A Birthday Gift to be Shared

Many of you have probably seen the still photos of me playing this guitar. You might have seen a 15 second video on Instagram with a section of a song that I kinda got good at.

What you may not know is that this 1979 Gibson Les Paul Custom in Tobacco Sunburst is not mine. It belonged to my husband Paul who would have been 45 years on today (September 16).

We were together during a time when you could truly avoid having your picture taken if you wanted to. Neither of us liked it so much; we both preferred to be behind the lens. So unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of him playing the guitar except for those in my memories.

I remember he tried to teach me a couple of times, but I always complained about how much it hurt my fingers. And I could never play a proper E chord. So I gave up. That was his thing, the guitar thing, the songwriting thing, the thing he did when he wasn’t chefing. My thing was listening to music, writing, and taking photographs of things where I couldn’t be seen.

After he died, that guitar stayed on display. I didn’t touch it. I couldn’t. It was his. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it, either. I moved out of that circle of musicians and chefs and things.

When I rediscovered my writing craft and decided to make a more serious and concerted effort into making a go of this, I found myself moving in more creative circles once again. That included hanging with musicians. I kept looking at the Les Paul. I realized the shame and dishonour I was doing to that instrument by letting it sit there, in the corner, letting the wood dry, letting it collect dust. Paul would have never wanted that to happen, just as he would have never wanted his chefs knives to sit in a drawer and grow dull.

So I made it my New Year’s Resolution in 2015 to learn to play the damn thing. And over the course of seven months, I think I’ve done all right. I’m not great. But I’m better than I was in the Spring, and I keep improving. I still can't play an E chord very well. And at first my fingers did indeed hurt, but I got used to it quickly. 

Sometimes you need to go through great pain before you can understand those things that are merely minor cuts and bruises. 

Paul loved the Blues and had books and tried to learn and play deep down south guitar blues. Well, I’m not quite ready for that. But he also loved Pink Floyd. And I did learn one song by them (it’s probably easy by Gilmour standards).

So in that birthday tradition of gifts that don’t cost anything, I recorded a video of me playing (and singing) Wish You Were Here. I left in the mistakes. I’m not perfect at this, I’m no virtuoso. I’ve barely begun. But I wanted it to be authentic, like it would have been if I had taken lessons from him and learned how to play this on my own and then gone back and surprised him with it. So there are finger trips, missed beats, cracking voices. I left out the solos because I just kept tripping over them badly in every take, so there’s something I have to work on.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little birthday gift I made for my late husband. I’m leaving it up on the public stream here for the next 48 hours. I’ll make it a private link or take it down after Thursday.

I just hope wherever he is, he hasn’t been cringing while I’ve been learning. I hope he doesn’t mind his present. And I hope he’s laughing where I’m smirking at my rookie mistakes.

Happy 45^th birthday, Bobo. Wish You Were Here.

A Question for the Internet (or Opinions - You Got 'Em, I Want 'Em)

I have had one of the worst migraines I’ve had in a long time over the past few days. It started just before the stomach flu I had. So I spent almost 48 hours inside my house while the weather was glorious and sunny outside.  

But enough was enough. Other than an hour I spent out at the dentist, I had to get out of the confines of home, and I had to get my son away from all electronic gizmos and gadgets we have here.

We went to the zoo today for about 90 min. We have a membership so we can go and come as we please. I’s only a 15 min drive from the house, so it’s perfect for those days like this when we just need to stretch our legs and yet see exciting and interesting things. Plus, animals.  

During those 90 min, we witnessed three (3) mothers screaming and spanking their children in public, for things that, in my opinion, didn't warrant the spanking.  Two of those incidents didn't really warrant the screaming, either, though I understand how that can happen, and have been guilty of screaming at people, not just my kid, in public many times when they didn’t deserve it, because I was simply at my wits end and lost all hold on my patience.

My son stopped to stare at all three incidents when they were happening, and as much as I tried to guide him away, he was rooted to the spot. After the first incident, he said, "[boy's name that mother screamed out] must've done something really bad.”

(Side note: my son hears a name once, he will call the person by that name. If you call your buddy, “Hey, Butthead!” that will be your buddy’s name even after he tells him his real name. That’s how my son’s mind works.)

This was my answer to him:

“Every child is different. Every parent is different. Every family is different. When you see a parent yelling at a kid, you have to mind your own business. You may not think it was something so bad that the kid deserved to be yelled at, but that isn’t your call to make. Unless you see a parent punching a child in public, you just walk away, okay?”

I repeated that statement the other two times when we saw mothers screeching and smacking their kids behinds and arms, and my son stopped to stare. He didn’t say anything the other two times, and I don’t know what he was thinking. But he just nodded and said, “Okay.” in that ‘well, I’m gonna do what you say but I don’t like it.” tone of voice.

So here are my questions to you, Internet. And when I say “you”, I don’t just mean parents. Because everyone, parent or not, has probably seen a public scenario where it looks like a parent is losing it on a child, and may have even witnessed those parents carrying out a form of corporal punishment.

•       How do you answer a kid who sees another parent punishing their child using physical means in public?
•       How do you react when you see a parent punishing their child with physical means in public?
•       Would you ever step in in a situation with parents and kids? Would you do nothing at the time and call 911 or Children’s Aid later?
•       What is your opinion on how I handled the situation? Let’s keep some things in mind:  (i)  I have never hit my child in public (I have spanked him at home once and I’m not proud of it; this was before he was six years old, and it was one swift swat), even when he has hit me (which he has done several times and how he reacts in red anger because of his ASD); and (ii) I  have had a screaming match with my child in public (more than one but fewer than five), and nobody has ever interfered when it was happening.  

I am looking for answers here.  I am at a loss. It was much easier to explain why the turtles were climbing on each other’s backs than why a mom hits her kid and we say nothing about it when he has been told all of his life that hitting someone is wrong.

So here’s your chance. I will not judge anyone’s opinion, even if you call me a bad parent or a bad citizen. And I hope nobody will judge yours if you are courageous enough to speak your mind.

There is no such thing as a perfect parent. But at what point should we stop overlooking the imperfection and try to reason with them, or interfere?

Thanks.

We Are Stardust...

My former stepdaughter (or whatever I should call my ex’s child with whom I’m still close in spite of the fact that her dad and I broke up a while ago) got her first period last month. She’s 11 ½. Not really a big deal given I was 11 ¼ when I got mine. It happens.

She’s spending the month with us, and being the long weekend full of big plans, guess what came “early”? Now I only use quotes because as anyone who has ever had a period knows, there is no such thing as “early” or “late” when you’re starting out. Until your body sorts itself out, you can get your period any time it bloody well feels like showing up (pun intended).

So even though her mother had a talk with her, and her dad had a talk with her, nobody had the talk with her. And no, I don’t mean the “well this is why you get your period” chat. She’s heard that all her life (her mother’s an OB/GYN). She knows very well how the reproductive system works.

So today when she was getting ready to go out, I made her sit down in the washroom while I did her hair so we could have the talk.

It’s the talk that I wish someone had had with me when I first had my period.  All I heard about was the cramps, the thick pads, the blood, the bloating, the “women can’t do what they normally do when they’re having their periods” excuse, and our pet names for that time of the month. Aunt Flo. The Curse. 

The resentment that women have for their bodies begins on the first day of our first period. Women tell young women to hate this naturally-occurring part of our maturity. We take drugs to make it go away. We are told it makes us weak, worthless, ugly, smelly, bloated, and full of pain.

That’s a bucket full of confidence and self-worth right there. No self-loathing at all, right? No wonder women hate their periods so much.

I asked my stepdaughter if this is what she had been told – that it’s horrible. That it will hurt. That it’s, well, a curse. And she said yes. She said she had been looking forward to it until it arrived. A month ago. And now she hated it because everyone has told her how awful it is. Not because she has felt anything awful herself.

So I told her the truth. And none of that bullshit I described above is the truth.

NONE OF IT.

This is what I told my stepdaughter:

The truth is, our periods give us power. Women have the power of creation. Periods are made up of, well, blood. And what’s that motto the Red Cross uses? Blood is the Gift of Life.

Sure, there’s bloating (drink water, replenish yourself, and you will never retain water) and there’s cramping (keep your feet warm – reflexology. Warm feet mean little cramping), and there’s that feeling of malaise and mood swings and tenderness and…

That’s how it’s supposed to be. Our bodies let us know when something is wrong; we have simply chosen, through chemicals and other means, not to listen. When we are gearing up for our time of the month, we can feel our bodies changing. Let yourself become aware of what those feelings are, so you know what’s normal for yourself and what is out of the ordinary. Our bodies need to be at their peak to create life; they tell us when we're healthy and when we're not taking care of ourselves.

You will find that, as you are about to start your cycle, you will want to create more, whether it’s writing, cooking, painting, drawing, composing, colouring – the body wants to create, and thus gives powers to the mind and soul. (try it – I get my best writing done when I’m ovulating and PMSing).

And then I told her something that I’m sure nobody has told her in her life.

“Do you know that you are made up of carbon compounds? And do you know what else is made up of carbon compounds? Everything. Including the stars. Everything we know in the universe that is natural has carbon compounds. So when your body decides that you are old enough to have your period, it’s telling you that you have stardust inside of you. And that stardust is there for you to create your own universe with.”

Whether you are starting out on your magical menstrual journey, whether you have chosen to have children, whether you have chosen to remain childless, or whether your body is physically incapable of giving you a child, you are full of stardust. You are a woman. Without women, creation cannot exist.

And that is what we should be telling our daughters, nieces, granddaughters, friends. It is not a curse to have a period. It is not horrible to experience the power of creativity. Our periods are not burdens sent to weaken us.

Sometimes certain people have bad experiences with their bodies. I can hear women screaming at me through their screens right now because their periods lay them to waste. While you're screaming at me, remember there are people out there who deal with different types of physical limitations, by birth and/or by circumstance, and they don’t let those stop them from living. Nobody should be using their gender as an excuse to be weak, and by perpetuating this period myth, we encourage the next generation to do just that.

We need to stop.

We need to embrace the stardust. No more using those “curse” words. No more hating your body because of its monthly biological cycle. And no more tales perpetuating feminine weakness just because it's time for you to wear a maxi thin pad. 

Embrace the stardust within you, ladies. 

Walking a Mile in Ashley Madison's shoes

Seems that the world is preoccupied with the 37 million people in the world who registered for an adultery website whose information was hacked earlier this week. The hackers are threatening to release it, which has many people in a panic, and others laughing at the shortcomings of others.

Many of these people who are quick to condemn the adulterers, cheaters, or whatever other name you’ve seen these people called on the internet, are the same people who believe the church has no right to say what goes on in their bedrooms.

Well guess what? Adultery as a sin is a concept introduced into society by…the Church. It was introduced so that spouses, mostly husbands, would tough out those hard years with their wives while their infant was small, and not run away screaming or be in a hurry to impregnate someone else.

All of these people, and you may even be one of them, who are screaming “Cheating is wrong. Cheating is horrible. Cheaters deserve no sympathy. They get what they get.” have had the fortune to never been tempted to make that decision.

But hey, wait, aren’t you the same people who don’t want the government to tell you what goes on in your bedrooms? In your “love is love” campaigns that had you changing your profile pictures, are you supportive of swingers or do they get excluded because they don’t fit your moral code? Swingers are, by definition, cheaters, albeit consensual cheaters. But “cheating is cheating”, right?

I’m assuming that you’ve never had the misfortune of being in a loveless relationship. You know, after a while, everything gets to be a routine. So much so that maybe your partner is going through some form of depression. They don’t want to be sexually active, period, never mind with you. So you find a porn site, porn mags, think about Channing Tatum or Tatum O’Neill or someone else while you masturbate. Because masturbation isn’t adultery. I mean, you’re thinking about fucking someone else while replicating those actions, and your spouse is the last person on your mind. But that’s not cheating, right?

Or maybe you’re in a mentally abusive relationship. You feel awful about yourself. But you are devoted to your horrible spouse, even if every night they call you names and threaten to or just become physically abusive. Then you meet someone who makes you understand that the problem with your esteem is not entirely your fault. They boost you up and tell you you’re beautiful and give you the courage to stand up to the cruelty at home, and make you realise that you are better than anything you’ve ever been called. And though that person may not stick around for long in your life, by seducing you that one or two times, they’ve given you the courage and strength to get yourself and as much of your family as you can, away from that dank cruelty. But you should never even turn your attention to someone who isn’t your spouse because that’s cheating. You should suffer under the weight of abuse or cruelty.

Even though it may be difficult to imagine at this point in societal development, maybe you are realizing that the sexual identity you lived with all of your life was just a façade, a ruse. Perhaps it took the person you met and had the affair with to make you realise this. You found someone you could open up to and just be yourself. It’s not your spouse’s fault. You know you were lying to everyone, but yourself most of all. It’s a very painful and sometimes a very lonely journey. It causes untold grief and anguish to the person who comes to such a realization. But cheating is wrong. It’s much better to stifle your real self and keep your anguish about your true feelings inside.  

The reason why there’s so much cheating right now is that it has always been easier for us to talk to strangers about the shit going on in our lives than talking to the people who know us. So someone posts a cute profile picture, we are attracted, we talk, we make up shit so people will like us, we agree to meet, we fuck, we keep it going or we don’t. We’ve already done that with our spouse. They know the truth about us, and that sucks out all the excitement. 

If you are one of the 37 million, you have a choice to make right now: do you tell your spouse? Or do you let them find out the hard way?

You would be surprised how far a good conversation can go. Yes, people will get angry. People will cry. People will be hurt. But, as an adult, you know that you will always have to face the consequences of your actions. That’s what you teach your children. So start practicing what you preach. And start communicating with each other. That’s what you promised to do way back when you put on the nice suit or the poofy dress. You could find that it brings back that excitement you felt was missing.

Human beings are not whooping cranes. We do not mate for life. If that were true, you would still be with that first person who kissed you in kindergarten. Just become some religious edict that forced people into declaring their bond for each other became the global standard for relationship achievement doesn’t mean that it’s the end all and be all. Humans make mistakes. Humans have needs. Humans want to be loved. And humans believe their spouses should just know all this without talking about it. And we don’t. Otherwise sites like Ashley Madison would never have become so huge. There wouldn’t have to be warnings and consequences in various religious writings about it. Laws are made because people need to be told what the limits are and the consequences if you go beyond those limits.

So when you start with your “OMG if someone ever cheated on me, I would…” why not end it with:“want to talk to them in a calm manner about the problems in our relationship to see if we can resolve them. And if we can’t, then talk about how to end this before one or both of us become more hurt.”

But quit your judging, your scoffing, your glee at pointing out the faults and mistakes of others. Unless you’ve been in that situation, and have had to live with the consequences of your actions, all you’re doing is haranguing someone about whose life you know nothing.  

The Coolest Kid of All

My son and I went to the park today. He’s 9 now. And yes, I still go to the park with him. Why? Because if I don’t go, he won’t go. He would gladly spend 30 hours in a 24 hour day playing Minecraft or watching YouTube videos of people playing Minecraft.

So after dinner tonight, I suggested that we go out for a walk.

“Only if we can go to the park,” he said.

Absolutely. Park time, play time, 60 minutes of required physical activity for each child per day time. 55 minutes of mandatory staring at my phone time for me.

We saunter down the big hill, upon the top of which we live, and arrive at the school yard which leads to the park. Because I’m a little crazy and a big proponent of barefoot walking now, I take off my flip flops and walk barefoot through the grass, newly damp from the thunderstorm we had two hours before dinner.

From a distance, I see them. Sitting on the playset near the slide. I try to guess how old they are. They’re at least 11. They’re not in high school; they’re still too small.

“Ok, see those kids,” I tell my son, “They’re not going to want to play with you. They just want to sit and hang out. So don’t worry about it if they don’t talk to you. Just do your own thing.”

“Ok, Mommy.”

And I’m praying to all that is holy from the soles of my feet mushing into damp clover to the dark roots of my bleached hair that they’re not smoking. Because I don’t want to end up being angry, screaming, psycho mom today. I just don’t have the energy to yell at other people’s way-too-cool kids.

“Oh hey, Jimmy!”

It’s my son’s best friend with those kids (Jimmy is not his real name, and I highly doubt his mother reads this blog, but on the off chance she does…).

“Oh hey.”

And I see it on his face and I hear it in his voice. The last person in the world he wants to see right now is my son. His “special friend” with the “special needs” who makes him laugh and does silly fart noises and makes up Lego worlds and acts out cartoon heroes with in after school daycare. Because he’s embarrassing. Jimmy will never fit in with the cool kids by being friends with my son. Fact.

My son, being the friendly, outgoing kid he is, goes up to the cliquey clique and starts asking for names. There’s someone already calling him “kid”. There’s another who is ignoring him. There’s another who’s telling him to stop making pig noises. And the girl is too busy bragging about having a boyfriend at age 12 to care that someone is trying to say hi to her.

“You’re a weird kid.”

They only say that because they know I’m standing there. If I wasn’t there, I know the R word would have been thrown his way 10 times already.

“Yeah, well we’re going to be swearing a lot, so you might not like that.”

“Mommy?” my son calls over, “Is it okay if I listen to swearing?”

Some of them guffaw at this kid who is asking his mommy for permission to say bad words.

I eyeball all of them. “Dude, you have said words that are worse than any of them could ever think of. So you tell me. Are you okay with listening to them swear?”

Because if I hadn’t been there, and he was being pushed out of the group, and they hurt his feelings, neither Jimmy nor anyone there would be able to rein in my son’s temper. The joys and perils of being a spectrum kid. If he learns to harness that temper and use it in situations like these and say “fucking stupid motherfuckers and assholes” to their faces in his lost-all-control voice, those way-too-cool kids would probably shit their pants.

I call my son over. He’s trying too hard to fit in, the only way he knows how – by humour, talking, and being charming. They’re all ignoring him. Especially Judas, er, Jimmy, who, at this point, had home to get freezies for everybody.

“Dude, they don’t want to play with you. Like I said earlier. So, ignore them and do your own thing, okay?”

“Yeah, they’re kinda weird.” My son goes off to do his own thing, and doesn’t react when Jimmy comes back with freezies for all of them except him, then tries to dictate what they’re going to do next.

“Nah, I think we’re just gonna eat freezies and take off,” says the girl who is now bragging about how many boyfriends she’s had since she was eight.

So I watch my son go over to Jimmy, after all of that, and offer him one of his cars to play with. Jimmy looks mighty uncomfortable when he refuses. Not because I was there. But because he’s now stuck between a rock and a hard place. The bribe for the cool kids backfired. Yet, he still can’t let himself be seen with the weird kid, who, when nobody’s around, he calls his best friend.

My son decides to play on the slide and it’s taking every single ounce of control for me not to go over and start smacking kids on the head or giving my son a hug.

“Mommy, why do you look sad and pissed off?”

“I’m okay,” I call back.

He runs off to the other end of the play park, and horses around on the swings by himself. I’m listening to these kids try to outbrag each other, and I just want to tell them off for being assholes in general. But that’s not my place. If their parents aren't concerned about their 12 year olds talking about crude sex acts with their alleged boyfriends and girlfriends, I'm not going to devote my energy to being concerned, either.

And then I see her. She’s about nine, maybe ten. She has the cutest polka dot skirt with a pink blouse and is being pulled along by a medium-sized dog. The dog pulls her right up to my son, who starts talking to the puppy and asking the girl what the puppy’s name is.

Soon, my son is doing what he does best – chatting up a girl and making her feel special. And the gang of kids? They’re too busy using Jimmy for snacks, and Jimmy's too busy letting them. 

Chopsticks (or What Does Your Child Know Part 2)

My son and I had a very interesting conversation today. It all revolved around chopsticks.

I asked him to set the table tonight. We were having Asian-style noodles (and I mean that – there was fish sauce and soya sauce and oyster-flavour sauce and sesame seed oil in them) and I asked him if he wanted chopsticks or a fork. He chose the fork, and I chose chopsticks.

“Mommy, are you using chopsticks because you’re Japanese?”

The question coming from him makes sense. You see, my brother-in-law, who shares my last name, married a woman of Japanese descent, so his sons are half-Japanese and also share my last name. Plus, I eat sushi and know bits and pieces about various animes (thanks in part to my twenty- and thirty-something male friends). In his nine-year-old mind, this is Spockean-style logic. 

“No, I’m using them because I’m part Chinese.”

“Wait a minute.”

My son stands boldly in the kitchen. “You’re part Chinese? But you don’t even speak Chinese.”

He’s got a point. The five Chinese words I know I learned from watching episodes of Ni Hao Kai Lan and listening to actress Shoshana Sperling in her Chinese clown character speak rapid Mandarin when we were in Clown Through Mask class together.

“Yes, I am part Chinese from my grandfather, and so that makes you part Chinese.”

“Hang on.” He puts on a serious voice. “But you told me I was part Irish. My name is Irish.”

“Yes,” I said, handing him the cheap blue China bowl with the noodles and siu mai meatballs piled high. “You are part Irish. Your name is Irish. You got that from your father. You got Chinese from me.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” he said, setting the bowl down on the counter. “So I am Irish and Chinese?”

I smiled at him.

“My son, let me tell you something. You are made up of every single person on this planet. You have parts from every country in the world. You are a very special boy. I mean, I have a lot in me, because my parents had a lot in them. But then I met your dad, and he added to the mix. You have African (“What?!!”), Asian, Caribbean (“It’s Carib-BEE-an, Mommy!”), South European, North European, and Aboriginal blood in your veins. So you are unique because you are everybody. You can be whatever you want to be. And if someone tries to tell you you’re only one thing, don’t listen to them. You are everything. You cannot be labelled down to one thing. Other than unique.”

“Cool!” With that, he bounded across the kitchen and gave me a hug that almost knocked me over. Then he took his plate of noodles, sat at the table, refused to eat the coriander because they’re leaves, and ate dinner.

And that, people, is why I am loathe to ever “identify” with any one side or one affiliation. When you “identify”, you give people a label to paste on you. You may recall what happened the last time the world posted labels on things. They started to put the word “NO” before those labels or the word “ONLY” after them.  We cannot go back there again, yet in times of economic hardship and social unrest, society tends to devolve into labelling others so that they can blame one group or several different groups for the problems they face. Oh, except you, of course. You’re not like “the rest of them”. You’re okay for a [insert label here].

So there is the ammunition I have given my son to fight against all of the hatred coming out of the woodwork. I don’t make him identify with one group. And I’m sure he’s going to go through the same stuff that I did. “What are you, anyway?” “But you don’t look Irish.” “Oh wait, I see it, yeah, in your nose.” (yes someone said that to me once)

He’s going to be all of them. People will have to deal with it. He will be able to move through groups, and even bring groups together. That’s what we should all be able to do. So don’t put up barriers by succumbing to labels. Hang out with people. Find out what they’re about. And learn about yourself. Because we all came from the same amoeba, and that’s how we should all end up just before the sun takes over the earth. 

How I'd Kick It In The Head When I Turned Forty-Five

Don’t get me anything for my birthday.

No really. I’m not fishing for gifts.

Please don’t go looking for something ideal that will surprise me and be just what I’ve always wanted.

Don’t buy me a beautiful and fragrant dozen red roses. Their scent will turn rancid. Their smooth petals will dry and wither. Their thorns will get sharper as their stems turn wooden. They will droop and collect dust, until the dry petals flutter to the ground, one by one by one.

Don’t send me on a trip to Fiji or New Zealand or Santa Monica or New York or Galway or Morocco or Sweden or any of those places you know I long to visit. I will only find temporary reprieve and happiness walking the streets and capturing each pixelated memory. It will all fade from my mind when I take that return flight home. As the days, months, and years pass by, I will lose the sights, the smells, the touches, the sounds, and the tastes of all I experienced. It will only leave me wasted and worn and longing to return.

Don’t find me my soulmate. The one who lulls me to sleep with the perfect melody and understands my every whimsy and mood, who will hold me close or give me distance, only needing a glance and a vibe from me to know which to choose. I will just find their one fault that I cannot ignore and it will overshadow all of the good that they provide to me. I will drain their soul of all that is precious and loving, like I have done so many times before with other soulmates. I cannot ruin another life.

Don’t find me a man with the hairless, Adonis body and the arms that could bear me up into the clouds. It may end up being only one night but that night will make me crave more nights until I could no longer bear the thought of being without him. I would ruin other lives just for physical satisfaction.

Don’t give me a 1969 Aston Martin DBS. I couldn’t afford the insurance, the gas, the maintenance, so it would just sit in my driveway and look stunning while it rots.

Don’t build me a 7 bedroom, 2 wing 4500 square foot home on a 30 acre lot with a quiet ravine on the back of the property near a forest. I would have to clean it and pay taxes on it and furnish every room. I don’t have that much patience for shopping.

Don’t give me an NAD direct digital sound system with all the accessories and add-ons. Then I would hear all the imperfections in my favourite pieces of music, and I could never listen to those songs again.

Don’t whisk me off to the finest five-star rated restaurants with the top chefs in the country and their stellar wine cellars. Something would be too sweet, too salty, too bland, too rich; the wine would oxidize while we chatted about some inane, unimportant subject, and the dessert would be finished too soon.

Don’t buy me the perfect emerald pendant laid in 18kt gold with matching earrings, bracelet and ring, or any one of these pieces on its own. Inevitably I will lose part of the set, or I will be too afraid to wear them for fear of losing them, and I will hide them away in a secret drawer that I will forget I use.

Don’t give me a handful of gift cards or the one perfect gift card. Whether you realise it or not, you’ve put a value on me. I fear that you may find me worth more than I find myself.

Don’t throw me a huge surprise party and invite all my friends and make them sing that Mildred and Patty Hill standard and then have them shower me with practical gifts or prank gifts or combinations of both, ending the evening with a large cake with at least one candle for me to blow out while everyone cheers. If all my friends were to gather in one room, I guarantee at least one felony homicide would take place, but at the very least, I would spend all night worrying one would. I would never be able to speak to each person there, and I would want to. I would end up exhausted and despondent.

So please don’t get me anything for my birthday.  

Besides, you’ve just given me the one present that I needed most.

You listened to me.