour with the point guard reach 3 hours earlier so that he could reach around the door, turn off the machine, empty the water, and finally move the f*@#ing tin box away from the door so that I could finally access the room and retrieve the smelly wet bathmat? Dayenu!


Lessons learned from this experience? I need a new washer and dryer. I need a locksmith to open the other door from the laundry room. Never close the laundry room door while the old appliances are still here and when in doubt--SIZE DOES MATTER!!!