Ten Items Or Less

I’d just finished a perfect day of holiday shopping with my mom when we decided to head over to the Super Target on Miramar Parkway for a few items I needed for the week.

The store was packed with last-minute holiday shoppers and every check out line was crammed with carts filled to the brim.

I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible so I zipped around the aisles getting what I had come to get. Two cases of water, 12 yogurts, one tin of almonds and a loaf of rye bread later, I jumped on the express line to check out my purchases.

As I was about to start putting my groceries on the conveyor, a man with a single box of Ronzoni pasta came up behind me.

I began placing the yogurts on the conveyor two-by-two.

“Two!” yelled the man behind me.

I placed two more on the conveyor.

“Four!” he bellowed.

On the conveyor went the two strawberry yogurts.

“Six!” screamed the now familiar voice behind me.

By now, I’d figured out where he was coming from. Apparently he was a nember of the 10 Items Or Less Police and my yogurts counted not as one item, but 12. An arrest was imminent.

In the spirit of the holiday season, I smiled and kept my mouth shut.

I picked up one of the cases of water and placed the bar code near the register so the cashier could scan it.

“I have another one of those underneath the cart,” I told the young lady who was ringing up my purchases. She double scanned the first case to signal two of the same item.

A case of water has 24 bottles. The guy behind me had counted to 36.

I must confess that by now what my partner calls my “New York Attitude” was going South. But I was not about to let this guy ruin my otherwise perfect day.

“You count really well, sir,” I said to him.

He grumbled something unintelligible. My mom, who was witnessing all this at the end of the counter was laughing in disbelief.

“Santa is not going to be very good to you this year, sir,” she said.

“Will that be all?” the cashier asked me.

“No,” I replied. “I’d like to pay for his pasta.”

“She doesn’t have to pay for my pasta,” Mr. Grumpy screamed. “But she better pay for that case of water underneath her cart!”

In his frenzy to count the number of bottles of water in a case, he had missed it when the cashier double scanned the case inside my cart. Since no one was paying attention to his counting, Mr. Grumpy was now accusing me of stealing water.

To make sure I had been charged for both cases, I asked the cashier in a voice loud enough for everyone in the store to hear, “You charged me for both cases, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the patient young lady.

I turned to Mr. Grumpy and in my best happy holidays voice I said:

“Do you realize that if you weren't so busy trying to accuse me of something, you could be home enjoying your pasta right now?”

He was speechless. In fact, I think I saw a smile on his face. By now everyone was staring at him like he was crazed.

“Lighten up, dude,” someone behind him said.

Indeed.

But the universe wasn't done playing it's holiday tricks on me.

As mom and I walked out of the store, I heard the cashier behind me say, “Ma’am, you have his pasta in your cart!”

I looked down and there was the Ronzoni box laughing up at me.

“Oh, no! Did I steal his pasta!”

“No, ma’am, it was my mistake,” said the cashier who was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

Mr. Grumpy grabbed his box and walked out behind me.

“Happy Holidays,” I said to him. “You know, I really love pasta.”

Sad to say, I didn’t get an invitation to dinner.

As we enter a new year, let’s remember not to sweat the small stuff.

Oh, and one more thing … If you need a box of pasta, don’t go to the Super Target two days before Christmas to buy it.

Life's Little Inconveniences

They say the only way to keep things from showing up in your life over and over again is to learn their lesson.

My lessons this month came disguised as a broken television, a jammed TIVO and ants in my kitchen. Oh, and my dachshund’s allergies came back with a vengeance. And the Christmas lights shorted out for the bazillionth time since I put them up three days ago. And a giant stain magically appeared on the collar of the new jacket I put on this morning.

I found that if I just gave in to them, the inconveniences were all around me. If I didn't catch myself, my entire month was an inconvenience waiting to happen.

You don't have to look that far to find them. Anything that distracts you from doing the things you keep promising yourself you're going to do -- whether it's write a book, start exercising, or just spending more time sitting around doing nothing and not feeling guilty about it -- is an inconvenience.

My broken television and TIVO required calls to the manufacturers to find out what I should do. That meant not only phone calls, but scheduling service and hoping the problems could be fixed with as little time investment as possible..

The ants in my kitchen also meant I had to schedule and wait for the exterminator.

My dachshund’s allergies required yet another trip to the vet.

The Christmas lights that had shorted out meant at least an hour fiddling with tiny fuses that no human hand is small enough to replace.

As for the giant stain on my new jacket, I had to do a quick wardrobe change before work, run to the cleaners and hope the jacket wouldn't come back with one of those sad face stickers that say "we're sorry, we tried our best." Translation: It's time to get another jacket.

All of this meant I had to take time I'd planned to do other things -- like go to they gym three times a week after work -- to handle all the unexpected inconveniences.

The thing is, if you don't watch out, you'll always find inconveniences you can use as excuses to keep you from doing the things you want to do.

The temptation is to neglect the things you promised yourself you would do and take care of the unexpected. However, breaking promises to yourself puts you on a fast road to unhappiness.

So, what should you do? First, measure the urgency of the situation and see if it can wait. If your house is burning down and you promised yourself a nap after work, it’s best you call the fire department before fluffing your pillow. But if your dryer dishwasher stopped in mid-cycle and you know it has no intention of starting again anytime soon, do whatever it is you promised yourself first. The broken dishwasher will wait till you get back.

When you get back from whatever it is you wanted to do, get into action.

But don’t get caught up in trying to do everything at once. Just do one thing at a time. That's right,one thing. You'll find the motivation you get from doing that one thing will lead to you doing another thing, then another. Soon you'll find everything is done and you're left with a great feeling of satisfaction and self esteem.

Life's inconveniences are lessons in disguise. Instead of cursing them, let's embrace them. In the big scheme of things, they're really not that big a deal. But the patience they teach deposits high dividends into the bank account of our lives.

Cleaning Out The Clutter

It began as a summer project.

After years of remodeling, updating and de-cluttering every inch of our living space, it was time to tackle the final frontier: THE GARAGE!

So, we gathered up the Hefty bags, declared war on our 'stuff' and went to work.

Some things were easy to toss without a second look. Some made me angry. Some made me smile. Then there were those that would wrap themselves around my heart and leave me breathless and tearful.

What in the name of clutter was going on?

I couldn't ignore the fact that my stuff had a power all its own.

There’s a television show that documents this very phenomenon. It’s called “Clean Sweep.” During each episode, experts help folks get rid of their clutter. But the drama that getting rid of that stuff brings up is what makes for compelling television.

One episode might feature a couple fighting over a tin can that Aunt Sally gave Bob 30 years ago. But Bob refuses to throw it away. While it's easy to make fun of Bob and his tin can, we all have ‘tin cans’ we just can’t seem to part with.

Organizing experts tell us that the most common reason we have for hanging on to things we no longer use is the emotional attachment we have to them, the unresolved issues and emotions they carry.

But instead of dealing with the issues, we hang on to the stuff. But by doing so, we hang on to the past and stifle our present and our future.

I once owned a small business that ended on a very sour note. Even though I left that life for a better one a long time ago, I still hung on to many things that business left behind.

Looking at those things almost a decade later brought up unresolved anger I didn’t even realize was there! But when I acknowledged and dealt with those feelings I was able to throw away those things and cleanse myself of something that no longer meant anything to me.

But some stuff could not be dismissed as easily.

The hardest thing for me to part with was the Nordic Track workout equipment I had purchased with the small financial gift my grandmother, my abuelita, left me when she left this world.

Abuelita was a tiny woman (4' 10" in high heels) but she was a huge influence in my life. She left an even bigger hole in my heart when she died.

That Nordic Track had been sitting in my garage for years. I no longer used it, but I couldn't let it go.

For “Clean Sweep’s” Bob, throwing away his Aunt Sally’s tin can would be like throwing away Aunt Sally.

The Nordic Track was my tin can. And I wasn’t ready to throw my grandmother away.

After days of struggling with an emotional workout that surpassed any workout I’d ever done on the Nordic Track, I realized the Nordic Track was not my grandmother. It was simply a symbol I’d attached to her memory. And she would never have wanted me to hang on to something I no longer wanted, needed, or caused me such emotional pain.

In fact, she'd have been the first one to tell me to get rid of it. So, I donated it to someone who could use it.

That's when I accepted the gift that had come disguised as a piece of exercise equipment for so many years, the priceless gift that will stay with me forever -- the gift of letting go and moving on.

Grownups Held Hostage

Life as a grownup often seems like an asylum filled with inmates gone wild. For some grownups, the inmates come disguised as their children.

Now, when inmates take over an asylum those in authority have one of two choices -- take it back, or run for cover.

But at times, life in the asylum becomes so tiring for mom and dads that they've come up with a third choice for dealing with the inmates.

They become one of them.

It's somewhat like the Stockholm Syndrome -- when hostages sympathize with their captors and begin siding with them.

That's when things get ugly.

I recently had the pleasure of seeing this firsthand when I decided to treat myself to a manicure and pedicure at a nearby salon. I had anticipated a relaxing afternoon where my most important decision would be what color I wanted my fingernails and toenails painted.

Instead it turned into two hours of sheer torture orchestrated by an 11-year-old boy who held the salon full of patrons at bay while he waited for his mother, grandmother and their friend to finish their appointments.

His antics included skating up and down the row of pedicure stations blowing kisses to the women having their nails done. Is it really necessary for children to own shoes with little wheels on them?

He also had a voice that had the potential of rupturing the eardrum of every dog within a mile. And he used it to make the demands necessary to free his hostages:

"I wanna go to McDonald's! I wanna go to McDonald's! I wanna go to McDonald's!" he screeched.

At one point he went outside and began licking the glass door for everyone inside to see.

The owner shot him a look that said "Stop that, you brat!"

But instead of reprimanding the boy, the three women who brought him to the salon laughed and celebrated his "cuteness."

Then, as if an afterthought, the mother said, "Baby, stop that. I'll take you to McDonald's when we're done here."

Well now, isn't that an example of Perfect Parenting 101! Celebrate and reward bad behavior. Give in to your kids' demands!

I don't know about you, but every time I'm rewarded for something, I tend to do more of it.

Well, this kid was no rocket scientist, but since he'd been promised a trip to McDonald's for making his mom laugh, he kept looking for ways to get even more attention while continuing to terrorize everyone in sight.

When I was his age, just one look from my grandmother would be enough to shut me up. She was barely 5 feet tall in high heels. But I loved her dearly and respected her because she wasn't afraid to be a grownup around me. Yet, my grandma never laid a hand on me or raised her voice. She didn't have to. If I pushed too much for attention, she let me know that wasn't necessary to win her affection. Her love was unconditional.

Children of all ages crave unconditional love. When they act out and demand attention, what they're asking for is love, not submission.

So, instead of a trip to McDonald's, reward your children with something that might surprise them ... a hug. Letting them share things that interest you will bring you closer. But for the sake of everyone else in the room, don't bring an 11-year-old boy to a nail salon where he'll be bored out of his mind.

Parents, it's time to take back the asylum.

Katrina’s Ground Zero: Nine Months Later

Back To 'Normal' After The Storm

WAVELAND, Miss. -- When I told friends and coworkers I’d be spending Memorial Day weekend in Waveland and Bay St. Louis, Miss., their blank stares said it all. I might well have announced I was visiting Saturn for a holiday picnic on one of its outer rings.

It was pretty much the same reaction the media gave to both of those towns in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina last August. While neighboring cities like New Orleans, La., Biloxi and Gulfport, Miss., and Mobile, Ala. were getting all the attention, Waveland and Bay St. Louis were practically ignored.

Yet on the morning of Aug. 29, 2006, the tiny towns of Waveland and neighboring Bay St. Louis were ground zero for Hurricane Katrina. It was the same spot where, in 1969, category 5 Hurricane Camille came ashore.

As Katrina’s eye passed over Waveland last summer, it was hard to imagine that in less than six hours its damage would far surpass Camille’s devastation. Homes that had withstood Camille’s might were toppled by Katrina’s waves and swallowed by the Gulf of Mexico.

All that remained along seven miles of shoreline once lined by majestic antebellum homes were the toppled pilings on which they’d been built. Nine months later, what remains looks like an abandoned game of giant pickup sticks.

It wasn’t until CNN’s Anderson Cooper and Kathleen Koch -- a former resident of Bay St. Louis -- started reporting from there that the world knew the plight these towns had suffered.

In October, NBC’s Brian Williams visited the Ferry/Smolensky family, who have lived in the area for generations. As he walked down the completely devastated Coleman Avenue, the former heart of downtown Waveland, he asked Jane and Louie Smolensky why they were staying.

“We've been here since ’45,” said Jane Smolensky. “This has been our family home since then, and I'll always hopefully have it.”

I had the privilege of spending Memorial Day weekend with the Ferry/Smolensky family, a close-knit group of people who have been my friends for nearly nine years.

I attended a sunset gathering on the beach where services are held every Sunday morning in front of the slab that was once St. Clare’s Church. I heard Mayor Tommy Longo tell the story of how money from donations is tied up in so much bureaucracy that it still hasn’t gotten to the people who need it most.

I listened to stories of frustration. It seems that everyone you meet wants to tell you what it was like during ‘the storm.’ It’s a kind of therapy for those who stayed behind. But Katrina's forgotten victims don’t feel sorry for themselves and their anger, if there is any, is drowned out by their hospitality.

There’s nothing like a shrimp boil and an ice cold beer to help you forget you're surrounded by FEMA trailers and the shell of a house that's still months away from being called home again.

I lived in a FEMA trailer for two days and learned how to never, ever feel sorry for myself.

When I returned from my trip, everyone wanted to know if everything on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi was back to normal after Katrina.

Normal? Picture this.

Go stand on any corner of Dixie Highway in Fort Lauderdale and face east. Now, imagine all the buildings in between are gone and through the unobstructed view you can see the waves lapping on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean over two miles away.

That’s what normal looks like in Waveland and Bay St. Louis, Miss.

That’s what a 36-foot storm surge can do – wipe away what once was your life in an instant.

And but for the grace of God, luck, or a wobble in another direction, that’s what any city along the eastern and Gulf coasts of the United States could have looked like after Katrina – after any major hurricane for that matter.

It’s a picture we should all keep front and center in our minds as we enter hurricane season 2006.

Let's not forget that just four days before it wiped parts of the Gulf coast off the map, Katrina made landfall as a category 1 hurricane near the Miami-Dade and Broward County line.

Nine months after Katrina, almost nothing remains of Waveland and Bay St. Louis. Nothing is the same as it was. Those who live there will tell you that nothing will ever be the same. Nothing, that is, except the spirit of the people who have chosen to stay -- a spirit that offers a beacon of hope among the ruins.

As we enter yet another hurricane season, may the stories and the people of Waveland and Bay St. Louis offer a warning to those who have grown complacent and lost respect for these powerful storms.

And should we ever have to face their plight, may we face our challenges with the same courage, grace and determination as the residents of the forgotten towns of Katrina’s ground zero.

The World’s Finest Chocolate

I was dozing on my couch after a day at work when the doorbell jarred me back to reality.

The clock on the wall unit told me it was 7:12. As the Managing Editor of NBC6.net, I am up at 4:00 a.m. each day. Anyone who calls or shows up at my door after 6:00 p.m. is punishable by the wrath of the not-so-nice twin of my Gemini personality.

So, when the doorbell rang a second time, I sprang to attention – not so much to see who was at the door, but to introduce whoever it was to my worse half.

I'm a morning person. I spring out of bed with a song on my lips and warmth in my heart. But by the time the dinner dishes are taking their bath in the dishwasher, I'm like a cranky toddler who needs a serious nap.

I flung open the door with my bad-attitude-waiting-to-happen perched on my shoulder.

Standing in front of me was a little boy. He was about 10 years old. In his hands was a box of chocolates which he’d carefully opened so I could see what was inside. A few feet away from him was a little girl on a bicycle.

I told my bad attitude to take a hike.

“What do you have to offer today, little man?” I asked.

“The world’s finest chocolate,” he replied.

Perhaps it was the certainness with which he said it, or my weakness for all things begotten from the cocoa bean. But I truly believed he was selling the world’s finest chocolate.

“How much?” I asked.

“A dollar a bar,” he said. “How many would you like?”

I ran inside and managed to scrounge up four single dollar bills, three quarters, two dimes and a nickel. I am notorious for never carrying cash. I learned right then and there that woman does not live by debit card alone.

I handed over the cash and went back inside with five bars of God’s greatest gift to tastebuds.

It was then that it hit me.

The gift had come disguised as a little boy selling chocolate. The real gift was the lesson hidden underneath the foil and paper wrapper.

If you believe, you can achieve.

There was no doubt in his mind that he was selling the world’s finest chocolate. And by transferring that belief to me, I was sold instantly.


Imagine if the next time someone asked you what you had to offer you told them:

“I help people plant roots in their community so their family tree can expand.” You’d have a captive audience and a new friend for sure.

Why then do you sell yourself short and say “Oh, I’m a real estate agent.”

Or how about: “I influence the future more than anyone else." Yet, you miss the mark entirely and say: “I’m a teacher.”

How much more powerful would it be to look beyond the obvious and tell people what you really do. In return you’d discover who you really are.

As I was closing the door after buying the world’s finest chocolate, I overheard a conversation that made it all even more worthwhile.

“Did she buy anything?” the girl on the bicycle asked.

“Yeah! She bought five!” the little man replied.

“I told you she was cool,” the girl said.

This was indeed the world’s finest chocolate.

All Crossroads Lead South

Life is filled with crossroads. But for those of us who grew up in New York, there comes a time when we are faced with the most important crossroad of all – the time when we must move to Florida.

For me, that decision came in 1989, when after years of subway commutes from my home in Flatbush Brooklyn to my job at ABC Television on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I woke up one cold, dark winter morning and decided the time had come.

It wasn’t really an epiphany. I’d struggled with the decision for years. But as an only child first-generation Cuban woman, I found it hard to leave my parents and move hundreds of miles away.

Despite their support and blessings, I felt that leaving them would be the equivalent of abandonment.

I’ll spare you the shaggy dog details. Suffice it to say that in January of 1989, I boarded an Amtrak train to Miami and, 17 years later, I have yet to use the return ticket.

It’s a decision I’ve never regretted and one that’s taught me countless lessons about life, love, family and who I am.

With the lessons came even more questions … important, life-altering questions to which there seem to be no answers. Questions like …

Why doesn’t Florida have an ‘upstate?’

If you’re from New York and you tell someone you’re from upstate, they immediately know you’re from someplace up near the Canadian border … and they give you that smile that says, “You poor dear. You’re not from the real New York.” You know, the City.

Yet tell a native Floridian (the two that are left) that you’re going upstate and they look at you like you have Cheerios coming out of your ears.

When was the last time you heard someone from the Florida Panhandle refer to themselves as from 'upstate'?

Another question that has gnawed at me through the years is …

Why don’t people in Florida believe in California?

The first time I visited friends in Los Angeles after moving to South Florida, I told several neighbors that I was going to the west coast.

“Oh, really?” was the reply. “Do your friends live in Tampa or Naples?”

Think about it. When Floridians tell you they’re going to the west coast, you can bet they’re planning a trip across Alligator Alley. It’s as if they think the big earthquake hit California and took out everything west of Pensacola with it.

The third and perhaps most baffling question of all is …

Does blood really thin?

Every winter, transplanted New Yorkers love to use the blood-thinning phenomenon to justify turning on their heaters the minute the temperatures dip below 70 degrees.

Those were the same people who years before they moved to Florida could be seen walking around South Beach in shorts and tank tops on that rare winter day when temperatures don’t make it into the 70s, while locals shivered beneath layers of clothing.

But now that they live here, the ex-northerners will tell you their blood has thinned. That’s why, 70-degree temperatures now require them to turn up their heaters and dress in layers.

You can spot the locals a mile away in Florida. They’re the ones walking around in fur, gloves and a hat while the tourists swim in the ocean.

So, I leave you with those questions to ponder and welcome any answers or additional questions you might have about transplanted northerners.

I, however, have to go turn up the heater. It’s 69 degrees outside and I have to pack my corduroys and parka for a trip to the west coast to visit friends in Tampa.

World Class Care In A Resort-Like Environment

Several days ago I had the pleasure of visiting Miramar’s newest resort. Sitting tall and magnificent on 172nd Ave. just north of Miramar Parkway, the building is a stone’s throw from I-75.

There you can find world class services and cutting edge technology that would be the envy of the world’s finest 5-star hotels.

You didn’t know Miramar had a resort?

Well, neither did I until a friend recently asked me to take her there in the middle of the night.

Before you go rushing off to make a reservation, you should know that this place is a bit exclusive. And, even though you can check in anytime of day, unfortunately, in order to be admitted you have to be feeling a bit under the weather.

You see, the ‘resort’ I’m talking about is Memorial Hospital Miramar, whose Web site boasts is “Simply the Best! This full-service, acute-care hospital combines advanced technology with individualized care … and a state-of-the-art Adult Emergency Department.”

Believe me when I tell you, that’s quite an understatement!
Now, I’m not one who usually gushes about health care. In fact, I have to be dragged kicking and screaming to a doctor for my yearly checkup. So, when I tell you that a hospital made me think of a resort, you can tell it made quite an impression on me.

From the moment we pulled into the parking lot, I felt like I’d clicked my heels and been transported to a health care facility of the future. “Toto, we’re not in Miramar anymore,” I heard myself saying out loud.

The security officers who greeted us at the door were professional, efficient and polite.

Once past security, the check-in process was, excuse the pun, painless (at least for me).

My friend’s vital signs were checked and her blood was drawn by two young men who were so pleasant while doing their job, they should be teaching a course on bedside manner.

“Let me see if we can put you in a private room so you can be more comfortable,” one of them said.

“You’re kidding,” my friend replied.

No, he wasn’t. We were taken into a private room with a private bathroom and television.

Granted, the fact that it was the middle of the night and they were ‘slow’ may have had something to do with it. But even if they’d put my friend on one of those beds behind a curtain and made me sit in a cold, metal folding chair, it would not have put a damper on the care and personalized service we were offered.

Within moments of being taken to the room, a nurse came by to ask a series of preliminary questions. In less than 20 minutes, my friend was examined by a doctor, an EKG was performed and she was given an IV. That’s one commercial break better than the doctors do on television’s E.R.!

And to make sure we were sufficiently awed, they saved the best for last!

It was only after the doctor’s examination that the question of health insurance even came up. This is a far cry from most doctors’ offices where you’re greeted by a bouncer at the door who demands your insurance card and co-payment before he even lets you in!

One hour and one bag of IV solution later, the lab results came back normal and thankfully, my friend was sent home with a clean bill of health.

Health care professionals should take their cue from the staff at Memorial Hospital Miramar. These folks clearly recognize that health care is a lot more than filling out a prescription pad.

Let’s face it … no one likes to get sick. But should we ever be in need of quality health care, it’s comforting to know that hospitals like Memorial Miramar are in our own back yard.

Fun With Fraud

I was dozing on my pool deck recently when the phone suddenly jarred me awake.

On the other end of the line was a very distraught friend telling me that she’d just found out someone had tapped into her bank account and withdrawn over $1000 in unauthorized purchases at two separate Wal-Mart stores in Miami-Dade County.

My first advice to her was to call the bank. After all, everyone knows that banks have customer service lines staffed with people who have magical powers to help us through our financial challenges 24/7.

I was there when she made the call to the bank … a bank with which she’s done business for over 15 years.

I’ll spare you the unpleasant details. Bottom line? It was my friend’s responsibility to prove she’d been victimized. And it could take up to 60 days before the money would be put back in her account … assuming she could prove she wasn’t at fault.

The most compassionate question that came out of the customer service person on the other end of the line was: “Are you sure you didn’t spend the money and simply forgot about it?”

Suddenly my friend began to feel like the criminal.

She would have to file a police report and an affidavit swearing that the thousand bucks that had been lifted from her account had been the result of an unauthorized transaction. The bank left no doubt as to whose shoulders the burden of proof would lie.

The next morning, I accompanied her to the nearest branch of the bank where she was advised to close out her current account and open a new one so whoever had her account number could no longer access her funds.

“Get proactive,” I advised. “Let’s take it one step further and get Wal-Mart involved. Surely they have a policy for dealing with such things.”

The fun was just beginning.

Our first stop was the Wal-Mart in Hialeah Gardens, the scene of one of three unauthorized purchases.

To be fair, the store was very cooperative. But the steps along the way were somewhat hysterical.

For example, we were told to go to the Prevention Loss Department (better known as security) -- which for some odd reason was in the ladies fitting room.

"I haven't seen any of them today. I don't think they're in yet," the young woman at the counter told us.

I turned to my friend. "Now would be a good time to rob the place," I said. Only kidding.

After jumping through more hoops than lions at the circus, we finally found the person who could help us locate the register at which the transaction occurred. We gave her all the information and were told they would be in touch if they found anything.

Next stop … the Hialeah Springs Police Department where the woman on duty at the front desk told us “the officers are all out.”

“Where are they,” I asked?

“Out. They went on a call. I don’t know where. But if you come back in a couple of hours, they will be here,” she said.

I wondered what would have happened if I had walked in and announced I had just killed three people. Would she have been able to find the officers then?

I decided to keep my thoughts to myself.

So, off we went to the Wal-Mart in north Miami-Dade where the other two unauthorized transactions had been made.

Two managers, a money supervisor and several miles around the store later, we were told we'd be called when they found something.

From there we headed to the Miami-Dade Police Dept. near Opa-Locka Airport to fill out a police report.

In the meantime, we received a call from the store manager at the North Dade store telling us that they'd found the transactions and were setting aside security camera tapes for the police officers should they need them.

There was a slight glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

Our second trip to the Hialeah Gardens police department was very productive. The officers were extremely polite and the report was filed in minutes.

The next morning my friend handed in her affidavit at the bank and was prepared to wait the 60 days before the $1000 was put back in her account.

Our work was done.

Three days later, the bank called to say the money had been put back in her account because neither store contested or questioned the fact that the transactions had indeed been fraudulent.

Hallelujah!

Not so fast.

That victory was somewhat short-lived. You see, the money was returned. But it was put into the closed account!

And just when we thought the bank couldn’t get any stupider … it did.

My friend called them to try to get the problem resolved and was told: "Sorry, ma'am that account is closed and we can no longer access it."

She had the call on speakerphone so I could witness the bureaucratic brilliance coming from the other end of the line.

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all.

"But you accessed it to put money in. Why can't you access it to put it into the right account?"

Suddenly the silence was deafening. It seems the person on the other end of the line activated a few cells in her brain long enough to realize my friend had a valid point.

"OK, let me get my supervisor and see what I can do."

Ah, yes, the supervisor. Also known as the length of time we’re put on hold while everyone on the other end thinks up an excuse for being so ignorant.

A few keystrokes of a computer later and the entire unfortunate incident was resolved.

Next time you’re tempted to fight bureaucracy with common sense remember to bring patience and a sense of humor as your weapons.

Resolutions? What Resolutions?

Happy New Year, my friends. So, tell me, how many New Year’s resolutions have you broken so far?

It’s OK to admit you've broken a few, if not all of them.

You made those resolutions with good intentions, fully intending to follow through. But just a couple of days into 2006 you’ve fallen off the resolution bandwagon.

But you’re not alone. Right now there are thousands of people just like you who are shaking their heads wondering what went wrong.

Now, I have a sure-fire formula for never breaking resolutions. In fact, it’s because of this formula that I haven’t broken a resolution in about 10 years. I’ll share it with you in a minute but first, let’s look at some of the most common resolutions and see why they are destined to fail from the very start.

Perhaps the #1 New Year’s resolution people make is to lose weight. If you consider the obesity epidemic in our country, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. But to lose weight by resolving to begin a diet on January 1st is a terrible way to go about it.

Let me set the scenario for you.

You wake up on New Year’s Day and realize that apparently someone forgot to tell the holiday cookie fairy to put away those treats left over from the party you had the night before.

Not only did the treats not vaporize while you were asleep, you also have a bad case of the post New Year’s eve hangover munchies thanks to that extra glass of champagne you had right before dawn. So, you reach over into that plate of fudge brownies drizzled in powdered sugar that just happen to be next to the coffee maker, pop one into your mouth and suddenly you feel like Adam biting into the apple.

Then it hits you, resolution guilt.

Before you know it, you're teetering on the brink of sugar-induced amnesia (Resolution? What resolution?) Oh, well, I can always start my diet next Monday, you say to yourself as you reach for a second melt-in-your-mouth decadent treat.

Did you ever stop to consider that the first three letters of the word diet spell DIE! It’s no wonder resolutions to diet don’t work.

Let’s look at another popular resolution… exercise!

I’ve been a runner for 25 years. I begin each New Year with a run. It's a kind of mediation during which I ponder what I want to accomplish in the next 12 months. For some reason, I see more people on the roads on New Year’s Day than any other day of the year.

I call these folks Resolution Runners. They are all decked out in expensive sweat suits and just about every heart rate monitor and gadget you can imagine. And their running shoes are so new they have the box they came out of still attached to them.

They wave and smile as if to say, “Look at me, I’m a runner now.” Unfortunately, the next time I run into them is at Publix where they lower their eyes in shame and pretend they don’t know who I am as we pass each other by the Twinkies shelf.

Resolutions seem to be our attempt to fix something we feel is wrong with us.

But here’s the problem. Most of us consider resolutions all-or-nothing endeavors.
And that’s precisely why so many of them are broken. The minute we do one tiny thing that we swore we wouldn't do, we consider ourselves a failure and abandon the resolution altogether.

For example, if you resolve to never eat anything unhealthy ever again and you take a tiny taste of Ben & Jerry’s newest flavor ice cream, you are just one spoonful away from cuddling up on the couch with a gallon of the stuff.

Who invented New Year’s resolutions anyway? What were they thinking?

But as I mentioned earlier, there’s a guaranteed way to never break your resolutions.

It’s quite simple really. Don’t make any resolutions. And if you do want to make positive changes in your life, resolve not to call them resolutions.

Forget the all-or-nothing attitude. That will keep you out of trouble and guilt-free all year round. Take things one day at a time. Have fun. And if you 'fail' once in a while, chalk it up to experience, dust yourself off and keep going.

Just don’t make any more resolutions. The word itself has very negative connotations… especially on January 1st.

Happy New Year!

That 70's Party

A few days ago, I received an invitation to a friend's birthday party. At first, I was happy to have been invited to join in the celebration of a milestone birthday... the big 3-0. Although I achieved that milestone long ago, I was very much looking forward to the event.

On closer inspection, however, I noticed the invitation contained the one word that sends me running for the hills every time I see it. My friend had decided to have a theme party for her birthday.

Over the years theme parties have become very popular. Don't let this fool you. A theme party is nothing more than a costume party for drunken grownups.

I hate costume parties. I simply don't do fake dress up. I like who I am. I don't feel the need to dress up and pretend to be someone else for a night. And to answer the question in your head, no, I don't do Halloween either.

To make matters even worse, my friend had chosen 'The 70's' as the theme of her 'vintage' party. Those attending would be required to dress up like their favorite character from the 70s.

I was terrified by the prospect.

I was further horrified when I realized she had the nerve to use 'vintage' and '70s' in the same sentence.

Here is my definition of vintage: Old stuff people have kept in boxes for years because some day they may be worth something.

Vintage stuff is old stuff. I don't even start thinking vintage until I go way back to the 1950s. In the 70s I was a cool high school kid who went to concerts and dreamed of being in a rock band.

So how was it possible that someone would even think of calling the 70s vintage? Then I realized that many of those who would be attending this party were well, sperm and eggs in the 70s.

When I think the 70s, three words come to mind... 'polyester' and 'big hair.' Both of which brought me back to a time of teenage angst, clumsiness and bad fashion.

My trip down memory lane took me back to everything from making out at the movies during the premiere screening of Saturday Night Fever to the opening theme of Welcome Back Kotter. What do a disco movie and television show set in Brooklyn have in common? If you were around in the 70s, you know the answer to that one!

I awoke from my trip through the time tunnel to the sound of my partner shopping for vintage attire on E-bay. There was no turning back now since we'd already accepted the invitation.

Since I was a character of the 70s, I decided to go as myself in my teenage angst heyday.

So, credit card and E-bay account in hand, I went shopping.

I was shocked to learn that the box of old concert T-shirts I had thrown out 15 years ago was now valued at more than the net worth of all the citizens of Monaco combined.

For example, the Led Zeppelin Houses of the Holy tour shirt I bought for $7.00 at a Madison Square Garden concert in 1977 now cost $73. A 'Stop the Draft' button which was given out for free at high school rallies, could now be had for $10. And if I was willing to part with $175, I could own a 'You Gotta Believe' button from the 1972 New York Mets run for the pennant.

I decided to call my mom and share with her this information. Now, my mom isn't a pack rat by any means, but she has been known to hang on to a few things because 'they may be valuable some day.' So when she confessed she'd rescued my t-shirt box from the trash and invited me to come over to look through the box, I couldn't get to my parent's house fast enough.

Some day had finally arrived. When I got to my parent's house and opened the box, it was like opening a Pandora's box to every memory I had stored away safely... most good, some painful.

I spent the rest of that marvelous afternoon looking through old photo albums, reading entries former classmates had written in my high school yearbooks and listening to some of the cheesiest, yet memorable lyrics ever to come out of a turntable.

Who could ever forget: "That's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it, uh huh, uh huh."

Finally, as I got to the bottom of the box, I saw the familiar black cotton material and white letters... it was a little worn but still exactly how I remembered it... my Led Zeppelin Houses of the Holy tour shirt from 1977. Best of all, it still fit perfectly.

That's when I realized why people like theme parties so much. Because by pretending to be someone else, you can finally appreciate who you are.

My trip down memory lane had deposited me right back to the present... to the person I had become as a result of my past. And with the wisdom of hindsight, I could finally appreciate the joyful time from which teenage angst had blinded me.

With that bit of insight, I realized that the things over which I stress today will one day bring a smile of nostalgia to my lips.

The party was a huge success. And as I sang the words of Paradise By The Dashboard Light... "It was long ago and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today..." I agreed that in some ways it was... but in so many other ways the past is better left right where I left it.