Halifax Broad

Namaste, asshole.

2012-01-22T11:51:00.032-04:00

"Mom, I don't think yoga is supposed to sound like that."

The resounding grunts emanating from the floor just outside his bedroom door, had awakened The Little Bastard, and he was messin' with my chakras.

Like most people dealing with post-holiday remorse, I dove into January determined to change things up. I'd start by shutting my pie hole, then drastically reduce my bacchanal tendencies, followed by ramping up the physical activities beyond the usual hefting a blue bag full of empties to the curb every Monday morning.

I got busy – optimistically looking into potential outlets for pent-up poisons, such as: adult hockey, aqua fit, Pilates, spinning, Zumba (whatever that is), lane swimming, badminton, ladies doubles, gym memberships, and squash – all the while knowing that the moment I slapped my cash down on the counter and committed to something – I wouldn't go.

Thus forming the foundation of my first mantra: Know thyself.

Adhering to a schedule was another obstacle on the road to redemption. I already adhere to The Little Bastard's schedule, which leaves very little in the way of time, or money, for me to adhere to anything aside from living dangerously close to the poverty line.

Know thy self pity.

Then I saw the light. Yoga is like herpes in Havenot! In this city full of Buddhists and wannabe Buddhists – you can't swing a cat without hitting a yoga studio, or knocking someone's yoga mat out of their Lululemon backpack. Surely there would be an affordable "Yoga for Cynics" class nearby. Ommmm, this was it! But in the midst of that short-lived optimism, I had a flashback to an Ashtanga class full of hairy armpits, yellow toenails, inner peace, heavy breathing, and dirty looks that had me in fits of uncontrollable laughter, running for the door – never to namaste again.

Go fuck thyself, if thy can't laugh at thyself.

I had all but given up, when shortly after New Year's – with The Little Bastard happily off playing hockey in Quebec – I dashed to the store and bought a yoga DVD and the cheapest yoga mat I could find. With the house quiet and free from teenage ridicule – I began my path to enlightenment by pouring a big glass of wine, curling up on the sofa and watching the entire DVD. I sat and sipped through the 30-minute AM session, followed by the 30-minute PM session – my rationale being – how would I know what I was supposed to be doing, while I was supposed to be doing it.

Educate thyself.

The next morning – before coffee, and before opening the blinds – I rolled out my new yoga mat and hit "Play". My first deep yoga breath had me thinking I should have sprung for a higher quality yoga mat, since mine was off-gassing toxins faster than I was. I also had to contend with two dogs, who – unaccustomed to seeing me upside down on the floor – thought this was play time. I also self actualized the serious need for a pedicure – and with third eye open – spotted a sock and a ten dollar bill under the sofa.

And so, I followed along with the perky yogi, pose after pose, grunting and flailing about, focusing on breathing (when I was in fact, holding my breath), clearing the mind of all thoughts other than income tax bills, belly fat, a near-empty furnace tank, and is that a lump?, and never being able to retire, and I'd love a cinnamon bun – all the while taking extra caution not to flatten my poodle when I went – with a graceless thud – from plank to cobra.

At one point during the 30-minute AM session, the DVD yoga chick paused, hands in prayer, and asked for awareness – instructing us to focus on our intention for the day. She encouraged me to seek clarity. Guidance. Ease. Integrity. Forgiveness. And gratitude.

I just wanted to get through the day without killing someone.

When it ended with a soothing "Namaste", I was sweating like a pig, covered in dog hair and saliva, and painfully aware of body parts that should never be visable, especially hanging upside down. I was also oddly rejuvenated and proud of myself for the ability to bend and touch the floor even with a case of Cabernet Sauvignon and a few tubs of Imperial cheddar sloshing around in my abdominal region. I also perfected the 'softening of the face' and 'Savasana' (the frigid housewife pose) right off the bat.

Love, or least try to tolerate thyself.

Next Sunday, January 29th at 10am, grab your yoga mat (and your cheque book) and attend Hearts Opened for Honduras, a 1-hour yoga class that will help send the lovely and talented Meggie Reardon to Honduras for a little do-gooding with Global Brigades. Meggie is young and full of hopes and dreams that will, in all likelihood, get dashed – but before they do – let's get her to Honduras, where she will teach children without food or water to do the downward facing dog, or build mud huts or something.

Hearts Opened for Honduras will be held at Cornwallis Jr. High School, named in honour of the English colonel credited with founding Halifax, who subsequently authorized a bounty on the scalps of local Mi'kmaq men, women and children. After a bit of a hullabaloo by some First Nation folks – the school will officially be renamed after Clifford Olson, or some other notable Canadian, in due time, but not before next Sunday. But don't let that stop you.

Inner peace has always outfoxed me, but I'm 'at one' with that. My resolution for this Chinese New Year's Eve, is simply to recognize that I am, and will always be, a tempestuous Ox. According to the Chinese Zodiac, Oxen are antisocial, stubborn workaholics who rarely allow themselves time to relax. And, despite a genetic predisposition for being "big boned", Oxen (when kept away from mirrors or unflattering photographs) are quite happy in their own skin – and oddly compatible with Snakes or Roosters – both petite and easily flattened, when one sweaty palm slips on a cheap yoga mat, in the wee hours before dawn.

Which brings me back to 'know thyself'.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Watch Meggie's Honduras yoga benefit message on You Tube by clicking here.

And the winner is... not to say we aren't all winners.

2012-01-17T08:44:00.010-04:00

First of all, thank you to all the losers.

As usual, a most undeserving person with a healthy bank account won the trip to Boston – but the good news is: Mary Ryan of Halifax is the lucky winner of the $50 Flaunt Salon gift certificate – and no one is more deserving, and in need of a trip to the salon than Mary Ryan.

Wait, that didn't come out right.

What I meant to say is, Mary, you look great, and a trip to the spa will only enhance that inner beauty of yours – not that you don't have any outer beauty – I'm just sayin', who doesn't step out of a salon feeling like a new person, or at least half the person you used to be in high school? And by that I don't mean those 40 or so extra lbs you carted around after that incident in Grade Ten. For some of us, those high school years were rough (and drug induced) but Mary, I hear you were a real babe back in the day – Christ, I heard you dated the entire football team, or was it basketball? No... come to think of it, it must have been the hockey team, what with you wanting to hide that skin thing under a heavy parka. Nevermind Mary, I heard you rocked it, so if you don't mind me askin', "what the hell happened?" I mean, well, not that you aren't a picture of perfection now, because that cruel prick Father Time has been pretty good to you considering... oh, fuck it.

Enjoy Flaunt Mary.

Thank you to everyone who supported The Little Bastard.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Run along and be active honey, Mommy will sell your shit.

2012-01-11T09:04:00.027-04:00

Cookie dough. Chocolate covered almonds. Lobsters. Entertainment coupon books. And my favourite – the "Glass Turkey" – a laundry hamper full of Triple Sec that parents dragged out of their liquor cabinets.

Ya, I'm talking fundraising, and the psychotic and cyclical exchange of money that goes from parent to parent, in doorways, offices, and rink parking lots. Like crack dealers, we lurk in alleyways waiting for someone who may need a fix, or an entire freezer full of shitty fruit pies – all with hopes of keeping our kids off the streets.

Swim teams. Girls' Choir. Band trips. Dance. Volleyball. Baseball. Football. T-ball. Can we all not agree to just pay for our own kids and stop the incestuous, labour-intensive insanity?

Take for instance, the best marketing idea ever – spending $80 bucks on gas, driving around delivering frozen cookie dough for a $100 profit. And let's not forget bottle drives. An entire weekend spent rummaging through pissy blue bags like a homeless person, searching for a ten cent bottle deposit refund. By the end of it, you're so tired and pissed off, you fill up your own blue bag – ready for next Saturday when the girls' basketball team comes a knockin' all the way from Cole Harbour.

Oh! And another thing. The Little Bastards do absolutely nothing. Shovel snow? Rake leaves? Bag groceries? Nooooooo... they're too busy jerking off and texting and dryland training and being actively involved in the sports that have sucked any chance of parents ever owning a single solitary RRSP, let alone a decent coat to stave off hypothermia in a fume-filled rink built in 19fucking69.

Over the years, I've eaten caseloads of anaphylactic almonds, flogged fair trade coffee beans, nibbled on frozen cookies, and sold enough raffle tickets (that I had to design) on trips that no one I know ever seems to win – and quite frankly I'm sick of it.

This morning, I experienced exactly how the seal hunter feels as he wields the club high up over his adorable prey. I bounced the Ziploc baggie full of unsold tickets at the sleeping giant's head and screamed, "Wake up and go sell some bloody tickets, I just got an email saying the $800 is due tomorrow and I am NOT paying for them."

I remember the first time I enrolled the Little Bastard in Timbits. After purchasing all the gear, (that I had no clue how to put on) and while sweating like a pig in pyjamas in a filthy dressing room at 6am – I then wrote several cheques to the Halifax Hawks, figuring the $600 or so bucks was astronomical – but worth it, because he was happy – and so much for me thinking hockey was cheaper than skiing – but, what the heck, this wasn't going to stick, and we'd be back on the ski slopes before that roll of tape was gone.

Imagine my surprise at the first Timbits parents' meeting – after the fair and equal playing time bullshit speech was over – when the annual budget was passed around. I figured it was a typo when I saw the bottom line: $18,000. Of course, I also thought the Coach was joking when he listed off "away" tournaments, extra ice time, dryland, the end-of-year party, and the first of many hideous track suits and jackets you were forced to buy in order to stave off the sheer humiliation of your kid being the only one on the team NOT wearing a black and red monkey suit with his name and number on it. (I have at least 12 of them in various sizes for sale, if anyone is interested.) But, $18,000? The Little Bastard could barely skate, and spent the early morning ice time licking his snot.

And, so here I am – a decade or so later, still on my knees, too old and tired to offer sexual favours, begging for mercy because the parents voted to sell $800 dollars worth of tickets on a trip to see the Celtics and the Bruins (minus Brad Marchand, that naughty and kinda sexy local dirty boy) instead of putting in the time and effort of hosting an auction, where you feel obligated to buy shit you couldn't give away at a garage sale, but you can at least drink too much and overbid on the very items you had to grovel and get donated from clients and local businesses.

Hey, I work at home, and the only people I see, are the other hockey parents flogging the same damn tickets. Besides – in a gallant effort – I pulled up to Donny Reardon's house to sell tickets last week, and ended up buying $20 bucks worth of raffle tickets from his kid. Fuck that.

So here's the deal:

You buy the Little Bastard's tickets and I'll enter your name in a draw for a $50 gift certificate to Flaunt Salon that you can use toward a fabulous cut and blow, or a massage, or a pedicure, or gentlemen... you can get your back waxed.

Tickets are 1 for $10, or 5 for $20 and the draw is Saturday! It's so easy to purchase... use the handy PayPal button to the right, do an email transfer, or mail the Little Bastard a cheque. (Details below). There are two prizes. The grand prize is a trip to Boston to see Celtics vs Memphis and Bruins vs Penguins (or you can take $1000 bucks and stay home). Second prize is $400, which reminds me, I have to bring $20 bucks to the rink to chip in for that. I think there's a third prize, but that escapes me.

As for kids getting involved and learning a life lesson, all I can say is the best ever sales person was the young, clipboard-toting Mr. Nathan Clarke. Our future Prime Minister rolled into my backyard this summer after hearing the blender going from blocks away. There we were, neighbours, knee deep in birthday margaritas and willing targets for Nathan's enthusiastic sales pitch. Only problem was, no one remembered purchasing anything until Nathan arrived weeks later with a shitload of pies. Or was it cookie dough? I do remember writing a cheque to a lacrosse team. Or was it baseball?

Nevermind.

It is all for a good cause, and as they say, "cheaper than bail."

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

If you don't want to do the Paypal thing you can:

A: Email money through the Interac button your your online banking site to broad@eastlink.ca

B. Mail, or drop off a cheque made out to Jack Flinn, 1589 Preston Street, Halifax B3H3T9

Just let me know it's coming and your contact info so we, okay, I, can write up your tickets because the draw is this Saturday.

Thank you.

Why 2011 didn't totally suck.

2011-12-31T02:38:00.017-04:00

Perhaps I am being overly optimistic, but yesterday I purchased about 8 rolls of discounted Christmas wrapping paper, that is now safely stowed away in the basement. There I was, declaring to the checkout girl that I was, officially, "my fucking grandmother" all the while wondering if I was indeed jinxing myself, by assuming I'll be around to spill egg nog on the freshly wrapped gifts next year.

But let's go with that, shall we.

This morning, as I recover from my cheesies and Dexter Season Six marathon, and before I kick oh tannenbaum to the curb – I look back on a year that celebrated the end of sickos Bin Laden and Gadhafi, and made us stop and appreciate the beauty that was Steve Jobs, Amy Winehouse, and everyone's favourite cocktail shaker, Betty Ford.

The mere fact that I can eat cheesies again without sobbing, makes me hopeful and blissfully aware that 2011 didn't totally suck. I haven't enjoyed a good bowl of cheesies since my friend Sheelagh died in 2006. She would want me to pick up and move on.

With that spirited lassie in mind, I look back to see more than a few happy highlights from 2011.

In January, I fell head over heels in love with Hank Moody.

In May, The Little Bastard and I made the trek to Machu Picchu, Peru. Together with a delightful band of merry travellers, I dragged my ass up and down soul-sucking steps that I never, ever, hope to see again. It was fantastic.

In June, The Little Bastard was drafted in the QMJHL draft. And while this likely means nothing to a majority of people – this was huge in our little world – and made the last decade of sitting in a rink parking lot in a hideous, coffee-stained parka – all worthwhile.

In July, I was diagnosed with a thyroid problem that explained a whack of weird shit that I had been chalking up to menopause – although it doesn't explain the beard.

In November, my mother had a heart attack. This was good on several levels. She survived. And I can now speak to her without gritting my teeth.

In December, my little bundle of joy got his driver's license, and I got a designated driver. I knew there just had to be a reason for having children.

And just yesterday, I managed not to kick Liam in the nuts. Liam is a new-to-the-park, hyperactive, overbred duck tolling retriever with an annoying owner. I think this means I am showing signs of mellowing, or that he can simply run faster than I can.

There were low moments of course. I spoke out about the serious nature of bulimia, and lost a friend. I watched, helpless, as friends and loved ones dealt with breast cancer. Our beloved White Point Lodge burned down. I didn't golf, or play nearly the amount of tennis required to keep me happy. I didn't lose my baby weight. I didn't write, or read enough. I saw only one movie. I pulled a lot of pork (thanks to Cousin Sarah) but didn't kiss anyone except my dog. And I had to work twice as hard to make the same amount of money.

But I ate a bowl of cheesies.

Happy next year everybody.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Customer cervix.

2011-12-16T06:24:00.016-04:00

The Christmas spirit hit me at precisely 6:28pm on Friday, December 9th, in Berwick, the inbreeding mecca of the world. I was killing time in the camouflage department of Bargain Harley's Emporium of Shit No One Wants or Needs, when I felt the familiar warmth of the holiday season descend like warm gingerbread.

Down the chimney came a fever, accompanied by sore throat, quickly followed by a head full of snot, and a cough that triggers a twinkling of festive incontinence with every hack and sputter from deep within my bowl full of jelly.

Nothing says Christmas like the annual plague that appears without fail, just when I start thinking I have to get my holiday shit together.

So here I am, nine days away from the blessed event and there's no tree, no stockings hung by the chimney with care, no parcels en route, and although I did manage to cough all over the annual burnt offering of homemade bits 'n' bites, the thought of curling up with an egg nog by the fire, seems galaxies away.

Adding to my workload and misery, the bloody phone's been ringing off the hook. Of course, I seldom answer it – because in this day and age why would you? But when the flashing yellow button was only serving to remind me that I needed to haul out the decorations, I finally checked my messages: Cousin Sarah had surfaced and was lying on the beach in Sarasota. No one makes goalie skates to fit a size 16.5. My mother was happy and alive and back home after heart surgery. My de-humidifier was fucked beyond repair. And, "Please call the doctor's office for an appointment as soon as possible, your test results are in."

To replay this message, hit 4.

And there it was. The life changer. I stared at the phone is disbelief. Sure enough, it said OB & GYN right there in the digital display, and as most women know, once you're past the child wanting years – anything that says OB & GYN is neither fun, nor festive.

Commercial break: I have a dozen or so, one-of-a-kind Christmas stockings for sale. They are not stolen, in fact, they are handmade by Lynne Belden out of Hudson Bay blankets and each has a whimsical adornment (also handmade): I have owls, wooden skis, snowmen, gingerbread men, a red bird etc. They are $65 (plus shipping, although I will deliver locally) and I have to sell them before I die. Photos are to the right.

Now where was I? Was I talking about the condescending prick of a camera salesman who nearly ruined my "shop locally" mantra for life? Or, was I going on about being caught wearing filthy velour pants, two days in row, by the hot guy from the park, who may or may not be gay?

Oh, right, the phone message. I am obviously dying of some gynecological trauma brought on by lack of visitation by wise men, and because I haven't bothered getting a bikini wax since, well, before Christ. You can die from a unruly beaver, so that must be it. But it was now after the doctor's office hours, and unless there was an emergency, I'd have to wait to hear my fate. My chart was lying in a pile of charts, marked: "call the hairy bitch and break the bad news".

Funny thing is, I don't remember having any tests done. I do recall having my legs in the air as a total stranger looked past Santa's beard and reached into my South Pole, but I don't remember any tests per se, other than the one where she asked me, "How much do you weigh?" followed by, "No, really."

Turns out – after a sleepless night of coughing and sweating and worrying about what would happen to the Little Bastard if I were to die, and finding out you should never apply nasal spray while lying down, and that microwaving red wine and adding Neo Citran isn't bad after the first few sips – there was good news. Unless I succumb to this holiday plague, it wouldn't be my final Christmas after all. It seems the OBGYN nurses got my chart mixed up, and I got "the call" from the Grim Reaper Who Stole Christmas, purely by accident.

More time. The most precious gift of all.

So... there are presents to buy, and a tree to adorn, parcels to ship, and loved ones to forgive, holiday baking to purchase, good thoughts to send out to those receiving bad news, and soon, hopefully, an egg nog to curdle with a celebratory dousing of dark rum.

Yes, vagina, there is a Santa Claus.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

To purchase a Lynne Belden original stocking, email me at halifaxbroad@gmail.com or call me at 902.422.0712. I just may pick up.

Hostile makeover.

2011-11-26T07:21:00.020-04:00

"The usual." I felt like saying.

Ten-piece nugget meal, no sauce, two double cheeseburgers, a Jr. chicken, and a chocolate milkshake.

"Plato, honey, what you you having?" I thought, looking in the rear-view mirror.

The Little Bastard and I were in the McDonald's drive thru, having a discussion about moral virtues. In a nutshell: how he had them and I didn't.

"You suffered an injustice." I said. "Why aren't you angry?"

I wanted to rip someone's face off. I was pissed. I was menopausal Carrie.

He just shrugged his shoulders and said, "What's the point? There's nothing I can do."

"Yes.... Yes there is something you can do!" I bleated. "You can get mad. You can spew bile-laced fire. You can do donuts in their rose garden. You can slam your fists against the wall of gross unfairness. You can phone and hang up a million times." I roared. "You're like Pa on Little House on the fucking Prairie! How can you be so accepting and kind, when you just got the shit end of the stick?" I continued, spittle landing on the steering wheel. "I'm so bloody mad I ate a block of cheese and an entire row of Candy Cane Oreos, before shoving the other row down the garburator." I would have lost my hand going in after them, had reason not stepped in.

Then out it came.

"That's because you're a hostile person." the Little Bastard said, calmly, under the glow of the golden arches.

The elephant in the room jumped into the backseat with Plato.

"You're goddamned right I'm a hostile person." I said, only I pronounced it hosTILE. "I come from a long line of hosTILE women."

"It's /ˈhästl/ not /ˈhäs-tīl/." He corrected, dipping his nugget in the milkshake.

"Oh my god how can you EAT THAT?" I screamed, ignoring his Grammar School wisdom as he plopped the chocolate covered grease ball into his mouth.

And with that, the subject was changed.

Had I not been mortally hungover in Philosophy 101, I would have argued Plato's "He who commits injustice is ever made more wretched than he who suffers it" as complete and utter bullshit. Plato was never a mother. Mothering bears account for the majority of injuries and fatalities in North America.

I just sent my cub on the road to Cape Breton. I need a break from hockey, and he needs a break from me. I have the weekend papers and and a filthy house. Both will get dealt with over the next 32 hours, but in the meantime, I have plans. It's I HEART HFX Local's Small Biz Saturday, so I'm going to throw my money around an independent business or two, with hopes of winning a shopping spree. I also have an appointment at Flaunt. I'm tired of my Movember moustache, and they have a new Registered Massage Therapist. Lord knows I could use some therapy.

One day, my grandmother's neighbour was out waxing his car, and in the course of a brief conversation, he called my grandmother a wing nut. I let it go. I was young, and decidedly less hosTILE – choosing instead to take the high road. I chalked up his comment to small town ignorance – and, truth be told – my grandmother was a bit of a wing nut.

Later that night, after walking her dog (and nipping at the Courvoisier she kept in her nightstand) I took a sharp turn off the high road and scratched my wretched morals into the left rear quadrant of his shiny car.

Justice had been served. On a sesame seed bun.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Make an appointment with Lindsay at Flaunt by calling 425.0020.

The dysfunctional network.

2011-11-18T11:05:00.015-04:00

The Facebook message said: "I'm really sorry to hear about your mom".

The message was from my cousin Janis, who had been sending me messages through Facebook for quite some time before I even realized she was "that Janis". My mother's sister Carley's daughter Janis. I haven't seen her in several decades, and didn't recognize her last name.

Never mind.

I am in a hotel room in Moncton. My mother had a massive heart attack, Wednesday, up on Georgian Bay. This is now Friday. I found out this morning, through Facebook.

I called my brother in Toronto this morning, about 2 seconds after reading the message. And it went something like this:

Brother: Hello. (sleepily)

Me: Why am I getting Facebook messages that say, "sorry about your mom"?

Brother: Didn't you get my message?

Me: Apparently not. I am in Moncton. What happened to Mom?

Brother: Oh, I left you a message Thursday afternoon, saying mom had a massive heart attack Wednesday and was shipped down to the intensive care in Kitchener.

Me: So, Mom has a heart attack Wednesday and you leave me a message Thursday afternoon? How fucked up is that!?

Brother: You go to bed early. I didn't want to wake you. You're an hour ahead.

Me: You weren't calling to chat about the Leaf's game! I think under these circumstances it's ok to wake someone up... on a Wednesday afternoon.

Brother: I didn't find out until Wednesday night.

Me: Oh. So when I didn't respond, did you not think to maybe to call my cell, or send me a text, or maybe an email? I'm in Moncton. Mom's been lying there since Wednesday with the phone not ringing.

Brother: There are no phones in the ICU.

Me: Is she going to be okay?

Brother: She needs a quadruple bypass.

Me: I doubt they'll do a quadruple bypass on a serial chain smoker.

Brother: I gave her nicotine patches for Mother's Day. She's not smoking any more.

Me: You gave her nicotine patches for Mother's Day?

Brother: Ya. She sounds surprisingly good.

Me: What do you mean, she sounds good? You haven't gone to see her yet?

Brother: No.

I am in a shitty hotel room in Moncton. Overnight, it went from a balmy autumn, to a winter wonderland. I am here without a warm coat or gloves.

I am totally unprepared.

For decades, I have been waiting for my mother to apologize for "dropping the maternal ball". Opening a dialogue with two words.

We are the Royal Tenenbaums, minus the childhood success, a fur coat, and a character or two. I am Margot –although not adopted – even though it has always felt that way.

Mrs. Tenenbaum: Well, I don't think it's very intelligent to keep an electrical gadget on the edge of the tub.

Margot: [in bath] I tie it to the radiator.

I haven't laid eyes on my mother in over ten years. I called the hospital in Kitchener to see how she was doing, and a nurse handed her the phone. My brother was right – she sounded good. I told her about my Facebook message, and how funny and screwed up it was that I had to find out that way – and she laughed. She said she always thought a heart attack sent a shooting pain down your arm, but this was right in the middle of her chest. And how after calling 911 she didn't have time to grab her makeup, but she had lipstick and mascara delivered to the ICU. And the food was bland, so she asked for salt, but they gave her something called Mrs. Dash. She even laughed when I asked if the ambulance had maybe, with any luck, run over her dog. I hate her dog. I also have spent most of my adult life being angry at her.

She dropped the ball. My parents both dropped the ball.

I am alone, in a shitty motel in Moncton.

Maybe it's time for me to kick it out of the way and move on.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Ephemera ever after.

2011-11-15T11:34:00.023-04:00

"I hope you're not looking for your bank card." The Little Bastard said, smiling, as he watched me rifle through my wallet.

"No." I thought. "I'm looking for a condom, so I can go back in time about 16 years."

"Because it's in my sofa." he continued.

With that, the me inside my head lunged across the table and grabbed the asshole by the throat, wrestling him to the ground.

The other me, let out a resigning sigh, and said, "Please tell me you're kidding."

It had been a particularly hellish week, and we'd wheeled into the Lion's Head for a little sustenance and a vodka cooler. As it turns out, the Little Bastard had borrowed my bank card earlier in the day, and like most things that go missing, it somehow managed its way into the teenage abyss that is his sofa. I say his sofa, because it's as close to a man cave as he's going to get – and as soon as he moves out – I'm dragging it to the curb, and setting it on fire, using his collection of broken goalie sticks as kindling.

Suddenly, faced with the dilemma of having no money to pay the bill, I had little choice but to drive home to fetch the card.

"Do you know exactly where my bank card is?" I asked, stupidly, wondering where in proximity to the dent his boney ass has carved out in the corduroy sectional that was nice for about 2.5 hours, about 7 years ago.

Just as the Little Bastard was about to speak, the waiter arrived. I told him, the waiter, that I was leaving, but the Little Bastard was staying, and I may, or may not be back. In the meantime, get him, pointing at the Little Bastard, to wash dishes or scrub toilets or whatever, because I did not care. And I stormed out.

The Little Bastard's sofa was covered with shit from one end to the other. Ice cream sandwich wrappers, skates, headphones, corn pad, Subway napkins, socks, xBox controllers, a plate, mid-term report card, 2 hideous-yet-identical hockey jackets, boogers, chemistry notes, the Lindbergh baby, dog hair, baseball mitt, a pair of boxers, what may or may not be the end of a turkey bacon ranch sub, and a Bandaid.

But no bank card.

I bent down and felt an excruciating pain where my jeans were cutting me in half. I unbuttoned my pants – already regretting my decision to go with the suicide wings instead of just plain suicide – and got down on all fours.

There was nothing resembling a bank card under the sofa, but if anyone is missing a furry bathing suit let me know.

With that, I got up, and lifted the cushion. The cushion on which the Little Bastard spends most of his waking hours.

That cushion.

I won't describe what was under that cushion, but I managed to scrape up $11.57 worth of sticky coins coated with fluff.

But no bank card.

By this time, the vodka had worn off and I was sweating like a pig. I fired up the computer and transferred money from my account to the Little Bastard's account. I knew exactly where his bank card was, because it seldom leaves the wallet on his bedside table.

Then I drove back to the Lion's Head. Slowly. With my pants undone.

He was waiting for me outside, and quickly ran in to settle our tab. After the deafening silence that was our ride home, I instructed my offspring to clean his TV room, including the sofa.

"Get the vacuum out of the basement and suck up all that crap, because anything that doesn't get sucked up, or put away, is going in the garbage."

I continued.

"When you're done, you are officially banned from sitting on anything upholstered in this house until further notice." And I went to bed.

The next day, the Lodge at White Point burned down. In a heartbeat, I no longer cared that he was slowly slinking from the hard kitchen chair, back on to his sofa. I started working for White Point back in 1995, when I couldn't get my pants done up because there was a 10-pound baby brewing inside. That was 16 years ago, this month – and they have been the fixed mark on my turbulent horizon ever since.

Throughout his lifetime, the Little Bastard and I have not only been guests at White Point – they have been our family. Waiters have watched him grow, marvelling at how he got to be so tall eating nothing but beige food. We've napped on the beach. Learned to golf. I pretended to LOVE burnt marshmallows. We played endless games of chess by the fire in Founders Lounge. We even squabbled like family on occasion – but we never went to bed mad, and we always raised a glass, or two, before tucking in under the old White Point wool blankets I'd pull out of the bureau.

So, I dream of the day when I can set the Little Bastard's sofa ablaze – but when that time comes – will I be able to torch life's lost and found?

Because memories, and love, are all that really matters.

And there isn't a bank card in the world that can compete with that.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For updates on the Lodge rebuild, frequent whitepoint.com

SWF seeks welder with sweet tooth to make sparks fly.

2011-10-20T10:08:00.020-03:00

The chances of meeting a man who owns a suit in Havenot just decreased by about 25 billion per cent. On the other hand, if pipe fitters and welders rock your world – sister, are you in luck.

While the recent business news for Nova Scotia is optimistic for a change, I tend to agree with Jordi Morgan of News Radio 95.7 when it comes to the cabbage wasted on the Ships Start Here campaign. If this lengthy tendering process was indeed completely unbiased – why waste hundreds of thousands of taxpayer's dollars on an advertising "awareness" campaign? Who was the campaign aimed at? I don't get it, and I'm not just bitter because I didn't create it. But I did help pay for it – so I can bitch all I want.

The irony is, the Dexter government spent a small fortune on a useless spin campaign – but they couldn't throw a bone to the Yarmouth/Maine ferry – subsequently placing a choke hold on the tourism industry with their "Let 'em eat cake" mentality. Ships carrying Yankee dollars don't start, or stop in Yarmouth anymore.

Fuck. It boggles the mind.

But, if you have to eat cake, you're in luck. Sweet Hereafter Cheesecakery opened in September in the old Key Lime Pie hairdresser location on Quinpool Road. The interior is a whimsical cross between the inside of an expensive coffin and a funky whore house, and the cheesecake is truly heavenly. Owner Colin MacDougall caters to the after-dinner, or afternoon screw-the-diet crowd – dishing out creamy cheesecakes in flavours like Chocolate Amaretto, Cherry Sundae and Banana Split. Wash it all down with organic, locally-roasted Laughing Whale coffee, and your pants will be too tight to bend over and pick up the tab.

For the dietary challenged, MacDougall graciously bakes up fresh vegan options, and claims his gluten-free coconut lime cheesecake is to die for. A fresh supply of Sweetiecakes Cupcakes guarantees this is going to be another one of those winters where my ass exceeds my expectations.

My chances of meeting a well-tailored man are all but shot to shit, and I may not get my share of the shipbuilding pie, but good for you Havenot.

I really like cake.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Feeling rather up.

2011-10-18T03:38:00.007-03:00

One would have to be otherwise occupied not to notice this is Breast Cancer Awareness month.

Pink is everywhere from the rink to the football field, and the annual Run for the Cure alone raised over $30 million nationally.

I show my support by giving when asked, and by feeling myself up regularly, all month long. In the car. At the rink. In the grocery store. Groping and prodding like a teenage boy, I fumble around in fear of finding a dreaded lump. A game changer.

There's nothing erotic about feeling one's self up (or rather, down) these days. In the 1970's, I recall sitting in the backseat of an AMC Gremlin with my cousin's best friend – wishing I were in the front seat with my cousin's other best friend. My "Dici or Nothing" bra even had a front clasp for speedy access, and I imagined it wrapped around my neck like a string of pearls. The front passenger seat however, was already occupied with an older, busty young woman who was a sure bet for hitting home base. The gentleman in the backseat didn't try a thing – likely because my cousin had put the fear of God in him – or maybe because I had my arms clamped tightly against my sides for fear that he would.

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida baby, this wasn't. At least in the backseat.

Little did he know, I was already an old pro at being felt up. For years, the T-bar lift operator at our ski club had violated my personal space, through multi-layers and down ski jackets, at every given opportunity. Without fail, when the country boy handed me the clanking T-bar, he would smile, then seize the day, gliding his his gloved hand across my then-perky breasts. It's hard to defend yourself when you live in fear of being struck in the head by a moving object – but I never told anyone. I also never stopped using the T-bar shortcut between the Minute Mile and Champlain ski runs.

A few weeks ago, breast cancer came waltzing into our yard. The diagnosis of someone we love, brought this shitty disease closer to home. I immediately turned to my friend Kelly Hennessey for honest answers to the questions I was afraid to ask directly. Kelly is a ballsy, faith-driven breast cancer survivor who will be speaking frankly about boobs on CBC Radio's Maritime Noon today at, well, noon. Kelly is a firm (!) supporter of BRA Day (Breast Reconstruction Awareness Day) happening across Canada on Wednesday, October 19th. If you want the "been there, bought the t-shirt" truth, tune in. Now that my awareness is all too real, I'll be listening – hoping to hear Kelly snap Norma Lee McLeod's bra strap at least once.

My grandmother "Florrie", God rest her soul, used to hang on to her purse like it contained a million dollars, instead of keys to the Monte Carlo and a package of Rothmans. Once, during some distant relative's funeral, the aforementioned cousin and I were flanking Florrie in the church pew, trying quietly, desperately, to get ahold of her purse. Suppressing giggles and shushing us, Florrie held steadfast, white-knuckled – until my cousin slowly reached around – and with the deft movement of a professional, unhooked my grandmother's bra.

I laugh when I think of how quickly that purse hit the floor, and the dirty looks all three of us got for busting a gut in the Lord's lounge.

It's October 18th. Just a tad more than halfway though Breast Cancer Awareness month – and a great time to feel someone up in the front, or backseat of the minivan. Imagine how many lumps would get detected if we hadn't abandoned backseat romance for paying the mortgage, and getting down to business.

It's also a great time to let go of the purse, and give.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Read Kelly's blog at Gingerbread Guts.

*Get your own Dartmouth Destroyers Minor Football Crucial Catch t-shirt by emailing tom@fastline.net. Mine arrived yesterday and I love it! They come in two styles: a cap-sleeved feminine style and a regular t-shirt style. All funds go to support breast cancer!

Rescue me.

2011-10-17T10:28:00.025-03:00

When you have 5 or more children, I guess you can be a little lackadaisical about knowing where they all are, at all times – because you have spares.

Such was the case yesterday, when I dragged home one of the neighbour's kids because he was:

A. Crying on the porch. B. Alone. C. Five-years old. D. Made eye contact.

"Which one are you?" I asked, trying to ease his muffled sobs and subsequent flow of snot, as I took him by the hand.

I didn't really care, having shooed him and his numerous siblings out of my yard on several occasions. And making small talk with anyone under the age of 60, was never my forté – but it kept me from asking the question on the tip of my tongue: "Where the fuck are your parents?".

Having spent the entire weekend in a rink parking lot, all I really wanted was a glass of wine and some peace and quiet by the fireplace. So why the hell was I toting home a small child like a discarded old chair I'd never get around to reupholstering.

"What are you doing?" asked the Little Bastard, all tucked in on the sofa watching football.

"Trying to figure out the remote so I can switch it to Treehouse." I replied.

"No. What are you doing with him?" he asked, grabbing the remote, as I steered our little neighbour toward the sofa.

"I am giving him some chocolate milk, and some love, and some Doritos, and making him cozy until his Mommy comes home." I thought to myself, tucking the other little, Little Bastard in.

"I never left you alone. Ever." I said, giving my child the motherly, yet tearful stink eye as I exited the room. "Just change the goddamned channel."

"I'm 15, and you still never leave me alone." I heard him mutter, reluctantly switching from football to some stupid kid channel.

There's a reason the mommy bird pushes the baby birds out of the nest. I think about this a great deal these days, as my only child prepares to leave the nest. Part of me is ready to watch him fly – and I promise not to milk this bird analogy to death – but part of me is afraid he'll blow a wing, or wind up face to face with the neighbour's cat.

He's ready, but am I?

Becoming a mother was like a big, weird, unexpected miracle for me, and I was determined not to screw it up. "Kids come first, at all costs" became my mantra, as I turned down party invitations, and left an otherwise lucrative career to work at home. There wouldn't be a man, or an event that would take priority over this kid.

But now what?

After our embarrassed neighbour arrived to retrieve her child, I suggested to the Little Bastard that maybe I should adopt another kid. I went so far as to call Nova Scotia's Department of Community and Child Services to see if they had any potty-trained, 5-year olds with no inclination toward hockey, lyin' around. Maybe a special needs child who couldn't speak, liked to scrub floors, and mixed the perfect Caesar.

So far, they haven't called back.

Driving the Little Bastard to school this morning, I asked him if he ever wished he had a little brother or sister, and what would he honestly think about adopting one.

He was silent for a moment, then said, "Okay Mom, do the math. You get a 5-year old now and that means you'll be, like, 90 by the time that kid is through university. And what about winter tennis in Florida, or finally being able to take off to Tuscany, like you talk about all the time?"

"And besides," he said, jumping out of the car, "you hate kids."

The Greyhound Pets of Atlantic Canada are "dedicated to placing retired greyhounds into loving homes". Had I not been forced to recently kick one of these yet-to-be-socialized, rescued dogs in the balls, so it would release my poodle from its jaws of death – this could have been a viable option to the 24/7 commitment of raising another child.

Maybe I'll billot a burly Moosehead, to keep the fetid hockey smell alive.

Maybe I'll look into Foster Parenting.

Maybe I don't have the patience, or the heart, to take another needy creature under my flabby wing.

Or, maybe I do.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Fighting for looth CHANGE.

2011-10-06T09:14:00.047-03:00

Dear Father James Tony,

Thank you for your kind email regarding my status here on Earth.

While I am certainly not DEAD in the medical sense, perhaps you caught a glimpse of me yesterday downtown, wearing hand-me-down sweatpants, a soiled pyjama top and rubber boots. Understandable for you to think I was on the brink of freezing to death under a bridge next to my shopping cart full of cats, but I assure you I am not DEAD – although perhaps in a downward spiral after catching a glimpse of Chaz Bono on Dancing with the Stars.

Spiritual flat lining is a plague to even the most enlightened of lambs.

As for the $5.5 million dollars US you are claiming I have in my bank account – do you honestly think if I had $5.5 million dollars I would be walking around in the Little Bastard's filthy cast offs, wondering if Greece is going to ask the rest of the world take one up the ass, while they lie under an olive tree sipping ouzo? You must be more stunned than your spelling suggests.

I can assure you, had I even a fraction of a million dollars I would, of course, be lying in a Tuscan villa wondering if I should play tennis, or bike into town for for more Brunello. Instead, I am trying to decide if I should pay my HST, or put some oil in my furnace so I can turn the bloody heat on. It's so fucking cold in this house, a few hours in Hell is sounding rather pleasant.

So, Father James Tony, you can tell your swindling cohort spamasaurus artist, Mr. Bob Chantler, that at the present time I am indeed alive and kicking – and aside from a wet basement, a shitty wardrobe, gravitational tugging, freckles that are morphing into liver spots or Corn Flakes, and a bathroom that looks like a scene from the Reservoir Dogs – life is pretty good. Besides, I can't afford to die. At this rate, I'll be working 25 years after I am DEAD, just to catch up with Revenue Canada.

I also plan on sticking around long enough to see a few of Havenot's finest femme fatales duking it out for homelessness, December 1st at Palooka's. Fight for Change is being billed as a "fantastic night of fun and fundraising" watching 10 otherwise classy women who have enthusiastically stepped into the boxing ring to fight homelessness. I call it the ultimate cat fight and can't wait to see Meghan "The Closer" Laing and Flaunt's Kim "Upper Cut" Grant going at it like the Kardashians. Imagine Nova Scotia's sweetheart, Nancy Regan ducking and weaving as Delvina Bernard slams a right hook at her kisser. Holy shit, Father, who would want to die and miss that!? Funds raised will support Saint Leonard's Society of Nova Scotia and tickets will be available soon, so stay tuned for details.

And Father, while I appreciate that my "joy and success" remains your goal, Mrs. Teresa Hernandez, also a Christian, just picked my email address to receive an inheritance of 3.2 million pounds. And while she didn't say pounds of what, it is with profound respect (and humble submission) that Rabiu Mohamed Hassan M. Nur, a Somalian citizen, has also made a fixed deposit of the sum of 4.7 million USD in one of the banks in Burkina Faso with my name as his next of kin. All I have to do is send them my banking information.

So, I'm not DEAD, I'm LAUGHIN'!

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

*Just read an article in the Herald about a man who actually fell for one of these send money "I'm a widow from Ghana" scams. Come on people. Click to read the article called "Born Yesterday."

Always a bridesmaid.

2011-09-27T03:56:00.019-03:00

"Geez mom, that's your second lemonade. You must be really thirsty."

The clock had all but run out on my deadline for Downtown Halifax's Try Something New marketing campaign. All I had to do was blow $100 bucks downtown, then blog about it, but I was short on time, patience – and worse – creatively constipated after a few false starts.

My first thought was to go pole dancing with Ruth Goldbloom. I'd never been pole dancing, let alone pole dancing with a pint-size dynamo whose tap shoes likely sparked the Halifax Explosion. Studio in Essence on Barrington Street offer pole dancing classes, and I could already picture Ruth's Order of Canada medallion swinging in the breeze as she gyrated her original hips to Superfreak. Not surprisingly, Ruth was "too busy" – what with teeing off at her Kid's Help Phone Charity Golf Tournament, while simultaneously raising millions in support of health, education, and culture. Too busy it seems, to knock back a few cold ones, strap on some pasties, and do the dirty dance downtown, avec moi.

Every party has a ladylike pooper.

My next big plan gone awry involved me, a few girlfriends, and a happy hour of laughter at my expense. Having been kicked out of high school before prom, and never having walked down the aisle – I have always wanted to try on a big pouffy dress. The bigger and pouffier the better. I called Felicity Bridal to set up an appointment for a fitting. I did my best to explain the Try Something New deadline, and that while I was not really in the market for a wedding dress, my "bridesmaids" had (cash) several daughters destined for lavish weddings in the very near future. Therefore, my "fitting" would not be a total waste of their time. Let's just say the downtown bridal boutique was less than enthusiastic, or maybe they'd seen the Bridesmaids (diarrhea scene) movie, but that'll teach me for being forthright. Fuck 'em. Next time I'll just show up in a sweaty sports bra waving a chequebook.

So now what? I scanned the Downtown Halifax directory for inspiration. Venus Envy? Too many batteries. The Press Gang Oyster Bar? Been there. Bicycle Thief? Wasn't in the mood.

That's when I saw it. Fashionably Dead. I had no idea what it was – but it pretty much summed up how I felt – so off I went to 5239 Blowers Street.

Climbing to the top of the worn staircase, a purse in a dark shop window caught my eye. "Fuck You" was emblazoned on a red heart, stitched across the otherwise normal looking handbag. This had to be it.

Everyone has likely experienced the kids who walk in front of your car at a crosswalk, usually with a crowd of other youths, all clad in ripped black clothing, sporting dreadlocks, spikes, multiple piercings, safety pins, tattoos, and a malnourished ferret. The kind of kids who make you thankful your own kid is just slovenly, and not dressed for a rave at a crematorium. The kind of kids you are tempted to run over.

Fashionably Dead is where they shop.

And while there's no doubt I would have stuck out like a boil on a virgin's butt in Felicity Bridal – imagine being immersed in a culture of Goth blackness, surrounded by spider web motifs, zippers, and spiked dog collars meant for people.

"So, what exactly is this look?" I asked the young woman behind the counter.

"Alternative." She responded, sizing me up.

I was about to ask, "Alternative to what?", but then I spotted the baby section. If you ever need a newborn onesie with skull and crossbones on it, this is the place.

"Those are really popular." The salesgirl told me, enthusiastically.

Really? I thought, considering that maybe "something new" was keeping an open mind and a closed mouth.

I poked around through tidy racks of shirts and hoodies, stretchy skirts, torn (crotchless?) bondage pants, and some dominatrix-looking corsets that I was really tempted to try on. I looked at fishnet stockings, studded belts, and a wonderful t-shirt with either Lily Munster or Morticia Addams on the front.

"So, what are the oxygen masks for?" I asked naively, peering into the glass counter showcase.

"They're respirators." She replied nonchalantly. "Just a fashion accessory."

"For your face?" I asked.

She nodded.

I learned the salesgirl's name was Lynne. She was very helpful and rather sweet underneath her daunting dreadlocks and black-edged pallor. Lynne answered all my dumb, middle-age questions politely – and as it turned out – we had something in common. Like me, she came from "away" to study at NSCAD. Like me, she was searching for something down the tributary off mainstream. Like me, she was searching for something new – far, far away from something blue.

"I'll take the purse in the window." I said.

"Really?" she asked, without saying a word.

"It's perfect." I said, handing her my Downtown Halifax Visa card.

When I got home, the Little Bastard was lying on the sofa playing Xbox. I didn't bother showing him my new, first-ever handbag – knowing he would just roll his eyes in disgust.

"Where have you been? I'm starving." He said. "What are we doing for dinner?"

Something new, I thought, dialing a cab.

The homemade Lynchburg Lemonade at Q Smokehouse was a bipolar marriage of tart and sweet, laced with Jack Daniels. Just what the doctor ordered after a shitty week. I briefly considered the Cobb Salad with Pulled Chicken before ordering us a Pulled Pork Sandwich and the BBQ sampler (with a side of mac 'n' cheese). I wanted the Bad Attitude BBQ sauce with jalapeño and habañero peppers, but we turned it down a notch, then settled into a comfy booth. Knowing that food I hadn't prepared was on its way, the Little Bastard was chatty and seemingly happy with my restaurant choice.

"I can't believe we've haven't been here before," he said. "I like this place."

Me too, I thought, sucking a lemon pit out of my straw. Me too.

We left Q, stepping out on to Argyle Street, so happy and full of ribs and Kentucky bourbon I could barely move.

Just then, "Jack!", a girl yelled from a sidewalk table across the street. "Helllllo beautiful!" she screamed.

"Who the hell's that?" I asked my blushing teenage beanpole covered with BBQ sauce.

He just smiled, and walked ahead through the busy, Friday night crowd.

Something new, indeed.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Q Smokehouse is located at 1580 Argyle Street. Our meal with tax and a few lemony libations was well under $50. I can't wait to go back.

"Excuse me... mam?"

2011-09-22T07:45:00.031-03:00

Jugs. Hooters. Knockers. Bazongas. Tatas. Chesticles. Headlights.

Call them what you will, but there was a set coming toward me that I simply couldn't take my eyes off.

Two helium-injected sweater girls were battling to escape from a skin tight t-shirt, as an otherwise petite, 40-something woman grazed past me at a brisk pace.

"Ridiculous," was my first thought. Bleached blonde, fake nails, and breasts that required regular touch ups with an air mattress pump from Canadian Tire.

My guesstimate was, this size-6 woman was wearing a 34 quadruple E bra, just to keep her saline sweater puppies from escaping into the neighbour's yard.

I stood there in my Russell gym shorts and sneakers, grateful that in an emergency situation, if I had to break into a gallop, say, if there were a fire, or if I were being chased – that my Nike sports bra would hold my girls down.

Then I recalled a conversation I had with a gentleman (who is now on wife #3) about blondes, and how, as a natural blonde, I found it amusing and somewhat frustrating that men couldn't tell a peroxide bottle blonde from a natural blonde – even if she whipped off her big girl panties to prove that the drapes indeed matched the carpet.

"Men don't care." was his response.

If that statement is true, and men really don't care if they're eating Velveeta or naturally-aged cheddar – then why should I care if a woman objectifies herself by morphing into Malibu Menopause Barbie.

According to the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery procedural statistics, breast augmentation is the second most commonly performed cosmetic procedure (behind liposuction). As we approach Breast Cancer Awareness month, I think of my friend Kelly, her triumphant battle with breast cancer and consequential, painful breast reconstruction surgery. I suppose the reasons "why" come in all shapes and sizes.

Just then, I heard, "S'cuse me!" and turned to see sister silicone – guns a blazin' – coming back toward me.

Shit. She read my mind. She's going to smother me with her pillows, or claw me to death with her fake nails.

"I'm going to have to ask you to move your car." she said, funbags heaving.

"I'm going to have to ask you, why?" I responded, staring at her Goodyear blimps.

"You're parked an inch from my bumper and I can't get out." she replied haughtily.

Did she says bumpers? This was too good. I walked over to see that I was at least 12 inches from her rear bumper – not only that – she had 36 inches or so between her Barbie camper and the car bumper in front of her. Clearly her depth perception had somehow been compromised. Maybe she also hadn't noticed that her cannonballs were grossly out of proportion.

There were so many things I wanted to say, but I went with a simple "No," all the while mesmerized by her lofty cantaloupes. "It's called parallel parking, and I could land a fucking helicopter in there." I said, making a circular gesture in her direction. With that, I turned and walked away – thinking how difficult it would be to do a three-point turn with a set of beach balls strapped to your chest.

Her archery days are over.

"I'll call the police!" she screamed. "I'll write down your license number!" This was a woman accustomed to getting her own way.

I chuckled – half expecting Tits on a Stick to whip a ball point pen, a cell phone, and a pistol out of her cleavage – and went about my merry way. A man, given the same circumstances, likely would have jumped at the opportunity to assist this damsel in distress – even if, underneath all the plastic and peroxide – she was a total bitch.

Tailwaggrs had my little dog all groomed and ready to go. While paying, it dawned on me – I spend way more on my dog's beauty regime than I do on my own. And it shows. I don't even let the girls at Flaunt blow dry my hair. And I obviously don't care enough to change things up.

When I returned to my parking spot a few moments later, Barbie's car was indeed gone. I was almost disappointed, geared for another in-depth conversation with her hood ornaments. I pulled away and wondered if I would have been more gracious to a different kind of woman. A woman who wouldn't resort to helplessness. A woman whose shingles matched her porch, and whose doorbells were so small you had to knock to see if anyone was home.

I double-D doubt it.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Get your hair coloured, curled and coiffed to perfection at Flaunt Salon on 2166 Windsor Street 425.0020.

Get your dog done too, at Tailwaggrs in Bedford, or in Halifax at the old Metro Dog Wash Location. 422.9364.

Get a safe, high-quality boob, nose, ass, neck, or hand job at The Landings Surgical Centre in Halifax. Okay, maybe not a hand job, unless you hurt your hand.

911

2011-09-09T06:49:00.023-03:00

Ever have one of those days where life just turned on the big ol' Hoover and sucked the bejeezus out of you – leaving the house smelling like dog hair and mouldy beach towels, while merely transferring the dust bunnies from one corner of the cluttered room to a warren of sadness suppressed under the sofa?

That was this entire week.

This wasn't even my usual pity party, where no one RSVPed and I ended up alone in the bathtub drinking Grand Marnier out of a Winnie the Pooh sippy cup.

This week was all about bad news. News I carried around like an emotionally crippled doppelgänger, who kept tapping me on the shoulder saying, "Look at them. Look at that Mom. Imagine how she feels. Bet you're glad you're not in her shoes. Wow, it must really suck to be her right now."

This week I was feeling pain that wasn't even close to being my own. I was aching for an entire family, whose lives changed on a dime. One of those families you look at and think, "what a perfect family. I can't think of anything bad to say about them, they are so bloody perfect."

Yesterday, I was hurting for one of the richest men in Havenot, because his dream of helping kids at risk fell short. Giving kids a hand up while wearing a boxing glove turned into "subsidizing gym memberships" and that wasn't good enough for Palooka's Mickey MacDonald. Knowing he's a fighter, my bet is, Mickey tries again.

This week, my heart was ripping itself out for an Alberta mom who sent her kid off to university so he would become an educated man. A man who would maybe someday change the world. Instead, he lost a stupid and deadly drinking game.

And this morning I woke up listening to CBC Radio, and the looming tenth anniversary of so much hatred and fucking stupidity – I almost pulled the covers over my head and retreated. But I didn't.

Instead, my doppelgänger and I walked the dogs in the darkness before dawn (how's that for a cliché?), then we had a coffee, then we started sorting through emails. As usual, I had one from Barb.

Barb's emails normally end with three letters.

YAY!

Annoying at first, I came to expect those three letters, and now, they brighten my day. The genuine passion in those three letter equal the power of Barb Stegemann. When the rest of the world is lying under the sofa, curled up in the fetal position with the dust bunnies – Barb's making angels in the snowy waste, looking up at the stars, marvelling at the positive potential and wonder of it all.

Barb is busier than ever these days, launching her new fragrance, Vetiver of Haiti. This latest addition to her 7 Virtues line of smell-good, do-good perfumes is described as an "uplifting" fragrance. Bottled emotions, created to inspire the rest of us to get up off our fat asses and do something. Feel the pain of a total stranger, then actually do something about it. Smelling like a rose, or an orange blossom, or now vetiver, whatever that is, will help Afghanistan and Haiti rebuild, so maybe, one morning, a dirt-poor mom can kick her evil doppelgänger to the curb, make breakfast, and send her child off to school to learn something – and make a difference in this crazy world.

If Barb Stegemann ever has a pity party I want to be working the blender. But somehow, I get the feeling, that invite is never going to come. Not in this lifetime. And not unless it's a fundraiser.

So happy anniversary to 9/11. I say "happy" because, to quote Hemingway, someone who likely spent a fair deal of time drinking in the bathtub, “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.”

YAY!

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Purchase 7 Virtues fragrances at Bay Stores across Canada, at Mills Brothers in Havenot and online by clicking here.

Snap goes the dragon.

2011-08-30T07:33:00.027-03:00

"All I'm saying is you may want to consider another profession. Like hog tying. Or a women's prison guard. In fact, your resemblance to that Grese woman from the Belsen Trial is uncanny." I continued. "It's nice to see you've bobbed your hair and traded in war crimes for something more lucrative, and please excuse me for resorting to annoying acronyms, but IMFO, this whole flower arranging thing may not be your cup of Schwarztee."

The average Canadian worker spends more than 110 hours a year behind the wheel of a car, likely going to a job they hate, and back home to a filthy house. And while I no longer commute, I do spend countless hours waiting – in orthodontist's offices, rink parking lots, physiotherapists, and like this morning, at O'Regans – 35 minutes up in smoke, waiting for the courtesy shuttle that comes every ten minutes.

"Such is life." said Samuel Beckett.

Sometimes though, I look forward to waiting.

I enjoy waiting in Port Hood, Cape Breton. The best bacon and fried egg sandwich can be found at Sandeannie's Bakery – and the town has a lovely beach for strolling with the dogs.

I also rather enjoy hanging around Bridgewater. I am usually one of the slimmer people in the Zellers mall, and I have fond memories of the day I waddled in pregnant and picked up a lab-mix puppy instead of an ice cream cone.

One of my favourite places for pissing away time I'll never get back, is Bedford. In a word: Chickenburger. Who can complain about life flying by, with a mouthful of gravy-soaked white meat in a delightfully wet bun.

Across the road from the Chickenburger, Pete Luckett's little money maker is a great place to lose yourself while dropping $78 on a bag of groceries. Not only is everything exotically delicious, Pete's free samples fill you up, and take a bit of the sting out of the $35 dollar block of cheese you were too embarrassed to put back. That's okay, because Pete's friendly bootlegging boutique, Cristall & Luckett is right next door, so you can pick up a reasonably priced bottle of wine to wash down your $35 dollar cheese.

I recently found myself at Pete's, killing time, working my way through one of his stool maker salads. The Little Bastard had squeezed himself in, to have something adjusted, to the tune of $150 bucks per hour, and I was enjoying my lunch, admiring the florist's kiosk situated across the way.

Metal buckets spewed beautiful gerbera daisies, roses, hydrangeas, and those tall Dr. Seuss-looking green things. As a form of gratitude for someone who had squeezed us into their busy schedule, I decided to pick up a handful of flowers.

I approached the woman at the counter, and asked if I could pick out a few flowers to make a bouquet. She did an immediate Vanna White, waving her diamond encrusted hand at the half dozen or so rigid arrangements she had lined up on the counter. "What about one of these? I just made them." she suggested, looking up at me over her half glasses. "Forty-five dollars."

I looked at the modern, low, square glass containers of folded back fronds and poisonous looking berries. My first thought was, "Well, those would be lovely if I was buying something for my gay coffee table's wedding party." Instead I said, "No... thanks... those are a little too arranged for my taste. I was just hoping for just a fistful of flowers."

"Fine." she snapped, turning her back fat on me. "Go ahead."

Fearing for my life – because although I was probably 7-inches taller, she had a good 60 or so pounds on me, plus she had a knife – I grabbed a few gerbera daisies, a rose or two, and some yellow stuff. I handed her my selections and she started pulling at them like she was plucking a chicken in a Warsaw ghetto. Not wanting to watch her manhandling such beautiful flowers, I turned and spotted a bucket of snapdragons. Selecting a sprig or two, I handed them over, adding to my purchase. She pursed her lips and said, firmly, "NO!"

"No?" I said, eyebrows raised, slowly losing my temper with middle-aged dominatrix of domesticity.

"Snapdragons, do not go with gerbera daisies!" she insisted, frothing at the mouth.

"Since fucking when?" I asked, stone faced, picking a sunflower seed out of my teeth with my tongue. Only a bitch can out-bitch a bitch.

With that, she threw down the bouquet and stormed in to the glass flower cooler and proceeded to strangle the life out of a future bride's bouquet. A young shopgirl who bore witness, stepped forward and proceeded to fashion my flowers into a perfect, loose bouquet. It was if she'd had done so, many times before.

Moments later, Frau Florist stepped out of the cooler and began ringing up my purchase, pounding the cash register keys with her manicured talons.

"Sixty dollars." she announced, side glancing at her soldier's line up of frightened $45 dollar bouquets.

The thought of handing this bovine beast of a woman $60 bucks for such an unpleasant experience was overshadowed by the joy I knew the flowers would bring.

I paid, and as I was waiting for my receipt I said, " So... is this your shop?"

"Yes" she said, forcing a half smile.

"Good thing you have nice employees, because you don't really appear to be all that happy working with flowers." Adding, "All I'm saying is you may want to consider another profession."

But you know the rest. And I am out of time.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Woman v. New.

2011-08-13T07:14:00.025-03:00

The wanton Ivy Ho, (real name apparently) Director of Communications and Marketing with the Downtown Halifax Business Commission is at it again.

If you've stuck around long enough, you may recall last year's heave Ho misadventure with a DHBC armed VISA card, and a license to Do The Downtown or whatever the hell they called it. I called it Three Dog Night because I woke up in a pup tent necking with a golden retriever. And let's just say they closed BISH restaurant shortly after my wing man and myself graced their doorstep seeking vittles to soak up the libations we were overserved at the Casino. I personally take no responsibility.

This year's piss up, er, adventure in marketing, is entitled Big Day Downtown-Try Something New which should be interesting, because short of heroin and an Asian hermaphrodite prostitute, there's really very little at this stage of the game that I would consider "new". Some thoughts would be sneaking on to an idling cruise ship dressed up as a disoriented senior citizen, but that's not really too much of a stretch. Or, maybe I'll attempt hot wiring one of those floating turds they call submarines that we won in a poker game off Margaret Thatcher.

"New" is the tricky part, but I'm up for Ms. Ho's challenge. Why just last night I came off a 2-week cleanse and challenged myself to 2 pounds of mussels ($5 Lion's Head special) and a pound of suicide wings sloshed down with a pint or two of Schmirnoff Ice. Truly daring on a recently Mormoned tummy. After 20 years, the Lion's Head Tavern have a fancy new menu which includes a Man v Food-worthy entree called Elvis Poutine – an artery clogging array of sausage and barbiturates as well as the usual poutine fixins. Tempting – but I went for the lighter fare, with a side of blue cheese dip. I was in the mood for ass-burning spice, not "new".

So brace yourself Ivy Ho. I'll call your $100 and raise your eyebrows with my forthcoming foray into something "new" downtown.

All I need now is a wing man.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Lion's Head Tavern is at 3081 Robie Street. Wing nights are Saturdays and Tuesdays.

One of the many reasons why I love Murray Gallant.

2011-08-01T19:30:00.005-03:00

Have a safe drive home Murray and Teresa. You made my long weekend fly by too fast.

Thanks for my new golfing buddy. I smile every time I see her, and she embarrassed the hell out of the Little Bastard and his friends.

Godspeed.

P.S. Murray, are you sure you haven't been spying on me at the golf course?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Southern comfort.

2011-07-14T17:56:00.042-03:00

We veered off the highway just south of Petite Riviere and headed down Memory Lane.

"Mom, please tell me this leads to Halifax." the Little Bastard moaned, having just endured two days of my exuberant golf swing and gleeful gallivanting at White Point. Indeed, we'd crammed a great deal into our short time at the beach: horseshoes, ping pong, tennis, golf, and a new game I call, "Learn to Drive" with rules like: If you spill Mommy's wine, you fail.

"I need a coffee." I replied, keeping my bleary eyes on the road – partly to avoid catching his – knowing they were likely rolling back up into his head.

"There's a Tim Horton's in Bridgewater." he pleaded, "We're almost there."

"I need a real coffee." I said, pointing out Petite Riviere Vineyards as a method of distraction that used to work when he was two, and stupid.

Truth is, I was in no hurry to get home. The South Shore of Nova Scotia in July almost makes up for the north side of backass in February – where I spend most of my time huddled up in a rink parking lot. And while I had just spent a portion of my mini-vacation, emailing Premier Dexter telling him to get off his fat ass and fix the link between Yarmouth and Maine – the upside of cutting off the marine umbilical cord to this world-class tourist region is that there's literally, 'room at the inn'. There's also a lack of USA license plates and the accompanying questions overheard in local establishments. Questions like, "Is Nova Scotia a part of Canada?" and my favourite: "Is there a Saks Fifth Avenue in Bridgewater?" All spoken with an innocently ignorant, south-of-the-border twang.

First-hand knowledge of these types of questions stem from my past, as owner of Wholly Mackerel, a folk art gallery in Mahone Bay. I remember the Main Street bumper-to-bumper with tourists waving their wallets like the American flag. Today, it pains me to see so many unique restaurants, inns, and boutiques – with fewer people here to appreciate them.

"Now where are we going?" the suddenly-pissy Little Bastard asked as I veered right again. "What's the Ovens? Can I at least drive?"

We had already done Risser's boardwalk, walked the dogs on Crescent Beach, topped up on coffee and muffins at the LaHave Bakery, and waited for the car ferry to take us across the LaHave River. He figured we were homeward bound.

"There's someone I really want to see." I replied. "I want her to see you, too".

Moments later we pulled in the driveway of an old Cape, and knocked on the door.

"It's open!" yelled a familiar voice I haven't heard in... well... far too long.

Mimi Findlay, award-winning interior designer and perhaps the most creative, loving, and delightfully irreverent person I have ever met, greeted us with a big smile and a warm, "Holy fuck!"

A woman after my own heart.

You see, many moons ago, when I owned Wholly Mackerel, Mimi owned Mimi's Ocean Grill, next door. I grin (and drool a bit) thinking about her fabulously popular restaurant, and the time and space that made up the South Shore chunk of my life.

My own lifeline to the South Shore was severed by work, and distance, and a bit of sadness. The Little Bastard had spent the first four summers of his life noshing on Julien's croissants, running buck naked on a Chester beach, while I worked my ass off. He was weaned on Mimi's comfort food – pan-fried haddock and homemade focaccia – often falling asleep in my arms to the tinkling lullaby of Mimi's finger playing with the ice cubes in her vodka, after a long and busy day.

Mimi is no longer Mimi of Ocean Grill fame, having shifted her focus solely to Rhubarb Home Design. The most talented, resourceful, whimsical designer I have ever met, is working her Mimi magic, transforming cottages, houses, and boring blueprints into unique, magazine-worthy homes with character. And, she's doing it with more personality and humour than you'll ever see on HGTV.

The good news is: South Shore businesses are adapting and thriving – marketing to a more regional crowd – and staying positive. White Point is as charming as ever, and while we had to wait two minutes for a tennis court – we had our pick of tee times, and the beautiful beach practically to ourselves. This – in July – on a coastline voted one of the best in the world by National Geographic's Traveler. Too bad our government makes it so fucking difficult for people "from away" to get here.

Metallica are performing in Havenot tonight, and I can hear the distant thump thump of whatever beat you call that. Thousands of rain-soaked, heavy metal fans, wandering down a foggy Memory Lane of their own.

Thump thump. Heartbeat. Speed bump.

Slow down. Enjoy the ride.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Book an affordable escape to White Point by clicking or calling: 1.800.565.5068

Book Mimi Findlay for your design project by calling: 902.766.0333 or emailing her at: rhubarbhomedesign@gmail.com.

Email Premier Dexter and tell him to get off his fat ass at: premier@gov.ns.ca

My earliest childhood recollection? Hmmm, hey, Doc, where'd you get that light fixture?

2011-07-05T08:20:00.010-03:00

"You need therapy."

It's amazing how many times I hear this over the course of a day, but to be honest – if I could afford the luxury of therapy and the time it would take to lie down and whine about this and that, I would likely have fewer reasons for needing therapy. And besides, crazy people get more personal space in public places. No one ever wants to cuddle up next to the lunatic mumbling about Jesus, or Vietnam, or, is it really that hard to distinguish between sweet and sour and fucking barbecue sauce!?

Honestly. It's dipping sauce. If I have to turn around and wait in line again so some pimpled moron in a paper hat... well... never mind.

And retail therapy is just not for me. The notion of heading into a mall or a boutique to somehow ease the burden of life simply baffles me. No one ever opens fire on a tennis court, or in a backyard full of roses.

Having said that, I have been dreaming of purchasing a new bicycle. A few years ago, some little prick stole our mountain bikes, and after a year or two of suppressing my anger over said theft, I decided it was time to simply "let it go" and drag my old hybrid "Mom" bike out of retirement. A quick tune-up at Jack Nauss' quirky little Bicycle Shop on Agricola, and I was good to go. Of course, the same little prick who stole our mountain bikes, also took our helmets – so I picked up a jaunty, yellow flowered Bell helmet that the Little Bastard says makes me look like I should be riding the special bus.

Nothin' wrong with special.

Riding a bicycle in Havenot is a life threatening disease, what with the lack of bicycle lanes, and lunatic drivers like myself who have a total disregard for cyclists with no knowledge of the rules of the road. Riding a bicycle carrying a swinging plastic bag full of wine bottles is just plain crazy. (And they say crazy people don't know they are crazy.) I was just about to head out and put my Canadian Tire money toward a new carrier, when I remembered there was an old wicker basket down in Lake Basement.

There is a point to this, besides, this is therapeutic for me, so piss off and stay with me.

Indeed there was a trusty, dusty old basket, but it was lacking the two straps necessary for securing it to the handlebars. I needed something strong. Something that would hold at least 750 ml. I considered cutting up an old bra, but instead, I hopped on my bike and headed to the adorable cobbler at Quinpool Shoe Repair. He knew exactly what I was looking for, and tried to fashion one out of bits of leather and an old buckle. After a gallant attempt, he conceded that I was, once again, on my own, looking for support(s).

Heading up Quinpool, I signaled and swerved into one of the trendy new cycling shops. I have been admiring the two-wheeled pieces of art they flog to eco-freindly commuters with a death wish and a line of credit. Bikes in delicious ice cream colours with matching price tags hang in the window of their "gallery". I was no longer in the market for a new bike, but maybe they had an inexpensive buckle or two.

Sporting my shiny new helmet, they were quick to spot a potential customer and were all over me like a cougar on Chardonnay. When I explained what I was looking for, the girl waltzed over to the accessories wall and grabbed a shiny package containing fancy leather toe straps with adjustable brass hardware. She proceeded to rip open the package, and went about describing how she would cut the long straps of Corinthian leather and somehow make it work.

"Isn't that a bit of overkill?" I asked. "How much are those things?"

"Only ten bucks." She replied haughtily.

"Holy fucking commies Christly Vietnam." I muttered. I just need to tie a basket to a handlebar, not bungee jump off a goddamned bridge.

"Thanks." I said. "Maybe I can find something simpler, cheaper, and far less European at Canadian Tire."

"Fine!" she snapped, angrily shoving the pricey leather straps back into the packaging. "If you want to shop at Canadian Tire, go ahead!"

No shit. Verbatim.

I spun around and thought about what I should do next. I had so many options and I was wearing a helmet, so chances are if I went for Option A: Diving back through the plate glass window and grabbing the bitch by the throat – at least my head was protected.

Instead, I held my yellow-flowered head high and walked out, past the trendy bicycles and straight to Canadian Tire, where – for $1.97 – I bought an entire bag of thin plastic straps that got the job done, perfectly.

I also popped into Patricia Graham Massage Therapy's new location at 6156 Quinpool and booked an appointment for a long, therapeutic massage.

You see, while it has been suggested that I could reap the benefits of regular therapy – truth is – the power of kindness, a little exercise, and the human touch is unparalleled.

And call me crazy, but the inner strength and peace that comes with unabashedly donning a flowered yellow helmet at this stage of the game is pretty special indeed.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Patricia Graham Massage Therapy is now at 6156 Quinpool Road.

To book an appointment call 902.576.4500 or email: patriciagraham@ns.sympatico.ca.

For a tune-up and your very own yellow, flowered helmet drop by Nauss Bicycles at 2533 Agricola St, Halifax, 429.0024.

For the cutest damn cobbler in town head to Quinpool Shore Repair at 6424 Quinpool Road.

Fancy bike and matching attitude, try Halifax Cycle Gallery, 6299 Quinpool Road.

Warmiwañusca or bust.

2011-06-15T09:48:00.025-03:00

What the fuck was I thinking?

I could be lying by the pool in a Tuscan tennis villa. Instead, I was gasping for breath in supermodel-thin air, already too knackered to walk around the donkey shit splattered on the trail. The Inca Trail.

"I'll give you $100 bucks U.S. for a ride!" I pleaded to a Peruvian cowgirl leading a pair of capable looking horses. She just flashed me a "stupid gringo" grin and kept going.

Bitch.

I had only been walking for a couple of hours, but it felt like days. Right off the bat, I had no intention of keeping pace with my traveling companions – a smorgasbord of fit British, Australian and Irish twenty somethings who left me in the dust shortly after our inspirational gathering at the first of many Incan pit stops for worship and reflection. With them, and with my blessing, went my reluctant 15-year old, who said he would never forgive me for making him come on this journey. Making matters worse, our guide kindly pointed out a Black Widow spider, and I just passed two clusters of retreating trekkies – wisely turning back, having surrendered any hope of crossing this pilgrimage to Hell off of their bucket lists.

I was screwed.

The Inca Trail is not so much a trail, as a trial. A series of irregular, steep, masochistic steps designed to crush the soul. No wonder the Spanish were so pissed off – their knees were killing them – and they likely had the shits from so much corn and quinoa. And, no wonder this celebrated schlep to Machu Picchu is considered a once-in-a-lifetime thing. You'd have to be fucking nuts to do it again.

Nevertheless, after a few warm-up jaunts to various ruins, there I was, alone on Day One – heralded as the "easy" day – my mind already wandering down the dusty path to Day Two, when we would climb 4200 metres to Warmiwañusca, or Dead Woman's Pass.

As it turned out, the first day's climb was hot, slow, steady and doable – but later that evening, all cozy in our tent, under a blanket of stars – a mild panic attack set in. What would happen if I was the dead woman on Dead Woman's Pass? I'm already oxygen deprived and I'm lying down! If I croak, how will the Little Bastard get home? Who will look after him? Will I clutch my heart and shit my pants – finally succumbing to 49 years of treating my body like crap? And what will they do with my body? Fling me off a cliff? Again, what the fuck was I thinking?

"I can't do this." I whispered in the dark, tears streaming down my face.

"Mom," responded the sleepy Little Bastard, miles away from his own personal comfort zone. "If anybody can do this, you can."

There are words that roll around in your head as we plow through the donkey shit on the path of life. Words like: Can't. Never. Won't. Fat. Unloved. Old. RRSP's. Should have. Wrinkles. Don't. Guilt. Ugly. And, regret.

Tuscany is for pussies.

For the next few thousand toenail-lifting footsteps, up and down the Andes, under a brilliant blue sky, came words like: Wow. Awesome. Yes, I'd love some coca tea. Sunny. Beautiful. Keep going. Amazing. I can do this. Birthdays are good. Orchid. Believe. Slow and steady. Alive. You're doing this. Butterfly. And, I'd kill for a solid stool and a toilet seat, but this hole in the ground will do.

After a 6 am start, on the afternoon of Day Two, and about 45 painstaking minutes from the top of Dead Woman's Pass, I was sucking wind with a bunch of fun, like-minded, out-of-shape women from around the globe, when our lovely guide Victor said, "My lady... Cynthia... I believe Jack is waiting at the top."

"No fucking way," I said, puffing, with my hands on my knees. My kid was happily resting at the campsite – shoes off, fed, and playing cards by now.

Doubts aside, I looked up to see the lanky silhouette of a 6' 4" teenager, motioning like an impatient 3rd base umpire waving in a blind, geriatric base runner.

He was waiting.

When I finally reached the top of Dead Woman's Pass, I succumbed to a different kind of heart attack. I fell into my kid's arms – sobbing – my heart bursting with love and self-worth and happiness. I have never felt so tired, and so alive. He patted my back and said, "Mom, don't make a scene. Let's go, I'm starving". We took a few pictures, then I released him, and slowly inched my rubbery legs down the whorish steps that led to our next campsite. My soul was skipping, even if my body wasn't.

Tomorrow was another day. The longest day. And the day after that, we would wake at 4am to catch the sunrise on Machu Picchu. The earliest day. But today, was the hardest day. The highest day. The day that made you ask yourself over and over, "What the fuck was I thinking?".

The best day.

Dead Woman's Pass, my ass.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Nadine at Maritime Travel will book you on a Gap Adventures tour to Machu Picchu and the Sacred Valley, with or without the grueling hike. She also gives a pretty good Tuscany. Call her at 902.429.7883. Oh, click on the JIM logo to support Elaine Shortt's pilgramage to Hell.

Who am I to judge, but really.

2011-05-21T00:48:00.008-03:00

Dear Mr. Camping,

Please find the attached receipt for $76.25. As you can see, it's dated for May 20, 2011, or Judgement Eve, as it's likely called in your house.

Stepping out for what was supposed to be the "last supper", we went big – opting for Bubba Ray's wings on a non-half-price wing night. As you will also note, we went big on the beverages, surrendering to the rapture of the over-served. Please also find the attached taxi receipt.

Also, Harold, please watch for a parcel heading your way via Canada Post (don't hold your last breath, because what are you, 104?). If it does indeed arrive before your own personal Judgement Day, please note the package contains a large stack of unpaid bills, mostly in brown, governmental-looking envelopes. Also, please note they are unopened, so beware of doomsday-sized paper cuts. I have also given the nice lady at Revenue Canada your phone number because, quite frankly, her persistence and lack of enlightenment is starting to piss me off.

Also arriving by courier is a load of horse shit. I think you left it by mistake, and please note, it will be arriving C.O.D.

Shame on you, Harold.

Judgement Day is finally here, and I jumped out of bed with such high hopes (and a touch of the whirlies) only to be slapped in the face with disappointment of Biblical proportions. It was like the Christmas I prayed for Santa to bring me a Chatty Cathy all over again. Instead of a talking blonde with a rip cord, I got that fucking ugly church lady of a Mrs. Beasely doll.

Judgement Day, my ass.

Oh, Mr. Camping had I known then, what I know now, I would have paid my taxes and waxed my unruly beaver. Had I know now, what I didn't know yesterday, I never would have ordered the split double-order of Jamaican Jerk and Suicide wings, washed down with a gallon of Blanc Table – working my way into the XL sweats with HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS written across the bum. Because of you, you ignorant prophet of doom, I am knee deep in unpaid bills and unwanted hair, worshipping the porcelain God. And he is very, very angry.

Oh, Mr. Camping. You are the guy who said he'd call and never did. You are the finger wagging poster boy of pea-brained piety, and likely an Oakland Raiders fan. You are the Sarah Palin of the Bible belt. You, you, you, are also laughing all the way to the Bank of the Holy Sepulchre to deposit the millions reaped from harvesting sheep.

Shame on you, Harold.

The good news is, today is happening. And, today marks the 21st birthday of Thornbloom. Yes, Harold, the optimistic leaders of the Havenotian house of interior worship are celebrating their 21st birthday, offering a generous 21% off everything until June 4th. By the looks of that tattered armchair from which you preach, you should probably go.

So, Mr. Camping, you're either having a really good chuckle right now, or, you are parked, head in hands – your boney old ass unloading a shit load of suicide wings into your porcelain holy grail. When you get a moment Harold, today, or maybe the glorious day after that, please reimburse me for expenses and suffering incurred while anticipating the end of the world as we know it.

And have a nice day.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Social climbing responsibility.

2011-05-09T09:39:00.018-03:00

Damn her.

With a mere two weeks remaining before embarking on my coming of age adventure, I have moved into what is known as the "intense" segment of my Machu Picchu ascent training. This involves shitting in the backyard, limiting myself to two squares of single-ply toilet paper, speaking only in Quechua (phrases like "Carry me, Eduardo, you filthy man donkey") and drinking lukewarm Chilean wine whilst enclosed in a urine-stained sleeping bag.

Then I get the email.

First, can I mention that the Little Bastard has decided to vocalize his own coming of age independence by announcing that he'd rather get circumcised by a palsied rabbi (I initially typed rabbit by mistake) than go to Peru – putting his size 14 foot down on my soul, just before Mother's Day.

And then I get the email.

It seems, leaving one's comfort zone and foregoing yet another opportunity to purchase RRSPs is simply not enough. And, now that I am facing the very real possibility that I may be going it alone, I'm thinkin' – why, oh why didn't the good folks at Maritime Travel encourage me to push the Tennis in Tuscany tour button before settling on 10-Day Incan Incontinent?

Fuck.

Then there's the email.

It seems being flawless of skin, petite, and genuinely nice, isn't enough for Elaine Shortt of Thornbloom fame. The good wife, mother, entrepreneur, and arthritis sufferer has decided she not only wants to climb Machu Pichhu without cracking a sweat – she's doing it for a good cause.

Damn her.

I am doing it... because... well... I am not sure why I am doing it – but if it's for any cause it's BECAUSE it's THERE and not HERE sitting in my jammies in Havenot wondering if the sun will ever shine again. My goal isn't raising money for a do-good worthy cause like the Arthritis Society's Joints in Motion – I just want to raise my head up off of this desk.

And, wouldn't you know it. According to Elaine's timely email, between now and August 31st, all proceeds from the sale of selected Oxo Good Grips products at Thornbloom will be donated to Arthritis research. That bitch! Oxo Good Grips, for those who are ignorant and ill informed, are easy-to- grip gadgets ergonomically designed to ease the difficulty some people may have pulling corks out of bottles and unscrewing lids from cocktail olive jars.

Not to be outdone, between now and two weeks from now, donations of any kind (flowers, Chilean wine) can be delivered to me personally – because unlike Elaine – I am perhaps not in the best of shape for climbing anything except maybe out of bed. And while I may not have arthritis now – in about 18 days, I guarantee you – I will have the worst goddamned case of arthritis and likely diarrhrea in Peruvian history.

So go ahead – feel all warm and fuzzy by contributing to Elaine's socially responsible cause. Keep in mind she is a size 2 and wouldn't know a wrinkle if it bit her on the ass. Just click on the Arthritis logo over to the right, then go about your miserable day.

I know I will.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Oh... adding insult to injury, for those who choose to make a donation of $25 or more, Thornbloom will be offering a gift of a selected Good Grips gadget; for donations of $100 or more, a Good grips salad spinner valued at $49.95. Just present your tax receipt at Thornbloom to claim your thank-you gift.

Happy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T14:03:00.006-03:00

Click to purchase and share the parental love.

Taking it to the street.

2011-04-27T13:06:00.009-03:00

Golly.

The outpouring of concern (wishful thinking) as to whether I was dead or not, has been overwhelming. But, allow me to quote my dead Aunt Pearl when I say, "Where the fuck does the time go?"

Seems like only yesterday I was putting away the Lego crèche and plastic Santa, and now the dog's shitting bits of pink and purple tin foil. Apparently the Little Bastard is beyond scampering around the house in his jammies looking to fill his basket full of waxy chocolate bunny droppings.

Somewhere in that lost time frame – giving up Lent for Lent, St. Patrick's Day, a few key birthdays, the dregs of winter, any hope for a bikini body, and the occasional Saturday morning all rolled by without much hullabaloo. Then the flu, my god-daughter, hockey playoffs, and a 36-year friendship all came and went, leaving me feeling like the last soggy, beer-soaked cheesie in the snack bowl of life.

Which brings me to the incident.

Friday evening was settling in like a cold sore. Coronation Street was on, and I was straining to figure out what the hell they were saying, when the phone rang. I answered it – something I seldom do – but it was the ever-so-charming and entertaining Uncle Stu – 6 hours, and a few beverages ahead of me, over in jolly ol' England.

I was just getting comfy, ready to sip along with Stu and live vicariously through his tales of shooting pigeons, sailing foreign waters, and chasing peacocks (imaginary and otherwise) when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the chair to see what was the matter.

A thumping at the front door and a cacophony of youthful voices came and went in an instant. I hung up on Stu and ran outside, only to find my wooden Easter carrot lying on the sidewalk, and the ribbon that held it, swinging in the doorway. The wooden bunny that hung from the carrot was nowhere to be seen.

"It was a bunch of drunken first years," a gaggle of girls across the street told me. "They went that way," pointing toward Dalhousie.

I went back inside and thought, Fuck! That bunny was tacky as hell, but it had sentimental value. I was so sick of drunken students with Daddy's credit card, walking off with anything that wasn't bolted down.

Over the years, neighbourhood homeowners have lost flower planters, lawn chairs, shrubs, bikes, election signs, small children, Christmas decorations – only to find them discarded or smashed around the corner – or – as in the case of my life-size folk art deer, standing in the middle of a frat house with a knife in its head. But that's another story.

I stood there for a minute and thought, shit, I liked that bunny... oh well. Then I snapped. I was about to run out the door when I realized I was wearing slippers, leggings and a t-shirt barely long enough to cover my fat ass. Without hesitation, I pulled on a raincoat, sneakers, and dashed out the door.

Heading down my street and around the corner toward Dalhousie, it wasn't long before I spotted a crowd of drunken university students hovering near Coburg Street. They were milling about, sitting on lawns and noisemaking merrily, as drunk students tend to do when they're not iPod deaf and walking in front of cars.

Now, remember – Coronation Street was on, so good Corrie fans would know it was somewhere around 6:30pm – and still quite light out. Cars were whizzing by, and I was out of breath from sprinting the block and a half, but the adrenalin was pumping – either that, or I was having a heart attack.

That's when I spotted my bunny.

Across Coburg, an inebriated young woman was waving my bunny at passing cars. My Easter bunny was in the hands of a 20-something co-ed who had been guzzling Red Bull and vodka since breakfast.

Without thinking, I dashed across the street and snatched the bunny from her youthful hands. She looked at me and tried to focus. Before she could speak, I did what any sane, mature woman would do in similar circumstances.

I started to beat her with my bunny.

You. (whack) Stupid. (whack) Drunk. (whack) Little. (whack) Bitch. (whack)

I whacked her with the flat side of the bunny, so not to draw blood or an assault charge – but I whacked her good. Repeatedly. All I could think about was, Christ, I hope this doesn't end up on You Tube, and thank god I had the sense to cover up my dimpled, legging-clad ass.

One of the college girl's drinking buddies eventually ran over to rescue her – so I did what any sane, mature woman would do in similar circumstances – I gave her friend a couple of bunny whacks too.

Satisfied that my point had been made, I held tight to my bunny and headed for home – muttering about respect for property, and wishing I was that young and stupid again. As, I spun around, a rather large crowd of people waiting at the bus stop broke into a full cheer.

They were cheering for me.

"Serves her right!" one woman yelled.

I just nodded and waved the bunny – suddenly feeling more empowered than I have in years.

By then, the Little Bastard was heading down the street toward me, wondering what had caused his mother to dash out of the house like a hopped-up Ben Johnson. "What happened?" he said, sounding a tad concerned, "I heard a bunch of screaming."

"Nothing." I answered calmly, "I just got our bunny back."

I also got my mojo back.

To quote Bet Lynch from Coronation Street, "I've got tights older than you, love... don't fuck with me." (I added that last bit.) Right now, Maritime Travel has airfare to London, England - direct from Halifax, June 9-16 for $737 (including taxes & fees). Imagine how empowered you'll feel after a few pints and a meat pie.

The mirror does not lie – I am, what I am – and what I am, is someone who will fight to protect the things I love, at all costs. A boy. A lost soul.

A tacky, wooden bunny.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

I can't even think of a title.

2011-03-11T06:58:00.009-04:00

It's not often I am rendered speechless, so mark your calendar with a big gold star, because it likely won't happen again.

Hopefully.

I don't even know where to begin.

See? Still voiceless, and it was my plucky, 93 year-old Aunt Ruby who had the stroke this week – not me.

I'll begin in a strip mall, I guess. Good things seldom begin begin a strip mall. But that's where it happened. Dumbstruck by a simple question in a suburban strip mall.

Silenced I was.

See, I am stalling. This hasn't been a good week. Okay I am just going to spit it out.

"So... Cindy," the perky girl said, "Are you retired?"

Everything fell silent, at least inside my head. The room was actually quite noisy, with blaring dance music and 30-second intervals of a voice yelling "change stations".

Retarded? I thought to myself. Did she just ask me if I was retarded?

I prayed she was inappropriate and said retarded. Please, make her have said retarded. Yes! I am retarded, I thought. I've always been retarded. I've been retarded for as long as I can remember. I'm here training for the Special Olympics. Clearly I must look retarded or she wouldn't have asked me. Pleeeeeease tell me you meant retarded. I have never wanted to be retarded so badly in my entire life.

"Are you retired?" I heard her ask again, in what seemed like slow motion.

I saw her youthful lips moving but I was deafened by the voices in my own head. I would have cut my arm off like that guy in 127 Hours just to get the fuck out of there.

I finally spoke. "Retired?" An inaudible whisper, after what seemed like hours.

"What kind of work did you do?" she continued, cheerily.

"Did?" I said in a whisper.

"Really?" I pleaded meekly.

Out of sheer desperation I found myself at Curves. Curves! The gym where women supposedly change their lives 30 minutes. Mine changed in less than 30 seconds flat.

There I was surrounded by women – so old and fat in some cases – that I felt like a starlet on the red carpet. Or at least I did. One simple question and suddenly I felt like I belonged there.

And I didn't like it.

The rest is just a blur. I went through the motions like I was shell shocked. The instructor introduced me to the weight resistance machines, and to some of the ladies bouncing up and down for 30 seconds in between each brittle-bone "workout". Everyone was so nice and supportive, but I couldn't move past the voice in my head that kept assuring me that I was indeed quite obviously retarded, and didn't look a day over 35. Retarded people have such a youthful glow about them – always jolly and eager to please. I am often mistaken for being politically incorrect and retarded. It happens all the time.

Will I go back?

I don't know.

That's a difficult question.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Curves has several locations in HRM. For a free week, and a fitness evaluation click here.

Jesus for Dummies.

2011-03-08T07:32:00.029-04:00

Yesterday was a mish-mash of wonderful excuses for doing nothing at all.

First, it was sunny and hovering slightly above freezing. After suffering through a schizophrenic weather pattern of rain, ice and snow – anything remotely close to pleasant was worth basking in. Yesterday was also the 100th anniversary of International Women's Day, but until it's officially a paid day off for women, who really gives a shit. It was also Fat Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday, Pancake Day, or unleavened Tim Horton's Breakfast Sandwich day, as it's now known in our house.

I mashed them all together and declared it Fat Women's Tuesday, and proceeded to avoid my long list of things to do, quite merrily.

Yesterday, my pal Norman asked me what I was giving up for Lent. Silly goose. He knows perfectly well my attendance in church is spotty at best – mostly forced, and resulting in a great deal of time spent staring at the ceiling, sweating up my good clothes wondering if I'm about to be struck by lighting to organ accompaniment, and what kind of crustless sandwiches will be dished out afterward, and am I supposed to be standing up or sitting down, and thinking there just has to be better hymns with rhythm out there, and do they wash that filthy chalice, and what page are they on, and why did that weird couple with the ugly baby suddenly turn around and offer limp, damp handshakes – mumbling something about the force being with me, all the while avoiding eye contact, lest I be the Devil.

I don't have to give anything up for Lent, but if I had to give up something it would be shoveling.

According to the Bible, a bestseller likely because of all the hotels: Jesus (the hero) took off somewhere for 40 days and went without Sportscentre to prepare for the playoffs or something. I think this is when he grew that scraggly beard. Correct me if I am wrong, but didn't it also rain cats and dogs for 40 days and nights? Were those 40 days when Jesus was off a-Lenting, the same 40 days during which Noah was "told" to build an Ark and blow town? The plot is so hard to follow. And where does the Easter bunny come in? And if Jesus really rose from the grave like the book says, does that mean there's no heaven, and no Philly cheese angel? Because rising normally suggests a coming up from below. But hey, you know what they say – go to Heaven for the weather and Hell for the company.

(Note: My friend (and hero) *Kelly is a breast cancer conqueror, and a big-time believer and maybe the two go hand in hand, but my guess is I'll be hearing from her real soon.)

Maybe I'll give up coffee for Lent. Oops, too late.

Does the word relentless stem from Lent?

I know! I'll give up giving up. I tend to give up every winter. By give up, I mean "let myself go". It means succumbing to gray skies and brittle nails and middle age and a serious case of the "poor mes". By giving up giving up for Lent, I can still embrace Cadbury mini eggs and vodka and doing unto others. It's fucking perfect.

Come to think of it, I snuck in a quick giving up on Monday, just under the Lent wire. I gave up on ever having my flowing long locks of youth, or an elegant senior citizen chignon. I left my pubic-like gray curls happily on the floor of Flaunt Hair Salon. While I was there, I picked up some self-esteem and Kevin Murphy shampoo for "extremely tortured" hair. Oddly enough it's called Born.Again.Wash. Fitting for this period of religious highlights and damp weather.

With my sassy new church lady hair and 40 days of emotional sunshine, I can walk on frozen water, breathe fire, repent, repel, revel, regurgitate, rejoice – anything but give up, goddammit.

It's gonna be a miracle.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

*Check out Kelly's inspirational blog about kicking the shit out of breast cancer at: Gingerbreadguts. I think her page design would look better though, if Jesus' face appeared in the latte foam.

Flaunt Hair Salon is at 2166 Windsor Street. 902.425.0020.

The jet lag was a bitch, but well worth it!

2011-03-07T07:16:00.008-04:00

It seems everyone is posting their fabulous winter vacation photos online (Costa Rica, Hawaii, Punta Cana, etc) so I wanted to share mine as well. Enjoy!

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The perfect day.

2011-03-02T10:59:00.017-04:00

What the hell was I thinking?

My idea of the perfect vacation day would go something like this: Wake up in a Tuscan villa with a mild, Brunello di Montalcino hangover. Go for a wake-up swim, then bike through fields of poppies to the local village for cappuccino. Stock up on wine, salami, cheese, and bread before biking to the villa. Wave back at handsome old Italian men who think I am beautiful, because they are 90 and think anything that moves is beautiful. Play tennis with Antonio on the sun-soaked clay court. (Hey, it's my dream holiday.) Swim and read by the pool all afternoon. Play tennis with Benito, then knock back some icy cold Prosecco with Campari in the shady olive grove. Take a nap with Ricardo before the cook/housekeeper, Agnese rings the dinner bell. Dine under the Tuscan stars. Scampi. Pesto. Anchovies. Take a hot, lavender-scented bath. Go to bed early and alone – tired, sunburned, and very, very happy.

But, oh no. Instead of the above, I am dragging the reluctant Little Bastard to South America where we will camp and schlep up some godforsaken Peruvian hillside – likely with a pack of belligerent Germans, altitude sickness, and diarrhea from eating beans and rice off a filthy tin plate. The goal: to instill in my child a sense of wonder and adventure, and to reach Machu Picchu without having a stroke, or a massive hissy fit because my sherpa dropped the birthday wine.

Again, what was I thinking?

Machu Picchu. An abandoned city. Where did everyone go? Why did they leave? Likely because it's a shithole with no jobs, plumbing, wi-fi, or oxygen.

Maritime Travel have a sweet tour of Italy leaving mid May – around the same time I'll be loading up my backback with antidiarrheal and blister pads for my indoctrination into middle age. Italy's Best is 14 carefree, air-conditioned days traveling to some of the most breathtaking Italian landscapes: the Amalfi coast, the Lake Maggiore, Venice, and, sigh, Tuscany. Screw RRSP's. You should go.

Turn off that bloody Xbox. Make your bed. Stop picking at that. Don't roll your eyes at me. Wipe your feet. Hurry up! Get in the car. Cut your toenails. Because I have no money, that's why. Do your homework. Sit up straight. Excuse me?! Stop eating like an pig. Hurry up.

For a brief moment, I'd like to replace that with: Holy fuck, is that my personal donkey? I'm not eating that. What do you mean there's no toilet. There was no mention of snakes in the brochure. How much further? Go on without me. I thought it was you, but my armpits really smell. How do you say "asshole" in German? It's way too quiet here. Feel my stubble. I really should have hired a personal trainer. Eduardo, pour me some wine, por favor. You play the zampona beautifully. What kind of bird is that? Smell this flower. What a beautiful view. This sleeping bag smells like cat pee. Jack... honey... look at the stars.

Oh. That's what I was thinking.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

If I can afford to go, you can afford to go. Make 12 months of equal payments, interest free – exclusive at Maritime Travel. Click here to get going: www.maritimetravel.ca

You know who you are.

2011-03-01T07:21:00.021-04:00

March. And about bloody time I say.

February in Havenot was a hormonally imbalanced housewife. Hot. Cold. Snow. Rain. Binge. Purge. February was an evacuation to Hawaiian islands, with me left holding the neighborhood shovel. February was a wet basement, 28 days of missed education, 8 new pounds, and 56 trips to a variety of rinks in worse shape than I am. February took the lives of two people I really enjoyed sharing the planet with – on Valentines Day – just to rub in the absolute finite shittiness of it all.

And then came the email.

I get quite a bit of email from wacky, wonderful people who have happened across this blog. Most emails are positive and supportive and sent as a way of saying, "Hey thanks, it's nice to know that I am not alone... I too have a fat ass, ungrateful teenagers, and reach for a wine bottle before heading to parent teacher meetings!" Emails from strangers routinely brighten my day in a weird, cyber sort of neighbourly way.

I won't go on at great length about the person who wrote the February email, because they aren't worth any more of my precious time. My brief exchanges with this February person were cordial, and a response to their kind banter about this blog. It seems I had a new fan, struggling with the usual life shit, career, dreams, etc – all the while living in Halifax (although originally from "away").

I was wrong.

Let's just say, while this blog is intended to amuse, support small businesses, piss people off, and bolster attendance at dreary events intended to inspire and create awareness of something bigger than we are – in February, this blog was used as a vehicle for evil. Well, evil may be pushing it, but thanks to the power of the internet, a whack job with serious emotional issues stumbled upon this blog and subsequently ripped off one of the businesses I support.

Gracious as the owner of the business is, she chose not to press charges, or embarrass this nasty person at their place of employment. The classy small business owner chose to be positive, and move forward despite being insulted and wronged by a soul-less person (with shifty eyes and a fat ass I am told). I cannot help but feel horrible, angry, and somewhat responsible.

I am also not nearly as gracious. I can hold a grudge almost as well as I retain water. People I care about were treated like crap because of information gathered from this blog. Someone I admire and respect is out-of-pocket because some miserable, fucked up, lonely person happened upon these silly rants.

But this is March. A new month of hope – and hopefully better weather, although if this morning's slick-ass sidewalks are any indication, March has come in like a bitchy, rabid lioness.

March is also home to March Forth, a pancake, mimosas, and sausage breakfast celebration of the 100th Anniversary of International Womens' Day, hosted by Havenot's very own Dragon slayer, Barb Stegemann. I am told there will be no pancakes, sausages or mimosas at March Forth, but there will be kick-ass speakers and high-heeled trailblazers swilling coffee and inspiring us all to stop whining and BE the damn Gandhi-esque change – if for no other reason than we are women, and we create life and have breasts like beer taps, and can outsmart 97% of the men on the planet whilst battling inadequate daycare and lower wages and hot flashes and cramps so bad it feels like shitting a rocking chair. Throw on your good sweats and feel the energy from Molly Duignan, producer of CBC’s Dragons' Den, Senator Yonah Martin of British Columbia, and Lee Malleau, smart cookie and CEO of Vancouver Economic Development.

March is swallows returning to Capistrano. March is dog shit resurfacing as daffodil fertilizer. March is heading to Flaunt for a tune-up. March is Irishmen all pissed up for a reason. March is a new Pine Cone Hill duvet cover from Thornbloom. March is playoffs. March is Premium Dog Food month at Tailwagrrrs. March is baseball's Grapefruit League and knicker-clad men scratching their youthful balls. March is good karma, if there is such a thing. March starts my countdown to a trek up Machu Picchu. March is 31 days of not February. March is happy, goddammit.

Because I know where you live.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The March Forth fun starts, d'uh, March 4, at 8 a.m. at the Halifax Club, 1682 Hollis Street. Keynote speeches from Duignan and gang are slated for 9 to 10:30 a.m. Tickets are $25 and available by clicking here, or on the empowered woman to the right.

Betty White is the new black.

2011-02-09T07:48:00.014-04:00

Let's get one thing straight. Just because I poke fun at the recent cross burnings and the subsequent glorification and sympathetic arm thrown by the local media to the inbred brethren who fanned the flames – doesn't mean my grandpappy was a carded member of the KKK. Fact is, my ancestry might point more toward Bratwurst McMuffins, and life-size posters of Eva Braun on my great, great, great Uncle's Heinrich's bedroom wall. But that doesn't make me a Nazi.

I happen to live in a region of Canada where people from Ontario are regarded as strangers from a strange land, and unless your great, great, great Aunt (pronounced "Ont") Fiona swam up on shore after surviving a sobering swim from the Outer Hebrides – then you are, and will always be, from "away".

I like being from "away". It makes me different.

Anyway, where was I?... I made fun of the Herald, defended my honour... oh!...

So I bought these black (no racial slur intended) fleece pants on sale at a local sporting goods store. Fleece is my new fabric of choice given the amount of time I spend walking or standing around in sub-zero conditions. Fleece says, "I am outdoorsy. I like to be warm while crawling around neighbourhoods at night with my gas can."

My fleece pants make my ass look like overstuffed sofa cushions, but I love them. I love them so much that yesterday, I pulled them out of the dirty laundry pile that was waiting for the white load of sheets already in progress.

Walking in my fleece pants is a constant reminder that my Sumo-esque thighs rub together with gusto these days, and I hope I don't get bald patches on my pants, between my legs where the fuzzy pile could potentially wear off. And don't get me wrong, some of my best friends are bald Sumos.

Enough already.

Yesterday at the bank, I was stuck behind really old people who roll really old pennies, and pay every fucking household bill at the teller. I love old people. I just think they should be let out only on rare, special occasions. Anyway, yesterday at the bank, I took special notice of one octogenarian Snowbird – the one cashing in her sizable pension to get US dollar bills while blathering on about her great grandkids. (Aside: Do people talk so long to tellers because they are called "TELLERS" and people think they need to TELL them stuff. Because please don't feel the need to TELL them anything – especially when there's a volatile woman in fleece pants and a parka huffing and puffing behind you.) I noticed that the ol' doll, who had moved on to discussing Cubans jacking cars and jacking up the crime rate in the Sunshine State, was wearing a pastel coloured velour tracksuit that looked an awful lot like my fleece pants – and no one was citing her for racial injustice. In fact, it was all I could do, not to go up and stroke her brittle legs to feel if her geriatric velour was indeed my fleece, and say, "hurry it up, you warm, misunderstood old bigot."

I didn't have to. It was depressing, yet clear: Betty White's cousin's velour was my fleece. My fleece was her velour.

Tonight on CBC's Dragons' Den you'll see someone who is making a difference in this world without offending anyone except the occasional poppy-importing drug lord. Nova Scotia's very own nattily-dressed Barb Stegeman is empowering seniors and Sumos and the people of Afghanistan, one aromatic spray at a time. She's doing it – because it's the right thing to do – and because she can. Barb's book, The 7 Virtues of a Philosopher' Queen evolved into The 7 Virtues™ Fragrance Line, made from rose petals and orange blossom crops from around the world. To quote Barb, "Every time we purchase organic scented oils harvested from legal crops from countries, we are doing our small part in being the change."

I am going through the change. She is being the change.

You can purchase Barb's original The 7 Virtues Afghanistan Orange Blossom Eau de Parfum, and her new The 7 Virtues Noble Rose of Afghanistan at Mills in Halifax, and at select Bay stores across Canada.

You can also purchase sexy Juicy Couture velour track suits at Envy in Havenot. The colourful and comfy tracksuits have "Juicy" written across the bum. Personally, I don't need a headline to announce that my ass is indeed, juicy.

And without "Juicy" on the bum, you're just an old cynical old bag from "away" watching Dragons' Den on a chilly, February evening in Havenot – thankful for Barb and fleece and freedom and the freedom of speech that comes with senility.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Dear Halifax Regional School Board.

2011-02-03T08:57:00.014-04:00

Dear esteemed elected members of the Halifax Regional School Board,

I understand your office must be in Tuscon, Arizona or maybe Perth, Australia because it's a beautiful sunny day here, and yet, my Little Bastard is still lying on the sofa like a week-old bagel.

He should, by all rights be at school, starting the second semester that was supposed to begin Tuesday because Monday was another Board-appointed holiday, but then last Thursday was a snow day even though there was only a slight rain falling – barely enough to make your hair all frizzy. Maybe being from such a dry climate you think frizzy hair is a valid reason to call an emergency drizzle day. I don't know. So then the Thursday exams were moved to Friday, and Friday exams were moved to Monday, whereby the much-needed Monday Board holiday was moved to Tuesday.

Are you with me?

So, I just called your office to say, "what the fuck" and apparently you are all golfing and won't be in until around ten, which makes me wonder why the Little Bastard shouldn't be able to roll into school, say, around 10!? Let's make it 10:15 just to be on the safe side. There is a higher risk of melanoma walking the 3 or 4 blocks to school on such a sunny day, and they'll need to seek sidewalk shade. Although, being from the Arizona branch of the HRSB, you likely slice off suspicious, irregular brown spots in the lunch room as a matter of routine.

When you get in from golf, give me a shout. I'm sending the Little Bastard over with his buddies and their toenails and their X-Boxes so they can fart on your office furniture all day. A word of precaution: they get awful hungry every 50 minutes, so have plenty of frozen mini pizzas and Pogos and chocolate milk and chips on hand. Since they cannot read, you'll have to operate the microwave for them. And, since they cannot communicate, expect all requests to come via text messaging. The good news is: they don't require plates, or utensils, or even napkins – preferring to eat with their filthy hands, wiping their mouths on the snot-encrusted sofa cushions.

Heck, back when I was a kid, we used to walk drunk through 15 miles of snowy, inbred drug lord country, wildly shooting at dairy cows because we were hallucinating – yet we never missed a single day of school. Even when the Olympics were on, and the Crazy Canucks skied like hell – almost like they were stoned, or being chased or something – there we were, dutifully slumped at our desks. God love ya for having the the insight to move Monday to Tuesday, calling off Wednesday and Thursday, and the power to shift March ahead of February, allowing the entire school system to fall slack jawed because little Billy made the Canada Games Ringette team.

Only Thornbloom, throwing a massive White Sale the day after a little Canadian dust-up, shows such a gift for impeccable scheduling.

Please call me when you get in, after you have a coffee of course, and catch up with your emails, and talk about the latest episode of The Bachelor.

After lunch then, unless someone in your office opens a bottle of white-out and you declare a state of emergency.

Sincerely,

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Thornbloom's annual White Sale is on at Spring Garden Place. Get 'em while they're hot!

I cut my own bangs.

2011-01-29T20:01:00.000-04:00

Coyote ugly.

2011-01-25T10:21:00.016-04:00

With temperatures hovering below brass monkey, and a reported coyote sighting in the park where I perform my morning ritual – today was less about fashion and more about dressing for survival in the urban wilderness.

By the time I was done rifling through the mitten bin in search of warm layers, I looked like a lesbian broomball champion from Parry Sound. The wardrobe pièce de résistance being a pair of black and red nylon hockey warmup pants leftover from PeeWee.

Pulling them on over my leggings, it didn't take long to figure out why they were designed for a hipless 12-year old boy. The thin, white nylon stripe that ran down the side, clung to my fleshy thighs in an exaggerated zig-zag, causing the embroidered Number #31 to pop out like a neon sign. Forcing the elastic waist up and over my hips made me crack a sweat for the first time since August. I don't recall them being this snug on any of the boys.

Having succeeded in finally getting them on, I realized the sheer pressure of nylon on flesh had flattened my ass straight down to the back of my knees, making it nearly impossible to bend over. When I attempted to lace up my shoes, I heard a slight tearing noise as seams broke free, waving frayed bits of expatriate nylon.

By the time I headed to the car – sneakers untied – not even a half-starved rabid coyote with a boner would have given me a second glance. My thighs were rubbing together making a high-pitched swishing noise that would scare away the Taliban.

"Please tell me you aren't wearing those." Pleaded the Little Bastard looking at his discarded pants.

"Don't fuck with me." I said sweetly. "You're late, and I'm sweating like an overdressed pig in a blanket."

Besides the rapidly accelerating annoyance of having to drive his tardy ass to likely fail his math exam, I couldn't find my whistle.

On Saturday night, I purchased a Fox 40 whistle and a bottle of wine. The whistle was intended to scare away a coyote, should I happen upon one – and the wine was for making me so hungover I wouldn't care. On Sunday morning, I walked through the park, aware of the new and ever-present danger, clutching my whistle like Sue Sylvester on Glee. Chances are, if I saw a coyote, I would shit my pants and freeze, just after gesturing for him to take the big stupid dog – sparing myself and the poodle. Nevertheless, the $4.95 whistle gave me a teensy-tiny sense of security.

A mere two days later – the whistle, along with my dignity – had all but disappeared, as I waddled through the park in my musical hockey snow pants.

Leggings are my trousers of choice lately, mainly because (my jeans are too tight) you can throw a sleeping bag over them and call it an outfit. For those who haven't noticed, Havenot's #1 leggings pusher has relocated to Spring Garden Place. Sock it to Ya has been a fixture on Spring Garden Road for decades, tucking out-of-control tummies into control-top pantyhose for as long as I can remember.

Bombshell owner, Rachel Budovitch says the bigger space will allow her to carry more lines, in addition to the much-loved Hue, Spanx and Calvin Klein. Sock it to Ya's new location is next to All Dressed Up on the lower-ish level – so pop in and tuck your fanny into something fantastic.

Me, I'm hoping the mercury rises along with my self-esteem, so I can leap though the park like a carefree cougar in Spanx – unencumbered by worry, or a weighty winter wardrobe.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Sock it to Ya is in the old Madrigal location. For hours or directions call 429-7625.

Come and knock on my door.

2011-01-20T10:35:00.036-04:00

Suzanne Somers. Chrissy? Are you in there? I hear your "Sexy Forever" book tour message, and it seems like a reasonable and passionate hypothesis as we saddlebag into middle age: Tote fewer toxins, balanced hormones and all that. So why the ridiculous blowfish lips and Polyfilla face?

What gives Mrs. Hamel?

I confess to keeping the television on during the day. The noise is a link to the outside world, and unless I change the channel, the world is usually TSN Sports Center over and over until the Little Bastard comes home. Yesterday though, was a Suzanne Somers talk show marathon, and last week, on Oprah's channel, I caught a glimpse of Jane Fonda.

It's 1978, minus the leg warmers.

Unlike Suzanne Somers, the 74-year old Fonda appears to be aging rather gracefully. The happy grandmother could still crack open a beer with her ass, but missing are the fucked-up lips and wind tunnel visage, so popular with well-heeled women approaching that, "Oh my Jesus, I look like shit" stage of their lives.

The stage I'm at right now.

Suzanne rattled off symptoms of being hormonally imbalanced and overloaded with toxins: bloating, aching joints, dry everything, feeling like you need a box of chocolates and a nap midday. I sat there, nodding like a Parkinson's victim as she rhymed them off. The one symptom that cracked me up, was the thyroid-related absence of hair on the outside of your eyebrows. In Suzanne's case, it's because that part of her face is now tucked behind her ear. I rushed to the bathroom and checked out my brows, noting it had been a while since I'd had them shaped into something resembling two – so I figure my thyroid's okay.

Are there toxins in Cheesies?

I don't think Jack Tripper's old roommate taught me anything I didn't already know. Eat more organic whole foods, (spend a fortune on bad plastic surgery) cut out the booze, and exercise regularly – and you too can be 60+ something and wearing a leather dress. Suzanne never once mentioned inner beauty or happiness, perhaps because the poor bitch couldn't form a smile if she tried. And she is waving the controversial hormone replacement flag, loud and proud. While her messages seem a bit mixed, almost Chrissy-like, one simple point she did stress, was that most women get fewer than 5 hours of sleep per night. Our sagging souls require at least 8 for the wine to wear off, or for the insulin and hormones to do whatever it is they're supposed to do. I need closer to 10 hours, which is why my two tickets to Neptune Theatre are still sitting on my desk.

Blithe Spirit is a bubbly blonde. A beloved Noël Coward romp that makes one crave a gin and tonic. I was actually excited about stepping out for a little culture – that is, until 5 o'clock rolled around and I began hallucinating about slipping out of my leather dress, and in to my bathtub. The play was first produced in 1941, making it just slightly older than Suzanne Somers, and equally as timeless. It's basically a British Three's Company with comical ghosts. The only thing missing is the knock on the door – enter Mrs. Roper in her muumuu, looking for peri-menopausal love.

I Googled Chrissy and Jack's roommate "Janet" to see how Father Time had treated the perky brunette. Joyce DeWitt last made headlines in 2009, when she was arrested for drunk driving on a Saturday afternoon in sunny California. At 60, Joyce looked a little rough in her police mug shot, but then again, she appeared to have an expression, and lips capable of slurping from a martini glass, which is more than we can say for the Mistress of Thigh.

Joyce also had eyebrows. Full, and arched slightly – the way one does when pretending to be sober, and 22.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Blithe Spirit is running until February 13th at Neptune Theatre in downtown Halifax. Click here for tickets.

A bone of contentment.

2011-01-14T07:49:00.020-04:00

My eyes went straight to his package. And he wasn't a Fed Ex guy.

Anything following a crackerjack opening sentence like that had better be good. I wish I could say that the situation ended in satin sheets, but it was nothing like that. The next time anyone sees me horizontal and naked, I'll be lying under white cotton with a tag on my toe. And, truth is – given a choice between sex and the sausage rolls at Pete's Frootique, let's say I'd be picking poppy seeds and pastry out of my teeth, content as a pig-in-a-shit-blanket.

The aforementioned package, belonged to an athletic young surfer wearing a wet suit, in a beautiful photograph sent by a client.

"I can see his wiener." I told the client.

"No way... shit, gotta get an iphone, didn't see that on Blackberry." Was her response.

I imagine by now, the photograph is the screen saver on my client's computer, and as to whether we use the photograph or not, has yet to be determined. It's a nice wiener. Likely nicer had it not been dipped in the icy Atlantic moments before. But there it remains, a conversation between two women, well past the years when the surfer boy may have pointed his long board our way.

People say once the Little Bastard has moved away, and I have my so-called life back, that my cougar instincts will shove my maternal instincts aside and I'll be out looking for Mr. Goodbar. I somehow doubt that, but I am willing to be proven wrong. Having spent last week alone, the only thing I truly desired (besides RRSPs) was what I already have – minus the freezer full of chicken nuggets, and the skid marks on the towels.

A friend recently commented on Facebook how she misses her kids, "driving them to hockey, music, dance, miss their loud voices, miss their belly laugh, even miss their messy rooms!" I offered to loan her mine, but only in semi-jest. I like where I am right now, as boring as that seems.

If and when the Little Bastard leaves the nest, I plan to burn all the furniture, the rugs, the balled up hockey socks, the stacks of Sports Illustrated – and I'll ignite it all with the shitty towels – if they haven't already self-combusted. My hot flashes of late could start a bonfire worthy of a really big weenie roast, but that's all part and parcel of being 40-something-ish (and holding).

In the meantime, I have 3 trips to a variety of rinks this weekend, piles of laundry, and thankfully a few more years before I started investing in the geriatric, bunion-friendly version of "fuck me" pumps. I also plan on attending Maritime Travel's Vacation Superstore because travel is my aphrodisiac, and I plan on filling out every goddamned trip-winning ballot at the WTCC. Who knows... I just may get lucky.

With middle age comes the confidence of knowing if you had the wiener, you'd know what to do with it. And the self-contentedness of settling for the sausage roll.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Break that bottle of bubbly Hernando and no Canadian Tire money for you.

2011-01-11T17:09:00.024-04:00

"Define camping." I asked as nicely as I am able. "Is it camping camping – like sleeping on the ground camping – or is it Oprah and Gayle style camping, with lipstick and jammies and mattresses and stuff?"

Dead silence.

"Hello?" I said.

"It's camping." Replied, the not so adventurous sounding girl at the adventure travel company. "Tents on the ground camping."

I went on.

"So, okay, I'm thinking I'd like to do the drive-thru version of Machu Picchu. In and out like a cheap whore." Of course, I didn't say that last bit, as there was already a distinct failure to communicate between myself and the wouldn't know adventure if it kicked her in the ass-girl at the adventure company.

Dead silence.

"You can't drive through Machu Picchu, ma'am." Was the eventual response from the lifeless creature on the other end of the line.

"I understand that, you stupid bitch, I wasn't being literal." I said, losing patience. "What I meant was, I didn't have a whole lot of time to stop and smell the fucking Peruvian roses. I want to be there, on top, feeling like I've accomplished something – then I want to catch the first burro out of there."

Dead silence.

It was around then, that I hung up and called Nadine at Maritime Travel.

It's not that I've always had a lifelong burning desire to climb Machu Picchu. It's just that it's there, and it would be nice to wake up on top of something other than a poodle and a pile of drool, icing, and night sweats after drinking too much at a party my neighbours felt obligated to throw in my honour.

I want an adventure – and besides – dragging the Little Bastard along will give him something to remember me by after I stroke out, or get gunned down by someone I pissed off for the very last time.

Control freak that I am, I already knew the dates, places, times, temperatures, history, culture, economy, geography, and every flight coming and going from Lima to Havenot. And, while my travel agent is qualified and eager to research and sort through all the details – I just needed Maritime Travel to deal with the insolent lack of adventure girl at the adventure travel company. (And find me a luxurious last night in Lima.) Besides, I don't trust that random travel companies aren't going to up and blow town, shortly after they have my deposit. Booking with good ol' trustworthy Maritime Travel means I don't have to deal with sweating the small stuff – stuff that could easily escalate into big stuff, if left holding the carry-on bag in some Peruvian shit hole.

"And about the sherpas." I asked, just after my camping concerns and before my drive thru queries. "Will even the tiniest, most underage, toothless, uneducated, malnourished and impoverished of luggage porters be strong enough to carry my Concha y Toro?"

Dead silence.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Did you say, Concha y Toro?" the unadventurous girl asked.

"Yes. It's wine. A liquid made from grapes." I told her. "I'm going to be 50."

Dead silence.

"And thirsty as shit."

Dead silence.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

And so begins my attempt to climb Machu Picchu, dragging a reluctant 15-year old and a fat ass. Stay tuned. Plan your own adventure at Maritime Travel's Vacation Superstore this coming weekend at WTCC.

Happy new year, day three.

2011-01-03T10:13:00.012-04:00

I've been under the weather.

Nothing serious. Just a never-ending flow of phlegm and feverish self-pity, washed down with a delicious rum-laced hot cider and Nyquil combo, with a side of androgynous gingerbread people. Not the energetic start to 2011 I'd been gearing up for.

As a result, I've been horizontal – watching a great deal of television: HGTV marathons, Junior Hockey, Senior Hockey, 13-episodes of Haven sprinkled with Anne of Green Gables (the war years, where Anne was all wrinkled and annoying, and not even close to being a kindred fucking spirit). I continued my Film Appreciation Class for Ignorant Teenagers with a viewing of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. And thanks to a neighbour, I devoured the boxed set of Californication like a bulimic at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

For fear of resorting to another lame metaphor, I am happy (and a slight bit disturbed) to announce that David Duchovny's Californication character, Hank Moody, is my new muse. My Beatrice. My saviour – warts and all.

I have a good feeling about regurgitation in 2011.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

A nice finish, with hints of blackberry, and wait, is that urine?

2010-12-17T07:20:00.017-04:00

"Hey, brother can you spare a dime" takes on a whole new meaning, after reading the headlines in this morning's National Post: Make booze cheap for homeless, costly for everyone else: study.

My first question after, what the fuck?, was naturally, who funded this study? – my guess being a bunch of clever homeless guys, or the government.

According to the new University of Victoria study, people in this small and vulnerable group are more apt to turn to non-beverage (debatable according to another study) sources, such as rubbing alcohol, Beaujolais Nouveau, and antifreeze, if real alcohol is too expensive. Having recently purchased a small can of BillyRock wine (Merlot) to pair with my pizza slice (meat lovers), I can attest to the difficulty one faces when that bottle of 2006 Stags' Leap Cabernet Sauvignon Estate Napa Valley is simply out of reach, even when standing in my shopping cart.

The study also concludes that liquor should be "given free to homeless drunks to manage their consumption". To which I ask, why should the homeless drunks have all the fun? Effective immediately, well, this afternoon, okay, at lunch – I am personally funding a study that looks at single, self-employed moms and unlimited consumption management when handed pitcher after pitcher of Jose Cuervo Gold margaritas. Maybe Darrell Dexter and the NDP will fund my study because they certainly aren't throwing enough toward the issue of serious homelessness right here in the Ocean's Playground, where homeless individuals are stacked like Dolly Parton's relatives under the teeter-totter, right next to the million-dollar backyard rink some moron thought was a good idea to construct in a shit hole, where some winters you can golf in February, just after the blizzard clean up.

Right now, St. Matthew's Church on Barrington Street are in urgent need of blankets, warm clothes and Chivas Regal for their Out of the Cold Shelter. The shelter opened in November and will remain open until April 30th. Since December 4th, they have been at capacity every single night. Now that the mercury has dropped, clean out your closets (careful, your Cousin Tim is in there). Warm boots, socks, long johns and PJ pants in men's sizes are especially running low. For a full list of what items they need, please go to Out of the Cold.

Of course, I was kidding about the Chivas Regal. Drop that off at my house and I'll credit you in my research study.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Donations can be made online (click above) or mailed to Saint Matthew's United Church, 1479 Barrington Street. Please make cheques payable to "Saint Matthew's United Church" with a note that it is for the Shelter Fund. Charitable receipts provided.

For more info contact: halifaxwintershelter@gmail.com or call (902) 225.0770

If you are holiday shopping for some hard-to-buy-for alcoholic with anger issues, consider a gift to the shelter in their name.

"_____________________".

2010-12-10T07:42:00.016-04:00

My "Eats, Shoots and Leaves" daily flip calendar is stuck on April 11. What the hell happened to August and bits of October? (And what happened to Linda Hamilton, she was looking a little rough in the made-for-TV movie, where she went from happy housewife-to living in her car, that I watched last night because I could relate, and because I was too tired to look for the flicker.) Please note: The "flicker" is not a euphemism for the "g-spot" if is there is such a thing. Please note: I am using those annoying quotation mark "hand signals" or "air quotes" that annoying people use because they think you are too stupid or too blind to notice they are trying to make an annoying point.

So, where was I? Oh, I should point out that I started this on Monday, and since it is now Friday, I can ask: where the hell did Monday go, that is, after the power eventually came back on? I know that I worked, and I wandered in a questioning stupor through the shops, and I got hung up on by one prick of a "customer service" guy at Graf skates, and I hung up on the 411 operator because he could not find the Hudson Bay Company, The fucking Bay, HBC, or just BAY under any listing in the Yellow Pages. I even screamed, "LOOK UNDER BEAVER PELTS, ASSHOLE" just before I hung up and went to Biscuit General Store.

Spare time, and a lack thereof, is the topic of the day, because while I was listening to the wind whip shingles off my house last night (Sunday night) shortly after the dog puked up bits of, I'm thinking a dead chipmunk, all over the floor and just after he wanted out for the 3rd time, I was thinking about my parents and what they did with all their spare time. I know my dad waxed his cars every Saturday, and worked "overtime" in Manhattan a great deal, although "work" was perhaps an unhappy childhood repressed euphemism for "philandering" and avoiding going home to two kids and a wife who was once va- va- va-voom sexy, but was reduced to an under-appreciated suburban housewife in a very real, Mad Men society.

I know my mom smoked a great deal, and sewed, and played bridge, and belonged to a gourmet cooking club, and the poor thing ironed "Don Draper's" shirts while he was likely downing his 3rd scotch during "lunch" with his "secretary". So I'm thinking they never had much spare time either, as I don't recall looking up and seeing them cheering wildly at any of my baseball games.

I do recall my mom dancing to my dad's Hitler-esque need for meticulous housekeeping and order – because shortly after he left us, her housekeeping skills went to hell in a laundry basket – which I guess was her way of saying "fuck you".

So here it is 19 (now 15) days before the birth of the original Little Bastard and I haven't baked, wrapped, mailed, or hung anything – although I did manage to avoid electrocution and plump up my already inflated Nova Scotia Power bill by adorning the outside of my "fixer upper" with good old-fashioned energy-sucking Xmas lights, in the pissing December rain. Screw the environment – those LED lights detach my retinas and suck the Christ right out of Christmas.

Which brings me straight to my Santa list and Amy Sedaris' new book: Simple Times: Crafting for Poor People – a sequel of sorts to her book, I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence, a splendid coffee table tome with helpful hints for hosts, including steps on removing pesky vomit stains. Amy's latest book includes the chapter, Ten Commandments of Crafting – Number IX being: Remember to honor thy crafting and pastimes for they are a great way to get your mind off all the damage thy parents did.

Amy Sedaris, if you haven't had the pleasure, is the brother of the hysterically twisted author and NPR radio celebrity, David Sedaris (Naked, Holidays on Ice, etc) who somehow manged to sneak in and out of Havenot on a book tour recently – likely while I was sucking Zamboni fumes in search of an escape. Amy's television show, Strangers with Candy parodied, well, just about everything, and made me wish I grew up in the perfectly wonderful and dysfunctional Sedaris household.

Sniffing craft glue while intoxicated is an integral component to crafting, according to Sedaris, who claims, "Ugly people are crafting, pretty people are having sex." Chapters include: The Joy of Poverty: how being poor forces you into being creative and resourceful; oh, and Handicraftable: Crafting tips for the elderly, the weak and the mentally ill.

So, if you're stuck for something to give the ugly crafter on your list, or your "secretary", or me, pick up a copy of Amy's book, preferably at a local, independently-owned book store, like The Bookmark on Spring Garden Road. Who doesn't need to learn how to make crab-claw roach clips while sipping a gimlet? I can't wait to read her crafting tips for the bipolar. Those should come in especially handy in the boozy lull between Boxing Day and New Years.

Failing that, slide into Touch of Gold in Spring Garden Place and pick up something really bloody awesome. Like a classic pearl necklace (no, not that kind) or pearl earrings surrounded by diamonds. Or a Rolex that screams, "fuck you, my watch cost more than your car!". My dad always tried to sugar coat his infidelities by loading up my mom with jewelry. While it didn't work, it likely distracted her long enough to whip up something she learned at gourmet cooking club, like a shrimp and curry quiche sprinkled with Marlboro Lights and tears.

So, as we drift into the malls, and line ups, and debt associated with this joyous season, remember the Westin Nova Scotia make a complete turkey dinner for pickup (and $215+), while Street Connections mobile soup kitchen deliver meals to over 1200 people in HRM – and boy, could they ever use a "hand" which is a euphemism for "send a cheque, you selfish prick" because our Mayor is doing diddly squat.

The point is, according to myself and Amy Sedaris, "inebriation" (euphemism for "Christmas") will lead to many more "crafting accidents" (incidents involving family you cannot stand, but must tolerate in the spirit of Christmas) than sobriety will, but the upside is – these accidents will seem much more amusing.

And how would we ever get through the fucking holidays without a little "humour" (air quote for "egg nog, so spiked with rum, it curdles").

Ho, "ho," ho.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Meltdown with matching pants.

2010-11-25T06:54:00.022-04:00

The recent debacle over Havenot's proposed contention centre leaves us once again looking like a pack of blind and naked hillbillies in a shit storm.

I thought of this, as I jockeyed for position, for 23 minutes, in my pajamas and rain coat, in the freezing drizzle, waiting for the Little Bastard to emerge from a community based recreation centre that clearly gave no thought whatsoever to weather, traffic flow, or the concept of drop off and pick up.

By the time the Little Bastard sauntered out to the truck, I was frothing at the mouth. As the passenger door opened, I heard, "We're driving *Bruce home." (*Name has been changed to protect the innocent.)

Please note he said, "We're driving *Bruce home," not, "Hi Mom, sorry I'm late, Wow! that housecoat really accentuates the gray in your hair, is it okay if we drive *Bruce home?"

My head spun around and I said, "No! We are not driving anybody anywhere!" I went on. "*Bruce has two perfectly capable and sober parents with a minivan, and I already feel like a brainwashed fucking chauffeur listening to John Tesh and the windshield wipers going back and forth for over 23 minutes. Get in the goddamn car!!"

Just then, the back door opened and I heard *Bruce say, "Thanks for driving me home."

Bruce wasn't getting off that easy. I asked him if his Dad's cell phone was still working, and suggested maybe his parents could possibly call me when he needed a ride home, if for no other reason than to make me feel less of a worthless chump, placed on Earth to shuttle smelly teenagers from venue to venue, because I had nothing better to do. Nowhere else to be. No plans.

"Like my new track suit?" the Little Bastard said to break up the ice now forming on my moustache. "They couldn't get blue pants crested until Christmas, so the pants are black."

That's when I really lost it. "You mean, I just paid $120 dollars, that I don't have right now, for a hideous tracksuit, that you do not need.... and the pants don't even match!"

"It's really nice" he said, "It has our logo on it."

There are at least 15 hideous jackets and numerous nylon pants at our house with a variety of team logos on them. Many were awarded as trophies. Many, he had to have because the entire team had them, and as a stupid parent, you don't want your kid to be the only loser wearing last year's coat. So you buckle and break, and fork out another $120 bucks – never letting go of the reality that you have been wearing the same hideous, coffee-stained hillbilly rink coat for as many years as you can remember.

So, there I was, in the greasy darkness, having an invite-only pity party, driving like a maniac over the bridge and out of my way to drop off *Bruce. When we arrived at his house, it was all warmly lit with a minivan all snug in the driveway. There was likely a Rockwell roast in the self-cleaning oven, and a family curled up in front of the TV. I barely stopped long enough for him to grab his bag out of the back. I wanted out of there. Here. Anywhere.

I wanted out.

Bedtime rituals were a sombre event that night. I took my pity party to bed, mad at myself for being an emotional whack job; for being so bloody broke at this stage in my life; and for losing it in front of a kid who just needed a lift home. I was pissed off at spending $120 bucks, before Christmas, on a tracksuit that I needed more than he did. I'd look good walking the dogs in the filthy monsoons of March, sporting a $120 dollar tracksuit. I lay there thinking, I've never had a $120 dollar tracksuit. I've never even had a track suit. And to be perfectly honest, I've never wanted a stupid tracksuit. I just wanted someone to shelter me from the rain, tuck me in, or pick me up from just about anything – even a fall from grace.

The Adsum House Mystery Art Auction is happening tonight at the always playful house of Fred on Agricola. The concept is rather fun, and all proceeds go to support programs at Adsum House for Women and Children. Women and children who don't have jackshit, let alone a warm bed and a $120 tracksuit. The art, all valued at $100, will be auctioned off from 6 to 8:30pm this evening. The mystery? Everyone is in the dark as to who created each piece – the artist is revealed only after purchase.

With dawn came hints of blue, in a vomit coloured sky. As I dragged my morning frumpiness past the new tracksuit lying on the sofa, I saw something I hadn't noticed in the darkness of night. There – below the team logo he worked so hard to be a part of – was a band of black in the navy blue tracksuit.

In the light of a new day, there was hope, and heat, and coffee, and a happy boy. My life was good. And the pants did match.

Maybe I could squeeze my ass into his old pair.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Tickets $25 available from Adsum House by calling 423-5049.

Brett Favre is a pussy.

2010-11-17T05:44:00.018-04:00

Note: Contents of this blog recently offended a gentleman so proceed with caution.

Here we are, just past the 'glass is half empty' mark in November. I saw a house lit up like a Bethlehem whore last week, and my Movember moustache has reached the stage where I could easily apply to be a mall Santa. Only 38 more sleeps 'til Christmas.

Where am I going with this? Oh. I received an email the other day from a fellow blogger, although "fellow" seems like the wrong word, but let's go with it since it's 5am and I am out of coffee filters and toilet paper – the latter being a bit of an issue after consuming a grandiose tub of 7-bean salad from the Lebanese market on Agricola Street yesterday. Which is to say, the market is located on Agricola, I did not consume the delicious-but-deadly bean bomb on Agricola. I waited until I got home.

Nowweretalkingwithjodi.blogspot.com emailed me, to ask if she could put a link to this blog on her blog, which was awfully nice, so I figured I should maybe check her out, just in case she was some crazy, cat-killing, menopausal soccer mom with a foul mouth and nothing nice to say. Suffice it to say, Noweretalkingwithjodi had me at "hello" as I launched into her article about walking while performing Kegel exercises. Noweretalkingwithjodi has apparently trademarked something she called The Kegel Pole-ka™ and before I lose any gentlemen here, the Kegel is an exercise women are supposed to perform, to prevent our beavers from turning into porridge and hitting the linoleum.

Or so I thought.

The Kegel, as it turns out, is something else we have to share with men. Designed by Dr. Arnold (you guessed it) Kegel – the exercise was designed to strengthen the pubococcygeus muscle which stretches from the pubic bone to the tail bone forming a "hammock-like floor" that supports the organs of the pelvis and contributes to the function of the sphincter.

Sphincter. Damn. I should have gone with the 5-bean salad. Is the sun up yet? I hate that word sphincter. Is there a Dr. Sphincter?

And raise your hand if you find it difficult to get in, or crawl out of a hammock. On the rare occasion that I have hammocked, once I finally get in, spilling my drink in the process, all I can think about are the marks the scratchy ropes are making on my fatty thighs currently poking though the hammock holes – and how the hell am I going to get out? So a hammock-like floor near my asshole seems like a road I don't want to go down this morning. But, being Movember and since we're supposed to be providing jock support and awareness of male cancers, and being the good sport that I am – I tried Noweretalkingwithjodi's trademarked Kegel Pole-ka™ in the park, but since there are no telephone poles in the park I tried hoisting up my beav between birch trees, but soon lost interest and figured if my beaver hit the linoleum no one would notice or care anyway.

But isn't it nice that women can sit down and blog about intimate things like beavers, where, if men sat down and poured out their guts there would be endless blogs about why Brett Favre is a pussy, and how they wouldn't need a little blue pill if she didn't make them drive a little silver minivan, and the 20-year old who smiled at you at the gym (because you reminded her of her dad, silly). That kind of thing.

If women ruled the world there would be more wine bars like Obladee on Barrington Street. Whine (not a typo) bars should be located everywhere there's a overzealous crossing guard and a playground. Perhaps women would feel less need to sit down in the dark and pound out tales of woe and woebegone beavers, if we could sit down every afternoon and shoot the shit watching Oprah while enjoying a Cabernet Sauvignon from an expensive glass that didn't have Winnie-the-Pooh on the side – before returning home to wade through piles of laundry and homework, while sweating like a pig with a moustache.

38 more sleeps until Christmas, and no more sleeps before I am officially on vacation. Well, not a lying on a beach in a hammock-type vacation. Not exactly a vacation at all. I am going to glorious downtown Moncton for a hockey tournament – but anywhere that's not here, and has toilet paper and a mini bar – is a vacation.

That's all I'm sayin'.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Obladee Wine Bar is at 1600 Barrington Street in the old Frozen Ocean location.

Turning back the clocks to a disco beat.

2010-11-08T10:42:00.025-04:00

Well, the floodgates were certainly cranked open this weekend, as Havenot and surrounds were pounded with everything from a slight mist to a full-out deluge.

And I'm not talking about the weather.

I was a basket case from Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon, when Night Fever by the Bee Gees came on the car radio and finally nudged me over the watery edge. Thank God there was a lineup in McDonald's or the Little Bastard would have witnessed an outpouring of emotion the likes of which haven't been seen since Erin's boyfriend, G.W. Haines was killed on The Waltons.

Night fever, night feeeeeeeevaaaaaa. We know how to show it.

What had me in that particular rubber room moment, was time. It's going way too fast. That song came out 33 fucking years ago.

This weekend's sad reality that time was whizzing by, first hit me when I arrived at the rink early on Saturday morning. The Little Bastard was coaching little goalies as part of Hockey Nova Scotia's Development Weekend. I sat in the stands and watched as my 6'3" baby offered words of encouragement to five and six year-old players who barely reached his knees. Wasn't it only yesterday that he skated out on his ankles, beginning a journey that would take us both on a path I wasn't prepared to go down? Come to think of it, I was crying then, too.

Ten years have flown by like a disco beat.

Over the weekend, I dropped him off, and picked him up – from Halifax to Fairview to Bedford's shiny new fourplex. I arrived early so I could watch him and the little kids, mindful of the tears streaming down my face, fearful I would look like a lunatic, or at least more of a lunatic than I normally do. To think, I silently prayed this whole hockey thing would go away so we could be free spirits and travel and ski on sunny winter days. To think, I used to grumble and bitch and moan (and still do) about the cost and the time and the whacked-out parents, and the endless fundraising. (Anyone want to buy tickets on a chance to see Sidney Crosby vs Montreal?)

To think, this sport I fought so vehemently against had actually shaped my little boy into a brave, kind young man. There he was – coaching – something I guess he picked up naturally after ten years of being coached by gentle, fun, selfless, incredible men who gave their precious time to my fatherless kid.

Well, I sat in the stands, or stood behind the glass and cried all fucking weekend. I was so happy. I was happy to think I'd get another precious hour Saturday night. I was happy it was rain and not snow. I was happy the Thornbloom gals opened a new shop-ette in Spring Garden Place called SHE is ME selling cozy hats and gloves and accessories, suitable for the fanciest of rinks.

Sure, I spent the weekend driving, or waiting in the car, or sitting in the rink blubbering – but I was happy. There's no other word for it – although maybe the dead Bee Gee said it better:

Here I am prayin' for this moment to last.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

SHE is ME is located in the old Moneysworth & Best shoemaker's location in Spring Garden Place.

What to wear to a drive by shooting.

2010-11-05T07:23:00.019-03:00

Would someone roll back the fucking clocks already. I just spent 15 minutes looking for dog shit in the rainy darkness of November.

Oh, sorry... Movember. Yes, it's that time of the month when men across Havenot and around the globe, are showing off unsightly facial hair in support of prostate cancer, or, because the poor, simple souls love the attention, or, have recently had the joy of bending over like Ned Beatty in front of a rubber-gloved Dr. Gus Grant.

The lads at Golf Central are participating, as is Jordi Morgan the new and downright listenable (new word) host of Maritime Morning on Talk 95.7. Hell, I'm growing a mo, just because I can.

I can also boast that I have plans for Friday night. Let me repeat that: I have plans for Friday night. No rink. No going to bed, crying into a box of Triscuits. This broad is stepping out. Fortunately, I took time from my hectic life of-late, to rotate my summer wardrobe into my fall wardrobe – so my good long sweats are all clean and pressed and ready for an evening at the Parkside Pub in Dartmouth. (You may have heard of the Parkside Pub, as there was a drive-by shooting there recently.) I can't wait. It's the Little Bastard's Major Midget hockey auction and, as anyone who's had the pleasure of attending one of these highbrow affairs can attest to – hockey auctions involve an abundance of boxed wine, fried pepperoni, strained conversation over the volunteer auctioneer's squealing microphone, and plenty of arm waddle flapping in the breeze when you accidentally bid on yet another corporate golf shirt someone kindly donated whilst ordering another box of Chateau Despair Blanc.

Anyone give me 10? 10? 8? 8? Do I hear 5? 2? Fuck.

My hair is good though, because I paid my hairdresser a visit the other day. Brenda Dillman. I can never remember her married name. I do remember losing a bet to Brenda once. I bet her there wasn't one nice man (who was good in bed) left on Earth, who wasn't gay, an alcoholic, divorced, a gay divorced alcoholic, or in love with his mother/sister/boss/cousin/Brett Favre. She won. She got married to whatshisname. Mike. Mitch. Mark.

Brenda Kennedy. That's it! Brenda Kennedy. The mind is a beautiful thing.

Brenda has left Spirit Spa to join Kim Grant in her lovely new salon, Flaunt, on Windsor Street. Kim Grant is, and I'm no lesbian (yet), the most beautiful woman in Havenot. Brenda Whatshername is no slouch either, plus Brenda's so fun, you almost get over the humiliation of staring at yourself in the mirror with wet hair and a moustache.

So off I go! Good sweats, good hair, bullet-proof bra, downy upper lip, and a hard on for some boxed wine.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Flaunt Salon is located at 2166 Windsor Street. Call 425.0020.

The Parkside Pub is at 14 Highfield Park Drive in Dartmouth. Come bid on some really great stuff in support of the Dartmouth Ice Dawgs (Subways). I gathered up goodies from Golf Central, Thornbloom, Empire Theatres, White Point, Core Essentials Gym ... it'll be fun. Really, it will.

Cross walks.

2010-10-26T10:55:00.010-03:00

Thump. Thump.

If you've never had the pleasure of running over a cat, you won't appreciate the satisfying rapid fire double thump as rubber makes contact with kitty litter-encrusted fur – not once but twice.

Thump. Thump.

The Little Bastard and I ran over the neighbour's pussy last week – and while he claims I accelerated – I confess to showing signs of weakness by toeing over to the brake at the very last second.

I don't know what got into me.

Nevertheless, the cat survived, as we both turned and watched it scurry away – hanging on to its entrails, and eight of its nine lives.

Same holds true for the emaciated runner who dashed into the crosswalk last week. (It was a good week.) While I did not hit him – or his balls flopping around in flimsy, too-short shorts – it was truly tempting. The bag of sinew and bones and Red Bull neither slowed his gait, nor jogged in place until it was safe to cross. When said runner saw that I had no intention of slamming on the brakes, he ran behind my car and subsequently flipped me the bird. Had the Little Bastard not already been late for hockey I would have gone around the block and hunted the indignant asshole down. Apparently he was absent in Kindergarten the day they taught: Stop. Look. And fucking Listen.

Thump. Thump.

However, I will slow down, if ever I see the Street Connection bus. Lucky me, I live in a neighborhood where children and students are over fed, and full of hope, and Budweiser, and opportunities. Not so much in neighbourhoods frequented by Street Connection's Mobile Soup Kitchen. Established in 1992, the Bus feeds thousands of needy children and adults across HRM. HRM! Funny to think some people don't eat by choice – so their thighs won't slap together when they're running – while others don't eat because choices have been made for them.

If you have anything left to give after covering your own asses, please consider a donation to Street Connections. Christmas sucks when you have nothing and an empty tummy – so let's flip hunger the bird. Your donation ensures that every child will also receive a gift bag – and a little hope – along with their turkey and pie. Mail cheques to: Street Connection 2 Fox Hollow, Tantallon, NS, B3Z 1E5 – or I'll swing by and pick it up. (Just don't leave your cat outside.)

Thump. Thump.

That's not me running over cats or needy children or Bible thumping, although the Street Connection Mobile Soup Kitchen is fueled by faith.

Thump. Thump.

That's my heart.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For more information: Click here: Street Connection.

(If you'd like to make a donation, please call Sandra Pattison at 826.1100 so she can plan for food and gift purchases.)

Closure.

2010-10-22T08:21:00.005-03:00

I've been trying to break up with this blog but I can't.

Both needy and co-dependent, our relationship has flat lined since the economy rebounded – resulting in more work than I can deal with, and not enough lucid hours in the day. (If you recall, we started courting when I was knee-deep in angst, and the bank was threatening to pull the rip cord on my life support.)

Then I spent the entire summer in a rink parking lot – and since this blog is internet based – I couldn't even bitch and moan between donut bites and swigs of canned Chardonnay.

But last week, something happened.

Last week, someone told me I'd lost my edge. My fucking edge. Who am I without my edge? Just another mommy blogger trying to help small businesses while boring people to death with tips on how to fish a cigarette butt out of pancake batter.

So here ya go.

And I am not sure what I am more upset about: the fact that Colonel Russell Williams gets to rot out the rest of his meaningless life in protective, tax-paid security – or, because that sick fuck looks better in a one-piece bathing suit than I do?

I say, as a mother: put the Colonel in lace panties and throw him in to the King Pen cafeteria on meatloaf night.

Because there aren't enough hours in the day to tell your kids you love them, over and over and over again.

It's not you, it's me. And I'm not going anywhere.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Surely they meant profound.

2010-10-13T17:06:00.004-03:00

I've been trapped in the hockey/life/work equivalent of a Chilean mine.

Back soon, just catching my fucking breath.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Swipe this.

2010-10-05T05:56:00.016-03:00

"Swipe towards me." she said with disdain.

I looked at the debit machine.

"How can I swipe it toward you, when you're standing right in front of me?" I asked. "The swiper thing goes up and down."

She looked up from investigating her chipped, black nail polish and repeated, "Swipe towards me."

I was in a place I hated more than church, on the brink of forking out $55 bucks for what would amount to one shitty, spice-free beige meal even the dogs wouldn't eat. I had no eco-friendly bags in a bag-free zone, no time, and no patience for this ignorant fucking teenager with so many facial piercings she looked like she'd survived the Challenger explosion.

"I can't swipe it toward you." I repeated, not willing to be out-bitched by this slip of a greasy-haired Avril Lavigne wannabe. "It's physically impossible. You are standing right in front of me."

Blank stare. Sigh. Clearly it was time for a little life lesson before Monday no-hockey home cooked meal night.

I began, "Listen, either move the fuck over to the left, in which case the stripe would indeed be facing toward you – or be more explicit." I advised. "Try being a little more creative with your insolence and disgust for authority, lemon gin hangovers and minimum wage". I continued. "Try, 'stripe goes back toward where we stock the Depends'." I suggested. "Or, how about 'stripe goes down and to the left, kind of like your sagging breasts, you miserable old bag'."

Blank stare. Clearly she was no Shamwow, willing to soak up my tips on how to survive in a cruel and graceless world.

Tired of messing with the checked-out girl, I swiped, then threw my groceries into the cart. I then threw them into the backseat of the truck, then into the frying pan, then on to a plate. Finally, I placed the brown and beige pile of slop lovingly in front of the Little Bastard, who looked at it with the same disdain as Avril back at the Superstore.

"Don't say one bloody word!" I said to him, as he looked at the gray strips of rainbow flecked beef, nestled on a bed of stiff rice. "It's a stir fry."

I sat down, took a bite, and made a declaration. Or a proclamation. Whatever.

I announced that this would be my third, and my final, Monday no-hockey home cooked meal night.

All I could hear was a murmur, through a mouthful of chewy horse meat, "Oh, thank God." I believe he said.

For $55 bucks we could have had 18 hot dogs at the Dawg Father, two delicious meals in a booth at the Greek Village on Quinpool, or takeout – twice – from The Armview. For $55 bucks I could stock up on frozen entrées from Jane's on the Common or the Italian Market. For $55 bucks I could have bought two bottles of wine, opened a bag of Cheesies and called Swiss Chalet. No mess, no fuss, no teenage 'tude, and everybody's happy.

Whipping up a home cooked meal after working all day – just to prove a motherly point – means I have to buy everything right down to the pan. Even that little chubbette Rachel Ray couldn't throw together a meal with ketchup, Five Alive, a jar of stuffed olives, and a muffin tin.

Fuck it. If the little bastard wants a home cooked meal he can marry a moron, learn how to cook, or go live with the neighbours.

It's October, and I'm hanging up my spatula. Just in time for Thanksgiving.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Valley of the Dolls meets Stephen King

2010-09-22T11:23:00.025-03:00

Here's my "Pitch the Publisher" idea for this weekend's Word on the Street:

"Set in Maine, a once vibrant and downright saucy, middle-aged woman drops her little bastard off in the high school parking lot and has an epiphany that she's middle-aged and will never be able to afford to retire until about 25 fucking years after she's dead, so she mopes around all day in soiled L.L. Bean outlet store sweatpants wondering if she'll ever have coit... hey... wait...

That's my life.

Except for the Maine part. I made that up.

Never mind.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Word on the Street schedule.

Stubborn. Stain. Removal.

2010-09-17T12:47:00.017-03:00

The little bastard came to me with a laundry complaint this morning, and I think he knew, just as the words came spilling out of his mouth, what a grave fucking error he was making.

He was holding up a hoodie and was just about to suggest another round of Spray 'n' Wash – when I blew.

It started with "If you think I was put on Earth to..." and ended with, "you can kiss my big fat ass."

Needless to say, it's been a bit busy around here, or maybe you haven't noticed, but hmmm... looks like September 2nd was the last time I sat down to vent and waste precious time. Since then, it's been a watery casserole of back-to-school, hockey, looking for pants that don't make me look like Jed Clampett, and cranking out last-minute ad campaigns for people who suddenly realized the heat wave was over.

Since September 2nd, the highlight of my life was giving myself a pedicure in my car, in the dark, in the New Glasgow rink parking lot. By pedicure, I mean scraping at my heels with a mill bastard from Canadian Tire. Actually it was a Dr. Scholls foot thingie, but mill bastard just sounded so much better. (For those who don't know what a mill bastard is, it is no relation to the little bastard and there's a picture of one over to the right.) Considering the shape of my feet, a mill bastard likely would have done a better job, but for some reason I had a Dr. Scholl thingie in my glove box – who doesn't – so I just went with that.

Since September 2nd, I have ignored some hilarious letters to my yet-to-be-launched advice column. I have also been 'call screening' someone from Toronto who wants to interview me, but I sounded so totally certifiable in my last interview I just keep ignoring her calls hoping she'll go away. I also turned down two (not one, but two) invitations to the film festival because I didn't have anything to wear, or the little bastard had hockey, or I hated movie musicals and crowds – so much for my autumn goal to run over the neighbour's cat and "get a life". Here it is halfway through September and I haven't accomplished anything other than a whack of work and some dead skin removal.

Since September 2nd, the annual Frame-it Custom Framing sale has been on and I've been too damn busy to do anything about it. So go frame something you cherish before September 30th.

Since well before September 2nd, women have been collecting bras for the annual Bras Across the Bridge breast cancer fundraiser. C100 FM are hosting the event and claim to have over 8000 bras so far. If you happen to be driving across the MacDonald bridge on Sunday and see one that's better than the one I have on at the moment, grab it for me. Anything without little escaped spirals of elastic will do.

Since September 2nd, my boy lost his stomach contents repeatedly one night, and it had absolutely nothing to do with alcohol or my cooking. And another sweet boy lost his Dad. A 47-year old single father of two. That kind of put everything into perspective for me, and I realized I have a truly wonderful life.

It's just a stain. With any luck it has a story to tell.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Back to cool.

2010-09-02T07:19:00.020-03:00

It was the kid standing in my backyard chugging a Coke and eating a bag of gummies at 9 o'clock, who finally did me in last night.

"Go away" I said, before he could get any closer.

"Can Jack go..." he began.

"No," I interrupted sweetly, "Fuck off, summer's over."

"But someone's picking us up here..." he said, risking his life... "We're going swimming." he continued.

"I don't care where you are going. It's a school night. The little bastard's had all summer to swim, and now summer is over – so scoot, run along, go to bed." I said, sweating like a pig in pajamas.

"Can I just stand here until my ride picks me up?" he said, chugging back more Coke.

"No!" I screamed sweetly, "Fuck off! It's September! You – and dozens of others like you – have to get your sweaty asses off of my sofa and get a haircut, drink some milk, clip your homeless-looking toenails, read a book, clean your ears, find your parents, and get your individual shits together because I've HAD IT!" I took a deep breath of hot air. "Other mothers get to dress up and go to work and sit in air-conditioned offices and take paid summer vacations and stuff.... but oh no, not me. I get to sit in my frumpy elastic-waist shorts, and try to work, while dozens of puberty-blinded zit machines with no shirts on, scream at wrestlers and shoot each other on XBox, ten feet away from where I am trying to make a living... so, go bloody-well home." I said politely.

But I wasn't finished. And he wasn't moving.

"Do I have to send a text message to get through to you?" I said, perspiration flying off my dewy upper lip. "Go place empty chocolate milk containers in someone elses fridge. Don't flush your own toilet. Drop Twinkies behind the snot-encrusted furniture in your own home. Lose your own beach towels, swimming trunks, ice cream money... because we are OUT. In fact, we're out of chips, ten dollar bills, toilet paper, wine, Gatorade, KD and gas, because I've driven your sweat-covered asses to the mall, the movies, the lake, the rink, the gym, the Golden Arches, the emergency room, and the driving range. It may not feel like summer's over, but it is SO OVER – so get the hell out of here or Hurricane Earl will seem like a bad blow job compared to what's in store if you don't back up and get out of my yard." I went on, pointing. "Inside that filthy oven of a house, you won't find one school supply – not even a new backpack, and my kid will be going to school with a coffee filter and a golf pencil, but you know what? I don't care! Summer's over, and parents around the globe will have Schmirnoff in their orange juice in the morning – rejoicing because it's OVER! It's finally fucking over!"

"So, is it ok if I use your bathroom?" he said.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Thornbloom's annual furniture SALE is on! Toss your summer-worn sofa on the curb and get a new one.

Three dog night.

2010-08-31T14:42:00.020-03:00

My philosophy has always been: go big or stay home – which may, or may not explain why I woke up spooning a golden retriever in a pup tent in my backyard.

Pup tent... get it? I need fries with gravy and a Diet Coke please.

The clock had all but run out on my deadline to blow $100 bucks in downtown Havenot while living to tell the tale – so I conned my neighbour into coming along for the Monday night ride. I normally would have asked my friend Larry to be my wingman but short of winding up in prison, downtowning it with Larry often ends in a tumble down pizza corner hill and/or standing on a chair singing along to a country and western song chugging whiskey out of a paper cup. In hindsight, Larry would have been safer than taking my neighbour along, as what was intended as a civilized culinary evening turned in to, well, did I mention I woke up in a tent?

First let me explain how I came to possess a Downtown Halifax Business Commission Visa card. The Coles Notes version is: some idiot at Extreme Communications, I'll blame Anthony Taafe*, decided it would be a good idea to hand $100 Visa card to 30 bloggers and set them loose on the downtown core – with hopes that the resulting social marketing frenzy would be a lift for the sagging bosom of downtown Havenot.

Could someone run and get me a milkshake and a Diet Coke?

I had several plans for blowing my wad, none of which came into fruition. Instead of a tub of wrinkle cream from Spirit Spa or taking a hungry hooker for a healthy lunch, I opted to leverage my $100 the worst way I knew how. Casino Nova Scotia. My plan was to win big, then spend big.

Having only forayed into the bowels of the Casino once – with Larry and a pair of Dionne Warwick tickets – I was horrified to see that we had apparently stumbled into that air-conditioned hell on Seniors night. It was also Tabi slacks night, toupee night, and cheap white wine night. Because my head hurts I'll just say, we were up $35 bucks on the slots at one point, but left there with a bit of a glow on and $40 bucks in the hole, because the Downtown Visa card wasn't accepted at the Casino. Just welfare cheques and old-age security.

The Halifax waterfront was hopping and hotter than shit. We passed on several restaurants that looked too busy and made it through the congregation of over-aged bikers who hang out by the ferry terminal. Heading uphill wasn't an appealing option so we hugged the coast and wound up at Bish of all places. I know, a little out of my comfort zone (wardrobe and budget wise) but what the hell, it wasn't my money.

Excuse me, could someone please go get me some egg rolls and a Diet Coke?

As it turns out, it was my money because after we plowed through the world's most expensive and delicious mussels, frites and wine we discovered the Visa card, once again, was a limp dick. The evening was slowly becoming hazy and expensive – but we were on a mission. Before plopping down at the neighbouring Il Mano (Italian for handjob) for a pizza to soak up the wine, I handed the so-far useless Visa to the waiter (who by the way gave French waiters a run for the money on the rudeness scale) to see if it would finally perform. It did. Too well. Champagne flowed and Havenot's best pizza followed, and before we knew it, we were heading home in a cab, covered with stupid grins and tiramisu – over-spent and over-served.

Oh! At one point I thought the man at the next table was winking at me, but he was falling asleep. But it's a start.

Okay, I am wrapping this up because my Big Day Downtown is nowhere near as exciting as the guy with the sex toys and the cocktails at nordinaryrollercoaster.com and besides, I am tired and really fucking thirsty. To make a long boring story short – we arrived home to a house that was so hot it was like Backdraft 2. I walked through the screen door sending it crashing to the floor and I had a combination of the whirlies and hot flashes and needed to lie down, but my bedroom was like an crematorium. It was around that moment that I had a brilliant idea – I'd get the little bastard to pitch the tent in the backyard.

It took a while because it was dark and he wasn't overjoyed to be setting up a tent for his mother, at midnight, but perhaps sensing I wasn't in the mood for bargaining – he got it all organized and I crawled in, and the two dogs crawled in, and within seconds I was in a Big Downtown Day food and alcohol-induced coma, under the starry sky in my backyard.

Would a Baconator and a Diet Coke be too much to ask?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

*Anthony Taafe isn't really an idiot, quite the opposite in fact.

Morning breath.

2010-08-25T08:15:00.008-03:00

I just yawned and the dog stuck her tongue in my mouth, so technically that's sex, right?

Technically that's lesbian sex bordering on beastiality, so whoa, I should write in to my own advice column – but I already have my hands full sifting through some of your fucked-up, daytime drama-worthy dilemmas – some of which aren't really problems at all from my perspective – in fact – some of your so-called Harlequin moments look like a win-win to me but hey, who am I to judge.

I just necked with my dog.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

FYI: "beastiality" keeps popping up on spell check so I spell checked it on Google and there's a website called www.beastiality.com but I was afraid to click on it in case there was a photo of me necking with my dog. Or worse.

FYI2: I have a host of experts (!) standing by ready to field (laugh at) your concerns so keep 'em coming.

FYI3: My dog just lit a cigarette. I feel cheap.

Dear Abby...

2010-08-24T08:57:00.011-03:00

I've had buckets of feedback from yesterday's pathetic recount of my weekend pity party, but let's get one thing straight: No, I am not having "man" troubles, unless you're talking about my increased quota of facial hair.

No man = no man troubles.

My heart is also fine. In fact, the flurry of emails and comforting responses drove home the realization that we are all basically the same – swimming with or against the tide, all the while dealing with similar bullshit – like sagging body parts, raising happy kids who don't fuck up, struggling with relationships and assholes, questioning our existence – all the while balancing the cheque book, staying alive and keeping out of prison.

So I have an idea.

I am going to write an advice column. Well, not a real column in the Dear Abby sense of a syndicated column where I'd actually get paid – but an advice column all the same.

Although, answers to life's difficult and often ridiculous questions could be brief because, "Have a glass of wine and tell them to go fuck themselves" is a pretty standard and acceptable response to any situation, don't you think?

Dear Halifax Broad,

I think my husband is cheating on me, but I am afraid to confront him.

Signed,

What to do in New Waterford

My answer would be:

Dear What to do in New Waterford:

Men are pigs. Smash his big screen TV with his favourite golf club. If he doesn't get as angry as you think he normally would, he's a cheating bastard.

Then have a glass of wine and tell him to go fuck himself.

Signed,

Dear Halifax Broad

This is going to be fun. So send in your questions about love, dating, upholstery, how to get cum stains out of a tennis skirt, unsightly nose veins, that red spot on your ass, how to make crack out of baby Aspirin, who gives the best lip wax in Havenot, etc. In return, I'll be as honest and forthright as humanly fucking possible.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Range of emotions.

2010-08-23T07:39:00.007-03:00

What a fabulous weekend.

I had a massage, flew to the Hamptons for brunch, and had a tumultuous affair with my pool boy.

Actually, no. Truth is, I watched the late summer sun sink into the Golden Arches, just beyond the rink parking lot – twice. Saturday, I curled up on top of the laundry on top of my bed and cried because the tennis was rained out, or maybe because I stood by and supported my son as he made a decision he'll likely regret. Sunday, I witnessed a pathetic pissing match resulting in innocent casualties of a senseless war. And I spent $35 bucks on a plastic cone so my dog wouldn't chew his fucking tail off. Oh, and to round off the weekend, my faith in mankind was totally crushed. (I ate a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream to compensate for that last one.)

Bemoaning my fate at spending another loveless, soul-sucking year in sweatpants, in Havenot, I commented on how lucky my neighbour was to have a handsome, doting husband; a perfect house; carefree days; and a cleaning lady – to which the little bastard said, "Oh, boo hoo."

He was right of course – my weekend pity party was pathetic, and for some reason alcohol-free. I was desperately in need of anger management, and an attitude adjustment. Lacking the necessary funds to hop on a plane and go eat, pray, love – I hopped in my truck and headed to the nearest driving range where I could whack the shit out of a bucket of balls instead of lodging my new Nancy Lopez 9-iron up someone's ass.

Just being at a place called Goodwood, manhandling a potential weapon, made everything a little rosier. I sidled up to my little island of astro turf and sought solace – methodically knocking ball after ball either into therapeutic oblivion, or 4 feet from the tee.

I lofted one into the rhubarb for the broken soul I fought to protect, and lost. I smashed the shit out of a range ball that spewed charm and total bullshit. I swung, and missed, for the heartbroken and the lonely – only to re-focus and swing again – this time driving it exactly where I wanted it to go.

I forced my head down and my spirits up.

Golf is the perfect metaphor for life. You suck one minute, you shine the next – only, in golf – no one gets hurt, there's no one to blame but yourself, and if you're lucky, a drink cart girl will come along and offer up a nice, cold beverage you can knock back in peace, before picking up your ball and soldiering on.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Goodwood Family Golf Centre is located on Prospect Bay Road about 5 minutes from the rotary. The haddock from the fish & chip wagon in their parking lot is better than sex or revenge.

Oh, what a feeling.

2010-08-17T05:39:00.004-03:00

The conversation went something like this:

TOYOTA: Toyota service, how can I help you?

ME: I received a recall notice on my Tacoma, so I'd like to deal with that.

TOYOTA: Certainly Ma'am, when would you like to come in?

ME: Well... never... but since it's a recall, and I don't want my car to careen uncontrollably into another Toyota, then I guess I have no choice. When do you have a loaner vehicle available?

TOYOTA: I'm sorry Ma'am, we don't have loaner vehicles, but you are welcome to hop on our convenient courtesy shuttle that comes by every 15 minutes.

ME: Gosh, that's such a fabulous option. I have a sinus infection that feels like a brain tumor, so I'd love nothing more than to pile into a minivan with 7 other pissed off Toyota owners and wait my turn to get dropped off like a challenged senior citizen in an Access-a-Bus. I don't think so. What are my other options? How about cab chits?

TOYOTA: Well, that depends.

ME: Depends on what?! How many innocent people I have the potential to kill on my way to Toyota to have my recall repaired. Three deaths = one cab chit?

TOYOTA: No ma'am, where we have the convenient courtesy shuttle we no longer need cab chits. So will you be waiting for your vehicle or will you be dropping it off?

ME: Well, what's the difference? If I sit and wait, will it get done faster than if I drop it off and catch the convenient courtesy shuttle, then crawl back on my hands and knees to pick it up?

TOYOTA: It'll take about an hour.

ME: Which would be approximately the length of time to get picked up and dropped off – then if I am lucky and time it perfectly – picked up again by your convenient courtesy shuttle.

TOYOTA: Yes, ma'am.

ME: Well, while it's in there for a recall, you may want to look at the front passenger side window. It has a mind of it's own.

TOYOTA: (Typing) That's the front passenger window... it does what?

ME: It does nothing. It doesn't go up or down sometimes.

TOYOTA: How often?

ME: Well, once would be enough don't you think, but actually it happens all the time.

TOYOTA: Like how often?

ME: Like about as often as that fucking convenient courtesy shuttle swings by to pick up the pissed off and inconvenienced.

TOYOTA: (Typing) So front passenger window gets stuck every 15 minutes?

ME: Good enough, hey, while I am in there, the radio also has a mind of its own. It goes off and on at will.

TOYOTA: How often?

ME: Fuck. I don't know. Again, I would think once was enough, but would it get me a cab chit if I said it happened quite frequently and not necessarily in harmony with the car window, although that would be some feat of Japanese engineering, wouldn't it? I'm no mechanic but I'd say there's a bit of an electrical short somewhere.

TOYOTA: (Typing) Okay Ma'am, we'll take a look at the radio, now, how many kilometres are on the vehicle?

ME: I don't know... I'm guessing 29,000-ish, give or take a 1000.

TOYOTA: Oh dear.

ME: Oh dear, what?

TOYOTA: Oh dear, you are way overdue for your oil change, you really should have been in around 26,000. It is very important to have routine...

ME: (interrupting) Are you lecturing me? Because if I wanted a fucking lecture I would have called my Aunt Dorothy.

TOYOTA: I didn't intend it to sound like a lecture Ma'am.

ME: Well, it did sound like a lecture, and considering you are TOY-fucking-OTA not to mention I had to sit through Pokemon: The Movie and the whole WWII thing, I would say you are hardly in any position to be pointing a finger at me for being negligent. In fact you should send Akio Toyoda over to kiss my fat ass and personally pick up my devalued, recalled bucket of shit – then deliver it back with a complimentary spit, polish and rim job good enough for Anne of fucking Green Gables.

TOYOTA: So (typing) 29,000.

ME: I heard that.

TOYOTA: Heard what, Ma'am?

ME: That little disapproving tsk-tsk noise you just made, and don't call me Ma'am. If you must know, the little sticker in the window says September or 26,000 kilometres so technically I am early, because I chose September.

TOYOTA: Ma'am it's not September OR 26,000 it's whatever comes first.

ME: Are you arguing with me, because if I wanted to argue with someone, I'd wake my kid up and ask him to empty the dishwasher.

TOYOTA: No Ma'am. So, would Tuesday the 17th at ten work? And will you be dropping off or waiting?

ME: That depends. Do you have a karaoke machine and a sushi bar?

TOYOTA: No Ma'am, we have a complimentary coffee shop.

ME: Complimentary, as in it'll tell me my ass looks great in these sweat pants, or complimentary, as in free?

TOYOTA: Complimentary, as in some items are free of charge.

ME: Some. Is that like, only some Toyotas accelerate uncontrollably? What about the karaoke machine?

TOYOTA: I am sorry Ma'am, no karaoke, but there is a television and convenient work stations.

ME: Oh boy. In that case, I'll bring the little bastard and his friends, so they can have breakfast, lunch and dinner while I am waiting. Did I mention he has Tourettes and all his friends have ADHD? He also juggles. They'll knock back a few dozen powder donuts and hot chocolates, then sit in the shiny new showroom cars and fart while making electrical engine explosion noises and get white donut stuff and boy sweat all over the interiors. So yes, we'll wait.

TOYOTA: Ma'am, I'll talk to the Manager and see about a cab chit.

ME: どうもありがとう

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Wade in the water (and fetch me my golf ball, Toby).

2010-08-10T08:37:00.006-03:00

Violating a sofa cushion was the closest my dog had been to romance – but he had a perpetual boner the moment we crossed the Canso Causeway into Cape Breton.

Perhaps the combination of natural beauty and inbreeding suited his erstwhile celibate nature – either that – or he is a descendant of the virile coyotes currently playing havoc with folk singers and campers from Broad Cove (no relation) to Meat Cove.

Whatever it is, or was, I confess to feeling a bit lovestruck myself, having spent a few days in the strong arms of the Highlands. I can think of nothing else besides the breathtaking water hazards and "Killiecrankie" – the aptly named 7th hole of the Highland Links – the legendary, randy Scot that devoured a dozen or so of my precious balls, and had me bending over in the bushes with every stroke.

I also lie awake at night thinking about the view from our cottage at Glenghorm Beach Resort, the friendly people, and the seafood chowder – rich with scallops and lobster – that reinforced the notion that size really does matter. It was the biggest and the best I've ever had.

Three days in Cape Breton wasn't enough, but it was long enough to reinforce my anger toward the dickheads who run this province – the elected oafs who overlook the commodity that is lying here unspoiled, underfunded, and under appreciated. Tourism. How anyone can walk on to the most spectacular golf course, mid-summer without a tee time, is a pleasure, and a pity. The attractions and accommodations of this postcard-pretty province should be overflowing with tourists horny for an experience they'll carry with them like happy herpes.

Instead, the icing on the shitcake: Nova Scotia has been crowned Canada's Mississippi of the North. Our neighbour, P.E.I. gets Regis and Kelly, and we get the sequel to "Uncle Tom's Cabin". Maybe that was the plan – take away the lifelines – the Maine ferry, direct European flights – and bring back the Underground fucking Railway.

Way to go, Canada's Ocean Playground.

Nevertheless, I remain a dog with a bone about getting back up to the Highlands. The deals are amazing from Dundee to Ingonish, and I even test drove a set of Nancy Lopez clubs at Golf Central in Bayer's Lake. (The golf courses of Cape Breton make you want to be a better woman.) Now, I lie awake at night, touching myself, thinking about Nancy Lopez's fat ass bending over to pick up a ball on #11, Bonnie Burn.

My dog, he lies next to my bed, dreaming coyote dreams and licking where his balls used to be.

Maybe he should run for Premier.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

And next Saturday, we'll be getting in touch with our inner Yamahas.

2010-07-29T09:01:00.009-03:00

What the hell?

Stuck in gridlock caused by one of this summer's numerous unavoidable and pathetic Bandaid solutions for a crumbling infrastructure, I couldn't help but read the sign posted outside the local synagogue. It said: "Reconnect with your minivan."

First of all, I don't know any Jews who drive minivans, and secondly, how does one fallout with their minivan? And let's just say you and the minivan aren't seeing things eye-to-eye, does that really require a rabbi to intervene and patch things up? What the fuck? Maybe little Moishe puked up his matzoh in the backseat one too many times and the Dodge Caravan simply refused to fire up – I dunno. Jews are a funny lot – all those weird holidays and mealtime rituals. Fish, no fish, fish with scales and a glass of milk. Oy. Maybe someone rubbed their minivan the wrong way and it set off a hailstorm of grabbing the unleavened bread and rushing to the Mercedes dealer. Again, I dunno.

Upon second glance I realized the sign said "Reconnect with your minyan" to which I thought, what the hell is a minyan?

This was going to be a long day.

A minyan, I now know, is some sort of gathering of ten boys old enough (13) to know better. Sounds like my TV room on a rainy day. I don't get why anyone would want to reconnect with a group of 13-year old boys, unless maybe you are a Catholic priest, in which case the sign was in the wrong location. Besides, the definition I was reading started leaning a little too much toward the Wailing Wall so I left it at that.

In a similar fashion, I recently misconstrued several emails from a person claiming to be Ivy Ho. The emails were lying unopened in my spam filter, as I figured Ivy was, well, a ho, and having no need for a ho at this time, I left her lying there with the widow from Nairobi who wanted me to send her my bank account information because I had recently won the lottery. I really should send the widow my bank account information because she'd get a real kick out of the fact that it currently has a balance of $1.71.

As it turns out, Ivy Ho is a real person who, god help her, works for the Downtown Halifax Business Commission, a group of do-gooders dedicated to breathing some life back into our post-menopausal downtown core, now that everything has dried up and moved to Bayer's Lake.

Poor Ivy was just trying to invite me to Big Day Downtown, a cheeky little event designed to get local Havenot writers reconnecting with the area of downtown normally frequented by business people in bad suits, alcoholics, cougars, alcoholic cougars, and cruise ship refugees. Apparently Ivy hasn't read my blog, as the deal is, we get $100 bucks to blow on slot machines, or crack, or mussels, or art, or whatever the hell we feel like doing with $100 bucks in the asshole, er, heartbeat of our beautiful city. In turn, we have to write nice things about how wonderful it is to live in a city where you can bob for turds in the harbour after a heavy rainfall.

I can't wait.

So, I now have $100 bucks to blow downtown, and considering the current state of my bank account my first reaction was to head down to Nova Scotia Power and throw it all on my power bill – but what fun would that be? – and besides Ivy Ho may get all pissy and start sending me more emails.

Instead, I am going to reconnect with my downturn and vomit all over pizza corner. Or, get a tattoo. Or a ho.

Oy, the probabilities are fendless.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Play through, goddammit.

2010-07-22T06:21:00.004-03:00

It's official.

I am an embarrassment to my child, I have nose hairs, a poodle, a CAA Membership, 5 rose bushes, and now... wait for it... golf shoes.

I am old.

It's okay. I never thought I'd get here considering the life I've lead, so I am comfortable in this sagging skin. In fact, I rather like it.

Take the golf for instance. All these years I've been sweating my ass off chasing tennis balls, and has a drink cart ever pulled up once? And, what other so-called sport allows you to drive a clown car from physical movement to physical movement?

Plus, where else can you say "stiff shaft" without giggling or getting your hair messed up?

Golf clothes also seem to suit to my endomorphic frame, and have certainly come a long way from the old lesbian combat gear of Sandra Post days – although I still have to suppress my horror when I look at the price tag that accompanies anything with the word "golf" on it. Maybe they figure most golfers are so fucking old they can't see the price tag anyway.

Nevermind.

Golf Central in Bayer's Lake is a local, independently-owned mecca for duffers and dreamers that has just about everything you need, or don't need, for a round of golf. Golf Central has been serving local golfers since 1985 and these gals and guys really know their stuff – so don't be totally sucked in by the shiny big-box competition across the septic pond.

The little bastard and I are off on a mini golf adventure today. Fact is, I started golfing so I could get him golfing. We both love it, although he swears less and makes contact with the ball far more often than I do. But I laugh more.

Dundee Golf Resort have such a great deal happening right now I had to call back and ask if the price was per person. It wasn't. $79 bucks gets you a room, a round of golf and a bloody clown car to get you from one patch of tall grass to the other. Christ, even I can afford to take my kid on a summer adventure with deals like that.

So off we go. Highland Links. Dundee. Bell Bay. Inbreeding has certainly worked wonders for the golf industry in Cape Breton.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Golf Central is at 201 Chain Lake Drive in Bayers Lake. 902.450-4653.

To make reservations at one of Cape Breton's charming resorts go to:

Cape Breton Resorts.

Lost and found. Then lost again.

2010-07-16T07:08:00.019-03:00

Dear, sweet Stephanie,

I am writing to let you know how thrilled I am that you have been reunited with your Blackberry. Finding it on the street gave me the opportunity to teach my child a valuable life lesson.

That's right Stephanie – may I call you Steph? I feel so close to you right now. Thanks to you, Steph, my child now understands that the world is indeed a cruel place full of ungrateful morons such as yourself – and that doing the right thing is sadly, sometimes, a big fucking waste of time and energy.

How can I ever repay you for teaching him, at the tender age of 14, that spontaneous acts of kindness toward strangers can get lost, when wasted on tactless people such as yourself and the delightfully clueless asshole you sent to retrieve your precious handheld device.

Why, just imagine the temptation, at 14, to be selfish and keep the coveted lost item valued at $549. The little bastard, as he is affectionately known, showed me how easy it was to replace his SIM card with yours and voila! a free upgrade to a fancy new phone. I had to remind him how wrong that would be and the shiny new Blackberry would have bad karma (if you believe in such things) and worse – some sweet soul such as yourself would be greatly inconvenienced and lose valuable information – perhaps contact with your closeted lesbian lover, or the orphaned child with the harelip you sponsor in Guatemala.

I also had to remind him how violated we felt when our iPhone was stolen by the juvenile delinquent down the road, and how replacing such expensive items can cause financial hardship and ill feelings toward said juvenile delinquent and the satanic pocket molesters at Rogers.

When I jokingly mentioned to the deliriously stupid young man you sent to fetch the Blackberry, how tempting it was to keep the found item, his response was "You should have." Apparently, we were told, where you work, Blackberrys are handed out as freely as condoms at a gay pride parade. Furthermore, imagine my delight to hear you work at a government-funded institution and my tax money is spent so freely, keeping up to date with the latest electronics you so carelessly drop on the sidewalk. I was giddy with happiness at your good fortune and had to drive to the NSLC for a pint of gin to drop in my tonic.

Steph, I think your parents wanted a boy and you were supposed to be Stephen, but let it go because it's a beautiful day and you have your Blackberry back, without so much as even a "thank you" – which, by the way, is a common courtesy taught to most children before they can pick their nose and eat it. And a small reward was out of the question, so it's a good thing you didn't offer up even a cheap bottle of wine because that would have been unnecessarily thoughtful, and we wouldn't have accepted it anyway. We were just doing what was right. So Steph, perhaps today while you are watching the clock with your Blackberry vibrating underneath you, all the while surfing the net at the taxpayer's expense, you should think outside the cubicle by checking out Matt Whitman's website: www.mattwhitman.com.

Matt, unlike yourself, has devoted his life to doing what's right. His methods may be a tad more Bible thumpy than my own, but the concept of helping others get ahead in this shallow litterbox of a world is the same. Matt invented the business model, Reverse Networking – the concept being the promotion of others rather than one's-self. Imagine how selfless that is, Steph! In Matt's words, "If I say I am the best whatever, you discount it because I am saying it. If someone else says something nice about me it is much more authentic….” Whitman continues, “The key is not just “who you know” anymore, it is who you know that is saying good things about you!”

And boy-oh-boy, could I ever say some terrific things about you today (note the sarcasm, Steph, you ignorant, ungrateful twat) but I won't, because it's Friday and my faith in humanity is alive and kicking, despite taking one up the ass when I bent over to pick up your Blackberry.

Yours truly,

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

That's right pack your bags. I've swallowed my last cumulus.

2010-07-15T07:13:00.003-03:00

I am now stalking the weatherman because he's a lying bastard. This is how boring my life is.

I'll get back to being my normal (!) self soon.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Emotional weather report.

2010-07-14T15:26:00.006-03:00

Yes. And I'll be back in an hour for some pie, and maybe a honey dip, and hey, is that chocolate ice cream cake?

2010-07-11T21:04:00.010-03:00

The following conversation went something like this (and remember, you can't make shit like this up):

Me: Could I have a medium coffee double cream, please.

Timmy: Medium coffee double cream. Did you want a hash brown with that?

Me: A hash brownie?

Timmy: No, ma'am. Would you like a hash brown with that?

Me: Hash brown? Who the fuck wants a hash brown with their coffee at 12:30 in the afternoon? A hash brownie makes more sense.

Timmy: So, that's no to the hash brown.

Me: Yes.

Timmy: That'll be $2.14 drive through please.

Me: Wait a minute, how can it be $2.14 for a medium coffee?

Timmy: You also ordered a hash brown, ma'am.

Me: No, I did not. I said yes in response to your question regarding the hash brown.

Timmy: So, no hash brown?

Me: Yes.

Timmy: Yes, to a hash brown, ma'am?

Me: No. No to the hash brown, but on second thought, I'll have the hash brownie – that is, if you have any left – and don't call me ma'am.

Timmy: So that's a medium coffee, double cream and a hash brown. $2.14. Drive through please.

Me: (Driving away empty handed, but with a Sunday tale to tell) Expletive, followed by another expletive.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Do yourself a favour and head to the drive through at Steve O'Reno's Cappuccino 2854 Robie Street (Piercey's parking lot).

Taking a kick stand.

2010-07-09T11:25:00.022-03:00

The little bastard suggested I invest in air conditioning, shortly after he suggested I drive him, and 5 of his sweaty friends, either to Chocolate Lake or an air-conditioned movie theatre.

I suggested circumcision followed by a month or two at Camp Kadimah.

It's fucking hot in Havenot, and while I am not complaining, I do have skin folding over and greeting other skin – creating moisture pockets and the potential for mould spore harvesting. And, unless I were to hang myself upside down, this appears to be unavoidable.

What's worse is the Atlantic Jazz Festival has begun, and this steamy city is full of culture-seeking morons sitting around sweating into their imported beer, nodding their heads like Parkinson's victims, searching for a regular beat that isn't there – and hasn't been there since Dizzy Gillespie died.

Modern jazz makes about as much sense as Mayor Kelly putting the kibosh on bicycle paths.

Now, instead of peace and quiet and a special lane for the NDP voters and students who fly around on push bikes wearing gauzy skirts, sipping fair-trade lattés, with no consideration or knowledge of proper cycling signals and rules of the road – we are stuck wondering if the hungover Philosophy major on the ten-speed is making a left-hand turn or airing out his armpits because he ran out of Tom's Apricot deodorant.

Don't get me wrong – before both of our mountain bikes were stolen, we were enthusiasts, for lack of a better word. But as crazy as the little bastard is making me, there's no way I'd let him ride a bike to Chocolate Lake – even for a swim on a stinking hot day. How bloody sad is that Mayor poop in the harbour Kelly? And, I love seeing optimistic bike stores like Halifax Cycle Gallery popping up – but commuting by bike in this back-pedaling backwater is a death warrant signed by city counsel.

Plus, how many times have you wanted to turn right on a red, but found yourself stuck behind an indignant, iPod-deafened cyclist parked in the middle of the lane. God forbid you should honk (and if heard, get the finger), or nudge them gently into the intersection with your bumper, so you could go about your merry way. Cyclists in Havenot are like smokers looking for a place to fill their lungs – then getting all pissy when they get the stink eye from passers by. I'm not talking about the skilled, lycra-clad riders who wisely head out of the city and hit the open road. I am talking about the asshole with the big blue milk carton bungee-corded to the back of his CCM, circa 1972. Get the fuck off the road and take the bus.

My suggestion to the rest of you – keep cool, and safe pedaling.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Halifax Cycle Gallery is at 6299 Quinpool Road, just down from the Athens Restaurant. www.halifaxcycles.com

Read the NS Government cycling rules of the road by clicking on the cycling women over on the right.

Give our silly wabbit Mayor the what fer, at kellyp@halifax.ca.

Customer feedback.

2010-07-09T01:38:00.001-03:00

Shaving grace.

2010-07-05T07:40:00.008-03:00

There is a cyclical nature to life that is comforting, yet simultaneously makes me want to stick my foot out and trip things up.

Another Williams Wimbledon. The return of the elusive South End sleep watcher. Another mortgage payment squeaking by.

Perhaps I am more aware of the enormous hamster wheel from writing this blog, as I make note (poke fun) at the same (boring) events rolling by day after (fucking) day.

Driving to Fredericton and back yesterday gave me ample time to think about life – a dangerous train to hop on at the best of times. Toss in a wicked rosé hangover, compliments of my neighbours and the freedom that comes with having one's child safely tucked away one province over – and the results are the philosophical equivalent of a Tori Spelling movie – with ponderings such as, "Why in the name of Christ would anyone live here?" and "How far to Buttfuck, NB and the next McDonalds so I can soak up some of the pink poison with a Sausage and Egg McMuffin?".

Deep.

I thought about how recently, I was in line at the post office when I noted the youngish man in front of me had a dollop of shaving foam on the downy lobe of his ear. Freshly shaven, and, well, a man, I had a sudden urge wipe the foam off with my fingertip – an intimate gesture when not being performed by a matronly stranger in elastic waist shorts. I also had a sudden urge to spin him around and fling him to the floor, but maybe it's the heat, or the cyclical nature of my love life – as in, not having one, year after bloody year. Nevertheless, three days later, I am still thinking about the lobe, and the dollop, and the ritual of intimate gestures lost somewhere on the side of the road.

Money Sense magazine did a close shave on several charities across Canada recently, posting their astonishing results in the July issue. Pick one up at Atlantic News and note, despite Steve Murphy's clean-shaven cherubic mug as host of the dreary, annual IWK/Grace Telethon, our local Children's Hospital Foundation earned an impressive, overall A+. The little bastard is a regular at the IWK Emerge and it's nice to know he's the only one sucking the life out of the system with every x-ray and cherry popsicle.

While you're at it, pick up the latest Halifax magazine. When I mentioned to the little bastard that my picture was in it, he said, "please tell me you weren't wearing those hiking shoes." Well, I am. Local writer Skana Gee (her parents were hippies) did her best in piecing together my bug-on-the-windshield life, and photographer Mike Dembeck didn't have a lot to work with, as I showed up fresh from the park and told him I didn't want my face on anything but my passport. As a result, you get a nice shot of my back fat and Havenot's enormous biological clock.

For 14 bucks, gentlemen (and menopausal women) can get the full face monty at Veinot's Celebrity Barber Shop in Dartmouth. On Thursdays and Saturdays, Lydia will pamper you with a classic hot towel, straight razor shave that will leave your face baby-ass smooth, and vulnerable to a stranger's touch.

That's Thursdays and Saturdays. Thursdays and Saturdays.

Comforting, isn't it.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Call Veinot's at 463.5412 and book a hot shave with Lydia. They're located at 77 Prince Albert Road in Dartmouth.

Camp Keep Your Head Above Water.

2010-06-29T07:10:00.013-03:00

My bank account just made a huge sucking sound as I committed the little bastard to another week of high-intensity summer camp.

Whatever happened to my life's plan? The plan that had me spending summers at leisure, up at my rustic-yet-charming Georgian Bay cottage – where I would play tennis and plow through novels, sipping gin and tonic, all the while praying some child didn't load up on Jim Beam and Dr. Pepper and subsequently smash the family boat – which would mean an unscheduled trip to town for stitches, more gin, and a new outboard motor. Meanwhile, my ever-so-successful husband would be in the city, screwing his secretary and making a small fortune, so I wouldn't have to work, think, or worry about anything fiscal.

What happened to that plan?

Instead, here I am, working my ass off just to keep up with all the activities necessary to keep the little bastard off of my sofa, crack cocaine and and the X-Box, until school starts in 65 days.

I don't recall my parents forking out the $500 or so, per week, to put me in golf camp, tennis camp, hockey camp, baseball camp or anything that ends in "camp" unless you count my self-enrollment in "Let's Roll a Doobie and Go Windsurfing Camp", or those two weeks I spent in "Teenage Alcoholic Training Camp" where the counselors taught you how to shotgun a beer, French kiss, and make Trashcan Punch while high on windowpane acid.

I have no memories of that camp, whatsoever.

God forbid you suggest the little bastard should get a fucking job. Bagging groceries, washing dishes or mowing lawns would interfere with golf camp, goalie camp, tennis camp, hockey camp, dryland training, wetland training and the $175 bucks I paid so he can run six kilometres down a gravel road once a week.

So off we go to Fredericton today, where I will fork out another mortgage payment so my little bundle of testosterone can spend six days being stimulated by something other than marijuana, fortified wine and texting on the sofa.

Ah, summer.

While he's away I think I'll enroll in Camp Menopause. I hear activities include lip waxing, bloat control-low-sodium BBQ-ing, mixing the perfect Cinzano and soda by flashlight, Introductory low-intensity shuffleboard, swimming with Depends, and coping with night sweats in a sleeping bag.

Sounds like a hoot.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Dalhousie University offers great, affordable summer camps for kids, like Shakespeare by the Sea Theatre Camp, soccer camp, hockey camps etc. www.athletics.dal.ca

The other royal visit.

2010-06-25T08:16:00.008-03:00

Is a half a bottle of wine an acceptable teacher's gift?

Will the little bastard notice if I slip out and play tennis during his grad ceremony?

How can I check his breath for alcohol tonight if it's bouncing off mine?

Will anyone notice that I rented his suit for $39 bucks because they don't make a 37 extra-long?

Will my soon-to-be arriving house guests "from away" notice there's no food, and so much dog hair it looks like a fucking sheep shearing station?

Can I tell them I chose green grout for my bathroom tile?

If I tell them I'm auditioning for that show "Hoarders", is that technically a lie?

How will I explain Cousin Sarah sorting through her collectibles (garbage) in my back yard while eating a donair to combat her hangover?

What if they accidentally stick their face in a towel that got mixed up with the hockey laundry?

What if?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

This ain't the Rosedale library. Anymore.

2010-06-23T05:53:00.006-03:00

Goddammit. I'm so mad my bowels are in a knot, or maybe it's the wassabe peas I had for dinner – nevermind – truth is, I am more sad than mad.

I just lost an old friend.

News yesterday of the grim reaper locking the doors of my all-time favourite bookstore made me want to puke. This Ain't the Rosedale Library was more than just a place to buy books. It was the boyfriend who opened the door, and guided you though a room with his hand on the small of your back – and not just because he was hoping to get laid.

This Ain't the Rosedale Library, when I knew it, was located deep in the "fruit belt" as they called that particular section of Church Street in Toronto. I stumbled in there one day because I loved the name, and I loved reading.

Love at first sight is the only way to explain my experience with this small, independent bookshop. The less-than-librarian-looking staff gleefully recommended one book, which started a domino effect of reading one can't-put-down book after another. I became a regular. I even had a "This Ain't the Rosedale Library" t-shirt. I recall walking in and commenting, "I just read this and loved it" and the owner, Charlie would say something like, "If you loved that, this one will blow your mind." They were always right. It was there I fell in love with travel writing, short stories, Raymond Carver, Dervla Murphy, Barbara Trapido and a myriad of broken spines that kept me going long after my lights flickered on and off, and on again.

This Aint't the Rosedale Library knew me. They got me. They liked me at a time when I didn't even like myself.

I started this blog at a time when I didn't even like myself. Business was dead bloody slow and many of my long-established clients were unable to advertise the way they used to – the way they needed to in order to keep their cash registers ringing. I naively set out to somehow help independent businesses by tying in their existence with my miserable life.

Along the way, together we won a few – and lost a few. Havenot lost one of its lovely, independent bookstores when Frog's Hollow went tits up. And Buckley's Music store died. Sadly, the list is growing. Competing with amazons like Amazon and big box stores is like pissing in the wind. At some point your spirit breaks and you succumb.

Holy crap, this is beginning to bore even me, so all I can say is: shop locally if you have a choice. Atlantic News. Sweet Janes. Woozles. Thornbloom. Jost. Blossom Shops. Juliens. The Teazer. Maritime Travel. Pete's Frootique. What would our streetscapes look like without Mills, Sock-it-to-Ya, The Armview, The Ardmore, or The Trail Shop? Go stand in front of Walmart and see how warm and fucking fuzzy you feel.

Having said that, I confess to wading into Chapters on occasion. They usually have what I want.

But they never, ever, have what I need.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The woofer to my tweeter.

2010-06-20T17:45:00.033-03:00

There is a gentleman who walks through the park with a boom box perched on his shoulder. He's about 75, give or take a decade, and favours loud fiddle music. 'Just plain, fucking crazy', I always figured – until I made eye contact with him one day – and he just looked happy.

Maybe it's me who's crazy.

This has been a hectic month of work deadlines and distractions. First there was the post-holiday slump, followed by the post-slump slump. Then, Cousin Sarah arrived with her merry traveling circus, reminding me of how much I hate children and chaos – and love Sarah for her ability to remain calm when the world around her is Disney meets Stephen King, set to a Miley Cyrus beat.

So we retreated to White Point.

The beauty of doing what I do, is I can do it just about anywhere. I just need the Internet, a little inspiration, and a relative amount of calm. Besides, the little bastard's class was on a school trip to Moncton, and having refused to fork out $450 dollars so he could go to the asshole of the Earth and overload on BBQ chips and testosterone – I figured a few days stuck golfing with me would teach him to pitch in and fund raise the next time.

What better place to escape reality than a cottage by the sea. A cottage with room service, housekeeping, a chef, and a kick ass wi-fi (www.on-line.net) that allows me to wander and work anywhere on the property – like the bar. Or the golf clubhouse. Or the beach. White Point is like hangin' with a fun, old friend who doesn't care what you wear, or comment when you have to unbutton your pants to polish off the kid's Flourless Chocolate cake. We golfed, swam, played tennis, walked on the beach, napped, guzzled wine, and finished one another's sentences. I never pull away from my friendly seaside sanitarium for the chronically perturbed, feeling anything but peaceful, rejuvenated, understood, and mildly hungover.

White Point put an end to my slump and prepared me for the week ahead: Grade nine exam hell, work deadlines, hopping back on the UWeight wagon, hockey schedules, walks in the park, the usual day-to-day drudgery I take for granted, and the end-of-the-week arrival of my very best friend.

The yin to my yang. The Ethel to my Lucy. The tonic to my vodka. The "no we can't " to my "what the hell" is arriving in Havenot.

Crank up the boom box.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Get the best wi-fi and 24/7 service from Chris Rizzuto at On-line Computers www.on-line.net.

Get outta town. Go to: www.whitepoint.com or call 1.800.565.5068.

Monday's child is fair of face (and needs a slap).

2010-06-07T10:09:00.017-03:00

My newspaper is still on vacation stop because I am still on vacation stop.

Regardless, I open the front door and bend over so Monday can kick me in the ass – because that's what Monday does.

Monday is a playground bully. A broken heart. Soggy Cheerios.

Monday is a dickhead.

Monday is preheating the oven only to realize there's a pizza box still in there from Friday night.

Monday is reading the instructions folded up inside the Tampax box lying on the bathroom floor because there's nothing else to read and I can't take a crap without reading something. According to Procter & Gamble the key is: "to RELAX!. Worrying about it may make you tense, making insertion even harder."

Monday is realizing my eyesight has failed so badly I can barely read even the big type or make out the grade 8 sex-ed diagrams on the folded instructions, and after so many sexless years likely couldn't find the insertion point into my vagina with a flashlight and a John Deere, let alone a cardboard applicator.

Monday is my glasses falling off my face every time I bend over to get kicked in the ass.

Monday is a washing machine full of clean clothes that smell like wet bathing suits and death.

Monday is when everyone falls out of bed and into nice shoes, closing the door on the weekend and waltzing into an office to talk about how the weather sucks, and what an asshole little Jordie's soccer coach is, and Sex in the City 2, loved it, hated it, those girls are too old and too skinny to be having that much fun, oh I love Mr. Big. Blah, blah, blah what should we do for lunch today?

Monday is email after email asking me how the work that was due last week is coming along (it isn't) and how's my creativity (dwindling) and would I mind throwing together a quick logo for a good cause (no, fuck off).

Monday is looking ahead to all the things you can see and do in Havenot if you were so inclined – most of which involve eating rich food and talking to people – so I likely won't go, but hey, go ahead, it'll give you something to talk about on Mondays when I am considering going back to bed and rolling around in dog hair and night sweat, or pondering donating my vagina to science, because hey, I may as well – it's in great shape and barely has any miles on it. In fact, I should have put my vagina on the curb this past weekend as a part of the Curbside Giveaway Weekend that I knew nothing about because my paper is on a "piss off I am still on vacation" stop. Someone may as well use it.

For instance, you could dress up my gently-worn vagina and take it wine tasting in aid of Habitat for Huamnity, this coming Saturday, June 13th at Pipa – Halifax’s only Portuguese and Brazilian eatery – and apparently one of Canada’s Top 10 New Restaurants in 2009. When I think Portuguese I think sausage – the reason why, buried deep in my past – even though I have never been to Portugal. "Pipa" is Spanish slang for "having a good time" so how bad could it be? Besides, Habitat for Humanity build houses for people who really have a reason to hate Mondays, but likely don't, because they have HOPE and FAITH and can RELAX! while inserting a tampon. Their next build is in Vietnam and Lord knows those land mine dodging rice flingers have seen their share of crappy Mondays. Tickets are $40 and include a guided wine tasting tour through 8 different wines. Sounds like things could get sloppy and make for really interesting water cooler chit chat, so email: kschwenk@eastlink.ca and drink up for humanity's sake.

There's a bunch of other crap coming down the pipe in the weeks to come but I've got work to put off and procrastination to do – so stay tuned.

Happy Monday.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Pipa Restaurant is at 1685 Argyle Street in Halifax. 902.407.7472. Order the sausage.

For more information on the Vietnam H4H build click on the woman/man flinging rice to the right.

Top of the morning.

2010-06-01T08:15:00.016-03:00

I've always liked it on top.

Top of the Peaks overlooking Georgian Bay. Top of the class, before life ran amok. Top of the cake – the corner bit where all the icing roses grow. And the top of the heap, metaphorically.

Suffice it to say, this morning I gleefully kicked the ass and closed the door on a year spent breathlessly searching for pennies on the bottom of a filthy community swimming pool.

Lesson have been learned. Botox injections are expensive, and only inhibit your ability to express sadness. Instead, I went for a complete inner overhaul, tossing out the things that were dragging me down below the surface. Things like "I can't", and Cheesies washed down with just about anything I could get my hands on. I fired a few clients, and let go of the guilt felt when I said, "No. No I can't".

I learned that putting yourself out there doesn't mean selling your soul.

I learned that money may not buy happiness, but not having any sucks.

I learned that waving a CAA card at a hotel check-in works wonders.

I learned that true friends don't try and change you, they just accept you for who you aren't.

I learned that having a birthday at this stage in the game, beats the fuck out of not having one.

This very weekend, I learned that the old bag who stole my parking spot at the grocery store may have won the battle, but a well-penned note placed on her windshield won the war. So tap your boney, frosted peach-polished finger on the K-car window all you want, you geriatric old bitch. No one can out-miserable me.

"Look," the birthday girl said, resurfacing and taking in a deep breath of sweet air, "a shiny new one!".

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Re-entry. Not to be confused with rear entry.

2010-05-28T07:41:00.007-03:00

Astronauts say it takes approximately three days to adapt to weightlessness. I find, one flight attendant deft with a drink trolley and I can feel the weight slide off my weary shoulders before the in-flight movie cranks up.

Post-holiday re-entry is another matter all together.

There should be a quarantine room, or decompression area with drinks and calming music for people returning from holidays. A buffer zone between the lofty pleasure of carefree abandonment and the grim reality that awaits when the airport express plops your broke, travel-weary ass at the curb.

No maid service. No Dungeness crab Eggs Benedict. No Napa red on the bedside table.

I came home to rotten milk, foot-high dandelions, a stack of bills, not one cheque, anxious clients, and a filthy house that reeked of cat piss.

We don't have a cat.

What's worse, my truck bed was full of crap, having been used as the neighbourhood spring clean up recycling bin while parked in my driveway. One minute I was window shopping on Rodeo Drive, the next I'm waist deep at the local dump, pitching rotten picket fences and gout weed into the never never.

So why forsake feet on the ground (and RRSPs) to fly to the moon? Is lying on the back lawn staring at the stars not good enough? Why bend over and take the side effects of post-exploration re-entry when one can simply read about it in a book.

Because.

Because teaching your child that the world is neither flat, nor safe, nor sane, nor the same everywhere – is part of my job here on Earth. Because wonder is wonderful.

And because Donnie MacInnes, a local father of two, died suddenly while biking to work a few weeks ago. Donnie was 39. I didn't know him, but from all accounts he was one hell of a good guy. A family guy. A hockey coach. A man who loved his wife and his kids, and his life – even the really crappy days.

In true Havenot fashion, a dance and silent auction has been organized to help raise funds for Donnie's family. Kick up your heels to The Corvettes on Friday, June 11th from 8:30 until 11:30 at Gorsebrook Lounge, Saint Mary's University. The cost is ten bucks, with proceeds going to the Donnie MacInnes Memorial Fund. If you don't feel like dancing, because let's face it, some days you can barely get your feet out from under the covers – donations can be made to the Seamus and Molly MacInnes Education Fund at RBC Branch, 6390 Quinpool Road, Halifax (03303) or any other RBC branch for that matter.

Slamming back down to Earth after being away from my dreary ol' routine is a harsh reality – but placed in context – I really have nothing to whine about. We had a great time. So what if I had to mow the lawn, do a few loads of laundry, snarl at a few clients, take a trip to the dump, and crank up the dehumidifier a notch or two.

I bet you ten bucks Donnie MacInnes would give anything to be feeling the weight of the world on his wonderful shoulders.

Now where's that fucking flight attendant. I need a coffee.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For advance tickets, to give, or to donate an item to the silent auction email Kerri LaFond at lafondk@halifax.ca or call 902. 490.5816.

Batting a thousand.

2010-05-25T11:58:00.007-03:00

It is with mixed emotions, and severe garlic breath, that I face my last day of this so-called vacation.

Traveling with someone you have little in common with, aside from DNA, is a challenge – but after ten days on the road with the little bastard I can honestly say, aside from my choice of restaurant last night, "The Stinking Rose", it's been pretty congenial.

So, the kid hates garlic – but I'm not all that keen on basketball, endless shopping, or dining at places called "In and Out Burger" or "Bubba Gumps". So we're even.

Give and take. With a slight emphasis on give.

True, I dragged his ass through the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art yesterday, but let him spend extra time drooling over the iPads in the Apple store. And I made him climb a mountain trail in Big Sur, and the steps at Telegraph Hill. Twice. But I endured another round of popcorn shrimp. Okay, so that wasn't really torture.

This was always meant to be his vacation, otherwise my fat ass would be lying on a beach sipping sangria in the Costa del Sol. But he hates sitting still for 5 seconds unless there's a ball, puck or wallet being tossed about. So here we are.

I have learned the secret to happy travels with teenagers is to avoid that dreaded boredom stage where they morph into psychopaths and start checking their text messages every 30 seconds. Keep them busy (and a nice bottle of Napa Valley Cabernet close at hand).

So you sacrifice sitting and staring at the scenery – but sitting and staring at your happy kid watching Kobe Bryant is worth it. But wait a minute, isn't that Dustin Hoffman?!... and David Spade... and Danny DeVito... and Jack fucking Nicholson!? All of a sudden I like basketball.

The little bastard has a choice to make soon. Go away to prep school, or stay at home. The choice is his. Either way he wins. Either way, I will hang on to these memories and this last full day of dancing to the beat of his moody teenage drum.

If I suddenly burst into tears at tonight's Giants game, it will have little to do with Willie Mays, the cost of tickets, resisting the garlic fries, foul $12 beer, or the fact that the Giants suck.

It'll be all about loving him. And the moment.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Rooting for the home team.

2010-05-16T07:19:00.020-03:00

According to the dream interpreter dictionary – to dream of rooting for truffles, as I did last night, indicates: "someone will confess, or you will say something sincerely."

I think it has more to do with having spent a fair chunk of yesterday at the mall, rooting through stacks of shorts designed for an anorexic broom handle, in an attempt to find a pair that didn't make me look like I should be playing fucking bocce down in Boca Raton.

I need shorts that fit at the top, the porcine middle, and the bottom. A pair that: A. Doesn't have a swoosh. Or, B. An elastic waist and a label that says TABI. Or, C. A food stain.

I need "walking" shorts because the little bastard and I are going on a vacation. A real vacation. Our first real vacation since the recession grabbed me by the balls and squeezed. Although, this is not really my vacation – it's his – and the way it's stacking up, it's not really sounding like a vacation at all. The planning stages went something like this:

Me: What about backpacking in Spain?

LB: No.

Me: What about Spain, with a little walk on the wild side in Morrocco.

LB: No.

Me: What about Barcelona (throwing in a curve ball)... I've always wanted to see Gaudi's La Sagrada Família while under the influence of cheap Rioja, because clearly the man was intoxicated when he slapped that thing together.

LB: Blank stare, followed by: "Mom, my idea of a vacation would be going to LA and seeing a Lakers play-off game" as he headed out the door to school.

I'll show him, I thought, and I did what I love to do more than almost anything, and that's play Travel Agent. Within minutes I found a one-way trip to LA for $169 dollars, and without hesitation or further thought as to how we were going to pay for it, or how we were going to get home – I booked it.

My thought was this. The little bastard won't be wanting to hang around with me much longer, so this is his trip. Besides, I love people watching and what better place to watch people than in Los Angeles at a Dodgers game, followed by a Lakers game. If I take binoculars I may even see the top of Jack's head. Not my Jack. LA's Jack. Nicholson.

The next hurdle was getting my hands on the forementioned Lakers tickets – which according to all sources, would be harder than finding a Catholic priest on a school bus, or a pair of shorts that don't make my knees look like two loaves of balled up Wonder bread. This explains why I haven't been spewing my innermost thoughts on this blog, because I spent a good portion of this week on the phone with Ticketmaster, or on the Ticketmaster website listening to mall music and hitting the refresh button. Over and over and over.

No luck in the Wednesday American Express pre-sale. Unless I was willing to pay $320USD for one ticket.

Thursday, the tickets went on sale to the general public at 10am LA time. At 1:53 I started stalking Ticketmaster simultaneously by phone and online. Pig-headed perseverance paid off. By roughly 3:45 Atlantic time, I had landed not one – but two of the worst tickets for the LA Lakers vs some other team – for more money than I spent on my first car. I confess to being so excited I almost peed my pants. And I hate basketball.

I want to ride bikes on Santa Monica beach and hike up to the Hollywood sign. The little bastard wants to shop. It'll be perfect. What's even more perfect is Nadine Hartnett at Maritime Travel in Park Lane put my travel agent wannabe skills to shame by performing miracles – landing us a great deal on a 5-star hotel near the Staples Centre, pre-paid in Canadian funds for waaay less than I was finding online. Nadine also sold us travel medical insurance just in case I fall off my bike, or the bleachers after too many warm beers in Mannywood.

So, as my life goes, we are off in the opposite direction than I had originally intended, but I can always do an old lady bus trip through Spain later. This will be the little bastard's vacation – aside from that side-trip drive up the coastal road to San Francisco and the pit stop at a crappy motel around Big Sur, where I'll sit on a picnic table and sip California wine from a plastic cup and admire the heartstopping beauty of it all, while he complains about not getting cell service and the lack of outlet malls in the Redwood forests.

Yep, this is his vacation.

Sincerely,

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

www.maritimetravel.ca For clever hotel solutions try Nadine Hartnett at Park Lane Mariritme Travel (902) 429-7885. Email: nhartnett@maritimetravel.ca.

Glenda at CAA Travel was a bit of a wizard as well: ghunter@atlantic.caa.ca.

The pickle jar.

2010-05-07T09:58:00.009-03:00

No wonder Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven.

Two kids with annoying British accents, prick of a husband, and a writing career that floundered and flopped like a dying goldfish.

At least she didn't resort to public announcements.

Or maybe, just maybe, the morning she decided to crank the gas, she got a call from the neighbour, wondering if she could pen a potentially Pulitzer-winning poster for a lost dog.

Sylvia probably muttered something like, "who am I, the town fucking crier?" before putting pen to paper and dutifully writing the words: missing. followed by, dog.

Or, maybe, just maybe, in the seconds before Sylvia got down on the linoleum and rested her blonde head on the grill, she agreed to write about a Flea Market happening that very same day over at the local schoolyard. LeMarchant schoolyard. From 4-6. In support of some underfunded school trip going somewhere with pissed-stained bunk beds and potential for a head lice outbreak.

Did they not know she was a published writer. An author?

Poor Sylvia. I think it was an accident. I think she was changing the light bulb in her oven and she just succumbed to the soul-crushing fatigue most mothers feel, some days.

Poor bitch.

She had actually planned to attend the flea market to sift through other people's baggage, costume jewelry, jars of jams and pickled cauliflower in mustard sauce, and re-gifted tokens of affliction. Sylvia loved flea markets. She was hoping to find a baked goods table, and maybe pick up some soft, white dinner rolls she could pass off as homemade. And some date squares to have with her tea.

Because her own oven light was on the blink.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Just in case you are scratching your head, saying what the fuck?, there's a Flea Market at LeMerchant school today from 4 until 6, rain or shine. The usual crap. For a wonderful cause.

And into the ire.

2010-05-06T13:37:00.018-03:00

The frying pan narrowly missed the dog, napping outside in the early morning sun. "In the future, should you desire pancakes – go to fucking Smitty's."

With that, I scraped the remaining blueberry banana mixture into the garburator and tossed the little bastard a box of Cheerios.

The kitchen is closed.

I had one frying pan – well two – if you count the rusty, cast iron one, last used during the Gold Rush. The non-stick variety that crashed and burned this morning was no longer non-stick – in fact quite the opposite. It was the original T-Fal non-stick pan, which – when I inherited it – was already past its prime.

Add to this, my stove is apartment-size, despite sitting in a full-size hole waiting to be replaced, someday, by a full-size, stainless steel range and matching hood. My pint-size stove has two settings: hot, and really fucking hot. I blame my stove for why I burn everything, including toast. And bridges. My stove also has an automatic timer, which means it basically shuts off whenever it bloody well feels like it, as it did this morning, several times, mid pancake.

Living here is like Little House on the fucking Prairie, minus the constant sex with Charles.

At least I could feed the dog I nearly decapitated moments ago. It was then that I realized the can opener no longer opens anything – it just whirls around making little hair-like ribbons of aluminum that fall to the floor like tinsel amidst the disappointment of Christmas morning. Consequently, the can opener went out the back door where it landed with a soft "ping", bouncing off the frying pan before settling next to the fresh hole in the lawn, dug by the other dog, now waiting nervously for breakfast. I poured the remaining Cheerios into the dog bowls and went back to bed.

Bed, as it turned out, was now my laundry room with a mammoth pile of clean laundry lying where I wanted to be – so I opted instead for a hot shower. The shampoo bottle I use to prop the window open so the steam doesn't peel the wallpaper off, fell out the window and into the neighbour's yard which left me with just conditioner, or the little bastard's Old Spice Hair & Body wash that smells like insecticide and the armpits of teenage boys. I shaved my legs even though I ask myself every morning, why bother?, then pulled a pair of men's elastic-waist gym shorts and a Wrigley Field t-shirt out of the pile and headed to the computer.

There's gotta be more to life than this.

Cousin Sarah left for Toronto yesterday after several, stressful days of making a five-bedroom house fit into one large U-Haul and a Toyota Sequoia. Add to that; 2 dogs, 3 cats, 3 children, 3 ponies, a bunny, and a fish and I was just about out of mind. Cousin Sarah was fine. I was the crazy one.

It wasn't so much that Sarah was leaving, it was that she was leaving me behind. Me, who lives like a nomad, with scaled-down possessions that have nothing to do with the minimalist movement. Just movement. I want to be ready to go, when someone yells "go!". To this end, I quite often find myself standing near the cashier at a store, holding on to a lovely throw pillow or a functioning appliance, when I ask myself, "do I really need this?". The answer is usually, a resounding "no".

As a result, I may as well be cooking beans over a campfire in my backyard, wearing the little bastard's hand me downs, smelling like a 14-year old with a perpetual boner.

But I'm going to Italy again. Maybe. Soon. Who needs a frying pan and a can opener when they're holding on to the winning ticket for a trip to Italy? CAA have recently launched A Big Taste of Italy in Support of the Littlest Patients – a month-long fundraising campaign in support of the IWK Health Centre and Janeway Children’s Hospital foundations. All net proceeds from this campaign will go towards these two wonderful organizations that have stitched up my little bastard on several occasions. To purchase a ticket, head into your local CAA office or call 1-800-561-8807. Tickets are $10 and include an instant $10 coupon to East Side Mario's. Buda-bing. There's dinner taken care of.

I wonder if they make pancakes.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Arrivals and departures.

2010-05-01T08:25:00.013-03:00

I met up with some old friends last night. Mr. Pretzel. Mr. Booze. And Mrs. Self-pity.

This was one of those weeks where nothing – absolutely fucking nothing – went the way it is supposed to when you only live once. I'm not sure what set if off, because it was a myriad of disasters and disappointments from start to finish. Perhaps it was Cousin Sarah's move back to Ontario, and my several trips to, and through, the Havenot airport – but at one point I asked myself, why?.

That's it. Just why?

'Funny then, that "wonder" was the number one Virtue sent in by so many lovely, funny, and fantastically fucked-up readers. (I am so not alone.) Was that because Wonder was Barb Stegemann's first listed Virtue and y'all are just lazy asses – or, is wonder something we all frantically search for to replace that ol' dickhead, doubt, who lounges on the sofa saying things like "No. Don't be silly. You? No, you can't."

So, there I was at Havenot Stanfield Underpants airport mid-shitty week, anxiously awaiting Sarah's arrival, when the woman twitching nervously next to me said something like, "Would you know where these folks were at?" in the thickest Newfoundland accent I have ever heard.

If you've never heard a Newfoundland accent, it is a wool blanket on a chilly day. A shot of whiskey in hot chocolate. And under most circumstances, it is funny as hell.

But not this week. This week, even a charming Newfie accent was twinged with fear and doubt.

"I can't find my daughter." she said. "She was s'posed to be here an hour ago from Edmonton. She could be here... lost."

I looked around and thought, Christ ya, there's gotta be 15 lobster fishermen and a cab driver here by the 3 baggage carousels. Easy to see how you could lose someone. But I mustered up some kindness and asked her if she'd checked the Arrivals board.

"Arrivals board? I've never done this before", she said wide eyed.

I was about to say "Did you just come down off Walton's fucking mountain, or what?" when I saw a look in her eyes. Here was naive wonder, colliding head on with serious fear and doubt.

I wandered over to the Information Desk where Angus MacMinimumwage expressed disinterest as I enquired about a flight from Edmonton. A flight that wasn't on the Arrivals board. He rolled his eyes and said the flight was late, arriving soon from Toronto and dismissed me like I was dog shit on his Wallabees. It took every fibre of my being not to reach over and grab him by the Nova Scotia tartan vest and beat him to death with the Doers and Dreamers guide.

I went back and explained to the woman, that her daughter should be coming through that door any time now. The door Cousin Sarah was walking though – all aglow with hope spiked with courage, wisdom, and a new Toronto haircut.

I am happy to say the Newfoundland mom was reunited with her daughter, and it's time to announce the winner of the 7 Virtues perfume and book giveaway. Everyone deserves to win, well, maybe except for the person who wrote in humility which, while technically a virtue, isn't one of Barb's virtues.

The winner is Shelly Webb.

Shelly chose Courage, and something in her email resonated with me. I think it was the part where she said, "Today’s virtue is definitely COURAGE; the courage just to get out of bed and do it all over again. It’s a funny world we live in when the most momentous part of the day is just finding a pair of pants that doesn’t cut off the circulation to your lower extremities."

We hear ya, Shelly.

Back in the company of my ol' buddies Mr. Pretzel, Mr. Booze and Mrs. Self-pity, I was sad to find them repetitive and boring. I've moved on. I'd gathered them together to whine about my crappy week but then I remembered something, and called it an early night.

I remembered that May 1st is the fourth anniversary of the death of a friend. Sheelagh Nolan could have been the poster girl for 7 Virtues. She had them all – beauty, courage, justice, wonder, truth, wisdom, and with the exception of the occasional Friday night – moderation.

Sheelagh also possessed grace, humour, forgiveness, wit, mischief, joy, kindness, selfless love – and a laugh that could brighten the darkest sky. Or the shittiest week.

May 1st is the day I wake up and thank my lucky fucking stars – for knowing her, and for being alive.

Oh... that's why.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Ashes to ashes.

2010-04-26T04:36:00.008-03:00

I've slept with a few tomcats, a silver fox, a selfish stallion, my share of coyotes, and more pigs than I care to remember, but this weekend was a first.

I spent the night with a lifeless dog.

After going down swingin' through the trap door of Canada Writes, I hopped in a rental car and headed north. My rental turned out to be a Toyota, so I matted it – figuring I'd play the uncontrollable acceleration card, should I be pulled over by the OPP.

Canada Writes was a nerve-wracking blast and I had mixed feelings about leaving it behind. The contestants, producers, singers, Judges and GO-host Brent Banbury were all terrific. Fuck what everyone says about CBC – this was a smart, dedicated crew of people who appeared to love their jobs. I told everyone the show was airing next week so no one would listen to me making an ass of myself. Pity though, those who whereby missed Chloe's absolutely brilliant deli-meat rendition of Feist's, 1,2,3,4. As it turned out, "putting myself out there" as a friend called it – was actually fun – although having to censor my natural irreverence was like suppressing vomit. (Tune in to the final, May 7th, live from the "Peg".)

One of the nicest things about being back in Toronto, besides being surrounded by energetic people who get paycheques – is getting the hell out. Leaving the mosques and constipation of the city behind – heading north on Airport Road is a free spirit's dream. I noticed with a twinge of ire, that the townhome developments stretch almost up to Caledon now – identical rows of depressing housing meccas with names like Housewife's Leap and Laminate Ridge. It pisses me off to see lovely century farms being plowed over, making way for such thoughtless developments – but once you get beyond that, it's all good.

My past came back to haunt me north of Alliston, and I almost swerved over to pick up a six-pack of Lonesome Charlie, but then I remembered I was pushing 50, and going 130km for a reason.

I was going to meet my man.

An hour or so later, that first glimpse of Georgian Bay took my breath away, and I got all verklempt. Georgian Bay is the lover you never get over. The first crush. Just looking at the turquoise flecked with navy blue makes me all happy/sad and I want to dive right in. (Judge, Arlene Dickinson said my writing had a schizophrenic quality, but this isn't Dragon's Den, so screw her, I'm sticking with happy/sad. What does a beautiful, self-made millionaire know anyway?).

Pulling in to the the ski hill where I grew up, I finally caught a glimpse of my man. He was in the arms of another woman – in a cardboard box. My beloved dog Hooey's ashes. I left Georgian Bay soon after he died and I was finally back to get him. My plan was to take Hooey for his final hike and scatter his ashes in the field. The field on top of the escarpment I was about to climb. The field where I'd like to be scattered someday, to the tune of popping champagne corks and the occasional sniffle, snort, or "woo hoo, the miserable bitch is dead!".

But I couldn't do it. I just wasn't ready to let him go.

Hooey came into my life by accident. I was pregnant, alone, and dying for an ice cream cone. I stopped at the local mall, where a sign in the pet store window caught my eye: "Lab mix pups for sale". I looked at the half-dozen puppies bouncing around, then spotted a really fat fluffy one, sound asleep at the back. I'll take that one. For a hundred bucks, I got a bag of dog food and 13-years of selfless, unconditional love.

We hiked to my field, then I headed back to Toronto with Hooey as my wing man. The two of us flying down the highway, just like old times. Mindful of an early morning flight and my concern over getting him through airport security, we ordered room service and watched the hockey game, curled up in the hotel bed like comfortable, faithful old lovers. Just me and my box. Falling asleep, I noted he doesn't fart as much as he used to – but he's still "the one".

He'll always be the one.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Peaceful Acres is pet cemetary outside of Havenot somewhere. When it's time, call (902) 499-9289 or try http://www.atyp.com/peacefulacres/