Talia at 5

Dearest Talia,

Half a decade! The BIG FIVE! The toddler is gone, and we welcome the young lady. 

I can't help but think of that night five years ago. In the wee small hours of the morning, Zaidy and I raced up to Newmarket to stay with Molly, because you were on the way. Quickly. It was the middle of the COVID pandemic, and the world was very different from what it is today. There was a lot of staying home, very little socializing, masking, and I must say, there weren't a whole lot of really fun things to do. Your arrival certainly brought sunshine and rainbows into an otherwise dismal time.

It's amazing how we all have COVID stories. Every person I know can recount and regale with some tale of that time. Some are tragic. Some are beautiful. Some are hysterical. When it's my turn to prattle on, I tend to remember that day in early August. I couldn't wait to "Bubby" you into submission; smother you with kisses and joyous tickles. I wanted desperately to bond with you immediately, the way I had with Molly. Alas, the pandemic had other plans. 

Being a COVID baby meant far more isolation. It meant initially you were shy, and everyone around you was more concerned about contagion. Care meant separation, and separation meant distance. That all changed just after your first birthday.

We decided that in the immediate aftermath of lockdowns, we would head to Disney World as a family. It was an awesome trip, even if you were a bit too young to fully enjoy the experience. There were rides, ice cream, tons of junk food, and Mickey. But for me, it meant finally spending some alone time with you. While others were riding Space Mountain, we giggled. While others went to spend money, we bonded. While others went hunting for characters, we shared contraband food that wasn't really on a one-year-old's meal plan. It was one of the best trips ever, despite Mickey infecting us all with COVID. Vaccinations are a modern miracle. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

And now, Talia, you and I have a bond that can never be broken. I love who you are and who you are becoming. You are mischievous, a bit goofy, and you possess a hidden intelligence you refuse to put on display. You perform on your own terms. I love that strength. Some people go their whole lives without learning how to say no. You've kind of mastered it. You enjoy a myriad of activities, and while you are still figuring out what really floats your boat, you are willing to try new things. You spent a week at Camp George this summer, and you basically owned the place. You've dubbed yourself "Queen of Camp George" and have spent the ensuing weeks strutting around in a tiara. That takes a self-confidence most of us don't possess. Talia, live your life wearing that tiara with self-assurance and never care what anyone else thinks about it. 

You and I share something else. We are going through life as part of the vertically challenged. Did I ever tell you that I spent the first four years of my life at school being called "Little Dawn"? There was another Dawn in my class, so she was "Big Dawn," and I was "Little Dawn." How moronic is that? I still can't believe teachers allowed such garbage to fester. I know what it feels like to not be able to see the parade. I intuitively understood the devastation you felt when you couldn't reach into the rays' tank at the aquarium to pet them. We are short, and unfortunately the world can be unfriendly to us. But here's the thing. "Little Dawn" became the girl with the BIG voice. I have no doubt that your talent and intellect will shine. And someday, I promise, you will be able to pet those rays at the aquarium. (I still can't see the parade unless I push my way to the front. Keep pushing, Talia.)

Of all the things that I love about you, the one that I simply cannot figure out where it came from is your obsession with cats. You have always loved animals, even photographs of them, but you weren't all that thrilled when Mando came on the scene. A puppy wasn't really in your wheelhouse. He is now a loyal and true friend, but I get that he seemed big and boisterous to you a few years ago. Mom told me that you started loving cats because of a TV show, but we are well past that now. I know you would love to have a kitten, and Zaidy did consider it as a birthday gift this year, but Daddy threatened us with annihilation if we even dared. This feline craze is real. Everything has to have cats on it. Toys, blankets, face paint. If it isn't a cat, it isn't worth your time. Even your zodiac sign is Leo the Lion, the biggest kitty in the universe. Coincidence? I think not.

After giving it some thought, I have decided that you are very much like a cat. Cats are curious. They are always investigating, asking questions, and peeking into corners. Cats are independent. You always want to do things by yourself and without help. Cats are playful. You always turn the simplest game into an adventure. Cats are mischievous. Just like you, they are looking for just enough trouble to make people laugh. Cats are observant. You always see the details that many of us miss. Cats are loyal. You form deep bonds with the people you love. Cats seek out comfort. You love to snuggle with a cozy blanket, or cuddle up with me. Cats know what they want. You are never shy about letting everyone know what you want. Cats are remarkably wise. You are constantly surprising me with your insightful comments. Finally, cats take joy in being themselves. Talia, I honestly can't come up with a better description of you than that. 

I am decidedly not a cat person, but I am a Talia person, and I love the person Talia is becoming. I will love a cat if you do. I sort of promise. Until then, I will spend my time in adoration of you.

Happy 5th Birthday, my darling girl. May it be lovely, warm, fun, and feline. 

I love you to the constellation of Leo and beyond.

Love, 

Bubby

P.S. Here is a fun and short video of one of my favourite songs about cats. 

To Molly on her 8th Birthday

Dear Molly,

As your eighth birthday approaches this weekend, I am taking a few moments out of my Pesach preparations to write this annual letter to you. I am not exactly sure where eight years have disappeared to, but here we are. The baby/toddler years have given way to a juvenescence filled with every emotion possible. You are engaged with everything. Learning isn't a chore for you; it is a wondrous adventure. You seem to want it all, even if it could pose obstacles. I loved how you asked for skates and skating lessons this year because you are interested in learning to play hockey. Given that your dad comes from a long line of winter haters, this foray into embracing the cold made me smile. And you took to the ice like Marie-Phillip Poulin! Well...almost. There are still a few kinks to iron out, but you are moving around the rink without too many tumbles and have embraced this new skill with verve.  

You have continued to delight us with your theatre skills. There is very little stage fright in you. That absolutely amazes me. Do you know that even today, every single time I stand up to sing in front of a crowd, I feel clammy, nauseated, and sweaty? Honest! I have never managed to feel half as comfortable on a stage as you appear to. Imparting my deep and almost obsessive love of musical theatre to you has been a true joy. We've gone to a few major musicals together in the past couple of years, and I promise you that as long as I am able, there will be more. So many more. You have embraced this art form in a way I could never have imagined. 

This was the year that Zaidy and I realized that we were developing a relationship with you that didn't include your parents. When you started texting us, sending us videos of your rehearsals, stickers, and finally FaceTiming us on your own, we knew that we had moved into a new realm. You were the initiator, and we were the thrilled recipients.  I can't tell you how much joy I feel when I see a message from you on my phone. I drop everything I am doing at that moment to engage with you. Sometimes, I wonder if you are just bored and I am the thing to keep you busy. I DON'T CARE! I am happy to be your boredom buster, and I will continue to do that forever. 

This year, Molly, I have been giving a lot of thought to legacy. What will you and others remember about these days and the people who inhabit your inner circle? Have we made an impact, not just on each other, but on the world around us? It is all very raw and deep for a carefree eight-year-old, but for me at sixty-three, it weighs heavily. During one of our many conversations this year, you mentioned how the leader to the south had upended several family visits. I was startled. I asked your dad if he and your mom had talked to you about the current world situation. He said no, and that they planned to keep it that way, but he also wasn't surprised to learn that you were aware of some of what has been occurring. It is everywhere. It made me realize that no matter how hard we try, we can only keep you sheltered for so long. You are at a stage in your growth where you are trying out new ideas and opinions. I feel that it is my responsibility, among so many others in your world, to put you on the Derech Eretz. According to the ancient rabbis, this is our ethical pathway in life. It signifies common decency, respect for others, and necessary interpersonal skills. It encompasses respectful speech, manners, and dignified behaviour towards elders, teachers, and neighbours. It emphasizes sensitivity, empathy, and maintaining high moral standards in daily interactions. These are all qualities you already possess and are actively developing. I desperately want you to understand that the person you referenced is everything that is wrong with the world today. Using shallowness, xenophobia, racism, corruption, bullying, and cruelty as a basis for leadership is always wrong. I know that you inherently understand this, but I have seen people I used to love and respect disappear into the morass of this cult. When life deals you a difficult hand, and it inevitably will, I hope that you will approach the problems with grace and dignity. When we lose that, we lose our humanity. Solutions can never be found by hurting others. 

I have come to truly understand that at this particular moment in my life, time moves only in one direction. It is what we do with the days allotted to us that really matters, and the footprint we leave on those closest to us. You and Talia are my whole heart. I desperately want the two of you to carry a bit of me throughout your journeys. I know that sounds incredibly self-involved, but I have discovered that it seems to be ok at my age. To that end, I have a story to share with you.

When I was twelve years old, I got my ears pierced. It was an occasion to celebrate because my father had been adamantly opposed to it. My mom took me to the mall, and I had it done. I was a bit worried about how my dad would react. He seemed oblivious to the new shiny studs in my ears. When my mom finally asked him if he noticed, he nodded and said, "Yes, but I chose to ignore it." The very next day, my mom had her ears pierced too. My grandmother, my Bubby Chayla, had wanted me to pierce my ears for years. She was so excited to hear my news. She gifted me with a pair of her small gold hoops. They were really lovely, and I wore them for years. She died about a year later, so those earrings meant the world to me. Unfortunately, one of them went missing. Too many moves, too many years. I still think of those little hoops, and I desperately wish I still had them. They were one of the very few tangible things I had of hers.

A few weeks ago, you excitedly called us to tell us that you were getting your ears pierced. You told me that you discussed it with mom and dad, explained why you wanted to do it, and asked if it was possible. You were so thrilled when they agreed. Honestly? Zaidy and I weren't sure you would go through with it. The smiling after photo was truly awesome. I thought about what I could do to help you mark this major milestone. I did visit a couple of jewelry stores, but every pair of earrings seemed inadequate. I thought about my Bubby Chayla and her gift. I wish I could give you the earrings she gave me, but that just isn't possible. Instead, I will continue her tradition and give you a pair that means a great deal to me. These small hearts were a gift to me from your Zaidy. I used to wear them a lot, but now I lovingly give them to you. They are a symbol of our bond, our family, and our love. I hope that you wear them with pride. Try not to lose one. 😉 I hope that you are a tad more responsible than I was.

Happy Birthday, my dear Molly. May this year of eight be exciting, filled with fun, joy, lots of new experiences, and so much love. I adore you and am so very proud of you. 

Love,

Bubby

A Love Letter to My Toronto Blue Jays

I am a passionate Toronto Blue Jays fan.

This isn't news to anyone who knows me well. I have been a passionate fan since their inception in 1977. Before they arrived in the American League, my devotion was to the Montreal Expos. They were Canada's team for almost a decade before the Jays threw their first pitch. Baseball is my game. Hockey is a winter diversion, and I very much understand the visceral gut-punches that come with being a Maple Leafs fan, but I am first and foremost a baseball lover. The Toronto Blue Jays are my team.

We are often the poor step-children of Major League Baseball. We are mostly ignored or tolerated by the media and American watchers until something big happens. Big-name free agents rarely choose us as their preferred landing spot, or they use us as leverage to extract more money from the Yankees or Dodgers. (Looking at you, Shohei!) George Springer is an exception, not the rule. Stars mostly show up here at the end of their careers as they are trying to capture one more year of glory. Jose Canseco, Frank Thomas, Dave Parker, and Phil Niekro all spent the end of their careers here. Dave Winfield and Paul Molitor came here to successfully chase their elusive rings. Rickey Henderson, Dave Stewart, and Jack Morris came here to get a final one. Maybe, Max Scherzer will too.

We have been the launching pad for many a Hall of Fame career. Bobby Cox cut his managerial teeth here before decamping to those great Atlanta teams of the '90s. Fred McGriff was an afterthought in a trade with the Yankees, before he was painfully dispatched with fan favourite Tony Fernandez to San Diego for Joe Carter and Roberto Alomar. It worked out well. Roy Halladay won his first Cy Young here before going on to perfection in Philly. 

Roger Clemens came here to reclaim his magic after his skills diminished in Boston. He won two more Cy Young awards, possibly aided by performance-enhancing drugs, before he basically forced his way out and into Yankees pinstripes. He used this team and this franchise like so many others have.

But we fans don't really care all that much if the stars or media love this team. We do, and we have supported them since day one. We are raucous and loud. We proudly wear our fandom on our sleeves, our backs, and our heads. We turn the SkyDome (it will always be the SkyDome) into a sound bomb. We still goofily sing "Ok, Blue Jays" during the seventh-inning stretch because it is uniquely ours. 

We don't care about your baseball lore or traditions. We have our own. Every Blue Jays fan grows up understanding "Touch 'em all, Joe" or the triple play that wasn't. There is a mural of Jose Bautista's bat flip on a wall in downtown Toronto that hasn't been defaced by graffiti or tagging. This is reverence. We feel slighted that Jack Morris is in the Hall but Dave Stieb, who was his statistical equal, isn't. We tell stories about freezing our asses off on the bleachers at the old Exhibition Stadium, and we can still run the bases there as they are memorialized with bronze plaques. We proudly wear the baby blues, and we still have a hate on for the black jerseys. We still idolize The Terminator, Joey Bats, Bringer of Rain,  Edwing, Cito, Gibby, and Superman. They all finished their careers elsewhere, but they are ours, and when they come back, we make sure they feel the love. 

I realize that there are fan bases that have waited longer for a return to the big dance. I feel for my friends in Cleveland and Detroit. The Mariners were going to be my team if they had advanced. But to be a Jays fan is to live with a chronic inferiority complex. When the good stuff finally happens, we can scarcely believe it. Thirty-two years is a long time. Generations of fans have waited a lifetime for this moment, so we are going to be intolerable for the next fortnight, and we are going to enjoy it all. When Vladdy decided to commit to this team and this city back in April, it meant everything to the people of Toronto. He wanted us. He wanted to bring us joy. We will forever show him all of that and more. 

This is a special team. It may not be stacked with all-stars or future Hall of Famers, but it is a team in the best sense of the word. They play as a unit. They play a throwback brand of baseball. They get dirty, they revel in defensive gems, and they play with exuberance. They may end up becoming fodder for the mighty Dodgers and their expensive roster, but they won't go down meekly or easily. I am so happy that Ernie, Nathan, Addison, and Myles will finally become known to those ignorant fanboys and bros to the south. I am excited to witness the blossoming of Trey's career. I am thrilled that Alejandro will get to show off his elite catching skills and prove to the baseball world why he is worthy of a Gold Glove. 

No matter what happens, this team is already in my top-five all-time favourite Blue Jay rosters. Next season will bring the inevitable changes. For now, this city is going to enjoy every single moment. 

Bring on the Series. 

Talia is Four!

Dearest Talia,

I'm going to begin this letter to you for your fourth birthday with a short story.

Back in June, we gathered as an extended family to celebrate Zayde's birthday. It was a lovely Shabbat dinner filled with pizza, salad, and pasta, all Zayde's favourites, but with a grandmotherly eye toward making sure the kids were happy. 

Every time you were offered something to eat, you said no. 

"Talia, do you want some pizza?"

 "No," came your emphatic reply.

 "Talia, do you want some pasta?" 

"No," you said, shaking your head. 

None of this was concerning, nor was it anger-inducing. We have all been around long enough to understand the food routines of toddlers. Your Uncle Daniel, in particular, was greatly amused. He relished the negative responses. As a former picky eater himself, I like to think that he was commiserating with you. He kept asking. 

"Talia, do you want some challah?" 

"Nope!" 

"Talia, do you want some salad?"

If looks could reduce a grown man to a puddle, this one from a 3 1/2 year-old was liquifying. 

He set you up like a pro and was ready to pounce.

"Talia, do you want a cupcake and ice cream?"

"NO!" It was the shout of pure determination and purpose.

And then came the look. It was the look of realization and expectation. Caught in a negative web of your own spin.

"YES! I want cupcakes and ice cream." 

Of course, we laughed, and of course, you laughed too. You were never upset. You just wanted what you wanted when you wanted it, and nobody was going to make you do something you didn't want to do.

I have given a lot of thought to that day. It isn't unusual for children your age to say no. It isn't even unusual for them to say no to everything. It is a growth exercise that allows for setting boundaries and limits. We all have things we like and don't like. It could be food choices or fashion. It could be activities or a favourite subject at school. We like some things a lot, and some things we simply tolerate. And then there are those things we find unbearably disagreeable. You couldn't get me to eat eggplant even if you covered it in chocolate syrup, and I know how you feel about broccoli. I think the exact word you used was yucky. As a wise woman once said, "No is a complete sentence."

There is a stigma attached to saying no. Nice girls are the ones who go along to get along. Good girls are agreeable. Being upbeat and positive is the best way to get ahead. 

What utter nonsense.

Sometimes we need to push back. Saying no is one of the fundamental life lessons many women fail to learn. We often take on more than we can handle because we neglect to say no. Many of us find ourselves in difficult situations that could have been solved if only we dared to say no. Talia, I am in awe of your ability to push back. You have taught me a great deal about what feminine strength looks like, and I value that more than you can know. My hope is that you will continue to explore your strengths and things you relish with positivity and intention, all while standing resolute against anything that doesn't meet your standards.

Becoming a four-year-old is really exciting. How can it be that you will be starting JK in the fall at the same school as your sister? How did we both age into that era? I admit to some concern about how being a child of the lockdowns, all that isolation, might affect your socialization skills. I needn't have worried. Watching you thrive and grow throughout your childcare/nursery years has been a wonder. This summer, you went to camp for the first time. There is a photo of you grinning from the bus that made me melt into my socks. There was such unwavering independence apparent in that smile. When we asked you what you did that first day, you proudly exclaimed that you went down the waterslide all by yourself. It was just so matter-of-fact. No wavering. (Of course, being four, you've decided that waterslides aren't necessarily your thing. Maybe when you're five.) You have discovered your own strong voice, and you refuse to be bossed around by anyone, especially Molly. I love watching you have dance parties with your sister, and I love that you perform Let It Go like it is the last song you will ever sing. You emote like a Broadway Belter, and you understand innately that it will never sound perfect unless you are wearing your Elsa costume. 

I adore that you are a staunch and singular cat-lover in a dog-loving family, and I can forgive this mistaken life choice because you are just so emphatic about it. Your deep affection for animals, especially sea creatures, has reignited my own, and I am absolutely determined to find you the perfect dolphin stuffy. I have gifted you with a few fairly mediocre ones, but this quest has absolutely become a lifelong pursuit for me. 

I love that you refuse to perform on command. There is no doubt that you are more than ready for your next school step, but you won't show off your knowledge unless it is your idea. I love that, despite being small in stature, you refuse to let anyone think you are a "little girl." This is an emotion I understand very well. I always hated the word "cute." Cute is for puppies and teddy bears. We are fully formed people. Being petite should never disqualify you from anything. Stand up strong and be loud when it is appropriate. The world may not have been built for us shorties, but we can force it to pay attention.

Talia, you are the next in a long line of strong, opinionated women. This is a good thing. We speak our minds in this family, and we won't be suppressed in our conversations. But it is also important to learn the art of active listening. We need to pay attention to others and understand their perspectives. We can engage in the debates without always having to win. Learning the art of compromise and when it is necessary is a skill that will come with time and growth. You have the luxury of both. 

Happy Birthday, my dear one. Eat that cake with gusto. Dance like you are looking for a unicorn around every corner. Sing loudly and proudly. 

I love you with every fibre of my being.

Love,

Bubby

For Molly On Her Seventh Birthday

Dearest Molly,

Guess what, darling girl? The seasons have once again done a lap around the sun and you are celebrating another birthday. 

It is hard for me to believe that you are really seven. Did you know that the number seven holds special significance for us Members of the Tribe? It is the essence of holiness, completion, and perfection. There are seven days in a week and seven days in the Divine Spirit's act of creation. Shabbat is on the seventh day and is the supreme time of peace and divinity. In Jewish Gematria or numerology, the Hebrew word gad, which means fortune, equals seven. The Hebrew word, mazal, which means luck, adds up to seventy-seven. There are so many great and holy things that seven signifies. Seven is a pretty freaking excellent age to be.

This year, it is your turn to be seven. Every time I look at you, I see your age's true meaning and completeness. There is a maturity that has descended upon you. You are no longer that baby girl with the chubby cheeks. You are growing by leaps and bounds, and I have no doubt that you will be taller than me within a couple of years. (Not much of an accomplishment given my challenged stature, but a milestone nonetheless.) You have a mischievousness that tickles me and a brilliance that shines through every discussion. Your imagination is always humming and your ability to find joy in the small things makes me so happy. I love seeing the world through your eyes. It is filled with rainbows and unicorns. It is the epitome of what seven should be.

I wish I could tell you that the world around you is also as carefree and happy as you are. Unfortunately, we live in uncertain and complicated times. Norms that I have taken for granted throughout my life, are crumbling as difficult and cruel people assume the mantles of leadership. It would be easy to stay silent and tread carefully to avoid confrontation with the ugliness, but I need you to know that nothing good ever came from NOT calling out injustice. We need to stand up and be brave, even when the situations terrify us. Too many people are closing their eyes and ears to the hardships of others. I cannot implore you strongly enough to be the difference maker. Be the person who stands up and speaks with a clear and impassioned voice. 

Women, girls, marginalized communities, people of colour, people who speak differently, people who learn differently, Jews, Muslims, people who identify as non-binary or transgender, First Nations, people without means or who are unhoused; they are all under attack from those who refuse to understand or learn. You are a very lucky girl, Molly. You were born into a family that loves and cares for you. They want you to have the best education and to access the best opportunities available. Not everyone is like you. Some might need a bit of help or encouragement. Some might need a lift or to just feel seen. When our leaders look at those who are somehow living outside of the mainstream or on the margins of society and refuse to see their humanity, we must call them out on their bigotry and narrowmindedness. It is our moral and ethical responsibility. Challenging authority, especially when it has descended into intolerance, is our duty as human beings.

Never let anyone tell you that you aren't good enough. Never let anyone define your worth by their own prejudices. Never let anyone bully you or pressure you into going against your conscience. Never let any man overshadow or take credit for your accomplishments. Be strong, be kind, be tenacious, be polite, but be firm. You get to decide what is right for you. Always maintain your spirit and your empathy. Life can be tough sometimes, but if you walk through it with compassion and dignity, you will be successful.

Role models are everywhere. Choose them wisely. Our heroes and mentors are often right in front of us. They don't have to be rich or famous. They simply have to make good and inspiring choices. Follow the paths that others have trod and then blaze your own. When you stumble, and you will, keep going. You have so much to offer and so much to give. You will eventually find that thing or that spark. It is within you. 

You are celebrating your year of mazal, your year of luck and good fortune. We are taught in the Talmud that we can impact our mazal through mitzvot. If we live well and do right by others, our fortune will be felt for generations. Molly, don't let anyone convince you otherwise. Live with an open mind, an empathetic conscience, and a clear-eyed resolve. Treat people as you wish to be treated, and help those whom society has ground down. Above all, speak against injustice when you see it. 

Happy Birthday, dear heart. May this year of seven be everything you want it to be. I love you with all of my heart and being.

Love,

Bubby

Here is a song by one of my favourite artists. Call it an add-on birthday gift. 

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.