My Abandonment of Mainstream Media

I've stopped watching and reading the news.

Canadian, American, European...all of it. I went cold turkey after the American election.

You have to understand how difficult this was for a news junkie.

I'm tired and simply haven't had the emotional bandwidth to deal with so many world issues cascading simultaneously. 

So, I've hidden. I've cocooned.

That isn't to say that I don't know what is happening. It is impossible not to. We are all standing at the precipe of something very dark and dangerous. To stick my fingers in my ears and scream la la la isn't an option. But, I have given up on traditional media. 

Major Canadian media is owned by a small number of companies. Did you know that the Canadian Press is owned by the Globe and Mail and owned by the richest family in Canada? Did you know that Postmedia, which operates the National Post, the Financial Post, and Sun Media newspapers, are two-thirds owned by American hedge fund Chatham Asset Management? Bell, Rogers, Corus, Quebecor, and the CBC control every over-the-air channel in Canada. Every single one. The Toronto Star is owned by Nordstar Capital, a diversified holding company owned by billionaire Jordan Bitove. Your local paper? Controlled by wealthy people with very specific agendas. Your local TV stations? The same. 

Watching the once proud and independent Washington Post dismantled by a billionaire owner has been soul-crushing. (I gave up my subscription following the mass exodus of gifted journalists.) My New York Times subscription has been reduced to a word game URL. I am sickened by the idea that new-age journalists think creating stories is more important than covering them. The Post even has a new slogan: “Riveting Storytelling for All of America.” What the actual fuck does that mean?

We, the world populace, are being ill-served by most major mainstream media. Of course, great reporters are doing great work at every single one of the institutions I've mentioned, but they are writing and reporting at the whims of billionaire owners. Watch the coverage of the upcoming Liberal leadership race very carefully. The smear campaigns have already started. Who leaked the story about a limo showing up to Mark Carney's launch to the CBC? Who put the story of the hecklers up front in the Star's coverage of Chrystia Freeland's announcement? We are being manipulated by our press coverage. I'll bet you know all about Doug Ford's stupid blue hat but nothing about Karina Gould and her quest for the leadership.

We have become lazy news consumers who desire stupid headlines and easy solutions. We are being mass-manipulated and we are doing nothing to stop it. 

The process [of mass-media deception] has to be conscious, or it would not be carried out with sufficient precision, but it also has to be unconscious, or it would bring with it a feeling of falsity and hence of guilt... To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies all this is indispensably necessary.~Eric Blair.

Do you know who Eric Blair was? That is the given name of George Orwell, and that quote is from 1984. Blair wrote the dystopian book in 1949, almost eighty years ago. He foresaw a lot of what we are going through today with our siloed media experience and our bending the knee to totalitarianism, oligarchies, and kakistocracies. We have forgotten how to think because our news consumption has become pablum for the masses. I simply couldn't take it anymore, so I went into hiding.

Social media? I shut down my Twitter account. The Nazi circle-jerk created by the richest man in the world can happen without me. Meta? I love the photos and reconnection with friends, but I refuse to allow them to dictate my news diet. We have to become better consumers of our information. We have to do the work to seek out the truth. We can't allow Elon, Bezos, The Thompsons, and Zuck to feed us their versions of it. We can't allow ourselves to be consumed and subsumed by the richest people in the world who want us subservient for their benefit. (And yes, I note the irony of you finding this on Facebook. There are good and bad with all of it.) It is incumbent on all of us to question our leaders, to ask ourselves why we hate this one as much as we do and love that one for no good reason. Are we being manipulated by our information choices? Are we victims of a mass-media deception? I think if we look at it critically, the answer is yes.

There are many great independent news organizations out there. It was the independent journalism at The Narwhal that saved Ontario's Greenbelt from the greed of Doug Ford. The Tyee is doing yeoman's work diving into issues that matter to all Canadians. Haaretz and The Guardian are still independent sources that will tell you what you don't want to hear and challenge authority. Good journalism should make the powerful uncomfortable. It should challenge your embedded viewpoints. It should make you think. If it isn't, you are doing it wrong.

I know it's hard. Looking elsewhere takes work, and who has the time. The Orange Stain resumes his chaos today precisely because of this lazy attitude. “Journalism is printing something that someone does not want printed. Everything else is public relations.” Orwell gets tagged with this one, too, but it is a misappropriation. I'd like to think he believed it, though. We can take a news hiatus, as I did, but we cannot forgo our responsibility to seek out the truth and hold our leaders accountable when they trade in bullshit and three-word slogans. Democratic societies are only as strong as their weakest links. Right now, those are the ignorant, uninformed, and misinformed. 

We can disagree, but we don't get to make it up. "You are entitled to your opinion. But you are not entitled to your own facts.”~Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan 

Strong societies take work, and every citizen is responsible for putting in the effort. Don't allow yourselves to become corrupted. Think, read and then do it again and again. Doug Ford may be wearing a blue hat with a slogan you like, but don't forget that he has gutted health care and education. The smear campaigns aren't coming for Doug from the mainstream media in the way they came for his predecessor. Why is that? Who stands to benefit?

Here are two more from Orwell's 1984 to scare the shit out of you. 

"If all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed—if all records told the same tale—then the lie passed into history and became truth."

"And when memory failed and written records were falsified—when that happened, the claim of the Party to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted, because there did not exist, and never again could exist, any standard against which it could be tested."

I have decided to continue my media abstinence for a while longer. (I miss Rachel Maddow, but I am holding fast.) I am dipping my toes into BlueSky and a bit on Threads, but I am mostly lurking. I promise that as this very important political year in Canada unfolds, I will point myself in a better direction for information consumption. I will share those spaces with you when I find them. In the meantime, do the work. Be a better citizen. Ask questions and ask yourself, does this make sense?  If you can't find an appropriate answer, be skeptical. It is up to all of us. More news, less noise.

"The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command."~George Orwell 1984

 

Where The F*** Are My Scissors

I lost a pair of scissors, yesterday.

You can stop reading now if this feels too banal for your tastes.

It was a bizarre happening for a really unremarkable household item, and it is really pissing me off.

I have had the same pair of scissors for forty years. They were gifted to me as a bridal shower gift. The gift giver has long been forgotten. Henckel's. They are truly the best. The lesson here is to always buy the best you can afford because cheap garbage simply doesn't last. (I also have been using the same hand-held can opener for four decades. Sometimes, you can't go wrong with quality.) I love these scissors so much that I bought an identical pair for The Southern Home twenty-five years ago. 

The scissors hang on a knife rack in the kitchen of The Southern Home. The only time they have been moved to a different location was when we renovated the kitchen. When we reconstructed, the scissors found their way home to the knife rack above the sink. Yes, I am a creature of habit. Yes, I like order. Yes, I suggest that until you have walked around my addled brain, you shouldn't judge me.

Yesterday, the scissors went walkabout. 

I didn't notice their absence until I went to make dinner. Some items require a scissors instead of a knife. There was a hole on the knife rack where the scissors previously were. 

I queried The Husband. He looked perplexed. He remarked that he thought he heard something fall a few hours prior, but would have noticed the scissors in the sink had they tumbled from their lofty perch. 

We employed a cleaning woman yesterday and wondered if she might have borrowed them to open a package of cleansers. Before you all go accusing this lovely woman, stop right there. She is someone I have known for decades. She is one of the few people on the planet shorter than me, (not really relevant, but a fun fact) and she has no problem helping me practice my ugly Spanish. I do the same for her in English, and we meet somewhere in the linguistic middle. She is a trustworthy human and I will not hear one word against her character from the nattering nabobs of the intertoobs. We also pondered the possibility of her nudging the scissors with a duster or a cloth. It would explain the clatter The Husband heard, but the logical conclusion of that scenario is that we would have found them in the sink.

We embarked on a fruitless search. This place isn't that big. There aren't a lot of locations a scissors could decamp to for a rest day. Drawers were emptied, shelves were scrutinized, and garbage was sifted, all to no avail. We are without answers and without shears. The only possible answer we can come up with is that they bounced out of the sink and into the cleaners' open trash bag. It would have been a bank shot worthy of Minnesota Fats, but even a one-in-a-million carom is still achievable. She probably never noticed, and she tossed the trash when she left. Until the f***ing things reveal themselves, I am going with this storyline.

As angry as I am with Jeff Bezos, Amazon is still a wondrous thing. A replacement pair will be here today.

So, why am I boring you all with this insanity? It really isn't important at all. Nobody died or got hurt, and the world is certainly suffering from far bigger issues right now. You might even call this a first-world problem, although I sincerely hope you don't. God, I loathe that phrase. I realized yesterday that I was happy to have a small anxiety. I live in a world of enormous stress. I worry a lot. I sleep very little. My therapist has gifted me many relaxation exercises and tools to curb my disquietude. When they start working, I will let you know. I'm not there yet. I cannot simply move through life without worry, but I have learned that I can't control all the world's ills. I am learning to better compartmentalize. The world is a scary place right now, but wouldn't it be great if the biggest problem we all had was a lost pair of scissors? 

The lost scissors were like a paper cut. It hardly merits a bandaid, but holy shit, did it irritate me. It was like a raspberry seed in my tooth. Sometimes, when we focus on the little stuff, the big stuff evaporates into the background, even if for just a few minutes. For just a small scintilla of time yesterday, I didn't think about my parents, my kids, the environment, politics, angry humans, my friends in Los Angeles, or the Middle East. I was laser-focused on a lost pair of kitchen shears.

When the new pair arrives today, they will assume their position on the knife rack above the sink. The big problems will still be there, but the paper cut will have healed. For a brief moment, my world will once again have equilibrium. 

Welcome to the Internet in 2025

Today, I told a complete stranger on Threads to mind their own damn business.

They passive-aggressively discussed how sad they were to see people still wearing masks in 2025. I passively aggressively suggested that my resolution for the new year was to mind my own damn business. And then, I aggressively, without a hint of passivity, blocked the miserable prick.

The Husband has a wonderful mantra, which he reminds me of often. You don't have to have an opinion about everything, and even if you do, you don't have to publicly express it. Yes, the irony of me and my forceful opinions being married to this man is not lost on me, but he does have a point. There are many times when expressing my opinion is not only cathartic but necessary in order to keep the world spinning on its axis. The Husband would be the first person to agree with me on this point. That said, as I get older, I better understand when it is and isn't ok to express those perspectives. I do it here, in this safe space I've created for myself, and I will, on occasion, share them with the world. All pronouncements that derive out of these scribblings (is it still scribbling if I am using a laptop?) are mine and mine alone. You, the reader, can either agree, disagree, or be totally agnostic. I really don't give a crap. But I will not...repeat...WILL NOT judge someone else's behaviour unless that person is: 

1. Engaging in self-harm

2. Readily harming, either physically or emotionally, another person or persons. (This includes unjust laws, rules, and made-up bullshit that can put someone in danger.)

3. Not competent to make rational decisions.

Politicians are not exempt from judgment because they willingly put themselves into the eye of public judgement and have it in their job descriptions to accept the feces along with the flowers. (Also, there is a special place in hell for the current management team of my beloved Blue Jays, but that is a rant for another day.)

When is it ok to express your opinion? Here is a quick user's guide to minding one's own business.

It is never ok to comment on or engage in gossip about a person's physical appearance. I don't care if they are celebrities or garbage collectors. Tattoos, piercings, weight gain, weight loss, clothing choices, hairstyles, or colour is none of your damn business. It doesn't matter if Oprah lost weight on Ozempic or if she wore her knees to the cartilage in the gym. It's her business. What is ok to comment on is if Oprah was trying to sell the public her Weight Watchers products while slimming down on GLP-1 drugs. That is as close to a scam as it gets. Her physical appearance? Mind your own damn business.

It is never ok to judge any person or couple for remaining childless. I shouldn't have to say this, but telling someone they will regret their own choices is staggeringly arrogant and intrusive. You have no idea why or how they came to those decisions. Mind your own damn business.

I am sick and tired of people telling me they know how a celebrity feels about anything or everything. These people have publicists and teams of people who craft their image. You know what they want you to know or what their enemies want you to know. Stop acting like you really understand Brad and Angelina's divorce or how the King feels about his wayward son and daughter-in-law. Mind your own damn business.

You can never know what a person is going through or what is happening in their lives. There is sickness, stress, children, financial worries, and family interactions that factor into everything. When you tell a person to stop wearing a mask because it offends your sensibilities, you are telling the cancer patient to play Russian roulette with their lives or the senior citizen to pass on diseases to their entire residence. Grow up and mind your own damn business.

A person's health situation is theirs alone to share. Mind your business.

It is always ok to call out misinformation and disinformation. No, the earth is not flat, no matter how many million-dollar basketball players say it is. Raw milk is dangerous for human consumption. Louis Pasteur was a genius. Covid is not over. Vaccines work, and measles and polio are terrible and deadly diseases. Jonas Salk was a genius, too. Abortion is healthcare, and health insurance is not healthcare. These are not opinions. These are facts. This IS minding your business. 

I have much more to say on this topic, and I have a feeling I will get the chance as 2025 unfolds before us. My Sister/Cousin asked me if I was going to have a New Year post, and I honestly told her that I doubted it. It only took one asshole this morning on the intertoobs to get me going. 

Happy 2025. Mind your own damn business, and don't make me come back here to tell you why you are doing it wrong. (See what I did there?) It's going to be a helluva year.

I Am Just So Angry

**This post contains copious amounts of swearing. If you can't handle it, stop reading now.** 

I am just so angry.

I don't want to be mollified by prayers or platitudes about self-care. I don't want to dedicate myself to working towards the collective good. Today, I want to marinate in my anger and have it validated. 

I am just so fucking angry.

I am not interested in women's marches or girding for the next battle. I need to be angry and I need all of you to accept it.

We didn't lose a sporting match. It wasn't our team versus theirs. As a long-suffering Leafs fan, I know exactly what that feels like. This is so different. We are standing on the precipice of something very dark and ugly and if I can't be angry about that, then when can I?

Here's my abbreviated list of anger items. (It's only abbreviated because I'm just so fucking tired.)

I am angry that extreme and mostly male politicians around the world are making our lives less safe. I am so pissed that they are swinging their limp dicks around to prove that toxic masculinity is the only way to govern. 

I am angry that they use us as cudgels against each other and can't find ways to sit and discuss the obvious issues that most of us can easily see. I am furious that they are actively breaking centuries-old norms and changing laws to suit their disgusting need for absolute power. 

I am so angry that most of these leaders see women as their enemies or handmaids instead of their equals. I am so nauseated that they think that it is still ok to pay us less, roll back our bodily autonomy, slow-walk us on childcare issues, and pretend that they are our protectors. (Don't come at me with a not-all-men bullshit excuse. This is a failure of political leadership, and it is mostly a male problem.)

I am furious that these assholes have mesmerized strong pluralities of our populace with simplistic slogans, and hostile solutions to complex problems, and have offered permission structures for the worst of us to rise and punch down at those who cannot defend themselves.

I am raging at the idea that my granddaughters might have less say over their own healthcare than I have enjoyed. Yes, I live in a country where this isn't a problem, but I am always on edge that it could become one. I was in Dublin when Ireland finally adopted abortion rights in their still very Catholic country. The joy spilled out onto the streets. I weep at what my sisters south of the border are currently enduring. 

I am fuming at the behind-the-curtain deals and the quiet handshakes that are happening to keep the worst people in power. I am so very angry that billionaires, oligarchs, and dictators are colluding behind the scenes to act in their own self-interests rather than those of their citizens. 

I am livid I still have to tell my LGBTQIA+ friends and family that their humanity is no different from my own. It is beyond the pale that these wonderful humans are still being used as political cudgels.

I am so pissed off that the worst human beings imaginable are our political leaders and that almost all of them are unprincipled shitheels. Party be damned. The naked corruption and self-interest are so antithetical to what we were previously taught about good and effective leadership. There is simply no decency in most of these people.

I am angry that many of my Jewish friends have become one-issue voters. I am angry that they can't see how they have been manipulated in the name of political self-interest. Israel needs to be protected, the hostages released, and antisemitism needs to be eradicated, but supporting the unholy alliance of disgraceful world leaders to prop up Netanyahu has to end. I have no doubt that Bibi tanked numerous peace initiatives to help Trump. We know for a fact that they were talking offline. Hamas and Hezbollah are existential threats that need to be destroyed, but we Jews need to acknowledge that the comprehensive destruction of Gaza and Beirut is highly questionable. The Palestinian people are our brothers and sisters, and they deserve to live their lives in peace. 

I am angry that many of my non-Jewish friends can't see how we Jews are suffering right now. Both of these things can be true without bowing down to Pharaohs who want to pit us against one another because it is good politics.  

I am so fucking angry that we can't tell the difference between a factual news item and a bogus one. I hate that the richest man in the world has monetized his social media network to act as a propaganda arm for the extreme right-wing motherfuckers. Most decent people are angry every minute of every day because they doom scroll inside of their political bubbles of choice. Ask yourselves why you viscerally hate moderate politician XX or XY, and then try staying off the socials for a month. You might actually feel better and realize that somebody somewhere has ginned up your anger for their selfish gain. 

I am so angry that these pricks are destroying what makes our cities liveable. Parks, bike lanes, and transit projects are being shelved globally because of questionable construction projects that line the pockets of donors. I am pissed that they are building their political careers on the backs of the most vulnerable. The unhoused, those sick with addiction, the new immigrants and the poor all have reason to worry about what is coming.

I am fucking furious that when men in power feel threatened by smart, strong, and opinionated women, they automatically resort to epithets and insults. I never thought I would hear the "c" word uttered by a presidential candidate, but here we are. 

The Husband and those close to me have validated my anger today. Many others probably would tell me to suck it up, buttercup. Those individuals can seriously go suck it. Today is not the day to fuck with me. I am fuming in so many ways that it will take a while to calm down. Anger is a righteous emotion, and right now, I feel I am on the side of the angels. Do you want to tell me I'm not? 

Fuck off. 

For Talia On Her Third Birthday

Dearest Talia,

Happy 3rd Birthday!! It amazes me every single time I start to write one of these letters, just how quickly time passes. As we approach your third birthday this week, I am simply stunned that this is my fourth letter to you. I have yet to bother to read my previous missives. I thought about it, but I think I prefer to let them all stand on their own. They are each a snapshot in time. I hope they offer some positivity, some life lessons, a bit of old-lady humour, and maybe even a bit of grandmotherly advice. And if they don't? Well, I hope you know that I tried. 

On your third birthday, I want to tell you about one of my all-time favourite movies. Eat Drink Man Woman is a Chinese-language film by the great director Ang Lee. Mr. Lee is probably better known for his Oscar-winning and groundbreaking flick Brokeback Mountain. That movie is one that I hope you will see someday, but when I tell you that I think that Eat Drink Man Woman is a seminal film, I am not exaggerating. (It has been remade in English as Tortilla Soup and it deeply inspired another Chinese language movie called Joyful Reunion, both of which are worth seeing.) The title comes from the Confucian classic, The Book of Rites. It refers to basic human desires and demands we accept them as natural. Eat Drink Man Woman was released thirty years ago and I saw it for the first time when your dad wasn't much older than you are now. The fact that I keep rewatching it is a testament to its message and its staying power.

Eat Drink Man Woman is the story of a famous, semi-retired chef who lives in Tapei. Chef Zhu is a widower who goes to great lengths every Sunday evening to prepare a family feast for his three daughters. The movie opens with a montage of Zhu cooking his various delicacies. It is an array that blasts the senses. You can almost smell and taste his dishes. Every time I see the film, I want to jump through the screen and pull up a chair. Zhu's daughters are less than enthused by the continual demand that they show up every Sunday for a dinner none of them seem to care about. Each woman has a repressed need to show her true self and as the story unfolds, those needs are met. The film expertly displays the important link of food to family, and why even though we may not always sit together for a meal, those tastes and smells stimulate our memories and emotions. 

Several years ago, Zaidy and I had the opportunity to have a special viewing of this film at the TIFF Lightbox Theatre here in downtown Toronto. The guest speaker that evening was the very famous Toronto chef, Susur Lee. Chef Lee spoke of why he prefers to cook his dishes in a family style. He wants people to not only savour his phenomenal cuisine, but he wants them to sit, chat, enjoy, and connect over his food. He talked about the importance of eating together as families, and about how critical it is for families to find history through cooking, recipe sharing, and communal noshing. He said all of this as a proud Chinese-Canadian but he could have just as easily been speaking about my Jewish/Polish/Russian roots.

It isn't unusual to have memories triggered by food. Whenever I bake a chocolate chunk cookie, I remember making them with my mom and her admonishments about the "best ingredients" and how I should never use artificial vanilla. The horror! Those times in the kitchen with her are so precious. I will relish them always. I am instantly lost in a haze of tearful remembrance every single time I eat a rugelach. Nobody made them better than Aunty Marlene. I can see my own grandmother Essie jarring dill pickles and the memory floods back whenever I smell the herbs. Every Pesach seder, Rosh Hashana dinner, Purim Hamentaschen bake, or meal in a Sukkah tethers me to our ancestors. Food and eating are essential to our development of family ties and whenever we eat or cook together, we strengthen those bonds.

When my Aunt Marlene died, I was given a recipe file she kept. Bits of scrap papers or stained computer printouts that she had stuffed into a folder and many were written by her own hand. When I cleaned out Bubby Sheila's closets in Florida this spring, I found a similar cache. Most of these recipes are probably useless to me and I will never even attempt making them, but I can't part with them either. They are like warm hugs coming at me from across the decades. I hope that someday someone will want them. For now, they are more precious to me than a photograph.

Talia, I want to spend hours cooking, baking, and eating with you. I want you to get to know the history of our family. I want you to have our recipes that have been made with love and care. I want to play with you while we make challah dough. I want to help you sneak chocolate chips from the cookie batter, and I want to remind you to always use the best ingredients. When we cook and eat together, we make irreplaceable memories. On this your third birthday, I bequeath to you the gift of your heritage, your family, your recipes, and all our love. 

Here are two family recipes to get you started. 

Bubby Sheila's Famous Chocolate Chunk Cookies

1/4 cup white sugar

1 cup dark brown sugar

2 1/2 cups (scant) flour

1 cup unsalted butter (softened)

1 egg

1 tsp pure vanilla (NEVER ARTIFICIAL!)

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1/2 cup pecans (chopped and optional. Your dad loathes nuts so I often leave them out.)

1 large bar of President's Choice dark chocolate (chopped) (YES! You read that correctly. An entire large bar of chocolate.)

1. In a medium bowl, sift together flour, baking soda and salt.

2. Cream together butter and the sugars.

3. Add the egg and vanilla

4. Carefully add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture until combined.

5. Add the chocolate chunks and nuts.

6. Using a small scoop, make balls and place them on a baking sheet. (I always put them in the fridge for about 15 minutes before baking.)

Bake at 350 degrees for 12 minutes. 

Aunty Marlene's Rugelach (Good luck making these. I simply cannot replicate them even though this is the complete recipe she always used.)

Dough

1/2 pound butter (softened)

1/2 pound cream cheese (room temperature)

2 cups flour 

Filling

1/2 cup sugar

2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 cup pecans (chopped)

1/2 cup raisins

1/4 cup chocolate chips (optional)

Dough

1. Blend butter, cream cheese, and flour together in a food processor or in a bowl with your hands.

2. Mix until a smooth ball forms. 

3. Divide into 4 equal parts.

4. Shape each into a ball. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. 

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. 

2. Sprinkle pastry board generously with flour.

3.  Roll each ball into 1/8" (•5 cm) thick circle. 

4. Spread a small and thin amount of raspberry jam over the circle. (Any jam will do, but Aunty Marlene always used raspberry)

5. Sprinkle with cinnamon, sugar, nuts and raisins. (Don't forget the chocolate chips.)

6. Cut the circle into 12 wedges.

7. Roll each wedge from the widest end towards the point to form a crescent shape. 

8. Place on a greased cookie sheet point side down.

Bake for 20-25 minutes until brown. Remove and cool on a rack. Sprinkle with icing sugar before serving. These freeze beautifully.

Happy Birthday, my darling girl. Enjoy all that life has to offer. Eat the cake and cookies, dance with spirit and joy, hug with strength, and always remember those who came before. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Bubby

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. 

Where Ya Going? Barcelona

I love visiting art galleries. We have spent hours in the great ones from around the world. 

I also love visiting places that inspired the artists I love. Understanding how they came to create their masterpieces, brings the works to life in a multi-dimensional way. Seeing Van Gogh's bedroom at Arles, or Monet's cottage in Givernay gave insight into the artist and their process.

We are having similar experiences here in Spain. Seeing the El Greco masterpiece, The Burial of the Count of Orgaz – El Entierro del Conde de Orgaz in Toledo, provided an awareness of what the artist was feeling and doing at the time of creation.

Spain has a history of producing iconoclastic artists. Velasquez, El Greco, (technically Greek but claimed by the Spaniards) Goya, Gris, and moving into the more modern masters, Picasso, Miró, and Dalí. We had been warned away from a trip to the Picasso Museum here in Barcelona. Many of his greatest works are elsewhere and we were privileged to see Guernica at the Reina Sofia in Madrid. Miró also has a gallery here in Barça, but there is only so much time. But given the chance to travel to Figueres to see the great works of Salvador Dalí? We jumped at the opportunity.

We booked a full-day tour to visit Gírona and then to Figueres. I have spent a good portion of this trip lamenting the golden age of Spanish Jewry. The philosophers, artisans, and thinkers who came from this place make me sad about what could have been had they been permitted to stay. As we began our walking tour of Gírona, I knew the Jewish Quarter would be a shadow of what had previously existed. We decided to return after our initial pass in the old city, to spend time in the Jewish Museum. We were gifted with some old writings of The Ramban, Rav Mosse Ben Nahman Gerondí. Nahmanides was the highest legal and religious authority on The Iberian Peninsula. Like Maimonides before him, he studied medicine but by the age of sixteen, he was already writing commentaries on the Torah. Those of us in my weekly Talmud study will remember that the Ramban was the first to insert Kabbalistic overtones into his writings. I imagined him walking the cobblestone streets of his hometown before he escaped to Jerusalem because of persecution. Maybe it is the troublesome world in which we find ourselves today, but I am exhausted by stories of Jewish persecution and expulsion. I honestly do not have any good answers for any of it, but I know I am tired of trying to explain it. At the proverbial gift shop at the exit of the museum, I bought a small mezuzah. It isn't much, but it was my way of telling the Jews who are still here in Spain and are trying to keep our history alive, that they matter. 

We made our way to Figueres to visit the crazy dream-filled world of Dalí. He was a character. The museum in his hometown was fully designed by him and every detail had his stamp of approval; from the eggs that adorn the roof of the building, to the faux-Oscar statues. His most famous work, The Persistence of Memory, isn't here. You might know it as the "Melting Clocks" painting. That particular canvas is on display at MOMA in New York. It is worth seeing. Here in Figueres, we glimpsed the more personal Dalí. His love for his beloved wife Gala, his homage to Picasso, and his desperate need to be the centre of attention. The museum is crammed full of everything he loved and adored. It was worth the two-hour drive to try and play Dr. Freud to Dalí's dreamscapes.

Some random thoughts. 

• It is raining here on our last day. The weather has been spectacular save for rain of the first day in Madrid and the last day in Barcelona. We couldn't have planned it any better. 
• We wandered down to the beach yesterday. The America's Cup of sailing will be here in about one-hundred days. Does that float your boat? (See what I did there? Hey Phil! That's how you do a pun!)
• We met a nice couple on our tour. They are Kentuckians who made sure we knew right up front that they aren't supporters of the Orange Menace. But, here's the funny part of the story. If you know of our escapade through Mt. Vernon Kentucky about thirty-years ago, you will be amused to know that this couple lives only thirty miles from there and they told us that the Pizza Hut is still standing. (If you want to hear this story, contact me offline.)
• It was Temps de Flors in Gírona. The entire town was decked out in flowers.
• We also wandered through La Boqueria yesterday. This market has been in the heart of Barcelona since 1836. Think St. Lawrence Market at treble the size. Fabulous.
• The tapas has been incredible and I have learned a few things. Fried artichokes? Yum. Fried goat cheese drizzled with honey. OMG! Chickpea croquettes is just a fancy name for falafel. Any olives, anytime, anywhere. I'm happy. Sangria is just as good without alcohol. Adding orange flavours is a new personal favourite. 

Most of today's photos are by The Husband. The mezuzah and ketubah are mine. 

Home tomorrow. Rest for a day and then I will chat with anyone who wants to visit this fantastic country. Adíos España. Hasta luego.

Flowers in Gírona

That's the Dalí museum. Can you spot me?

There were dozens of these Oscar like sculptures

Dalí's self-portrait 

My uncle had a serigraph of this.

Dalí's Mae West

The market

This ketubah is from 1377 Gírona