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. 

Happy Mother's Day. Because we're selfish.

I feel like the most selfish person in the world.

It’s possible that may even be a true statement.

But my selfishness is a direct result of my instincts. You see, when it comes right down to it, the instincts of every living biological creature, animal or plant, protozoa or virus, directs us to one thing.

Reproduction.

As higher-living organisms, we have been able to direct our urges towards other methods of satisfaction – everything from self-satisfaction (practiced by all primates and possibly some cetaceans) to barrier and chemical methods of birth control (practiced primarily by humans, although this may also be practiced by cetaceans) – but the genesis of sexual desire originates in our instinct to reproduce.

As a biological female in this cycle of reproduction, there are certain instincts that humans with this chromosomatic skill set also enact (though some are better at suppressing this instinct than others*). We must care for and protect this little creature who changed our own chemical makeup, leeched nutrients and vitamins and minerals and nearly every single part of its genetic makeup from our bodies during its term inside of us.

Once we have borne this creature unto the planet, we may continue to follow these instincts and reproduce more of these tiny creatures. But once we cease our creation of more creatures, our work is complete. Yes, we have to tend to these beings, nourish them, defend them, guide them through the perils and pleasures of the planet, but in essence, our work is done. We have left a piece of ourselves to remain here long after our journey down long road to our ultimate demise begins.

But we don’t think about it that way. We make this all a wonderful thing – we meet someone, we fall in love, we get pregnant, we have child or children, love them, and make sure that we raise them to be the best human beings they can be.

All we are trying to do is just live forever. We leave a piece of our DNA, just as our parents left theirs through us, and their parents through them. So that someone can know what becomes of the world after we have left it, whether our time ends at the moment we birth our child, a century after, or somewhere in between.

Those of us who choose to have children are often accused of the ultimate selfish act: bringing a baby into a world where there is nothing but discord and strife, hatred and violence. A world that is broken and seemingly irreparable. Those who choose not to have children often wonder why anyone would ever want to bring a child into such a place.

We do because our instincts command us to be selfish. We want those qualities of ours – kindness, generosity, benevolence, love, happiness – to stay on this planet forever. And we are leaving them here the only way we know how, the only way that has seemed to work for millennia.  We put our same qualities into those children that our instincts gave us the desire to create, love, and care for. As humans, we have learned how to easily control our instincts. But sometimes, when we make the world all about ourselves, we just want to indulge those instincts because we know we can make this world a better place.

To those of you who loathe this day because it serves as a painful reminder of what you have lost, remember you are the bearer of history. You are the eyes and ears and thoughts and tastes and smells of your mothers. By living your life, you are communicating all that she is no longer able to experience. You have not lost her; you have rebuilt her within you.

*And to those of you who no longer have any emotional ties to your mothers although she remains alive, you have been given the gift to make the world an even better place. You have halted the cycle of emotional destruction. You have the freedom to create your own cycle, and distance yourself from her malevolence. You are key people in the evolution of humankind. Celebrate this day by welcoming the changes you have brought, and relieve yourself of any guilt or hatred. You are too valuable to allow yourselves to be consumed by the hatred derived from your biological origins.

Hey cancer, please stop taking our friends away, kthxbye

Today is a strange day in and of itself. 

It’s May 7th, the day before May 8^th, which was my best friend and fellow Taurus Klaus’s birthday. It’s been 18 years since he passed away but I always remember him every year on this date, since he was exactly one week older than me. And he never let me forget that!

I also got word today from my good friend Jeanette that her best friend Bridget had passed away earlier this week. I had met Bridget on several occasions through Jeanette, but my favourite memory of her is this:

I was almost five months pregnant at the time. Not quite showing and unable to drink. But my friend Jeanette was getting married. So I went out for her hen night/stagette/doe night – whatever you want to call it when you take the bride-to-be out for her last night of debauchery, instead of sitting around opening up presents with prissy ribbons and wearing hats made out of paper plates and ribbons and bullshit like that.

It was in December, because she was getting married in January. There were six of us. Had to be because we all squished into a boat of a vehicle. One of those Cadillac/Lincoln type deals from the 80s that had bench seats in the front and back. We all had nicknames – I was Preggo, of course. And we met at Bridget’s house.

Bridget was married with two daughters who were extremely close with their mother. Bridget was warm and welcoming and made me feel at ease about going out with a bunch of drinkers and being one of two people who weren’t imbibing (the other being the designated driver). She took the time to make me feel special by getting me to talk about what was going on in my crazy life and how I was doing and would I be ready to travel the following month for Jeanette’s wedding. So we had our drinks, we had our name tags, Bridget gave her daughters one last scolding before bed so they wouldn’t give their dad a hard time, and we went out into the frosty, dark night.

Squished in the back of this massive boat-like vehicle, Bridget was telling us about these wonderful new Cadbury Christmas Elves that had pop rocks in them. So we had to stop at a gas station and find them. They were weird because your tongue would be coated in Dairy Milk richness when all of a sudden, the pop rock would explode and stick to your tongue and the roof of your mouth, sit there, and crackle. Once you got over the weirdness, they were the best damn Christmas candies on earth!

Thanks to pregnancy brain, all I remember about the ride to where we were going was that it was long, and dark, and cold, and full of pop rocks. We got to some building in the East end of Toronto and had to climb a steep flight of stairs; absolutely perfect for a pregnant woman with a fear of heights. We seemed to be the first people who arrived for the 11pm show. Lucky for me, they made virgin vodka crans.

We were laughing and chatting and having a grand old time, watching the club fill up with nothing but women. Not one gay man. Not one man dragged along by his wife. The only men were sound guys and barkeeps.

And then the main attraction men came out to your typical cheesy songs, dressed in chaps and cowboy hats and leather and the like, to hoots and hollers and whistles. You would never hear anything like that in a club featuring female dancers.

Then the strangest thing I have ever seen in a club, strip or not, happened. Women from the audience left their tables and went to stand on stage. I was looking around to see if they had been selected by staff, because of course we would have put our doe on stage with the rest of them. But no, these women seemed to just volunteer and walk up and knew what time to stand on stage.

Then we started to squeal in shock, horror, and hilarity. The male strippers went up to each of these women standing on stage and dirty danced with them, while the women pawed the well-built, washboard-abed, smooth-chested specimens of the male sex writhing against them. Some of them even kissed. It was just nasty!

It was that night when I decided I would never visit another male strip club again. 

Bridget's daughters are a decade older now, and they won’t remember the night that they almost got in big trouble just before their mom went out with a bunch of crazy women.

What Bridget and Klaus had in common is that they were both fighters until their bodies could fight no more. They both wanted to live as long as they could, through the pain and drain and the visits by friends and families, faces unrecognizable behind masks (which we took off when the nurses left the room), capped & gowned to the nines, as if we were at the Center for Disease Control.

Yet sttill, at the very end, each of them would have given you the nightshirts off their backs if they saw that you were shivering at the side of their bed.

Rest In Peace, Klaus. I miss you terribly, my friend, even if we never did do Remingtons together.

Rest in Peace, Bridget. Thank you for your kindness. 

Words and Music and Why You Matter

A couple days ago on Twitter, I posted this:

You do matter to someone else on this planet, even if you have yet to meet them. You will make a difference in someone's life. Yes. You.
— Naomi Mesbur (@woobiesmum) April 21, 2015 

Before you think I’ve started writing for hanging cat posters or Hallmark cards, I’m actually speaking, or Tweeting, from experience.

Two years ago, in April 2013, I felt like my life was coming to an end.  My soon-to-be finished relationship was being kept alive by artificial support. The one thing that had kept me going to the next day was writing, the art that I had stopped for almost 5 years after my son was born. But when my world was falling down around me, I found myself back at the page. I could express myself in written words without having to explain myself or worse, explain to anyone else. I didn’t just feel alone. I was alone.

Then I stumbled across this article by James Rhodes. His words grabbed me by my artist's throat and shook the fear out of me. There was also a link to a piece on his Soundcloud, Orfeo & Eurydice by Gluck. It had been years since a piece of music had moved me to tears. Having been turned inside out by this combination of words and music, I knew what I had to do.

I had seen an ad for the Ontario Writers Conference which was taking place that May at a location about 10 minutes from my house. I emailed to find out if they were still accepting registrations, and they were.  I signed up immediately, and met several writers who had a great camaraderie and seemed larger than life. Because (to me) they were authors. I was just someone who had written a few 200-300 page stories over the course of my life, which, even though I had let other people read them, had ended up in boxes and drawers and floppy diskettes and CDs.

While I was there, I noticed that the OWC had been sponsored by a group called the Writers Community of Durham Region – the WCDR - an organization which meets monthly 10 minutes from my house in the opposite direction. So I joined the WCDR, and found out that some of the authors from the OWC were just regular, crazy writers like me. More importantly, they were welcoming and encouraging, so much so that in June 2013, I did my very first ever public reading of a piece I had written, and I chose a piece I had just finished in April. If I was going to do this writing thing, then I was going to tear through all of the fears and insecurities I had had about it, and go out there and fail spectacularly.

Only I didn’t. Instead, I was asked to compete with that piece in the WCDR Slam that took place in July, and ended up as a finalist in the competition.

I continued to do spoken-word readings (and still do). Just because I didn’t win a competition, I wasn’t discouraged from getting up there again. That was another first for me, who was used to retreating and hiding at the first sign of not being good enough. At the winter reading I did that year, I was complimented by a fellow writer named Dale Long, who had read from his powerful Christmas story, The Good King, a fictionalized account of the adventures of King Wenceslas’s brother, on the same night. At that same Words of the Season, Dale and I had had a good chat about Warren Zevon and lyrics and music. Good talks like that always remain bookmarked in my mind.

Also that winter, Toronto’s favourite EDM son, Deadmau5, had just started his new paid and free subscription fan site. We were told that if we paid, we’d become VIP members and have access to all kinds of cool and free stuff. So of course I signed up, and had access to a chat room with other VIP members. It's always interesting to be a part of a fanbase, because people believe that the common thing that brings you together, in this case music, should automatically bind you together. And I did meet some cool people who could hold a conversation and do so quite well. But most of the people who had joined the site and the chat fancied themselves as sophisticated music producers. From the 14-year-old kids who had just figured out how to work a Launchpad app to the nearly-50-year-old men who are grasping at their one last dream to be Rick Wakeman or Keith Emerson, to the spoiled twenty-somethings who cry to their parents to buy them every piece of expensive music technology and software, almost everyone in that chat was a “producer” and believed their music sounds just as good as Deadmau5’s, or maybe even slightly better. They posted links to their music in the chat room and on the message boards, and it was like wading through the garbage disposal in Episode IV to try to find something decent to listen to.

So I was rather hesitant when one of the more intelligent and entertaining people in the chat room, Moblyn , sent a link to a new track he’d created and produced. In spite of my hesitation, I gave his track a courtesy listen.

I practically jumped out of my chair. I couldn’t believe that someone in that room was making music of that quality and sound. It was different, unique, and had that something that was similar to what I had felt in Orfeo & Eurydice even though it was EDM.

What really ties all of this together was my participation in the Muskoka Novel Marathon in July 2014. I was locked away for 72 hours with 39 other fellow writers, and each of us had to write a novel in that time to raise funds for YMCA literacy programs. I was a first-time participant, as was Dale. Writers put themselves under enough pressure to finish a piece, but when you find yourself in a a situation like that, the stress is magnified about a thousand percent more. There is an actual deadline, and you're racing against other people as well as yourself to finish on time. In the middle of the marathon, I got a message from Moblyn saying his new album was ready and would I take a listen.

I downloaded it and did nothing but listen to it for the remaining 36 hours after while I finished my Marathon novella. Any writer worth their mettle who needs to dig deep will be hard-pressed to describe what they find in the middle of an inspirational and driving piece of music. But we can show you the end result. The right music allows us writers to listen to the words behind the sounds our ears hear, and put them down on the page. I got through, finished my piece, which was in a genre and style I had never written in before - satire. In September, when we had our reunion, Dale won an award for his novel. I did not. But I did get high praise from the only Brit on the judging panel. If you can impress a Brit with satire, you know you've done something rather special.

At the end of the year, I was invited to my first in-home Christmas party in decades, hosted by Dale and his lovely wife Sue, whom I had met at the Muskoka Novel Marathon reunion, and attended by the same group of writers whom I had spent most of the last year with at both the WCDR and the shared Muskoka experience. I was the last to arrive, and Dale and Sue and their daughters Emily and Rebecca were kind enough to let me usurp their time and company long after everyone else had left, the way that friends do. We had a grand old time just chatting about, what else, music.

So here we are in April 2015 - two years from the first paragraph above. Two years from when my life was coming apart. I guess I can now look back and see that I was emerging as something. In the middle of it, it didn't really seem like it. But the people I met along the way of this journey - people who did more than just say hello, people who became friends - inspired me to do the one thing that I'd always had difficulty doing  – just be who I am. It’s easy to put on a façade and a smile and deflect shyness with humour or sarcasm. It’s difficult to relax and just be your unconfident self in a room, whether it's a real room or a virtual one, of artists whose creative souls are as open and vulnerable as yours. I wanted and had to thank them for all they had done for me, who I've become as a writer, as an artist, and as the person I am right now sitting here telling you this (even if it meant I was part of a collective group of jerks). 

We all have days where we feel awful, alone, at our wits end. But if you ever have a day where you feel like you're losing yourself, or you don't think you matter, you do. You matter to someone now (even if you don't think anyone's around) and you will matter to someone you may not have even met yet (even if that person is waiting to emerge from inside of your current shell). And while you're waiting, listen to the music around you, let it turn you inside out, and let it give you the courage and the words to say something for yourself.   

What does your child know?

Last week, I went to the annual IEP evaluation meeting for my son at his school. IEP in case you don't know stands for "Individual Education Plan". Every child included in the Special Needs programs in schools in my province needs to have their own IEP in order for the school board to maintain and follow the child's needs in order for them to succeed at the school curriculum.

While I was there, one of the teachers asked if my son was aware if he had autism. I was actually shocked by the question. I probably shouldn't have been. Someone was going to ask me eventually. I wrote the following prosaic piece in response. But my immediate answer at the time was "Why?"

“Does your child know he’s autistic?”

“Does your child know he’s mixed race?”

“Does your child know he’s different?”

“Does your child know he’s bipolar?”

"Does your child know he's brown?"

My child knows a lot of things.

He knows he’s special. He knows that I love him over any other person on this planet and that is what makes him the most special person in his mother's little world.

He knows that each child is special and unique. That some kids speak out of turn, and some kids get really angry and throw stuff and some kids don’t have words and some kids (like him) have too many words and some kids don’t know how to use words even though they have them.

He knows that some kids have darker skin and some kids have lighter skin and some kids have blue eyes and some kids have brown eyes and some kids have no eyelashes and he has all the eyelashes and some kids are tall and some kids are small. He knows that nobody looks like anyone else unless they are identical twins or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles without masks on.

He knows that some kids can read and some kids can’t read and some kids love reading but he only likes reading Harry Potter, and some kids like math and some kids don’t like math and some kids do well at math and some kids don’t do so well.

He knows that some kids celebrate Easter and some kids celebrate Passover and some kids celebrate Diwali and some kids celebrate Ramadan and that he can celebrate whatever he wants but it doesn’t mean he is going to get presents just because he’s choosing to celebrate it.

He knows that some kids have a mom and dad and some kids just have a mom and some kids just have a dad and some kids have two moms and some kids have two dads and he has a dad with a girlfriend and a mom who should really marry the star from Lab Rats because that would be the coolest thing ever even if mom says she'd rather marry Alexander Gustafsson from the UFC. 

But the one thing he doesn’t know is that he is different from any other child out there. That is something I refuse to teach him. That is something that we all should refuse to teach our children. 

Every child can accomplish anything they want to accomplish in this world. Every child has limitations. As the saying goes, nobody is good at everything but everybody is good at something. 

And every single one of us is the same until we're told by someone that we're not. I won't be the one to tell him that.

Pink Shirt Day

When I was in Grade Six, my teacher had these two boxes in the classroom – a Warm Fuzzy Box and a Grunch Box. You can probably guess what the Warm Fuzzy box was about – if someone did something nice, someone would write an “anonymous” note and put it in the Warm Fuzzy box so that person would get kudos. The Grunch Box was the opposite – if someone did something hurtful, an “anonymous” note was left in the box and the class would discuss this as a whole. (I put "anonymous" in quotes because of course the teacher knew who put in the notes from our handwriting.)

Today being Pink Shirt Day, which is supposed to be a symbol for all of us to stand up to bullying, it reminded me of these boxes. We all tell kids that they can talk to someone if they feel they are being bullied, cyber, in person, or otherwise. But it’s not always that easy to go talk to someone.

See, this whole Pink Shirt Day is one of those causes that is near and dear to me, for many reasons. I’m a parent of a school-aged child. I’m a parent of a child with autism. I’m a parent of a mixed-race child. And I grew up as an overweight, glasses-wearing, bowl-cut sporting mixed race girl who developed early and was in the top of my class.

Today I’ve seen all types of claims of “Oh I was bullied as a child, so wear a pink shirt.”on my various social media timelines. I saw someone say this who bullied me in high school. And when I say bullied, I don’t mean in the actual way that bullying meant back when I was in high school. This person didn’t shove me into a locker. But they did make fun of how I looked, and the way I danced, and the way my mother dressed me. Today that’s bullying. When I was a kid, that was just part of going to high school. But then again, if this person bullied me, and has now claimed to have been bullied, I guess that chain of perpetuation theory was actually as true back then as it is now. Only somehow I always ended up at the ultimate receiving end of it.

The thing that I’m most worried about, though, as a parent, is making sure that I don’t raise a bully. 

I wrote about having the child who has the temper in the class. The one who throws chairs, swears, melts down, has to be isolated. Now it’s not as bad as it was when he was younger because he is learning coping mechanisms, and he has a wonderful support system at school and at home. No, I don’t let him get away with that. Neither does the school. However, there is just something in him that, when his temper is set off, he sees red and destruction.

But that, my friends, is not bullying. His anger is never targeted at one person. He’s like a windmill. If you happen to be in the way when he’s angry, and you are his age or older (he is in enough control to know you don’t hurt people younger than you), you will be in the path of the rage. But it’s rage. He does not find someone’s weakness, someone’s other ability, someone’s difference, and scream hateful messages at them for those reasons. He is just angry and yells. Until he is able to regroup.  Meltdowns these days last about 10 minutes. If you think about your own temper, it probably lasts about that long as well. But his anger, his seething…none of it is ever caused because he doesn’t like the way someone looks, or he has found someone weaker than him. For this, I am thankful. Because that behaviour pattern is difficult to unlearn. He has never been taught that people who are not like him are inferior or superior. He only knows that everyone is the same. (He knows girls are different but that's for another day...)

So back to the Grunch Box. On Grunch Box day one week, the teacher found only one note inside. It was looking to be a good week. There had been a bunch of warm fuzzies. She opened the note and read, “There are kids in the playground who call me Fatso and Nigger at recess.”

Being the only dark-skinned kid in the class, all eyes were on me.

It had been happening for weeks. It was at lunch when I was off trying to play by myself because my friends had either gone home or were off playing somewhere else. (I liked to do stuff by myself even way back then.) This was something I didn’t tell my parents until the teacher called my mother. It was something that I was too scared to tell anyone because I didn’t think they would understand. Because there was nobody else like me in the whole school.

That afternoon recess, some boys in my class who weren't close friends of mine (in fact, I didn't even know they knew who I was) surrounded the little Aryan-looking kids who had been calling me those names. They were large guys, intimidating. They made the kids stop using a way that would probably get them suspended today. And though I wouldn't encourage that method of problem-solving for my son and/or kids his age these days, those kids never called me names again. And nobody messed with me in elementary school for the rest of my time there. 

That’s why I wear a pink shirt today. That’s why I make my son wear a pink shirt. And that’s why I encourage you to find your own Grunch Box. You’ll be surprised who comes to help you out. 

I don't want to write right now. Sorry.

I don’t feel like writing anything.

This isn’t writer’s block. It isn’t laziness. It isn’t even exhaustion. I just don’t feel like writing.

Ever get that? When you just don’t feel like doing the one thing that gives you the most satisfaction in life? If you said no, you’re lying. Or you’re young. Or you haven’t really found that one thing yet.

And it’s not that I don’t feel like doing anything thing, either. I feel like watching these candles flicker. I feel like eating six gigantic bags of Cheetos. I feel like watching the remaining two seasons of Breaking Bad I have yet to watch on Netflix, and then possibly starting another series  - Game of Thrones - that everyone tells me I’d better watch or my existence on this planet will be meaningless.

Not that it already isn’t. I mean, if I did feel meaningful, I’d write, right?

That’s the problem. I don’t feel like being meaningful. Or symbolic. Or narrative. Or even talking about what’s going on in my head or putting it out there or anything.

I’ve felt this way before. Where all I wanted to do was nothing. Not work. Not write. Not listen to music. Nothing. Just watch television and let it go in the eyes and out the ears. 

It was ten years ago. Right now. This moment was when it started.

No response to treatment. Waiting it out. Spending all day in a room playing cards and trying to eat and carry on like everything was normal. Just another day. Like it was just a broken leg or something.

Then they send you home because, well, you’re just sitting around, and really, to sit around all day and wait for something requires an incredible amount of strength. Try it. It does. And for that, you need rest.

But you can’t sleep. And you can’t do anything productive, constructive, creative, or, well, anything at all, really. Just watch television. Reading requires brain power. Gaming requires temperament that you don’t really want to have at that moment. So it’s couch, flake, TV.

You kinda fall asleep but you don’t really. And it was at that moment that, in some weird aligning of the  universe, the channel I had it on started to show The Crow.

You can call it a coincidence. You can call it clever programming. You can call it scheduled by the powers that be in the longform license. But for a channel to show The Crow on a cold, February night at 1AM is a little more than serendipity or a well-timed goth cliche. 

For you see, The Crow was the first movie I saw by myself just before I met my husband, which was about ten years prior to that February. There’s a voiceover at the beginning of The Crow that goes like this: 

People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can't rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right.

Right after I watched that voiceover, the phone rang. They called us back to the hospital. So we could say goodbye.

So no, I don’t feel much like writing tonight. Because in about two hours from now, it will be exactly ten years since I answered the phone. In these past ten years, I haven't thought as much about that night and that phone call as I have this past week. But it's that time. It's past the break even point. The letting go is done and gone. But tonight, this night, and this day tomorrow, my heart will be a little belaboured. So it's just not a good time for me to write. 

The Silver Linings of Friday the 13th

I had originally started this as a Facebook status post, but then realised, it was way too long. So hello again, blog. 

In the every cloud has a silver lining file for Friday 13 February 2015:

1. My car, after starting on the first try this morning after being out in -30C weather overnight, did not start again on the second try. After walking to Canadian Tire in the cold (a 2km walk) to buy a portable charger, I brought it home only to find the charger was defective. Luckily my neighbour was coming home from his night shift and had jumper cables, and got my car started so I could drive back to Canadian Tire and exchange the $50 portable charger for $20 booster cables;

2. Because I now had a boost, I was able to drive over an hour to get to the cemetery to visit my late husband's grave and spend a bit of this weekend with him, which was the objective of the day. I left the car running, and didn't spend as long as I would have liked but long enough to not linger;

3. I had booked the car in for an oil change with the dealership because they had a wicked coupon offer. At the dealership, the car battery lost its charge (probably from the amount of times they need to turn a car over during an oil change), and boosted the car. Luckily my real mechanic is only a 3 min drive away from the dealership. I pull in the car, he says he can change the battery for me with only a $20 surcharge above the battery cost.

4. I have a 2007 Saturn Vue V6 with a Honda engine. Because of this, everything is not where nor what it should be when people look at my GM-built car. Because it's a Honda engine inside of a GM vehicle, the battery is a custom size, and he didn't have any in stock. He is making his dude rush a battery to him tomorrow, still charging me the same price, and coming in on the weekend (he doesn't normally work Saturdays, and it's a long weekend) to set me up.

5. My son's favourite teacher at daycare is leaving. Today was his last day. My son woke up crying this morning because he was so sad. Then I made him walk in the cold to daycare. I was expecting full meltdowns all day but instead, he was as good as gold, and the last thing he said to his teacher was "The daycare will never be the same without you."

6. After we get home, the garage door decides to malfunction. We unplugged the opener and have manually closed the door.

So, what are these silver linings, because really, this sounds like a miserable day. And yes, it was. Everything that could go wrong, did. I have no cash left until I get paid again. I didn’t eat breakfast until we took my son to dinner at McDonald’s.

Here are the silver linings:

•  My car stalled out at home and at the dealership. Had I just driven off this morning when it first started, it probably would have stalled at the cemetery, which, if you don’t know, is in the middle of nowhere in Vaughan and 90 minutes from anyone I know with booster cables;
• I got $30 back from Canadian Tire; 
• It was sunny and cold; not blistery, wintry, and treacherous;
• My mechanic could have totally hosed me for a new battery; instead, he checked with 5 suppliers, and even tried to fit a generic battery inside the car so I could be up and moving. He could have also rushed the order and it would have cost me an extra $100 plus taxes (because I’m using debit); instead, he has the guy delivering on a Saturday, which is a normal business day for the supplier and thus no extra charges. And even if the battery doesn’t come in tomorrow, it’s the weekend, and Valentine's Day, and as a single person, I’m not going anywhere I don’t have to go;
• My son had every right to be angry and upset with the world. Instead, he chose to leave his teacher and himself with good memories. And at the end of the day spoke his heart, which he does on occasion, and always during a grand and/or special one;
• My garage door works better off the stupid opener than it ever did using that thing. Sure, the wind is going to blow it open now, but hey, didn’t we all live with that in the 70s before they made these stupid electric openers? Plus, electricity savings. Just like when I stopped using my dishwasher;
• I got to do the one thing I had to do today, no matter what factors there were that seemed to want to prevent me from going, and that one thing took place without grand incident; and
• I am able to sit in my house on a day like today and vent about all of this knowing that my son is well-fed, warm, and safe.

-       So yeah, there are fucked up days where the world is neither Yin nor Yang. The choices are: let the mess bury you and bring you down, trample you and take your life away; or while the mess continues to fall, keep digging up towards the light, even with bloody, scraped fingers losing their nails and specks of metal flying into your eyes. Because if you look for the light, you will see it. And no situation, good, bad, happy, sad, despondent or euphoric, is ever permanent.