Nancy and Joel's Excellent Adventure: March 2013

The next phase of "My Life-Part Three" looks quite promising.

First and foremost, my son Josh no longer has cancer. While he still must suffer the effects of a final round of chemo (just dotting all the I's according to his wonderful oncologist), he doesn't have cancer any more. He also doesn't have several organs in his body that most people enjoy having, like a stomach and a spleen, but it was definitely a trade that helped the Getman team. Given some time away from chemo and a new eating regimen, he will be able to begin his "Phase Two" in fine shape.  Josh, Cindy, Sam, Sara and your faithful author of these lame ramblings will be forever grateful for your thoughts, prayers, gifts, and concern.

All of which makes my future plans with Miss Nancy of E. Lansing, Michigan quite exciting and look-forward-to-ish.

First on our list is a two-day jaunt into New Orleans, a smooth three or four hour drive from here. We will be joined by old friends Laney and Steve Silva who have graciously consented to mooch off me for a week or so in April. Just kidding, of course. This is a wonderful opportunity for me to reciprocate just a tiny portion of the kindness and hospitality shown to me by the Silva clan. I have stayed with the Silvas dozens of times over the years, often because of some kind of family illness. Back in the early 2000's, Ada and I would bunk in with the Silvas as brave grandson Sam was undergoing his two open heart surgeries. What a comfort it has always been to know that whatever stress or anxiety we faced at one hospital or another, at the end of the day we had a safe and welcoming Braintree harbor in which to dock. The key to the Silva castle was always available to us. I'd tell you where it is hidden, but most of America already knows about the sneaker in the garage. You see, it's kind of an open immigration policy at the Silva's, the Jewish version of Lourdes, where pilgrims of all beliefs can find warmth, food, and a big-ass tv. Should be a fun week.

After New Orleans, I will be flying back to Boston to see Josh, Cindy, and the twins for a few days. Sam is involved in the Weymouth version of the Special Olympics and I am very eager to see him "compete" in various activities. Later that weekend, I will be thrilled to witness Bob and Judy Ernest's grandson Michael as he becomes a bar-mitzvah. Good family stuff for sure.

The day after I get back from all this, on May 1, Nancy and I will be moving into our shared Sandestin townhouse, accompanied by the delightful Vivian, a precocious and rather unflappable West Highland terrier. She has coal black eyes that stare right through you (Vivian, not Nancy), and a keen eye for decorating (Nancy, not Vivian).

 

This will be my fifth address since I moved to the Panhandle three years ago, which either makes me very carefree and adventurous or some sort of vagrant. Kevin, our new landlord, has furnished this beautiful townhouse on the Gulf side of the sprawling Sandestin resort with upgraded furniture and HD up the ying-yang. It looks like it's going to be a tremendous flat screen kind of year. Nancy is excited about the move. I was particularly thrilled to see her studying the ins and outs of the new kitchen and its contents, and pronouncing it suitable for a chef of her excellent skills. Yes, it's definitely going to be The Year of the Joel.

About a week after we move into Sandestin, we'll be flying to Phoenix where Nancy will be reunited with her son, Ethan, and her grandson Aidan. Ethan works at the Scottsdale Fairmont Princess, so we'll be able to stay at that fabulous resort for this visit. Three days in magical Sedona and a side trip to the Grand Canyon should add hundreds of mediocre pictures to my digital collection. If by some miracle of light and lens I happen to capture a good one, I'll be sure to post it on these pages. Don't hold your breath!

Then it's a return to normalcy: golf in 90 degree heat and lazy afternoons spent people-watching at the Gulf. That is until July when Nancy and I embark on our own version of The Long March as we put about 4,000 miles on the Chevy making our way through Michigan, Boston, Asheville, and other places along the way. We'll be burning up the GPS and listening to books on tape until our ears hurt. It's the ultimate test of a relationship: highway boredom and Comfort Inns.I'm pretty sure this trip will yield ripe fruit for this Blog. If not, I'll make something up.

Finally, as 2013 draws to a close, Nancy and I will make our way to Merry Ol' England for an October visit with the Davidsons. They will be escorting son Jamie to his first year at Cambridge and we are thrilled to be joining them around that learned city as well as London, West Yorkshire and even their island retreat on Mallorca.

As one does...

Ain't life grand?

J

Levels and Settings: March 2013

During a recent road trip to other parts of Florida, I was happily reunited with several good friends. We talked about many things, got caught up on the latest family news and generally laughed our way through a few great days.

Somehow we got onto the subject of levels and settings and a wonderful realization dawned on me: just about all of my levels and settings are right where I want them to be.

Take for example my sandwich settings: I have two sandwich settings. The ham and swiss on wheat with brown mustard, lettuce, and tomato. Also, the turkey and swiss with mayo, etc. Throw a couple of sour pickles and stuffed queen olives on the plate and you've got a little piece of sandwich heaven. I'm very happy with my sandwich settings.

My coffee settings are right where they need to be also. It's Starbucks French Roast or Verona, two mugs each morning. Three scoops for two mugs. Strong but not bitter. Very important to have the correct coffee settings. Come to think of it, I'm very happy with my mug settings. There are four of them, and all of them please me. They are the right thickness and have the proper lip action. I spill very little coffee each morning. You'd hardly notice the stains. Good mug settings for sure.

Of course when you say the word settings, most people think of electronics, gadgets, and assorted gizmos. My television and cable settings are elegant in their simplicity. I bounce between MSNBC and ESPN, with occasional stops at CBS for Elementary, NBC for Go On, or Comedy Central for The Daily Show. Simple. Elegant. No reality shows, no Fox Fair and Balanced News, No Home Shopping Network. Good cable settings.

My Ipod settings are also pleasing to me. I prefer "shuffle songs" to a complete rendering of a particular CD. That way I never know what's coming, other than the extreme probability that whatever song plays will not be one of my favorites. As many of you know, my Ipod hates me. But "Shuffle" is still the correct setting in my opinion.

I'm quite pleased with my clothing levels and settings. I am completely set for almost any type of event, whether it be a day of golf or a day at the beach. Actually, when I think about it, those are the only two events I am likely to require clothing for so this will be a short section.

My golf settings are really in great shape. All 14 of my clubs are left-handed which is really perfect for me because of my two hands, the left one works better. I know where everything is in my golf bag. This includes my Red Sox ball marker (the little slanty pocket on the side of the bag) and one of those ham and swiss sandwiches which I forgot to eat last Tuesday. I have new golf balls in the top pocket and usable found balls in the bottom pocket. I start each round with one new ball and one used ball. I don't always finish the round with the same golf balls I started with, but because of my excellent golf bag settings, when I lose one, I know exactly where to find the next one. Often, there is mild cursing during this process.

My cursing settings are right where they should be. If you don't believe me, then #**#@ you!

Toaster settings: check
Shower settings: check
Internet Favorites settings: check (including the ability to watch a Bruins or Red Sox game on my computer. Nice.)
Cruise control settings: check
Underwear drawer settings: check (really, Joel? You went there?)

I would even go so far as to declare that my PERSONAL settings and levels are all nicely positioned. I've dialed back my impatience and temper settings quite a bit. I wish I had done this long before October 1, 2009, but I've learned where some of my settings should be the hard way. My listening setting is much more open than it used to be. I'm much more interested in listening than in talking. As a matter of fact, I never miss an opportunity to keep my mouth shut, to quote Richard Peck. My blood pressure setting is right at normal and I'm hoping I'll be able to free myself of some of the meds I take each day. My family settings are excellent: it would be impossible for me to love the members of my family any more than I do. I'm proud of all of them.

I'm happy with my settings which means I'm happy with ME which makes me suitable for other people to want to be my companion. Yes, my Nancy setting is wonderful.

I'm not so naive as to think that all of these settings will remain so nicely situated forever.

All I know is that today, March 13, 2013, I really love my settings.

Ain't life grand?
J

What, Me Worry? February 2013

 

 I am worried about not having enough to worry about. The list I maintain entitled "Stuff I Should be Worried About" is currently down to only two items:

1. Someone will discover that I wasn't really all that "sick" during many of the sick days I took as a teacher in Hingham.

2. I will run out of Gold Bond powder. (Don't ask!)

Now to fully appreciate the importance of this shrinking list, you have to know the context. I have been a compulsive worrier for as long as I can remember.

(Note to self: Should I be worried that I can't remember back as far as I once did?)

One of my earliest lists contained this bullet point:

     ...I am worried that my second grade teacher, Miss Finan, hates Jews.

She didn't. She just hated me.

As an urban Jew born shortly after World War II, I felt that the ability to worry compulsively over all sorts of large and small concerns was part of my birthright. Kind of like the wonderful Italians I knew who felt they should be able to lay stone at a moment's notice or the many delightful Irishmen in and around Boston who took some of the worst moments in their lives and turned them into melodic Guinness-infused songfests. Worrying was the gift my ancestors bequeathed me and I was going to wring every last drop out of this sad offering.

Hey, let's go to Bermuda...What if there's no parking?

Look, it's the ice cream truck...What if he doesn't have correct change?

How about taking the trolley into Boston...What if the electric thingie comes unhinged and we have to transfer and I lose that little transfer paper and I have to pay again and then I don't have enough money for a slice of pizza that I was counting on and...well, you get the idea.

I wrapped myself in WORRY. I loved WORRY. I could always count on WORRY to help me get through the good times and return me to the comfortable, miserable place I coveted. Misery was my happy place.

Until recently, I never had to search for worry and misery. There was plenty of it everywhere I looked. Heck, from October, 2006 until October, 2009 I had enough Worry and Misery to begin my own Worry Export business. We had such a surplus, we were able to export tons of worry to former worry-free locales like Shangri-La and Machu Picchu. Both of these places used some of that start-up seed worry to open Avalanche Insurance companies that are the envy of the industry. Also, if you look carefully, many of the Tibetan monks now have safety pins holding their saffron robes in place, a nod to some of the worry I was able to export to these formerly carefree folks. Yes, I had so much worry during those years I was more than happy to spread it around.

My supply decreased some when I moved to Florida in 2010 but there was still more than enough to go around. I remember worrying that the minute someone on the Panhandle heard me speak, he or she would shoot me with a semi-automatic weapon. Because of that worry, I only nodded my first year down here.

Then I was worried that I would have to eat okra. That caused a few sleepless nights, believe me.

Of course the granddaddy of all worry-makers occurred last July. That was when older son Josh informed me he had stomach and esophageal cancer. Yes, that news topped off my stock of worry to record levels. Somehow, the concern about okra didn't seem quite so...worrisome. And with Cindy and the twins, Sam and Sara, in the mix...well, I was experiencing new levels of worry previously thought to be unattainable except for a few shamans and senior accountants at Enron.

Last week a highly skilled surgeon at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston blithely removed the source of all that worry: Josh's stomach, spleen, and a small part of his pancreas, leaving me temporarily at a loss for what to worry about. I say temporarily because in a couple of weeks Josh will get the results of a pathological study that may provide some new reason to worry. And he is bound to have more chemo infusions to endure which are a great source of worry and vitamin D.

Then there is Nancy, a new and very welcome addition to my life. She is bound to discover that I am not as funny as I seemed to be over that first salad we shared.

The Red Sox will be another good fountain o' worry, as they have been for me since I first heard Curt Gowdy say, "Hi neighbor, have a 'gansett." By the way, they still make that crap, which really makes me worry.

Other current worry providers: My so-far successful diet. My golf swing. My Second Amendment rights. (I'm worried I may be tempted to assert them if Wacky Wayne LaPierre utters even one more word in public.) Estonia. (You really have to be a worrier to be worried about Estonia.) The Bruins' power play. My hair and body wash products. 

Yes, when I stop to think about it, I guess there will always be enough for me to worry about.

Even without Josh's stomach.

Ain't life grand?

J

  

Nancy with the Laughing Face: January 2013

There is a new woman in my life and that is what I call her.

Of course Sinatra made that phrase famous whenever he sang the beautiful Phil Silvers song. Although the tune was written with someone else in mind, Sinatra always said that he thought about his young daughter every time he sang it.

Now it's my turn to "sing" about this new Nancy and her beautiful, smiling face.

We became aware of each other's existence around Christmas. We were both enrolled in a senior dating website called "wrinklesareus.com" (ok, ok, it was ourtime.com). We started a very tentative email correspondence. I believe I fired the first shot by sending an email that went something like this:

Hello...you,

Do you like the excitement of skydiving out of an airplane over the ocean? Do you like the idea of speeding along an interstate at 125 mph? How about saddling a hyena and wildly romping across the veldt?

Neither do I. 

Mostly I enjoy sitting and eating fruit.  If that sounds appealing to you, please look over my profile and email me.

Now I will have an apricot.

Joel Getman
Miramar Beach

Thankfully, Nancy found my initial overture inspiring beyond words and took the time to read my humble profile. She was delighted to discover that I was on deck when Ted Williams hit his final home run, and was thrilled to learn that I was simultaneously a Temptation and the third Top. What intrigued her the most was my ownership of the state of New Mexico. (It's been in my family for years. I don't like to brag about it.) Thinking a week in Santa Fe doesn't sound too bad, she decided to take the plunge.

And thus began our binary romance.

There was no opportunity to actually meet one another because Nancy was away visiting her daughter and family in Georgia. More phone calls and emails were exchanged and something slowly became quite obvious: this woman is exactly what I've been looking for because she's exactly like me!

To quote the estimable Terrell Owens, I love me some me.

Then I had a terrible thought. What if she looks like me?

Happily we were able to meet face to face over dinner recently and I was thrilled to be able to gaze longingly at a lovely, funny, very sharp woman whose default mode is kindness and optimism.

Nancy is the kind of person who can't wait to see what's next. Like everyone else, she's had to overcome some of life's challenges, but has managed to come out on the other side of things with a beautiful smile and an upbeat, joyful approach.

She has a wealth of stories about her large (four siblings) Michigan family. Most of the time we have spent together has been dominated by one of us trying to outdo the other as far as family wackiness is concerned. We've already laughed more than two people have a right to, and I haven't even told her the one about Ada asking me, as we were passing a truckers' weigh station, "Wanna get weighed?"

My instant response: "Wuv to."

I should be able to win that battle at least.

Nancy is a little camera shy so I've substituted an alternate picture I took recently. Let the beauty of this photograph represent both Nancy's beauty and, especially, the beauty of having yet another wonderful woman (This makes me 3/3,  people!) with whom I hope to share life's ups and downs.

Ain't life grand?
j

Joel Getman is an Excellent Golfer: January 2013

You heard me. Heck, I'll say it again: Joel Getman is an excellent golfer.

Deal with it.

For the past 65 years, I have been very reluctant to boast or gloat about any of my athletic achievements. From my Boston Latin School background I understood the concept of Hubris all too well. The gods did not look favorably upon those who boasted of their various victories or accomplishments. Suck on that, Odysseus.

I got the message loud and clear at an early age. You would never hear me brag about the fact that my pick up basketball team won a particular game at the YMHA-Hecht House. First of all, the sad fact was that if I were on the team it was highly unlikely that that team would win. But even if we did win, I would accept that victory with complete humility, helping the losing team members in their grief and consoling them with the thought that we were obviously very lucky to have won.

During our touch football games on Esmond Street, ("Head for the Buick and then cut to the left.") I never performed one of those ridiculous touchdown dances. I saw no honor in humiliating my opponent. Also, I was not then and am not now what one would call graceful. Instead I would accept the congratulations of my teammates and console the opponents with the thought that if I could score a touchdown, there was hope for everyone.

Readers of these lame thoughts know that I spent most of my adult life playing and competing in tennis. I got to be pretty good at the game and won much more often than I lost. But again, I made it a point of personal honor not to gloat or boast about any tennis victory. I was quite aware of the cosmic importance of the match I had just played: there was absolutely NO importance to it. The world would go on, the sun would rise the next day whether I won or lost. Instead of saying, "I'm a better tennis player than you are and I'm going to make sure everyone knows about it," I would say something like, "I have no idea how I was able to win our match. You are a much better player than I am. Fortune smiled on me today."

Well, guess what, Zeus...you can take all that Hubris crap and make a big ol' suck sandwich out of it.

Because for the third day in a row I have broken 80 on my challenging golf course. Not only that but today I shot a two-over-par 74, my lowest round of golf ever, anywhere.

I'm done with humility. Hey Poseidon, wanna play a nassau? I'll give you two strokes a side, ya waterlogged bastard!

How about you, Ares? I mean you're supposed to be so tough and all. I'll only use four clubs. You can pick them. Loser buys the beer. Waddaya say? Hah, just as I thought. A lot of sound and fury signifying nothing.

And you, Athena? You think you're so wise and so ALL THAT! You want a piece of me? I'll play in a toga. I'll play right-handed. I'll give you a stroke a hole.

Guess what, people. I've made HUBRIS my b-tch! I own HUBRIS now. As a good friend of mine always says, I'm taking HUBRIS, putting it in a balloon and watching it float away.

Joel Getman is an excellent golfer and you are all just going to have to adapt.

Gotta run now. The Santa Rosa Golf Club wants to make an instructional video using my swing. Normally I would have begged off claiming that I'm not worthy. But, hey, it's 2013...THE YEAR OF THE JOEL!

Ain't life grand?
J

Joel's Fabulous Diet: January 2013

I'm going on a diet.

I've chosen to announce this gigantic piece of news in this space because I want to be held accountable by the many wonderful friends and family members who read these lame ramblings. I feel that I can pull this off if I have a Greek Chorus of supporters witnessing my efforts and shouting encouragement or screaming hurtful insults.

I need an audience, people. I always have.

You can consider the above photo the "before." It's not quite anatomically correct, but I fear it's in the ballpark.

In three months I will publish another entry featuring an undoctored, up-to-the-minute series of photos of yours truly, which will serve as the "after" and will provide unassailable evidence that I, Joel A. Getman, am now one of the skinniest men in America.

Or at least not has blubbery as I used to be.

I have chosen to make this announcement and take this action now for several reasons. First, it will be relatively easy for me to remember when this diet started. In the past many of my diets ended prematurely because I thought I had been on a diet for six months when in fact it had only been six hours. That won't happen in this case. This diet starts on 1-1-13 and it won't  be over until I walk down the street with onlookers saying, "Did I just see a gracefully aging American man or was that one of those stick insects that usually hide in trees?"

Another reason for this action involves the couch in my Miramar Beach townhouse. When I sit or lie on this couch, something I do quite often, I usually can't get off it. I am currently incapable of getting myself off the couch due to a redistribution of my bodily weight and some very plush cushions. (on the couch!) The other night, I was fearful of having to spend the night on the couch. It was only through the clever use of a series of levers, pulleys, and one very disgruntled longshoreman that I was finally able to make myself vertical again.

Verticality is one of the secrets of a fulfilling life and I want to experience that.

Finally, I have decided I am using too much soap. I currently average 37 showers per bar of soap. After my Fabulous 2013 Diet, with its accompanying decrease in surface area, I am hoping to bump that number up to 50. This will result in significant monetary savings which I will use to buy pizza.

Now admittedly this will not be my first rodeo; although, ironically, if I were to enter a rodeo, it WOULD be my first rodeo. At any rate, I have been on many diets in the past. Obviously, something went terribly wrong.

Of course I am aware that the second you call something a "diet" you doom it to failure. I mean I'm not completely stupid. I read the headlines in the check out line just like the rest of the gals. It's supposed to be a "lifestyle change" or some such new age phrase.

OK, how's this: On January 1, 2013 my lifestyle is going to dramatically change...I'm going to eat better foods and not as much as I did from 1947-2012. How's that?

I have succeeded with this problem in the past. As a matter of fact around 2003 or so I thought I had the problem licked. I went on the South Beach diet with the dedication of a member of Navy Seal Team 6 and lost a significant amount of weight. Strangely, I also started to enjoy pastels but that's neither here nor there. I was almost too good to look at. People couldn't look me in the eye for fear of spontaneously combusting. The weight I lost was donated to the Central African Republic. They used it to create a massive water desalinization facility. I'm told it still works. Alas, little by little my demons came back to tempt and eventually defeat me. It was a classic guerilla maneuver. Small, elite teams of M&Ms and Twix Bars would surreptitiously become available to me out of thin air. (Well, not quite thin air. I had to enter the convenience store to purchase and then eat them.) Heretofore struggling pizza-by-the-slice establishments all over New England would find their fortunes improving thanks to the generosity of a certain not-so-skinny-anymore benefactor. Eventually, they all knew me by name, like Norm at Cheers.

I promise that whatever happens, I won't fall into those same traps again. If my destiny is to remain one of the world's fattest humans, it will be because I've spent the next three months eating too much kale.

Stay tuned, people. It's going to be a wild ride.

Ain't life grand?
J

A Movie Recommendation: December 2012

I am about to violate one of my cardinal rules: Never recommend anything to anybody in case they don't like it.

I've followed that rule most of my life with rare exceptions. Of course if I'm asked about this particular restaurant or that particular recording, I'll state my honest opinion if I have one. But I usually don't volunteer the information without a prompt.

I may have made an exception for presidential candidates recently, but I am the kind of person who feels that my opinions are my opinions and have been molded and formed by my particular set of experiences in this life; therefore, how should I expect that they would match your opinions which have been formed by an entirely different set of circumstances?

Plus I want people to like me. People who have lots of opinions are harder to like in my opinion.

I make a little joke.

With this in mind, after carefully thinking about what I am set to do, please let me recommend that everyone out there, I mean in the world, ages 13 and above, see The Life of Pi in 3D today. I mean now, people.

You will thank me later.

Unless you don't like it.

I saw it yesterday on a dreary, rainy day in NW Florida and I'm pretty sure I'm not the same person today that I was before I saw it.

For one thing, I snagged a pair of 3D glasses and didn't recycle them so that I can pay for a cheap movie and sneak into a 3D one in the future.

Hey, I'm a movie critic, not a saint! Besides, you're getting all these gems for free. I've got to make ends meet somehow.

The biggest change in me however is not quite so easy to define, especially without "giving the movie away." Let's just say that there are some BIG QUESTIONS that I and just about everybody else have which, if not answered entirely, are at least provided with some very helpful insights by this cinematic masterpiece.

I was moved to see this film for two reasons. One was that Ada and I listened to the book on one of our long road trips to Florida years ago. I remembered some of the story but not all of it, but knew that I had found it fascinating. Also, a couple of weeks ago the CBS movie critic on the wonderful "Sunday Morning" show gave it his highest recommendation. Unlike me, he actually knows what he's talking about.

Visually, this is the most stunning movie I have ever seen. The 3D only adds to the spectacular beauty of this movie. I remember being blown away by the visuals and colors in James Cameron's Avatar and all of the Lord of the Rings films, but Pi is even more impressive. I believe the reason for this is that this film takes place in our own natural world not on Middle Earth or a far flung planet. These visual wonders are OUR wonders, part of OUR experience and that makes the striking beauty of this film's images that much more powerful. Sure colors are enhanced and things are digitized but all of it COULD happen. There's the difference.

That's only half of the reason to see this movie, although that alone would be worth the price of admission. (An amazing $10.75 for a matinee! This damn well better be good, Getman). This is also a movie of ideas that can be enjoyed and mulled over on many different levels. Hey, if it got me to thinkin', imagine how a smart person will react. The film is the opposite of preachy; the ideas and propositions set forth are done in a gentle, kind manner, like a bowl of ripe fruit on a front porch table. Eat or not, it's up to you. There is no pressure at all. If you decide you don't want to go any deeper than the story on the surface, it will still be a memorable film.

It's funny, but I don't remember being this moved and inspired when Ada and I listened to the book years ago. Maybe this is because the visuals contribute so much to this story.

Or maybe it's because life and circumstances have made me a very different person than I was before.

I guess it's all a matter of opinion.

Ain't life grand?
J