Plastic Straws Don't Suck for Everybody

Dear Friends,

I know that there is a great deal of misery in the world today. Toronto is still reeling from the horrific attack that murdered ten and grotesquely injured fourteen others last week. Our collective recovery will surely take time. There are horrors every single day coming out of Syria. There is an Orange Menace in the White House and there is a strange and most probably ugly election campaign coming to saturate Ontario airwaves this spring. 

And yet.....

I want to discuss what seems to be the overriding issue that is on most everybody's mind these days. That being the rush to ban plastic straws from our communities. I cannot open up any of my social media or any news report lately, without somebody preaching about the evils of the dreaded suckers. (See what I did there?) It seems to have taken on a life of its own online, with viral stories about choking turtles or waste washing up on a beach somewhere, coming forth on a daily basis.

And it is a real issue. I won't pretend that it isn't. The problem of unwanted and discarded plastics into our oceans, landfills, and public spaces is an epidemic problem plaguing the entire world. Scientists estimate that we as a global society have produced approximately 8.3 billion tonnes of plastics since the 1950s and about 6.3 billion tonnes of that has already become waste.  According to the Ocean Conservancy, 

More than 330,000 pieces of plastic and foam waste were picked off 2,800 kilometres of Canada's shoreline  by volunteers during beach cleanup events last year, including 17,654 straws — the ninth most common item found during cleanups supported by Ocean Wise and WWF-Canada. Worldwide, 409,087 straws and stirrers were picked up in beach cleanups around the world in 2017.

Single-use plastic straws make up about 4% of discarded plastics in total. It seems like it should be an easy win. Put pressure on governments and fast-food chains to ban the insidious little things that, according to activists, nobody really needs anyway. It seems perfect, except the whole premise is fundamentally flawed. 

Now, anybody who knows me or reads this space with any regularity understands the commitment I have to green initiatives. I am a conscientious vegetarian with a left-leaning propensity to vegan. I have found a way to grow my own herbs in a hydroponic method in our condo. We shop the farmer's markets and use locally sourced whenever possible. I rarely use plastic shopping bags, preferring bins or cloth bags, and we have recently made the switch to mesh produce bags for our market purchases. The Husband drives a completely electric car and both of us try to use public transit or walk to our destinations on a regular basis. We are far from perfect in our greening attempts and there are many things we could and should do better but this online lecture many of my friends are delivering about the evils of plastic straw use has me riled up for one very good reason. There is a dear person in my life who depends on these items as her literal lifeline. 

I am not exaggerating the issue here. Without a plastic straw (not a metal or paper one) she could not take in liquids. And, she isn't alone. There are many people who live with challenges that require the use of a plastic straw. Many stroke patients cannot adequately drink from a cup. A paper straw disintegrates when it comes in constant contact with saliva. A metal straw doesn't adequately bend to the necessary and personalized degrees needed for intake. Reuseable straws need to be properly cleaned and sanitized, something that people with fine motor issues cannot adequately do. Plastic straws have given many in our communities an independence and dignity to drink in public without spilling or spitting. A total ban would be telling these individuals that they shouldn't be afforded that privilege. Forcing them to request one at an eating establishment is an embarrassment for many and greatly reduces their dignity.

I wonder how many out there, those who are advocating with these silly memes and Facebook campaigns, are taking other conclusive measures to reduce their own environmental footprints. Did they drive to the establishments at which they are refusing the straw? Did they order a burger? Did they drink fair-trade coffee or eat fair-trade chocolate? Often times, we tend to go for the easy wins when a solution that is far more thoughtful or considered is really all that is necessary. Educating the public on the issue of the overabundance of plastic in our environment is essential and advocating for the reduction of single-use plastic straws is really a good thing, but allowing each person to make a thoughtful and informed choice is imperative. I am all for a reduction in plastics in all its forms and I do try to be conscious of what I am using on a daily basis. I honestly don't use straws all that often and I am more than willing to forgo the plastic kind and purchase a reuseable device for myself to use during my once a month Starbucks visits because I am able. But a ban for everybody? No. That is a bridge too far that further alienates many who rely on them.

A little thoughtfulness goes a long way. Let's all try and be a bit more respectful of those who have different needs.

A Happy Place Shared

Where is your happy place?

I have lately come to the conclusion that not only do we all need a happy place these days but that having such a space where one can escape the traumas and miseries of day to day life is a moral imperative. 

For some, it is the kitchen. My mom tends to retreat to baking and cooking when she is stressed. For others, it is the banality of television. Others find solace in books or in the warmth of a silly romantic comedy. Last night, most in Toronto dove deeply into our communal love of sports and our time-honoured tradition of consoling our losing selves in order to escape the horrors of this past week.

Me?

While I love all of those stated above, my true happy place is in the audience of a darkened theatre witnessing the magic of the musical. I can't always adequately express how a Broadway musical, even a mediocre one, makes me feel. There is a synergy that develops between me and the performers on that stage. I live and die by every motion of the choreography. I visibly tense in my seat as they hit the highest of notes, praying right along with them, that tonight won't be the night the voice might crack. I sweat right along with them as I marvel at the creative genius that brought 1940s Paris or 1980s London or 1770s New York into my 21st-century Canadian psyche. This is me in a musical theatre and to his credit, The Husband has not only indulged this very expensive passion, he has accompanied me to every single performance and has become an aficionado as well. So, when I suggested last minute tickets to see the soon to be leaving An American in Paris now playing here in Toronto, he was an enthusiastic yes. (I do adore this man!)

We invited Twin Son and His Better Half to join us for the evening. It was a celebration for him and we wanted to do something special to mark the occasion of his entering into a new decade. Because of the lateness in purchasing the tickets, we had to separate into different sections of the theatre. The Husband and I were in the centre orchestra and our friends further back. We got to our seats quite close to the curtain call and as a result, I really didn't have time to peruse my program, as is my usual custom. There was also a lot of buzz in the theatre about game scores and the like that further distracted me from noticing my surroundings. 

The first act of the show was breathtaking. For anybody familiar with the movie, there are subtle changes to both the song list and the structure of the story that translates beautifully to the stage. The sets and lighting are a visual masterpiece and the choreography would make Gene Kelly plotz. I was so entranced that I forgot about the playoff games happening in another world. As we rose in our seats at intermission to go meet our friends, I excused myself to the woman sitting beside me and happened to notice that she was alone at the theatre. She was absorbed in reading her program so I didn't engage with her other than to ask her pardon so that we might pass.

We returned to our seats for the second act in time to hear the Entr'acte. My seat companion was still reading and didn't pay much attention to us at all. The curtain rose and the players on stage were already into their dialogue when the lady beside me suddenly leaned over, tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, "That's my son."

Stunned, I asked her which young man on stage was hers. 

She replied with tears of pride filling her eyes, "The one playing Adam, the piano player."

I was dumbfounded. "He's amazing", I whispered back. "You should be very proud." (He really was amazing. This wasn't just polite chitchat. I take my musical theatre very seriously and I am an extremely tough, some would say difficult, audience.)

She just smiled with a radiance that only a parent can understand and then she totally blew me away when she pointed again and said with equal pride and joy, "And that's my daughter-in-law." Her daughter-in-law was at that moment dancing and singing up a storm in the role of Milo, the Nina Foch role in the movie.

I quickly turned to my program to discover that Adam and Milo are indeed spouses off-stage. How could I have missed that? Damn you, Maple Leafs! The entire viewing of this show suddenly took on a different lens. I wasn't just watching a magnificent performance onstage, I was seeing it through the eyes of a thrilled parent who had obviously been through so much with her children. I saw her gasp with delight, applaud wildly after their solos, shed more than a few tears, and was the first person to leap to her feet when they came out for their bows. I have been in the audience as my kids performed in amateur productions and know very well the knots of anxiety and the intense emotions. This woman must have had that experience tenfold.

As the lights in the theatre came up, I asked her if this was her first time seeing the show. She laughed and said no, of course not. She saw them several times on Broadway (I can't even imagine!!) and has since followed the travelling company to several cities. She told me that her son is the youngest of four boys and that they lost his father when he was just thirteen. She made him a promise then that if he ever made it as an actor, she would be in the centre of the theatre for all of his shows. She said that it is the greatest joy in her life to travel from city to city and watch him and his wife perform. I asked her if she would please tell them that her seatmates absolutely loved the show and that we were entranced by their performances. She just smiled, shook my hand, thanked me, and headed off to meet her children.

We here in Toronto have had a difficult week. There has been more than a few tears shed in light of the tragedy that befell the city this week. There isn't a person here who doesn't require some measure of healing. I knew that going to the theatre would be a salve on my battered soul. That's what happy places are supposed to do. Having this special seatmate share it with me, well...it just elevated it to another level. 

Yes...there is still joy in this place.

Today, I Marched

I had never marched before.

I wanted very much to march last year with my sisters both at home and around the world. I didn't because I wasn't in a location that held a march.

So, I had never marched before.

I grew up in the seventies. The world was so very tired of marching. And of demonstrating. And of protesting.

We didn't march. We shook our heads with mock disdain at all of the ills in the world, but we didn't march. We became lazy and complacent. We put our heads down and we pushed forward but we didn't march.

And then came Columbine.

My sons were 11 and 9 then. I remember thinking it could have been them. It could have been my children.

Nineteen years ago. Nineteen.

And nothing has changed.

Today's young people have never known a world without school shootings. Active shooter drills and lockdowns are an everyday part of their lives. When I was in school, I worried about fire drills. They worry about gunfire drills.

Virginia Tech. Sandy Hook. Pulse, Orlando. Las Vegas. Fort Lauderdale Airport. Charleston. Aurora. Eaton's Centre. Bloor and Yonge. Parkland.

Movie theatres. Churches. Malls. Concerts. Parks. Restaurants.

SCHOOLS. So many schools.

So....

Today I marched. In the bitter cold. I hate the cold. But I marched anyway.

Today I let the youth of the world lead me. Today I walked with them and today I walked for them. Today I marched to remember and today I marched to say "no more."

I marched for the kids and I marched for their parents. I marched for every single person who has ever been touched by gun violence. I marched and I remembered Albert, a friend of my parents who was gunned down blocks from his home in South Florida while out to dinner with his wife. I marched for my future grandchild. May he/she never know what an active shooter drill is. I marched to add my voice and my body to the chorus and the throng.

I marched to remember sanity and to remind myself that together we can change the world.

It will come about after this that I will pour out My Spirit on all mankind; and your sons and daughters will prophesy, Your old will dream dreams, Your young will see visions. (Joel 2:28)

Zen and The Art of Jigsaw Puzzles

There was an episode of Black-ish that aired in January to which I really related.

As an aside, if Black-ish isn't already a part of your regular viewing routine, I suggest you put it on the list. It is one of the smartest and most adventurous comedies on the air at the moment. It regularly takes risks with its family-centred storylines and it straddles the always perilous line between social consciousness and just plain fun. I highly recommend it.

In the episode entitled Bow Knows, mother of five Rainbow joins a mommy online group for support and advice. As part of the guilt and backlash she receives from her invisible and judgemental new friends, she decides to remove screen time from her children and chides them about their lack of other hobbies. The kids are reluctantly forced to interact with each other as they take up the supposedly archaic pastime of jigsaw puzzles. While they bitch and moan for most of the episode, a little spark of togetherness ignites while they aren't paying attention and when Bow ultimately returns their devices at the end of the show, they decide to stick with the puzzles.

I was delighted with the episode mostly because my mom and I have reignited our passion for jigsaw puzzles this season at The Southern Home. It started with a gift that Sister/Cousin bought for my parent's wedding anniversary in December. Why she thought my puzzle-challenged dad might enjoy this gift is still beyond my comprehension, but my mom was thrilled. We used to do puzzles all the time when I was a kid. She decided to wait until Younger Son and his B'shert visited in January to open it. The jigsaw was a bonding success. Mom bought a puzzle mat for her dining room table and she and her grandson spent several afternoons together deftly fitting Mickey Mouse's movie posters together. It was such a successful endeavour and I was so very pleased with the relaxation and pleasure that it brought my mother, I immediately ordered another after my kids left for home. And then another....and another.

I had forgotten just how much I truly enjoyed the quiet zen of doing jigsaw puzzles. While seen as a frivolous time-waster to some, I choose to look at it from other perspectives. The completion of a jigsaw is the restoration of wholeness from something that is in a perpetual state of brokenness or ugliness. Beauty is found not only in the completion but in the task itself. There is a quiet sense of flow as Mom and I work seamlessly together on the undertakings of shaping and sorting the pieces. The work moves quietly but deliberately until larger images seem to fall away into the concentration of mere shapes and colours. Shades on the colour spectrum and gradations matter so much more than full photographic representations. We often chat amiably as we go but, more often than not, we tend to work in quiet synchronization. I fill in the smaller details that Mom finds difficult to navigate with her "ageing eyesight" (her words, not mine) but she totally blows me out of the water with colour matching. That artistic eye has not abandoned her. There is no competition, only the common goal of completion. The only distractions are a bottle of Diet Coke for me or a coffee for her.

For a couple of hours each day, all of life's frustrations and complications have been set aside to work on an entirely doable thing. We may not be able to fix the ills of the outside world but we are able to find relief and reparation in the reassembling of something shattered back to its original integrity and in that task, we find some measure of peace and tranquillity. It has given me a space to recharge and find wholeness again for myself.

Look, I am not saying this is a hobby for everybody. The Husband and my dad would sooner paste their eyes shut with a hot glue gun rather than engage in this pastime. But just as Bow wanted her children to understand in that episode of Black-ish, the need to disconnect from things and to reconnect with people, even ourselves, is vital.

I have never been a good practitioner of meditation or mindfulness. I find that both exercises stress me out and that seems extraordinarily counterintuitive to their stated goals. Jigsaw puzzling, however, especially in the company of my mom, has given me a bit of peace over the past few months. It has afforded me a chance at a soul reset. I wouldn't call that a waste of time at all.

***We have one puzzle left to complete before I head home this weekend. It is Broadway musicals. I've saved the best for last.

My neighbours across the water still have their Christmas tree up.

Today.

On Groundhog Day. 

February 2nd.

I know this to be true because the tree is set up for my maximum visualization in the balcony window that is directly facing our unit, and for good measure, the lights on the tree are obviously set on a timer to brightly illuminate their apartment every evening at sundown. (I would take a picture but it is somewhat creepy if not questionably illegal to photograph the inside of your neighbour's apartment. If Jimmy Stewart were alive today to make Rear Window, he would certainly be considered a stalker.)

Seeing that I myself have zero frames of reference for Christmas tree etiquette and I have absolutely no idea as to the proper length of time one should continue to have a Christmas tree up, illuminated, and decorated in one's living room following the appointed day, I can only imagine (or concoct) oddly disturbing conspiracy theories as to why anyone would still want said tree a full six weeks after the holiday. Here are my top 5.

1) These people are deeply devoted to the Christmas season and are absolutely determined not to let it go until some libtard bastard in this Democratic shithole wishes them a "Merry Christmas" the way the supreme leader promised them they would.

2) Because the seasons here range from the "burning fires of hell" to "iguana-dropping cool", there is often confusion as to whether or not Christmas has yet occurred. The Valentines that were on display at Walmart on New Year's Eve should have been a dead giveaway, but I suppose it is possible that somebody's internal calendar is malfunctioning.

3) The dog likes it and it saves them a canine bathroom break.

4) They want to use it in next year's Christmas card picture but haven't yet been able to gather the clan. Planning is everything.

5) They died and the tree is masking enough of the stench that nobody has yet called the coroner.

I invite you all to send me your theories. Post in the comments section of this post or on my Facebook Page.

Shabbat Shalom to all who observe and a continued Merry Christmas to my neighbours.

Reboot is Just Another Name for Old Shit.

I read in an entertainment piece yesterday that there are planned for or currently in production over one hundred reboots of old television programs.

One hundred!

Murphy Brown, Roseanne, Will and Grace, Swat, Charmed, Hawaii Five-O, One Day at a Time, Dynasty, The X-Files, Party of Five, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, MacGyver, Prison Break, The Office, American Idol, and even those wacky Animaniacs are making their way back to a network near you. (Truth be told? I'm really ok with that last one.)

And that's just a beginner's list.

One hundred!

That's more programming than most of us watch in a year.

I've been giving this complete lack of creativity and total disregard for originality some deep thought and honestly, all I can come up with is Kohelet.

What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 1:9)

It feels like we have come to the end of television. The reruns are now making their own reruns. I feel like TV is living its own perverse version of Groundhog Day and we, the viewing audience, are being massively played. We sit there in front of our screens like fucking zombies and digest and regurgitate all that is fed to us. We have surely become the Deltas and Epsilons that Aldous Huxley cautioned could be our fate. (You really need to read Huxley's Brave New World.)

But...it is a fascinating concept, this idea of a reboot. What if we could take the events in our own lives, run them through a "Wayback Machine," tweak the storylines to fit our current narratives, add a few characters, and finally live the lives we always wanted for ourselves. What if we had a chance to do it again? Would we do it differently?

Maybe I would have been more aware of the front step that time I broke my foot and almost dropped Younger Son on his head? Maybe I would have insisted that we NOT set out on the interstate in the middle of an ice storm? Maybe I would have spent more time listening to my grandparents and their stories? Maybe I would have taken more time to play and less time to clean up?

Maybe?

But here's the problem with reboots. They are never as good as the originals. We long for the nostalgia of what we knew; some sepia-coloured bygone era that can never be replicated or duplicated. We hope that the 2018 version of Murphy Brown will bestow a shit-laden tongue-lashing to the current holder of the Oval, but we know in our hearts that it can't be nearly as good or nearly as funny as the one she gave to Dan Quayle. As much as that accident on I75 in the ice terrified me, the resulting time together and family stories have lasted a lifetime. We learned valuable lessons from that experience. Lessons that I wouldn't trade for anything.

The problem with reboots is that we tend to look backward instead of forward. We tend to lazily reach for what is easy and avoid that which might challenge or confound us. A reboot is candy for the Deltas and Epsilons in a world where we should be striving to be Alphas.

Kohelet also states: "There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven." (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

We need to live our lives as if there are no do-overs, no reboots. Live your life in such a way that, if given the opportunity, you would do it the same way all over again. No regrets. No reboots. Demand better.

Shabbat Shalom to all who observe.

The Tiny Human is Coming

The new year has finally turned and while 2018 hasn't yet given us much respite from the international follies of 2017, in our little family at least, there is a great deal to look forward to. This year our nuclear unit will be expanding by at least one. (If there are others of which I am not yet aware, I prophylactically apologize.) Younger Son and His B'shert are eagerly anticipating the arrival of a tiny human sometime around the spring thaw. And while I was given leave several months ago to crow, glory in, heap praises upon, or simply kvell in bits and bytes in this space, the truth is that every single time I have sat down to put thoughts to screen, I have cried ugly and heaved sobs of joy. It seems to me that it is perfectly fine to know and understand that there are times when words alone cannot adequately convey emotion, even for the most loquacious among us.

And so....

I have deliberately sat on the public displays of written affection until I could do justice to what this little person's impending arrival means and how I am excitedly and mentally preparing for "Bubbyhood."

An aside...while we are in the know as to the gender, and others out there in the reading universe are as well, I have chosen to alternate between pronouns for the remainder of this post when describing the arriving alien. That bit of news isn't mine to share unless its creators choose to let the world know in their own public forum.

This child will be the first person in our family to have both feet firmly planted in this millennium. There will be no frame of memory or reference for her when discussing cataclysmic events like 9/11, crazy stupid elections, the move of Sesame Street from PBS to HBO, or even the demise of Sears. She will live in a world that has always known these things to have been true and she will hopefully learn the historical lessons they provide. I expect at some point in our relationship for her to hear her doddering old Bubby regale her once again with a tired old anecdote about the past, for her to roll her bored and glassy eyes at me, and then prepare to shuttle me off to the less-crooked home as I scream "Hell yes...Elmo was far more relevant on public television."

He will not know or be raised with the constraints of gender conformity. That isn't to say that he won't identify as his birth sex, (that's ok too!!) but rather that he will inherently know that every avenue is open to him regardless of being male, female, or other. He will be someone who loves musical theatre and someone who loves baseball; the two are not mutually exclusive. He will be encouraged to study STEM with the same verve and vigour as he will the arts. He can act strong and feminine or soft and masculine. The world is a roadmap open to him and the path is his to choose. It is all there for him, free from the obstructions of our gendered past.

She will always be blessed with tech support, know the release dates for the latest Star Wars/Trek movies, understand the differences between Nintendo and PlayStation, be a suffering Maple Leafs fan, and inherently comprehend what the fuck a Pokemon is. She will also be into chick-flicks, shopping excursions to Ulta, love to dress up, be a gloating Buckeye's fan, and inherently understand the colour palettes of OPI. Apparently purple is never just purple. These wondrous things will be bequeathed to her by her extraordinary parents. I choke up at the thought of my children becoming parents, but despite their nerves and concerns, I have no doubt they will be incredible. They both have all those skills inside of them just waiting to be exercised. Their child can be a geeky Scifi lover AND a frilly-laced princess all at the same time. Isn't that amazing? I am left staggered and breathless by the breadth and depth of her eclectic future home-life.

He will be raised with dignity and respect. He will be taught that while he may be at the centre of our universe, he lives in a global society. He will be taught that there are many less fortunate and less privileged than he and that he owes a debt to give back whenever he can. Service and mitzvot will be a part of his world. As Reb Nachman from Bratislav said:

Kol ha-o-lam ku-lo gesher tzar me'od
V'ha-i-kar lo l'fached klal

The whole world is a very narrow bridge;
the important thing is not to be afraid.

She will be blessed with music. Lots of it. Constantly. I will sing to her until I am hoarse or until she tells me to shut up. I plan on introducing her to Broadway on day one so if anyone has a problem with that, too fucking bad. I also plan on passing on my hatred of all things opera, so if somebody else wants to take up the cause of Rigoletto and Figaro, I won't argue. It is my determined mission to help this child sing and dance her way through life. All the rest is commentary.

He will know his heritage, but it will be up to him to define it. Judaism matters in this family, but how to express it is for the individual to decide. He will be taught to never forget how difficult it was for his ancestors and how he now stands on the shoulders of every single family member who came before him.

And...

She will call me Bubby. I choose the name to honour some very fierce and very formidable women whom I called Bubby and others whom I knew as Bubby. It isn't an old-lady name. It is a name imbued with dignity and respect.

I hope to follow in their footsteps. I hope to be the doting Bubby, the feminist Bubby, the vegetarian Bubby, the Canadian Bubby, the rabid Toronto sports fan Bubby, the theatre-loving Bubby, the left-leaning Bubby, the trivia-spewing Bubby, the singing Bubby, the guitar-playing Bubby, the sometimes wacky Bubby, the often uptight Bubby, the hopefully fun-loving Bubby, the chocolate-laden Bubby, the flip-flop wearing and toe-ringed Bubby, the cookie-baking Bubby, the can't sew for shit Bubby, "the hates winter with a passion" Bubby, "the come and visit me in Florida" Bubby, the Diet Coke drinking Bubby, "the don't tell mom I gave you chocolate chip cookies for breakfast" Bubby, "the gets carsick on a subway" Bubby, the cursing Bubby, and most of all the Bubby who will treasure him/her for forever and a day.

All my life's a circle;
Sunrise and sundown;
Moon rolls through the nighttime;
'Til the daybreak comes around.
All my life's a circle;
But I can't tell you why;
Season's spinning round again;
The years keep rollin' by.

~Harry Chapin