How Was 2020 For You?

New Year's resolutions are for suckers.

Seriously.

Let's examine the evidence, shall we? 

How far into this wasteland of 2020 did you get before you abandoned your resolution to live a cleaner, fitter, anxiety-free, and healthier life? When did the stress eating start and your couch potato lifestyle grow exponentially?

January? February? Marchtember?

Nope, I will not engage in empty promises that will most certainly go unrealized. Instead, I will offer up a few of the things I never thought I'd get to experience but actually did occur during this past year that was the living embodiment of the seventh circle of hell. Ready?

I played with a seal pup when he decided that my shoes were way better than the toys in the ocean. Honestly, this was the best thing about 2020. Before the world shut down, we travelled to the Galápagos Islands in January. It seems like a lifetime ago but it is without a doubt the most exciting place I have ever visited. This little guy was only part of the magic. 

I personally sanitized a hotel room in South Carolina. When we decided to race north from the Southern Home in March because there was a very real possibility that the borders were going to close, we had no idea what this virus was or how it was transmitted. We decided that we would pack food for the trip so that we could minimize our contacts but we knew that we were going to have to spend at least one night in a hotel. Doomsday prepper that I am, I packed spray bottles filled with diluted bleach, rubber gloves, hand sanitizer, and sanitizer wipes so that I could de-Covid the room. I wouldn't let The Husband touch anything until I was done-not the tv remotes, light switches, or toilet handle. Nothing. You really need to think back to those early days of Covid when we were all wiping down our groceries or unpacking them in the garage, to understand how it must have felt to be me travelling north. The irony? All things microbiologically considered, it was probably the cleanest hotel room we have ever stayed in.

I learned how not to kill a sourdough starter and to bake some of the most delicious bread that has ever come out of an oven. Ok, this is a bit of hyperbole but it was certainly some of the most delicious bread to come out of my oven. I have to give credit to my Sister/Cousin's only XX for this one. (We kind of share her.) She is a master bread baker and during the early days of Covid, she sent me some dried starter. She nurtured me and massaged my battered ego from afar when things weren't going so well, and she was quick with praise even when the results were less than optimum. As the prophet Joel wrote, "The old shall dream dreams and the youth shall see visions." I couldn't have asked for a better teacher. The crazy thing is, that before the lockdown, I would never have had the time nor the patience necessary to dedicate to the many days necessary for sourdough bread making. Now, I can't imagine not doing it. It really is a zen experience. "Patience is not the ability to wait, but the ability to keep a good attitude while waiting.”~Unknown.

Sourdough English Muffins

Sourdough Babka

Sourdough boule

Sourdough focaccia

I made Ina Garten's brownies. I promised myself that I would never do anything this foolish but The Husband's birthday was coming up and we were finally going to spend some quality time outdoors with our kids. Brownies seemed like the perfect decadent treat. Have you ever looked at this freaking ridiculous recipe? It calls for a full pound of butter, over two pounds of chocolate, and six eggs. The concoction made enough brownies for three birthday celebrations and even after divvying them up amongst the offspring, there were over a dozen in the freezer for weeks. The chocolate alone was enough to induce a diabetic coma. Delicious? Absolutely. Dangerous? Hell, yes.

Which leads me to exercise. After all the carbs and sugar of the bread and brownies, keeping up with my workouts became a moral imperative. Walking is good but I need more. We are fortunate that we have a treadmill and weights in our home, so we were unaffected when the gyms shut down. Even the gym in our building is still on lockdown after almost nine months. In August, my treadmill, which is close to fourteen years old, needed repair. The part was on order and given the limitations of the pandemic, would take close to a month to arrive. The Husband suggested that to keep up with my cardio, I should run the stairs in our building. We live in an old factory building that was converted into lofts, so the stairs in the fire exits are quite high and the rise is quite deep. I have short legs and asthma. My first attempt at the stairs lasted all of ten minutes. I was sucking wind and dripping like Rudy Guiliani's hair dye. Six days later, I tried again. Why six days? Well, it took that long for the pain to subside and to be able to move my legs without screaming. Since then, I have increased my time on the stairs to close to thirty-five minutes and it is now a regular part of my workout rotation. I still hate it but I am afraid to stop doing it and reignite the leg spasms. Pain-avoidance is a great motivator.

I've taken to day-drinking. Friends and family know that I am not much of an imbiber but these are desperate times and they call for new habits. A glass of chilled chardonnay is just the ticket to unwinding after a tough day of doing absolutely nothing. I sent The Husband to the Wine Rack next door to purchase a couple of bottles of something light and white. I was pleasantly surprised by the whole thing. Alcohol consumption is still very rare for me but I'm finding that I don't hate the occasional glass. Any more than that and I am down for the count. There is a story floating around about me not knowing my left from my right after a couple of glasses of sangria. Lies! Don't trust unreliable sources. When I went to replenish my stock, the lovely guy at the Wine Rack pointed at the refrigerator and asked if I wouldn't prefer an already chilled bottle because of course, I was planning on drinking it immediately upon returning home. The man knows his business.

There was an episode with edibles which I shall not discuss here. Just know that it was chocolate and that is all I'm admitting. The rest is like Fight Club. What's the first rule of Fight Club?

I had a conversation with my two-year-old granddaughter via FaceTime while one of us was on the potty. I will leave it to you, dear reader, to figure out who. That said, can we all just say a small prayer of gratitude for video calls of all types this year? Without Zoom, Skype, FaceTime and Messenger I'm not certain that any of us could have maintained even a semblance of sanity.

I learned how to use Instacart. It isn't my favourite way of grocery shopping but it is better than being in crowds. There were a few glitches, like the time I ordered a single garlic bulb and received thirteen. For the most part, the delivery people have been amazing and lovely. I have over-tipped them because I am so grateful for what they are doing and I have given every single one of them a 5-star rating, even when they didn't really deserve it. These people have helped hold our city together. I would hug them all if allowed. 

This is a lot of garlic.

I watched far too much television and read far too few books. Concentration wasn't a strong suit this year. I am trying to get back into reading but it is definitely a challenge. Pandemic brain is affecting us all differently. The Husband and I realized that we don't watch any network television programs regularly. Netflix, Prime, Apple+, and Disney+ (thanks to Younger Son) have been our viewing habits in 2020. Oh...and The Big Bang Theory reruns. I can't explain why but those ridiculous nerds and their annoying laugh track have kept me entertained, even after dozens of repeated watchings.

We decided to refresh our living space. After four years here, we embarked upon a modest renovation. Of course, we couldn't go anywhere while the contractors were here, so The Husband and I holed up in the small second bedroom for three weeks while they painted. The day after they finished, our humidifier sprung a leak and ruined the ceiling in the front hall. How very 2020 is that? 2021 will begin with more structural repair and even more painting.

We have done jigsaw puzzles (they are not nearly as much fun without my mom beside me) and I have played my guitar, although not nearly as much as I'd like. I learned to work with royal icing and decorated cookies for Chanukah. I've yelled on Twitter, celebrated on Facebook, and played a lot of games of Words with Friends. We have walked the empty neighbourhoods in our area and have distressed over the scores of For Rent signs. And now, as winter has come and we are once again locked down, it is difficult to look ahead to the coming year without a huge dose of cynicism. I am not rosy-eyed in my predictions. There will be a vaccine for all of us, and we should be immensely grateful for the astounding advancement of science, but it won't come soon and I suspect that another Pesach seder will be held online without loved ones and that many more of us will experience a Covid birthday as I did yesterday. 

2020 has been brutal for so many of us. I look back on what I have written and I know that I have been amongst the most fortunate. I didn't have to work in an overrun hospital or deliver groceries. I was spared the horror of having loved ones in a long-term care facility and I didn't have to try to do my job with bored children at home, desperate for friends and school. My family is not separated by the border closure and I don't live alone. My employment didn't disappear because of the forever lingering pandemic. But, 2020 has taught me that nothing is certain and we aren't promised anything. I will take the lessons of 2020 and move into the new year with a renewed love and appreciation for my friends and family. I will resolve nothing, expect nothing, and cherish it all.

Bring it, 2021.

A Chanukah Rip-Off

I am usually loathed to call out businesses for bad behaviour on social media. I much prefer to settle conflicts amicably between the parties without having to resort to a public flogging. When we can work together to remedy a problem, it serves us well going forward and everybody wins. But, there are times when the business practices and behaviour are just so loathsome that they need to be exposed for the crookedness that they are. This is one of those times. The story is below but if you want the TL;DR version, here it is: My Zaidy's Bakery at Bathurst and Steeles ripped off a group of teenagers who were doing a Chanukah fundraiser. 

Here's the story.

My Zaidy's Bakery in Thornhill is the go-to place to purchase sufganiyot for Chanukah. They are simply the best and there is no denying the exceptional quality of their product. Every Jew I know who lives in the North Jewish Ghetto gets their sufganiyot from My Zaidy's. They have been written up in local papers and have consistently topped blog sites for the absolute excellence of their filled donuts. I say this as somebody who doesn't particularly like donuts or sufganiyot but even I can recognize virtuosity when I see it.

My daughter-in-law is a director of youth and family programming at a local synagogue. The teens with whom she works planned to do a fundraiser this Chanukah to raise a few dollars to renovate their badly outdated youth lounge. The kids were putting together Chanukah-themed baskets filled with all sorts of goodies, to be delivered to houses across the city this weekend. The kids pre-sold the baskets with the promise of many treats, including sufganiyot. My daughter-in-law first spoke to My Zaidy's back in November about bulk pricing for the donuts. She was quoted a price of $1.60/per donut and was told that she could place her order up until two days before pickup. The deadline for purchasing the baskets was this past Monday and it was then and only then, that my daughter-in-law could place the order for the donuts because she needed firm numbers. She had a Facebook Messenger conversation with somebody who works at My Zaidy's on Monday, during which the price of $1.60/per donut was affirmed. The person that she spoke with told her that this was their best price and that the deadline for putting in the large order of 43 half dozen boxes (258 sufganiyot in total) was the following day, Tuesday, otherwise, the donuts wouldn't be ready for Friday to put them in the baskets. She even double-checked on Monday evening that it was ok to place the order on Tuesday morning. The entire conversation is time-stamped and recorded in writing on Messenger.

She called the next day, Tuesday to place the order and was told that she was now too late to order and the woman acted as if the entire conversation the previous day hadn't occurred. When my daughter-in-law showed them the recorded conversation, they acted like they were doing her a favour, were incredibly rude to her, and hiked the price to $2.25/per donut. They claimed that they had no recollection of the previous conversation about the price, EVEN when confronted with the evidence from Messenger. They made an excuse that the new cost was now because they had to box the pastries. Were they expecting her to carry 258 donuts out to her car in her hands? As she was under time pressure and without other options for promised sufganiyot to be included in the baskets, she agreed to the extra cost even though it was going to gut the profits the kids were hoping to make for their project. She placed the order to be picked up Friday morning. Concerned about the entire affair, she put in a follow-up call on Thursday afternoon to confirm the order and the pick-up for the following day. She was told that all was good and not to worry.

Yesterday, she trekked up to Thornhill to retrieve the donuts. They told her that they "forgot" about the order and that they didn't have them. She was absolutely furious. It is her guess that they sold the donuts out from under her and expected her to just deal with it. You need to know My Son's B'shert to understand that she wasn't having any of that bullshit. She demanded her order. The owner asked her to come back on Saturday evening to retrieve the order but since the basket deliveries were happening on Saturday afternoon, that solution was a non-starter. They asked her to return later in the afternoon and they promised her the original price of $1.60/per to make up for the hassle. She was incredibly upset about having to make the trip twice and, when she made that known, the person at the bakery asked her where she lived. She told him and he responded, "That's not a Jewish area. Did your goy boyfriend make you move there?"

Now she was being ripped-off and insulted?

She returned to the bakery just before Shabbat. At that time, the manager told her that there was no way could they honour the $1.60/per piece that was just re-promised her in the morning, and that she would have to pay the extra costs after all. He tried to make it up with extra donuts but she was insistent that the money was far more important. It was for the kids and their fundraiser. He even started loading the extra donuts into her car even though she told him that her numbers were fixed and that she had nowhere to give out the extras. He said that the extra boxes would make up for the money he owed her. When she explained that this was akin to stealing from kids, he told her that he would make a donation but that she would have to come back next week after Chanukah to collect it. She isn't holding her breath and certainly doesn't expect him to make good on the "promise".

According to their Facebook page reviews, this isn't the first time My Zaidy's Bakery has screwed around with pre-ordered and pre-paid customers. That kind of behaviour simply isn't cool.

I understand that everybody is suffering right now and that small businesses are bearing an unfair load but that is no excuse for bad business practices or behaviour. My daughter-in-law went out of her way to patronize small local businesses for this project to help them out in this time of struggle. She was met with nothing but kindness from most of the local merchants she dealt with, many of whom donated for the cause out of their meagre profits, and for that she and her youth group are most grateful. At no time did she expect or even ask My Zaidy's to donate the donuts, rather she expected them to just honour their commitment. 

Those who read this space regularly know that I rarely name names. I prefer the subtleness of anonymity but there are times when it is necessary to call a gonif a gonif. This story irritated me beyond belief and I will be reticent to patronize My Zaidy's Bakery in the future because of it. Good sufganiyot simply aren't worth sacrificing my moral code.

Chag Urim Sameach

 I love Chanukah.

It isn't the most important holiday on our calendar by any stretch of the Jewish imagination but it is definitely my favourite and, in my opinion, the most fun.

I suppose that we could argue that Purim is also loads of fun and I do agree that putting little kids in costumes and letting them loose to scream like banshees definitely ranks high on the enjoyment meter, but Purim is more of the "drink until you can't remember that there is a holiday" sort of fun. Chanukah is a more "lovely and sophisticated, let's gather with friends and family" great time. There is no specific Chanukah religious service where we join in the synagogue, so Chanukah is that one time during the year when being together really and truly is the celebration.

And then came Covid...

Every year for the past dozen or so, my mom and I have hosted a Chanukah party at our Southern home. We cook and we bake and we pay attention to small Chanukah-related details. One year, I even learned how to make sufganiyot. This year, that get-together has obviously been put on ice as we are lighting our own Chanukiot from our own and separate Toronto addresses. We aren't pretending that we can put aside the Covid restrictions for the sake of the holiday and be together for even a short amount of time to celebrate. But while I am mourning the loss of our traditions, I am taking comfort in the fact that by forgoing them this year, we are keeping each other safe and there is the promise of holiday celebrations yet to come. 

I don't want to sound bitter or angry but I must admit to seething just a bit when I hear of people who observe other holidays pretending that Covid is on hiatus during those occasions. My family hasn't had a holiday together since March and most of them were far more religiously significant than Chanukah. We have done Zoom seders on Pesach and weekly Shabbat candle lightings. We watched YouTube Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur synagogue services on our computers and have held interactive Torah study sessions online. My community has joined with others across Canada for all-night study on Shavuot and Selichot and will do so again this Saturday during Chanukah. My husband sat shiva for his mother alone in our condo without the comfort of in-person visits with family and friends so, please spare me the lament that you can't possibly do Christmas with only the people that you live with.

I get it. We are all tired and sad. There is so much that we have lost this year. There is no normalcy. I should be with my mom making cookies in Florida and my granddaughter should be with her other grandparents celebrating the holidays in the Midwest. It really sucks. But, we can get through it if we remember that we need each other to sacrifice right now in order to literally survive. 

So, this Chanukah, my Chanukiot are set up in the window here in downtown Toronto ready to have their annual Hillel/Shammai candle debate. We are ordering our latkes from a local cafe in order to help out their business during the city's second lockdown. I baked and decorated (!!) Chanukah cookies. Gifts have been dropped off for Molly and a few surprises will hopefully be coming via delivery for my grown-up kids. (Baruch Ha-Shem!) I will Zoom with my synagogue family over the next few days for candle-lighting and my actual family more often than I care to mention. We celebrate alone this year so that we can all gather in person next Chanukah. Please, everyone, do the same. 

Chag Urim Sameach. May the candles illuminate the darkness we are all experiencing and may we all find health and peace. 

I Need a Step Stool...Again!

 Does anybody else require a stepstool to climb onto their bed, or is that just me?

The older I've gotten, the higher the bed. What is up with that?

Kids' beds are close to the ground, presumably to cushion any fall or wayward sleepwalking incident that might occur in the wee hours. Other than my brother's childhood bunk beds, I never remember having to jump out of bed and land on two feet with the grace of a gymnastic dismount. But our current bed is so far off the ground, I worry that one roll in the wrong direction could cause catastrophic hip dysplasia. 

Beds have gotten bigger, heavier, and most definitely, higher off the ground.

When we first discussed our current condo refresh, our bedroom was at the centre of our plans. We wanted to make the space more comfortable and definitely homier. At the core of our discussions was the bed. We knew that we needed a new mattress. Ours had a divot in it so deep that we'd meet in the middle of the bed every morning at four. Before we even started to design a new bedroom space, we went mattress shopping. This kind of purchase is awkward at the best of times but in the middle of a global pandemic, it is downright bizarre. We made our way over to Sleep Country because I refused to purchase a mattress on the internet. If that renders me ancient, I will take the hit. I simply could not imagine not trying it out before buying. So there we were, masked at Sleep Country, given our own personal pandemic-friendly pillows, test-driving every mattress in the store. (If your mind is wandering into lurid places right now, just stop. We simulated sleep and nothing else. My God, you people are incredibly base.) 

Mattress chosen, we made arrangements for delivery long before we knew what would be happening with the bedroom redo. And the truth is, we are very happy with it. It is incredibly comfortable and most importantly, it is devoid of divots. But, in our old bed frame, sitting atop of our old and still very serviceable boxspring, it is at least a couple of centimetres higher off the ground. For the normal-sized amongst you, that probably doesn't sound like a huge deal, but for someone who needs every single centimetre to survive comfortably in the world, this raising of the bed is massive. Since we have been confined to the two bedrooms over the last couple of weeks while the painter and contractor have been doing their thing in the main living quarters, I have become acutely aware of how fricking high off the ground our bed is and have taken to using a stepstool to climb aboard. (We don't have other sitting places in our bedroom.) The height always seems worse on the days when my workouts consist of running the stairs in our building. Yes, I am that idiot in the stairwell who is running up and down the fire stairs several times a week to maintain my sanity level. Everybody needs new routines and hobbies right now, right? Well, when my legs are jello-ed from the stairs, climbing onto a bed on stilts is like trying to climb Everest with lo-mein legs. 

A new bed frame is on order but it probably won't be here until the end of January. The problem with refreshing your space during a pandemic is that a lot of other people had the same idea. Much of our new furniture and fixtures won't be coming until the new year. It's not really an issue. It isn't like we are entertaining or anything. But the bed? The bed matters. The bed is the oasis. I'd rather not have to scale it like Spiderman in order to get into it. 

A few photo updates. 

New Wall Colour

No more wasps in the loo

My Bar Mitzvah Renovation

 I started this blog almost thirteen years ago to the day. 

In 2007, while we were still residing in the North Jewish Ghetto, we decided to embark upon a major home renovation that would upend our lives for about two months. While the kitchen was being torn out, walls removed, and floors replaced, I decided to use Facebook as a way to keep my mom, who was snowbirding in Florida, updated on the progress. I would post a few pictures every day and I would add some glib story about how the mess was affecting our lives. Within days of those first posts, I began receiving comments from friends and family. People forget how much fun Facebook comments were back then. It was goofy and connective, a wee bit of fun to pass the time,  not at all like the dumpster fire it can be today. Even so, I decided to move the daily renovation posts off of Facebook and onto this space on Blogger. It offered me far more flexibility than Facebook could back then. I never foresaw using this space to brain dump other musings but that is exactly what occurred.  Over time, and long after those renovations were completed, this blog became an online journal for me. I never really cared all that much if people read it because it was a way for me to express myself, even if people didn't agree. My space, my opinions, and everybody else be damned. 

My postings here have fluctuated over these last thirteen years. I have used the space as a travel journal for a myriad of trips, a sharing area for vegetarian cooking successes and disasters, a political venting arena,  and I've even had a go at trying my hand at amateur movie critic once or twice. I have enjoyed the writing challenge and I have rarely regretted anything that I've posted. I have gone on posting binges and have also gone months into a posting desert. And...I'm good with all of it.

So, on this the Bar Mitzvah of my blog, I find it incredibly amusing that I am once again posting about a home renovation. The symmetry is painfully obvious and needn't be discussed and if I had planned it to be this way, it wouldn't have happened. 

Yes, we are doing a minor refresh of our newish space...four years after moving in...in the middle of a global pandemic. There is a lot to unpack about that sentence but suffice it to say that when we planned to finally do some upgrades to our downtown condo, we didn't anticipate the entire world shutting down because of a plague. We aren't knocking down walls or shifting living space but we are doing a full painting of the place, some upgrades to the bedroom, and a complete gutting of the powder room which I have always loathed and described as a "French provincial apiary". (The previous owners had stencilled some kind of wasps on the wall. It gave me swarming nightmares every single time I walked into it.) 

But a minor refresh is also very displacing, even at the best of times. This is especially so when you simply don't have any space to which to be displaced and you have to maintain a safe distance from all workers. (Yes, everybody is masked all the time!) We discussed the possibility of decamping to a downtown hotel but, you know...global pandemic. Our comfort level isn't quite at the "let's stay in a room where hundreds have stayed before and possibly coughed on the pillows" degree of calm. We may yet get to that place if our living and working together in a small spare bedroom surrounded by all of our dislocated artwork and the granddaughter's toys become too much of a strain on a thirty-five-year-old marriage devoid of all filters. The original plan from the contractor was for them to work on one area of the condo at a time and allow us to rotate around the space. But that idea seems to have flown out the window along with the last remnants of autumn as they clearly want to get in, finish, and get out of here as quickly as possible. 

Global pandemic!

Oh...did I mention that they have shut off the heat and hot water in our building today because they are installing a new boiler system? 

Global pandemic in a condominium.

And so, we are hunkered down together in a room with no windows, no working television, masked whenever we need the kitchen, handwashing at an accelerated rate, smelling like a gymnasium after a group of adolescent boys because we can't shower, and desperately hoping that we don't kill each other in our sleep before we have had a chance to revel in the extermination of the wasps. Like everybody else celebrating a Bar Mitzvah this year, we are doing it in a new and decidedly different way. 

Keep you all posted. In the meantime, here are some Bar Mitzvah photos.

Enlarge that last photo and check out the stinging insects.

I Watched Borat 2 So You Don't Have to.

I watched the new Borat movie with The Husband last night in order to divert my attention from the ulcer-inducing debate. I have a few thoughts. 

A few caveats are necessary. 

1. I hated the first Borat movie. I couldn't get through even half of it. I am not a lover of gross-out comedy and I revile "bodily fluid comedy" even more. The scene in Something About Mary that involved semen was positively repellent to me.

2. While Borat has never been on the top of my movie favourites, I do recognize the social satirizing genius that is Sacha Baron Cohen. From Ali G, to Borat, to Bruno, to his underrated HBO series Who is America? I am in continual amazement at the number of real-life idiot-savants who gladly offer themselves up to him as tributes for his burning dung pile of moronic self-owning schtick. I also think that Mr. Cohen is a fine dramatic actor who has done yeoman's work in Les Misérables, Sweeney Todd, Hugo, The Spy, and most recently, as Yippie founder Abbie Hoffman in The Trial of the Chicago 7. My distaste for Borat has very little to do with Sacha Baron Cohen.

3. The Husband and both sons loved the first Borat. I think it is a Y-chromosome thing that seems to increase the enjoyment the more fluent you are in Hebrew. 

With all of that clearly understood, I sat with The Husband as he dove in headfirst. The movie itself is everything that I expected it to be. It is crude, massively politically-incorrect, and at times, flat out physically disgusting. The plot, (I use this term loosely) is based on the premise that our favourite Kazakhstanian reporter must redeem himself from the shitshow and embarrassment he caused during his last foray into the United States. He wants to get as close to the hierarchy of power as he can so that he might offer up his fifteen-year-old daughter as a vestal virgin-type gift to whatever scumbag Republican politician or Trump-adjacent skank will take the bait. His redneck odyssey takes him to some of America's most hollow and soulless places and he meets up with a variety of lead paint eating, mouthbreathers who if they were cast in a Hollywood movie, every producer would turn them down because they are so ridiculous and unbelievable. I still cannot believe that these assholes exist but, exist they do and they are more than willing to prostrate themselves with unspeakable embarrassment to Cohen/Borat. And therein lies, why this film, as ugly as it is, matters so very much ten days out from the most important world election of our time. It is crucial that we know what kind of lunacy and hypocrisy are taking place in areas outside of our own personal bubbles and it is even more crucial that we expose it. Nowhere in the film is that more important than the lurid and horribly ugly scene involving the President's free lawyer, Rudy Giuliani. 

If you have seen the still photographs that are wandering around the intertubes of Rudy lying on his back on a hotel bed with his left hand down his pants seemingly fondling his junk, you will have already formed an opinion of what might have occurred. When I tell you that it is so much worse in the film and it is only by the grace of Sacha Baron Cohen interrupting the escapade, that Rudy is saved from his lurid self. If Mr. Cohen has done anything during this film, it is to expose Rudy for the fucktard that he is and to put an end to any credibility of "October Surprise" he might peddle. I have absolutely no doubt that if Cohen had let the scene play out, we might have had to bear witness to the dick pic to end all dick pics.

There is a lot about the virus and the botched CoVid response and given that Cohen filmed this during the summer across the US, he was able to really make the film feel timely. The one thing that I did notice is that he had to get far more elaborate with his costumes. He is definitely far more recognizable than ever before and he had to really lay on the make-up, wigs, fat suits, and facial hair in order to conceal his identity. Too many people are on to him and his gags. 

The film is short, only an hour and a half, and is clumsy in its editing because it was so obviously rushed to Amazon Prime before the election. I would urge you to watch it because there is a genius method to the madness and it is incredibly timely. But if you are looking for fine art, this is surely not the film. That said, The Husband roared with laughter and he absolutely loved it. There goes that Y-chromosome thing again.

Save a Cowboy, Riding a Horse at TIFF

Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered how films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3)+1.  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

We have been very happy to participate in TIFF this year. Knowing that the pandemic has laid waste to the entertainment industry and that audience participation in any way, shape, or form is a huge challenge, we were excited to do something that would lend our support to the creative arts. The fact that TIFF was offering a digital menu for the first time and that we could view many of the offerings from the safe comfort of our living room, was a blessing. Yes, there is no question that we are missing the collective experience of viewing a brand-spanking-new film with like-minded people. We are bereft of the excitement that goes with in-person questions and answers from the directors and actors and worst of all, we are really saddened by the lack of buzz and excitement that exists up and down King Street during the festival. TIFF is a huge money-maker for the city and it is our neighbourhood's summer festival. There is a melancholy this year that just cannot be understood unless you have experienced it. 

It is why I cannot understand why the powers that be at TIFF have made the digital theatre so onerous. You would think that this year, of all years, they would want to introduce their product to new festival-goers. Grab them now and get them again next year. Rather, they have messed people around so much that it lends credence to the argument that the festival has become far too elitist. They have limited digital tickets and actually sell-out many films which totally baffles me. You would think that they would want to try and recoup some of the financial losses that they certainly are suffering through. Also, unlike in-person viewings, the digital theatre offerings only have a 24-hour window. If you miss it, you are out of luck. There isn't a possibility, at least as of yet, to view desired films outside of those designated windows. Again, with only fifty films that are being screened, it seems like killing off the financial genie. And, once again, the technology of screening these films is confusing and less than optimum. There are a whole lot of hoops to jump through to get the film off the computer link and onto a TV-sized screen. It really isn't easy but I live with a techie, thanks to the Divine Spirit.

In that vein, we decided to add one more movie to our TIFF lineup and purchased digital tickets for last evening's showing of Concrete Cowboy. To be perfectly honest, this film had me at Idris Elba. Aside from his extraordinary talent, he makes the backs of my knees sweat. I'm having a bit of the vapours right now as I'm recalling him in his tight cowboy jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt. Oh, my. The movie takes the typical "absent father trying to mentor a hostile teenage son" genre and puts it in front of the backdrop of a rarely seen subculture of Philadelphia; that of the urban black cowboys who keep and care for horses right in the middle of the city. Who knew? Certainly not me. The first viewing of Elba's Harp's apartment, with a white stallion occupying the living room, was simply jarring. Horses. In the poorest neighbourhoods of Philly. With urban stables. As the story advances, we learn that this lifestyle has existed in the community for over a hundred years and that the generational pull of the people who find peace there has historical and cultural significance. 15-year-old Caleb McLaughlin, all lanky arms and legs since his Netflix's Stranger Things days, plays troubled teen, Cole who is dumped on his father's doorstep after yet another mishap at school. Through a series of predictable tough-love incidents, Cole bonds with an angry horse at the Fletcher Street stables and learns difficult lessons from the streets of his new home. It is all very predictable but it has Idris Elba on a horse, so...yeah. Bringing in some of the real Fletcher Street cowboys into the cast was a smart move by director Ricky Staub. The depth of their feelings to their vanishing heritage is obvious on the screen.

I love hearing stories of people and places that have been existing outside of my bubble. Concrete Cowboy acts as the vessel for just such a unique story. I kind of wish that the father/son dynamic was less formulaic and that the lessons learned less obvious. 

Dawn and The Husband give Concrete Cowboy two middling YUPS. The YUPS are for the unique backdrop and for Idris Elba. The actual story is missing something.

TIFF-ing One Night In Miami

Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered how films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3).  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

I am always in awe of the variety of voices I hear when attending TIFF. Sometimes, they come from audience members as they dissect a just-seen film. At times, I hear the words of the critics, whose job it is to lacerate art without a moment's hesitation. (I often wonder if we have been sitting inside the same theatre.) But it is the voices of the filmmakers themselves that intrigue me the most; the projects they choose, the stories they seem compelled to tell. And even though this year, I am unable to share in the communal experience of watching these fascinating new narratives unfold, I am still in awe of the bright and extraordinarily talented directors who have pushed through the confines of the pandemic to get their creations out into the public square. TIFF usually isn't the place where the next superhero flick is screened. It is a forum for the stories that fly under the radar of blockbuster-obsessed Hollywood movers and shakers. It is the space where the audience gets to see and comes to understand the blood, sweat, and tears that have gone into bringing art to life. 

I think that this struggle was exactly what we saw last night during our screening of One Night in Miami.... (Yes, the ellipses are part of the title. They inform the viewer that the struggle is ongoing.) This film is actor/director Regina King's feature debut, based on the stage play by Kemp Powers, who also wrote the screenplay for the movie. It is a fictionalized account of a meeting in 1964 of real-life friends Muhammad Ali, Malcolm X, Sam Cooke, and Jim Brown. King and Kemp bring together these strong, principled, and activist black men into one room during one of the most fraught periods of civil-rights history and have them discuss their responsibilities, not only to their respective areas of expertise but to their community as a whole. One Night in Miami... imagines a night in February 1964, when these four friends gather in a motel room to celebrate the stunning knockout of Sonny Liston by a raw but brash 22-year-old Cassius Clay. While most of the group is hoping to party, the banter, led by the sober Malcolm, eventually digs deep into the fraught questions surrounding all of them in their respective professions. That two of the group would be dead within a year by the violence that still swirls throughout the black community, is an overtone that is not lost at all. 

The film was shot before the murder of George Floyd this summer and feels uncomfortably timely given the incidents and protests that have followed. King refuses to allow comfort to her audience. She wants them to feel off-balance and claustrophobic so as not to be able to escape the very hard discussions. Unfortunately, there is something missing from the film. Maybe it is the feeling of expanse that a movie should have. The four men are confined to one room for most of it and King tries to have them wander the premises at times, but there is a stasis to their surroundings that chokes off some of the best dialogue. I can absolutely imagine this piece on a stage whereby the actors' powerful performances take over the spotlight. Every single one of these men is stellar in their respective roles. I was particularly enamoured with Hamilton alum Leslie Odoms Jr. as Sam Cooke. The man could sing the phonebook and I'd be with him.

We liked One Night in Miami... but left the home theatre wanting more from it. Regina King has more talent in her fingernail that most people could possibly hope for in three lifetimes and she asks the hard questions facing black celebrities today. I just wanted a few more answers.

Dawn and The Husband are both MEH on this film but understand that it is worth seeing.

See You Down the Road at TIFF

Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered the way in which films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3).  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

There is a bleakness and profound sadness that can be seen in Fern's face in the opening moments of Nomadland. It is the visage of somebody who has seen pain and loss and understands them both to her core. But there is something else as well. There is a fulsome determination to move forward by a woman who has been left completely alone by circumstance and needs to find a way to survive. Her fierce need for independence is tempered by the community of nomads she meets on the road (most of them played in the film by actual members of the American nomadic fraternity) and the series of temp jobs she must take in order to keep her head above water. 

Frances McDormand's Fern is a woman who all at once grieves her previous life but also comes to embrace the road ahead. Her face, seemingly elastic as only the features of a person who is weathered by time and conditions can be, is like a roadmap into her deepest emotions. She smiles at her new friends, is touched by their acceptance of her, and shows real impatience when a fellow traveller takes a shine to her. She is on the lowest side of this sliding economic scale of nomads but it doesn't make her less than in the eyes of the community. In a question and answer section given after the premiere, McDormand is emphatic in her discussion of the real-life nomads.

"Each individual who goes on the road has to be self-reliant,” she said, “but they do gather for Rubber Tyre Rendezvous because they need community for knowledge. I guess you would call it a socialist situation, where it’s all for one and one for all. The choice of van they use for their mobile lives has a lot to do with the economic disparities in our country, but Chloe (director Zhao) is not trying to make a political statement. Instead, we are leading you to a community which is making very difficult decisions for themselves and she is telling their story.”

Nomadland is a visually stunning film with a score that perfectly captures the vistas from the road. It is a film that is almost poetic in how it captures this story of an average woman doing something that most of us would think to be extraordinary and yet, isn't. Chloe Zhao has created a masterpiece and Frances McDormand is absolutely one of the finest actors of her generation. 

We didn't go out of our way to choose films helmed by women directors this year at TIFF but rather, TIFF is going out of its way to feature more women behind the camera. It is to all of our benefits in hearing stories told with a different lens and a different arc. I chose Nomadland as one of our films this year because Frances McDormand is one of The Husband's favourite actors. It doesn't hurt that she is Coen Brothers-adjacent, but mostly it is that she is truly brilliant in her versatility and never hedges in her painful acting choices. To tell more about this magnificent film would be to spoil it for all of you who must see it when it is widely distributed in December.

Nomadland is at the highest level of two YUPS. We simply loved this movie.

Going Tiff-ing at Home This Year

 Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered the way in which films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3).  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

I really missed summer in Toronto this year. What is usually a time filled with neighbourhood festivals, street food fiestas, live music performances, and abundant theatre choices, my city was devoid of all character with only a handful of patios open and most people taking solace with picnics in the parks or friend's backyards. The buzz that accompanies the downtown core was absent this year and there was a palpable sadness as we walked along the main streets in our area and counted the legion of For Lease signs. There were heatwaves but little sizzle as my city seemed paralyzed by the ongoing effects of this miserable pandemic. So, when TIFF announced that they would find a way to operate a scaled-back version of the festival, we knew that we would find a way to participate, even if it meant refraining from in-person theatre screenings. Honestly, the idea of sitting in a Cineplex, even with appropriate distancing and masking, gives me the dry heaves. TIFF is showing some films in traditional settings but they are also offering drive-in options and in-home digital broadcasts, perfect for the cautiously lazy movie lover. The Husband was a bit concerned with the techy side of this idea. TIFF has never been known for excellence in its web purchasing or online fare. What if the hardware and software weren't compatible with our limited home theatre? After checking out the necessary requirements, we decided to take a chance with the purchases and scheduled ourselves accordingly. 

Our first film this year comes from a talented young director born and raised here in Toronto, Emma Seligman. Shiva Baby began life as an 8-minute short that was Ms. Seligman's thesis from NYU's renowned film school. The 2020 expanded version focuses on twenty-something Danielle, a confused and seemingly rudderless student, who comes face to face with every bad decision she has ever made during a short shiva visit she makes with her family. It is a caustically funny film and often cringe-worthy in that way that makes your teeth ache but you can't stop watching. Seligman expertly moves between the family relationships that shape and torment us and the series of anxiety-ridden chaos that Danielle has manufactured for herself. Seligman calls her film a comedy of discomfort. Polly Draper (thirtysomething) is excellent as Danielle's self-involved and aggravating Jewish mother. She might be in the awards mix this season if the movie gets a wide enough distribution. Rachel Sennott is a young actress to watch.

The Husband wondered if non-Jews would understand the claustrophobia and exhaustion that a shiva visit can often impose. I didn't feel that the cultural overtones were disqualifying for those who are not members of the Tribe because I think that any family gathering could adequately stand-in for the shiva. I mean, we never even meet the mourners in the film, rather it is all about the visiting family who can't seem to get out of each other's way. 

This TIFF experience is definitely different and not as planned, but that didn't take away from our enjoyment of a very good and self-assured debut from a vibrant young director. We are glad that we decided to support one of our favourite festivals in the city once again, even if we had to find a new way to do it.

Shiva Baby gets two enthusiastic YUPS from both Dawn and The Husband. 

How I Became One with Van Gogh

I FINISHED THE PUZZLE.

If you've been following this bizarre and obsessive journey with me over the last month on social media, you will know that this is a big fucking deal. I will explain why in a bit but in the meantime, you can insert any happy dance you'd like in the comments so that we can all celebrate together. We are so devoid of fun and silly interludes lately, that I thought that we all deserved the accolades, even though today really is mostly about me. So...bust a virtual move and fete my accomplishment, weak-assed though it may be. 

 I chose this one. 

Diversions are not easy to come by in the pandemic age. There is only so much cooking, cleaning, sorting,  and baking a girl can do. I have learned how to not kill a sourdough starter thanks to the expertise and patient tutoring of my lovely cousin/niece. I have turned said starter into so many carb-laden baked goods that The Husband has threatened me with two-a-day training sessions. I have perfected my Shabbat challahs. I have exercised so much that I have hit my move and workout targets for 112 straight days and I have the receipts to prove it. (I don't think I've lost a pound given the abundance of aforementioned baking.) I have binged watched television series and binged listened to podcasts. (Watchmen and Pose are phenomenal television viewing and the new season of the Slow Burn podcast about David Duke is simply frightening. Also, as a comedy kick and homage to the late Carl Reiner, The Husband and I have been rewatching the old Dick Van Dyke Show on Amazon Prime. It is fabulous and still really funny.)

I can't seem to focus on a book. I manage to read a chapter or two but my mind wanders helplessly to other less inviting thoughts and I stop. I've only managed to finish one all summer and it distresses me. Hopefully, this will remedy itself soon but in the meantime, there is always a jigsaw puzzle in progress on our dining room table.

I have been enthralled with puzzles for decades. Over the last few years, it has become a mother/daughter activity while we snowbird in Florida. Mom and I have spent hours bonding and chatting over thousand-piece jigsaws. They are fun, calming, and offer a concentration level that tunes up the mind and memory, a truly zen experience. The pandemic and quarantine have meant that Mom and I have been puzzling separately. Earlier this past spring, I noticed that The Husband was sitting from time to time and fiddling with pieces. It became a way for him to decompress after a particularly arduous phone call or Zoom meeting. So, I was thrilled when he suggested that we walk over to the toy store nearby and purchase some gifts for Molly and, maybe, a couple of new puzzles. 

He chose the Van Gogh. 

Don't let him tell you otherwise. This entire episode that has encompassed a full month of our wedded bliss is wholly and entirely his fault. We had just come from the Immersive Van Gogh experience that is playing here at the old Toronto Star building and we were wonderfully reminded of just how much we love and are mesmerized by Vincent's work. The man was a true genius. Tortured and lost in his own thoughts, but nevertheless, a genius. We have seen several of his paintings in person over the years. His Starry Night is probably one of the most recognizable pieces of art in the world and has been commercialized to such an extent that one can buy anything affixed with its image. (There is even a song written about it if you don't mind a Don McLean earworm.) If you haven't seen Starry Night up close and personal, I highly recommend a post-pandemic trip to New York and a pilgrimage to the Museum of Modern Art. I snuck this photo of it the last time we were there. 

It is hard to discern from the photo just how many colours and brushstrokes he used. The moon with the sun rising over it isn't merely yellow. It is yellow mixed with several shades of greens and blues and purples. The brushstrokes run in all directions. To the naked eye, the village below is a shadowed sketch of muted browns, greys, blues and blacks but upon further review, the greens and turquoises jump forward. And the very thing this masterpiece is known for, the stars, are muted in the photograph. Thousands of pinpoints of gold dot the entire canvass. Vincent painted it in 1889 during his stay at the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole near Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. Even though he was going through a particularly dark period, he wrote about this canvas in a letter to his brother Theo and about how beautiful the night sky and the village below his window appeared. 

This morning I saw the countryside from my window a long time before sunrise with nothing but the morning star, which looked very big. Daubigny and Rousseau did that, though, with the expression of all the intimacy and all the great peace and majesty that it has, adding to it a feeling so heartbreaking, so personal. These emotions I do not detest.

I am almost certain that Van Gogh never foresaw his painting being cut into a jigsaw puzzle. Each piece is a nightmare of colours and swooshes. Brushstrokes that appear to fit together, simply don't. What Van Gogh saw as an explosion of hues dancing across the pre-dawn sky, I saw as a dizzying array of shit. Each piece looks like thirty others and they all seemingly fit together. Some examples.

We were seeing colours and swirls in our sleep. We found ourselves holding pieces up to the window so that the light would better define the fit and the subtle tones. After week one, The Husband gave up. He wanted to throw the damn thing off the roof. I wasn't as willing to pack it in. It became an obsession, much like Vincent's need to paint the bloody thing in the first place. I posted my first update on social media almost a month ago and was stunned to find out how many of my friends had attempted this crazy-assed thing and subsequently abandoned the task. It was then that I realized that not only would I make every effort to finish it, but I would also attempt to find a small measure of peace while doing it. What looked and sounded crazy to many became a necessary escape for me. I found myself lost in paint swooshes and totally captivated by pinpoints of light. I could almost imagine myself walking across the hills in twilight or singing under the moon. I now know every single inch of this painting. I have become a master of its intricacies. While he was in a self-quarantine, Van Gogh painted his greatest masterpiece. During a month of my quarantine, I recreated his journey.

This puzzle was a struggle until the very last piece. A friend remarked yesterday that I was either extraordinarily patient or maybe a bit crazy. I don't usually like words like crazy. We are all feeling a lot these days and "crazy" seems like it should be reserved for something else. I will acknowledge struggling as are so many others. The struggles are baked in but patience is a learned virtue during this time of uncertainty. It has never been a strong suit of mine but I am getting there. A month of this puzzle has certainly broadened my equanimity.

I am planning on leaving it together for a few days. I think I've earned it. I am willing to pass it on for the fearless among you but only with the caveat that you see it through to the end. If you think that you might give up, this offer isn't for you. Let me know and we can arrange an exchange. In the meantime, I eagerly await the next jigsaw. I'm thinking something cartoonish might be best.

Don't forget to leave me a happy dance. I've earned it.

A Small Tale From Downtown

A small story to be added to my "Tales of Downtown" series.

The Husband and I have been doing our very best to get some badly needed fresh air on a daily basis during these cloistered times. We live in a loft apartment that doesn't have a balcony. The only outdoor space in our building is a fabulous rooftop patio that was, until very recently, closed due to the pandemic as was all common space in our condo. As such, taking a walk around the neighbourhood or down to the lake has been important in ways that I simply cannot describe to those of you fortunate enough to have backyards or patios. I am not complaining, just merely stating a fact.

We often combine our walks with other small errands that can be accomplished at the tail end of the sojourn. We might run into the local fruit market for a container of blueberries or the toy store for a new jigsaw puzzle. We only purchase that which we can carry between the two of us and without using a cart. Today, we stopped at Shopper's Drug Mart for a few essentials. (Read: chocolate and Diet Coke)

As we were returning from the store, we encountered one of the regular street people who reside in our neighbourhood. This fellow is a pleasant enough guy, very polite, and usually is just pan-handling for a few coins in order to get his breakfast or a coffee. One of the forgotten side-effects of this weird time in which we are living is that very few people are carrying cash with them any more. Nobody wants to have contact with money if they can avoid it and as such, people like my buddy on the street are really suffering. You can't very well swipe him your phone or credit card. The Husband remarked recently that he hasn't carried cash in his pocket since March and hasn't been to a bank machine since we returned from the Southern Home. Everything is touchless and non-contact right now. More often than not, I don't have anything to give him because the only things I carry these days are a mask and my phone. Today, he caught us coming home from Shoppers so when he asked for something to eat, I reached into the bag and pulled out a chocolate bar. Here is our exchange verbatim as The Husband is my witness.

Man: Can I trouble you for a few coins so that I can get something to eat?

Me: I'm sorry but I don't have any money but wait....(this is me rummaging through the Shoppers bag and pulling out a bar of Cadbury dark chocolate.)

Me: Here you go.

Man: Oh...a chocolate bar. Oh...it's dark. Don't you have milk chocolate?

Me: (Apologizing) I'm sorry. It's all that I have. Next time, I'll remember that you like milk chocolate.

Man: Ok. If it's all you have, thank you.

We laughed a bit about the discerning palate of our friend but in all seriousness, this is a real problem in cities with a homeless issue. As we move into a solely cashless society, how will we be able to care for our most vulnerable if we don't take steps to physically put ourselves out for them? Sending a few coins their way will no longer be the "very least we can do". It is fast becoming a non-option. I am going to start carrying around granola bars and juice boxes so that a few hungry people can have the dignity of a small meal because this new cashless world is excluding them. Maybe, I'll take him into Timmie's next time for a doughnut and coffee? But it does remove a certain amount of dignity from him in that he can't buy it for himself.

Every day, I hear my own complaints about isolation or boredom. Every day, I hear others describe the difficulties they have faced during this very weird time. Every single one of them is valid. Every person's pain is real. We are all going through something and all of it matters. Today, I saw somebody else's suffering and it was up close and personal. I'll try to remember that the next time I'm lamenting my situation.

My Brief Sojourn Back into Society

I stuck a pinkie toe into the life reintegration pool today.

As somebody who suffers from asthma and is therefore deemed "high-risk", I have managed to avoid indoor locations as much as possible over the past sixteen weeks.

Sixteen weeks. Sixteen fricking weeks. 

An entire season has disappeared into the ether while we have all been trying to learn what works, what's safe, and what is necessary. Some of us are braver than others and some are plainly just more reckless, but all of us are navigating through a new societal tsunami that will leave things changed forever. Don't kid yourselves. These are our new routines for the foreseeable future and possibly longer than that, whether we want them to be or not. Companies, businesses, and industries that don't adapt will most assuredly fail. People who see themselves as better than or more elite than their neighbours will be shunned. Never before in our history has the term "we are all in this together" been more truthful or apropos.

But we must live and we must do the necessary things to carry on and while I have been able to deal with essentials like groceries or medications online or with minimal contact, some things just demand an in-person visit, things like yearly medical tests at a hospital imaging clinic.

The hospital that I was booked at is one not near my home. I seriously considered driving uptown in order to avoid the potentially claustrophobic public transit but the city of Toronto has boxed in my neighbourhood with a morass of road closures, streetcar rail replacement, and bridge repairs. All at the same time. It simply didn't make sense to spend hours in my car, travelling through detours and "west to get east" alternatives when the TTC could get me there in a far more timely and less stressful fashion. And so, I pushed through my CoVID anxiety, packed my Purell and Wet Wipes, donned a mask, and headed for the subway.

Here are some basic and wholly anecdotal observations from a city still suffering from PTSD and in the very early stages of Phase 2 opening.

1. Most people on the TTC, both streetcars and subways, are masked up. That isn't to say it is universal, but it is certainly better than I expected. The full TTC mask bylaw doesn't go into effect until Thursday so I was expecting a lot of scofflaws. I was pleasantly surprised. There were a few 30-something dudes (all guys on my trip) who decided that they were above it all and who stink-eyed anybody who even so much as looked in their direction but all in all, it wasn't a bad trip north. The trains were fairly empty and everybody physically distanced. I'm not sure how that is going to work when the Bay Street Bros head back downtown but for now, it didn't suck. (Of course, I Purell' ed whenever I felt uncomfortable, so there is that.)

2. Hospitals are weird places these days. Other than access to the emergency department, visitors are all herded through a single entrance. I was met with a physically distanced line that led to a front desk behind plexiglass whereby I was questioned about my basic health and made to hand sanitize. (These people don't know me otherwise, they could have saved on the squirt.) I was directed to the elevators (no stair climbing allowed) and on to imaging. Everything in the hospital is now clearly a one-way street. God help the poor bastard who doubles back. The screeches from nurses and cleaning staff can be deafening.

3. After another physically distanced line, (We really need to stop calling it social distancing. There is nothing social about it) I was greeted by another masked manager behind glass. She sanitized a piece of foam rubber, slipped it through the opening in the glass and asked me to place my health card on it. She then did her thing on the computer, re-sanitized the foam, and slid my card back to me.

4. I was directed to a segregated waiting area whereby I sat alone until I was called for my tests. This is not the hospital experience I remembered from just last year. I found myself longing for the commiseration with other patients and the forlorn looks that said "I understand. Don't worry. We'll get through it together." But, there was nobody.

5. Just when I thought that human connection was impossibly lost forever, I was greeted by the loveliest ultrasound technician in the history of ultrasound technicians. I am convinced of it. Mary is warm, caring, talkative, and so in tune with the isolation that her patients are feeling. A former radiologist from India, (she was never able to get her medical license reinstated in Canada due to a lack of internships and that is a miserable shame for anybody who might have had her as their physician) she not only handled my tests with care and professionalism but she knew that I was craving a chat from somebody who wasn't yelling at me to mind my distance. By the time it was all over, she had offered to fix up Older Son with any number of lovely young women, asked me if there were any available units in our building for sale because she is looking to buy a place downtown for her kids, showed me photos of her family, and gave me her email address so that I could keep her updated on my life. I swear that I am not making any of this up. The post-it is still in my pocket. Mary reminded me why I love this city and why I believe that even though there will be more changes to come, some undoubtedly difficult, we all just want the best for each other.

6. I headed back home, still fully masked and still fully physically distanced. As I disembarked the subway at St. Andrew, I spotted the TTC employees handing out free masks for all riders. It's coming, people. Get used to it. If this asthmatic could spend four hours in a mask without removing it, some entitled Dude-Bro from Etobicoke can certainly handle it for an hour.

7. I was going to hop a streetcar home but it is just so lovely outside I decided to walk. My encounter with Mary switched on my positivity gene. I did notice that the fare collectors on the streetcar are back. Can anybody explain to me why their uniforms look like they are ready for Kent State circa 1970? I mean, they carry fucking billy clubs. They are FARE enforcement officers, not suiting up for Fallujah. Honestly, they need to dial this shit back a hundred notches. But...I wasn't about to let them ruin my mood so I walked. It was invigorating. Little by little, my neighbourhood is coming back to life.

I refuse to argue with anybody about masks. They work. It is obvious from the data. If you can't manage to help me out by wearing one, I have little use for you. Not wearing one isn't some resistance political statement but rather, it is a display of your ignorance. If this pandemic has taught me anything, it's don't engage the stupid.

I wouldn't say that I feel entirely comfortable yet. I'm still avoiding the grocery store and other high traffic areas but if today taught me anything it is that some necessary things are manageable and I won't live in fear of them any longer. I won't be in a restaurant any time soon but a Starbucks is not out of the question. Masked, pre-ordered, and picked up at the door. Mary made me feel like I can do it.

Happy Canada Day. 

An Eyshet Chayil For Today

***Note. Today during our weekly Torah study, we examined the end of Proverbs and the passage famously known as the Woman of Valour, or the Eyshet Chayil. The poem has been debated for generations as to how it should be accepted or denied by both women and men. It is my argument that in order for it to have relevance in a modern context, it is badly in need of a rewrite and reinterpretation for the time we live in today. And...so...I rewrote it. For me. It may or may not speak to you but I feel that if we are to find value in ancient texts, we need to add to them rather than reflexively dismiss them.  If you would like to read the original, it is Proverbs 31:10-31. Thank you to Rabbi Streiffer for his compassionate class today and to my fellow Torah study regulars for their wisdom. It is appreciated.

An Eyshet Chayil for Today

A woman of valour today is not rare nor is she fleeting. She is found in the face and soul of every woman.

She doesn't allow her value to be determined by her partner nor by anybody else. She alone is the determinator of her worth.

She is independent and confident and she measures her success by the company she keeps, the love in her heart, and the creativity of her own mind. She may choose to share her life with others or she may choose to walk her path alone.

She instinctively understands those things in the world that fill her with joy and brings her pleasure and she turns away from those who would defeat her dreams or harm her sense of self.

A woman of valour today engages in prolonged spurts of creativity and channels her artistry with a unique vision.

She grasps that her trajectory in life is hers to pursue and hers alone. She doesn't impose her preferences on other women, nor does she judge them for their choices.

A woman of valour today finds a balance between spiritual health and physical health. She feeds both her intellect and her emotions. She struggles with the precariousness of the equilibrium between the things she must do and the things she longs to do. She forgives herself when she fails.

She finds passion in her life's choices and she succeeds when she accepts both her talents and her limitations.

She is comfortable with her own sexuality and her agency is her own. 

She recognizes that hers is often a place of privilege and that engaging in Tikkun Olam is her obligation.

She finds peace in the comfort of her family and those whom she loves. Her home is her sacred space and she refreshes herself within its walls. She looks to her husband, wife, or partner for sustenance and she provides it in kind.

She is encouraging of other women and she acts as a mentor to those who are struggling and coming up behind her.

The woman of valour today embraces her wrinkles, grey hairs, and other signs of aging as they are born out of wisdom and hard experience.

She doesn't take more than she needs from the earth and she strives to care diligently for God's world.

The woman of valour today nurtures the relationships in her life with care and compassion; be they her spouse, her children, her friends, or herself. She cannot strive to help them achieve their own happiness until she herself is at peace.

She surrounds herself with a support system, a collective of like-minded women who will be there for her in times of need, and she for them. She will lift up the voices of these women so they are louder than her own.

A woman of valour today knows that all the people have value and that she must listen to them with attentiveness and compassion. Her pride in all that she does and for all whom she loves is boundless.