Reality checking.

I know nothing about hockey.

It took me 10+ hockey seasons to figure out the difference between offside and icing, yet only one to recognize that pouring Baileys into coffee at 6am is elbowing, and makes for a very long day.

But I do know checking.

I don’t care what anyone says – checking begins long before Peewee. I first experienced forechecking in Novice, when my post-dated cheque for November 1^st bounced – four months after I wrote it. At the time, I remember thinking that surely the novelty of waking up at 5 am and throwing on cold, soggy gear would wear off – and that I’d be getting a refund long before November 1^st.

Hip checks increase in Atom, when you discover your jeans no longer fit, because you’ve been wearing a puffy coat over sweats, scarfing down rink fries since tryouts. By the time playoffs roll around, you’re writing cheques so fast; you’re taking Tupperware to hospitality suites. There’s no money for groceries, let alone bigger pants.

In Major Midget, the person holding the chequebook bends over and coughs up $5000 just prior to being flattened by something that smells like a dead muskrat. That’s called chequing from behind.

With stagnating enrollment in Canada’s national game, should we be blowing the whistle at homonyms – or praising Christine Sinclair for making soccer look so damn exciting?

The argument over where and when to introduce bodychecking in minor hockey is heated and ongoing, across Canada. The powers that be at Hockey Nova Scotia are scratching their concussed heads over the issue right now, with a decision coming to vote at their forthcoming AGM, May 10 to 12^th.  I expect nothing less than an illogical decision.

In Québec, Peewees (11 and 12 year olds) must wait two additional years before they can mise en échec. (But they can join a beer league a year earlier.) By 13 and 14, boys are so pent up with hormones and pimply aggression, Bantam A looks like a drunken cage fight.

And despite reduced fees, the Quinte West Minor Hockey Association claimed the OHF’s ruling to remove bodychecking from House League resulted in many of their older players quitting the game. That just sucks on so many levels.

Neurosurgeon warnings aside, most kids enjoy checking – particularly the boys with beards and a devoted following of puck bunnies in Atom. I polled the recreational to Junior players who foul the air in my TV room, and consensus was, “the earlier the better”. One cheeky defenseman was brazen enough to suggest, “Parents should stay out if it.”  I think he meant “moms” but I was doling out warm chocolate chip cookies at the time.

And I know nothing about hockey, but is it not a contact sport? Like safe sex, why not teach kids how to give and take a hit properly, respectfully, and gradually.  Concussions and spinal cord injuries are serious business, but abstinence hasn’t proven to be a foolproof method of accident prevention thus far. My son chose to be a goalie – and I hate it – but that doesn’t give me the right to demand softer pucks and free vodka.

NHL Scout, Darrell Young runs a local checking school. “People forget, checking is a skill, like skating. Organizations need to do a better job of teaching it,” says Young, who’s built like a pop machine. “Other countries are becoming more physical, and here in Canada – we’re moving the other way. That’s crazy.”

I don’t know about you, but if I had a child morphing from Atom to Peewee, I’d sure as shit be looking for a qualified professional to teach my kid how to take a hard knock – preferably by someone who has seen the inside of a penalty box a time or two. I'd also stick a copy of Slapshot into the minivan DVD player. No sense in your child being the only kid in the dressing room who hasn't heard the word 'pussy' outside of the pet store.

So forgive me if I sound more like Jeremy fucking Roenick than a Mom, but if you really don’t want your kid to be smucked into the boards, I suggest signing them up for tennis. Or curling. Last time I looked, Colleen Jones still had all her teeth.

The Safety Towards Other Players (STOP) campaign was developed to thwart checking from behind, intentional or otherwise. Moms were instructed to sew red octagonal patches on to the back of jerseys. Assuming your child can read, the word “STOP” is intended to prevent injury and promote sportsmanship.

Well I am here to tell you it doesn’t work.

I sewed my child’s STOP patch on, while drinking a $20 bottle of wine by the fire. The next game, he couldn’t get his head in his jersey because I’d inadvertently stitched the two sides together.

That’s called a delay of game.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For the Disney version of this "article" pick up a copy of the Saturday Chronicle Herald, or click here.  

And by Centennial, you mean built in 1967?

“I want to play hockey.” My son said. Repeatedly.

“No you don’t.” I replied.

To say I was a reluctant hockey mom is like saying Sidney Crosby is a guy who plays hockey. When my son was born, my doctor friend said, “Bad hockey birthday.” I had no idea what that meant – nor did I care. But much like “good penalty”, “rink fries” and “50/50 duty” I was destined to find out. 

We were free spirits, my kid and me. Unbridled by schedules or fatherly influence, we traveled spontaneously, and spent winter weekends on the ski slopes. I grew up skiing – hockey was something people did because they couldn’t afford to ski. That stupid statement sounds even more ridiculous now, as I sit on a nest egg feathered with broken hockey sticks – their individual cost could feed a family of 4 for a week.

But the “I want to play hockey” whining eventually wore me down, so I figured a stiff pair of Canadian Tire skates and a few bounces off an unforgiving surface would put an end to this hockey shit once and for all. We chose a cloudy November day and laced up at the now demolished Dal rink. My kid hit the ice, and made Bambi look like Mario fucking Lemieux. I gave him 5 minutes before we’d be sipping hot chocolate, crossing “Play hockey” off his little bucket list.

No such luck. Even with kids half his height and age buzzing past him, my gangly six-year old barely stopped to lick the snot off his nose. I could tell by the glazed expression under his Hannibal Lecter cage, that I was screwed.

Enter Craig Moore, brother of Moosehead’s broadcaster John. Craig and I had worked together, and I was hoping to garner some sympathy from the bleachers. Instead, I got support. Craig said we had long missed Timbit registration, but he could likely get my kid on a team. I suddenly felt sick, and slid silently, sheepishly through the Tim Horton’s drive thru on the way home.

The sobering “call” came a few Friday nights later. I was knee deep in a bottle of wine, relaxing by the fire, when my world hit the boards. Someone named Coach McAdam said my son was to be at Centennial, in full gear, at 6:30 the following morning. Oh, and if he didn’t have a neck guard, he wouldn’t be allowed on the ice.

A neck guard? What the hell is a neck guard? Where is Centennial? 6:30?  

To say my son grew up without a father is a lie. He grew up with a dozen fathers and I didn’t have to sleep with one of them (which is a good thing considering one dare not shave their legs in February for fear of freezing to death in the Devonshire Arena). Donny. Graham. Steve. Kevin. I was about to discover that the roster of good men who volunteer their time, is endless. I was about to discover that this hockey journey would make my son a better man.

I was also about to discover that the roster of hockey parents is a socioeconomically diverse, and largely, jolly group – sprinkled with a few overzealous fanatics who think their kid is one growth spurt away from going to “the show”. Never mind that something like 0.1% of minor hockey players ever do. While sports bring out the best in children, it also tends to bring out the asshole in parents.

For instance, I watched in horror one tryout, as a ‘goalie dad’ openly high-fived his child every time the competition let a puck slide by. (And let’s talk about tryouts. Two months of heart-breaking agony, resulting in a team that could have been chosen by 5 moms over a box of wine.)

I was once pulled into a hotel room and instructed by a dad, to tell my kid, “When he starts to suck, to skate over to the bench and let his kid play.”

One “passionate” hockey mother claims her son was unjustly blacklisted, after it took the police to break up a fight – a mid-game Donnybrook between her and the referee.

And, it took a moment for the words, “We’re going to get a shut out every other game” to sink in. Did that son-of-a-bitch goalie dad, just insult my 8 year-old child… to his face?

Oh ya, did I mention that my little defenseman decided that having pucks shot at his face, padded by lost hope of ever having retirement savings would be fun? To quote our patriotic peacock, Don Cherry, “The most difficult position in hockey, is being the goalie’s mother.”

Welcome to my world. Throw on some coffee-stained sweatpants, empty your wallet, and sit by me. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The edited, censored version of this appears in the Chronicle Herald: April 20th.

The wandering I.

When proposing a book on nomadism, British travel writer Bruce Chatwin set out to answer the question, "why do men wander?" And I'm not talking philandering.

Restlessness is my nature. It is the carry-on cross I bear. Never am I more content then when I have an adventure on the horizon – 'adventure' loosely defined. A domestic airline ticket. A weekend in Annapolis Royal. A schlep to Machu Picchu. Like Bruce Chatwin, it isn't so much the destination, as the thrill of movement.

I suffer from motion wellness. No barf bag required.

My restlessness is genetic. My dad loved nothing more than pouring Sambuca in his coffee and hitting the road. Destination: who cares. Fitting then, when my stepmom called to see if the Little Bastard would be interested in my father's old 1994 Jeep.

To hell with him, I thought. I want it.

So off I went on an adventure, clocking 4796 kilometres in 8 days. I could have easily flown up, or had the Jeep shipped to the Little Bastard in Quebec – but where's the fun in that? I renewed my CAA membership, tossed the dogs in the truck, and hit the road.

I'd like to say this was a road trip worthy of a sequel to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but I am too old for that. I do have to agree with Hunter S. Thompson when he said, “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!”

This trip put the whirl in whirlwind. Dinner with my brother. Breakfast in Toronto with Cousin  Sarah. A quick climb up Georgian Peaks to catch the best view of the Bay. Hug my cousin Stephen. Lunch with my mom. Cross over to Orillia for a turkey dinner and DMV paperwork, where I would dump the rental car and finally be handed the gauntlet – the keys to my dad's Jeep.

In 1994, the Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited was the bee's knees. Puffy leather seats. Cruise control. Full time, 4-wheel drive. Gold striping. Today, the V-8 engine screams environmentally-unfriendly gas guzzler. There was a rust spot where my dad bounced off the garage door. The interior was time worn and sprinkled with cigarette ashes. And I couldn't have been happier.

48-hours later, I set out before dawn, tears streaming down my face – the spirit of my dad riding shotgun. He was the plastic Jesus on my dash – cracking cold ones with the seat belt, throwing caution and cigarette butts to the wind. The last time I had been in the Jeep, my Dad and I were cruising along St. Margaret's Bay, and he –  a New Yorker – was marvelling at how beautiful Nova Scotia was. It was the last time I saw him.

I had trepidations about this next leg of the journey. An 18-year old car. Winter road conditions. No warranty. Renewing my CAA Membership was the smartest thing I could have done. At least I could get towed when the Jeep sputtered and died somewhere between Cornhole and Gananoque.

But there would be no sputtering. I shoved a trashy James Patterson audio book in the CD player – and 7 uneventful hours and 120 bucks in gas later, I was in snowy Sherbooke. Mission accomplished.

Needless to say, just shy of his 17th birthday, the Little Bastard was thrilled to have his first car. His grandfather's car, passed down with love. With mixed emotions, I handed him the keys to the Jeep, and he handed me the keys to my truck.

"You know, you could keep the truck, and I can take the Jeep home." I said, with a heavy heart.

"No way!" he said, face aglow from the antique dashboard digital readout. "I love it!"

"I love it too." I said. To myself. Head tilted back, looking at the heavens, my tears catching wandering snowflakes.

Or maybe they were ashes.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

No matter how you slice it, life beats the crap out of the alternative.

The first thing I did after the doctor called, was cry. No, wait... that was the second thing. The first thing I did after the doctor called, was solemnly swear that I would consume nothing but icing and carbohydrates and liquor until I could barely squeeze through the gates of Hell. Then I cried.

There was nothing funny about last week.

Grace and courage are two words you won't be reading in my obituary. Mine would go more like this: Cantankerous to the end, blah, blah, blah, pain-in-the-ass drama queen. Her final words were, "Fuck you, Revenue Canada."

Of course I wrote, and rewrote this scenario over and over in my head this past week after a routine mammogram detected something "suspicious". "Probably nothing" said my doctor, which were the last words I heard before the world started spinning and I fell off.

I'd always imagined myself more of a heart attack person.

Funny thing, life. The night before I got "the call",  I was tucking in to kir royales and steak frites at the Victory Arms. Over dinner, we chatted about the usual girlfriendy crap – and I mentioned  being at such a happy place in my life, and how I was planning another adventure.

Irony is a cruel bitch.

For a week, I wept and worried mostly about one thing: I did not want my child to be sad. Ever. I did not want my child to suffer in life (any more than the poor bastard already has) because of me – because of my ill-timed departure. At least before I had a chance to despise his future bride, or refuse to babysit his horrible offspring.

I also didn't want anyone to be overjoyed at my demise, which was a very distinct possibility as well.

For a week, the world was reduced to appreciating simple pleasures – like waking up. Poached eggs on toast with salt and cold butter. Hanging laundry on the line. Raking leaves. Texts from my kid. Chatting with neighbours. Hot baths. My new sheets. Sleeping with my dog's nose pressed against my cheek.

Climbing Kilimanjaro and tennis camp in Florida suddenly took a backseat to watching my apple tree blossom in the spring.

For a week, I relished over pleasures I had denied myself – like bread. Julien's Good Hearth, and sourdough from the Ginerbread Haus. I drank coffee with cream, instead of the low fat milk that makes it a bitter, gray concoction instead of something you jump out of bed for. And for a week I languished over cake. Duflett's lemon coconut from Pete's Frootique. New York style cupcakes from Sweet Janes. Carrot with cream cheese icing from the Italian Market. Waiting for a birthday seemed suddenly, ridiculous.

Thursday loomed and I could think of little else. I have watched friends die, and live graciously with cancer, and after glimpsing the overwhelming fear and sadness they must have kept tucked away for private moments – sparing others their pain – I now love and respect their stoic beauty even more.

I wore my fear like a fur coat in August, and it began to fester in my abdomen, as my stress often does. By 3am on the morning of my follow up mammogram/ultrasound I was sweating and doubled over on the kitchen floor. I was scared shitless, in pain, very angry – and determined that nothing was going to cause me to miss my 8:20am appointment.

I'd rather die first.

A roomful of women on a pinot grigio drip, is a room full of laughter and common denominators. A roomful of women in johnny shirts is also a supportive club – a club I had no intention of joining. The scent-free air was heavy with eau de fear, and I removed myself from the claustrophobic, nervous chit chat – to agonize in the hallway until my name was called. I didn't want this cross section of beautiful, brave women to assume my obvious struggle with pain had anything to do with what they were going through.

And I had no intention of going gently into the good night.

After what seemed like a lifetime, I had 5 "slammograms" on my right boob... and I didn't care. Lop 'em both off! Whatever was festering in my belly was going to kill me anyway. I left the Dickson Mammogram Department and went straight to Emergency where I basked in the warmth of Nova Scotia's healthcare system until my stress-induced bowel spasm subsided, and I was able to make my way home; humbled, beaten, and very sad.

Happy endings are a funny thing. Exactly one week from the first call, came the second call. "How are you doing?" my lovely doctor began.

"You tell me." I said.

Ten minutes later I was walking in Point Pleasant Park with my dogs, just like I do every day. The icy cold wind on my face felt fabulous. And I hadn't noticed how truly navy blue the water is at dusk. I will climb Kilimanjaro godammit! I had been given a hall pass – for now – but it was hard to be 100% happy, knowing millions of other women aren't so lucky.

So tell me, why does a woman with a needle sticking out of her breast have to wait in a crowded room until she is transported, by male ambulance attendants, to another building, to have her surgery performed? With the gazillions of dollars raised by the pink ribbon campaign, can we not, locally, do something about the fluorescent corner pen of the hospital where women are stored like cattle to await their fate!? I have no issue with the quality of medical care, but the Leave Your Dignity at the Door Lounge needs a fucking makeover.

This will be the best Christmas, ever. And with any luck, next Christmas will be the best Christmas, ever. And the one after that. And the one after that.

I'm even looking forward to fruitcake.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Red, whities, and blue.

The red stain, slowly leaking through the big-girl electoral panties was sickening to watch.

Fortunately, I have lived through enough American elections to have faith – that west of the Honey Boo Boo belt – common sense would prevail, and redneck would give way to blue. But, who will ever forget 2000? We were living in California, and I watched in horror as Florida exposed its scraggly Bush to the world.

This was going to be a long night.

In an election where women, and families, and the gay community had so much to lose – I admit to being a bit terrified. America, lead by the Church of Moron, was an America I wouldn't want moving in next door. The Obamas, on the other hand, were good neighbours. The firefly glow of Barack's Marlboro on a late summer night was somehow, reassuring. And I would miss Michelle, puttering in her garden. Besides, how long before photos surfaced, of Mitt snorting coke off the ass of 15-year old believer?

As the evening evolved, I finally felt confident enough in Obama's numbers to shut off the television, and fall asleep, wondering what it would be like to pop in a TicTac and neck with the Commander in Chief.

But at 3:40 am, I awoke with a start and reached for the flicker. Before my eyes could adjust to the light of the television glow, I heard that beautiful voice, and burst into tears. Genuine tears. Not only did Obama win – Richard Mourdock and "legitimate rapist" Todd Akin lost. Binders full of women had kicked the Republicans to the curb!

So, this morning – there's another optimistically gun-shy Kennedy stepping up in the familial way. Boston is firing up doobies for arthritis, and sending Elizabeth Warren where no Massachusetts woman has gone before. There's an openly gay Senator. Heck, even Havenot has a Mayor we can be proud of – Mike Savage, winning handily – and the charismatic Fred standing tall in the polls, even after the hair was swept up off the campaign floor. There's a new Bond flick. And, after a year of rebuilding, White Point is kicking open its doors. Thornbloom have settled in their new Trillium location, and they're all bedazzled for the holidays. The Greek Village is going back to its cozy old location, and I've been so busy since The Little Bastard moved to Quebec, I've barely had time to miss him, or bitch about how he can still suck the life out of my bank account from two provinces over. I even used my Big Day Downtown $100 bucks for good – instead of evil – introducing a newbie to the glory that is Le Bistro Coq hollandaise, and falling in love with Inkwell Boutique. But that's another story.

Life is way too busy, but good.

Now all we have to do is get rid of the Harpers, with their constant peeking out from behind faded, balloon curtains. Steve mows the lawn in loafers, and his wife – Whatshername – well, let's just say she doesn't stroll over with a glass of pinot grigio like Michelle does. Besides, one day I saw a row of tighty whities billowing on their clothesline, and I haven't been able to look him in the eye since.

And nobody wants a neighbour like that.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Because is the cause.

It seems, of late, I have been preoccupied with climbing things. Take for instance W. Brett Wilson at today's 7 Virtues Middle East Peace perfume launch.

But that's another story.

Even the 20-something plumber looked climbable today. Maybe it was his prognosis – that my 40-something furnace would survive another minus 30º-something winter. Or, maybe it was his working man's hands. Hands that could snake a drain without buying it dinner first.

But that's not my point.

I think I want to climb Kilimanjaro.

I know! How fucked up is that? I schlepped the Inca Trail, lost 3 toenails, and swore I'd never sleep in a tent or shit quinoa out my ass at 100 mph whilst hanging on to a tree. Ever. Again. Waking up at 3am to race the last 6km to catch the sunrise on Machu Picchu. I hated it.

I loved it.

The Peruvian sky at 4am. The Southern Cross. Dazzling – like the Christmas tree lights – just before you toddle off to bed – broke, drunk, and exhausted, allowing Santa time to work the room.

To quote Cousin Sarah, when I asked her to be my wing man on Africa's highest peak. "Climbing Kilimanjaro involves the two things I hate most : Walking. And vomiting."

Vomiting is a symptom of Acute Mountain Sickness. More common at 19,341 feet than on a lounge chair at a Caribbean all-inclusive. The success rate for reaching the summit is around 60%, although most adventure travel brochures crank it up to between 80-95%. The last time I entertained conquering Africa's tallest bitch, coincided with Martina Navratilova's failed attempt to ace Uhuru Peak – which prompted the Little Bastard to say, "Mom, if that she-man can't do it, you haven't got a chance".

But toenails grow back.

And the world is full of naysayers. If I listened to them, I wouldn't be who I am. There would be no Little Bastard. There is always someone willing to piss on your Corn Flakes. And there's a little voice in my own head saying "the Cayman Islands are nice." But as much as Kilimanjaro scares me to death – I have a few friends fighting cancer right now. If they can face that miserable C-word with courage and grace – who am I to let a mound of earth, diarrhea, and oxygen deprivation stop me? In a twisted way, I am more afraid of NOT climbing the stupid thing.

My cause is because.

Hemingway's "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" has a scratchy, woolen underlayer of death and regret. "Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain [...] said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Masai 'Ngaje Ngai', the House of God. Close to the western summit there is a dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude."

I don't think it was a leopard. I think it was a cougar. And it wasn't seeking anything. It was just looking at the stars.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Private parts.

CC Twat: Okay, let's get started. How many people live at your current residence?

Me: Three, including two dogs, and not including the Little Bastard, who moved to Quebec.

CC Twat: The Little Bastard?

Me: Long story. Worst roommate EVER. Move on...

CC Twat:  So... one?

Me: One what?

CC Twat: How many people live at your current residence?

Me: You do the math.

CC Twat: Are you employed?

Me: That depends.

CC Twat: That depends on what?

Me: That depends on how you define sitting alone humped over a computer all day, fuckin' around with people.

CC Twat: Who is your employer?

Me: Some bitch who underpays.

CC Twat: I'm sorry?

Me: Don't be sorry. The perks are fabulous. Just look at this place! And the dog farts under my chair.

CC Twat: What kind of work do you do?

Me: Advertising

CC Twat: What do you make?

Me: Not enough.

CC Twat: No. What kind of advertising do you make?

Me: Ads, silly.

CC Twat: Where do you work?

Me: Here, in this chair. Above the dog.

CC Twat: Where is here?

Me: Here, in this chair. In my office.

CC Twat: Where is your office?

Me: Here.

CC Twat: So do you work out of the home?

Me: Huh?

CC Twat: DO you work outside of the home?

Me: I mow the lawn.

CC Twat: So you work at home? Are you a housewife?

Me: Didn't we just establish that I work at making ads, not fucking pot roast?

CC Twat: How many hours a week do you work?

Me: That depends.

CC Twat: So, on average, would you say you work 20 hours a week?

Me: I would not.

CC Twat: So, on average, would you say you work about 40 hours a week?

Me: Warmer...

CC Twat: Do you have any aboriginal blood that you are aware of?

Me: Whoa! Where is that coming from?

CC Twat: I'm sorry?

Me: Don't be sorry, no one is holding a gun to your head making you ask these stupid questions that cost taxpayers a goddamned fortune, when kids can't even make art and eat yummy white glue at school because of cutbacks.

CC Twat: Let's continue... Do you have any aboriginal blood that you are aware of?

Me: Only when I drink gin.

CC Twat: I'm sorry? Do you have any aboriginal blood that you are aware of?

Me: My mom does have really brown eyes and apparently could run really fucking fast barefoot when she was a kid. And she smokes. So there could have been some teepee tipping down the road, if you know what I mean.

CC Twat: So you do have aboriginal blood that you are aware of? Is that a yes?

Me: Only when I drink gin.

CC Twat: Is that a yes?

Me: Or tequila. Oh, and egg nog. That shit makes me want to burn your fucking holiday wagon.

CC Twat: Okay... I think that's it.

Me: Wait, I was just starting to have fun!

CC Twat: Someone will call you in the next five months to confirm how many hours you are working at that time.

Me: They never call when they say they will, don't ya find that? Especially after you sleep with them.

CC Twat: I'm sorry?

Me: Don't be sorry. And, hey, keep in touch. Maybe call back in a month or two, will ya?  Late at night. Even dinner time is fine. Hell, call me on a weekend like the good ol days. I may get lonely.

CC Twat: Goodbye.

I am sure the poor woman hired to chase me to take the mandatory Census of Canada survey is a sweet soul, but she asked for it. And $500 or three months in jail for refusal to expose my privates seemed a little harsh.

I am back.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Dear Mrs. Feenstra,

So where was I?

June was a blur of cake, and acclimatizing after a delicious vacation. Routine turned to summer, and plastic glasses were hoisted over and over in recognition of milestones: Birthdays, graduations, Tuesday, arrivals, and departures.

June saw the Little Bastard squeaking through Advanced Math 12, and I finally had my day in Small Claims Court  – with that, came the opportunity to say "soulless douchebags" – out loud.

June marked the return of climbing rose blossoms, trashy summer reading, and Friday afternoon ladies doubles, or Gin & Humidity as it is sometimes called. This past Friday was no exception, and aside from the usual excuse of "really thirsty" – we had a 50th birthday to anoint, and the welcoming of new hairs, sprouting after a nasty round of chemotherapy. Needless to say, I feel no need for an excuse to cavort these days, when merely waking up seems like cause for celebration.

Yesterday the conversation went from kitchen lighting, to "new to you" lululemon spotted at Halifax consignment shop Crimson & Clover, to progesterone cream and where to rub it. Our banter sure as hell won't save the planet, but I'd be lost without my girl friends. After another round of doubles (we're talkin' gin, not tennis) the conversation went south ever so slightly, as it often does – then, we got on the topic of mothers, and the parenting style of the 1960's. Our mothers were glamourous-looking creatures who smoked a great deal, and played a mean hand of Bridge. None of our mothers worked, and looking back – we bet that our fathers were having more fun than their spouses. My own father struck off for Manhattan every morning, and was greeted upon return with a perfectly-timed, frozen blender full of whiskey sours and a pot roast simmering on the harvest gold built-in stove top. We, the children, weren't allowed near him until he was oiled enough to face the bumpy transition from downtown to domesticity. My mother was the well-coiffed buffer.

Our mothers, we agreed, lost their identity when they promised to obey. But they seemed okay with that. Maybe because, like us, they were not alone.

Ice cubes melting in the sunshine, I commented how the feminist movement has managed to somewhat emasculate men by handing them keys to the minivan. The poor fuckers don't know whether they should open the door for a woman, or not? Sure, today's fathers are more involved than ours were – but gone are the Don Drapers and Roger Sterlings, banging the secretaries while Betty cries into the Duncan Hines cake mix. But are they really gone? I told them about the secretary, er, personal assistant, who threw her minimum wage mentality into my Small Claims Court case, nodding her head in agreement with whatever her three male bosses said. She even introduced herself to the adjudicator as "Mrs. Feenstra" – a nameless, over-accessorized bobble head setting the women's movement back a girdle or two. No wonder she couldn't look me in the eye.

Mrs. __________________. Generations of dreamy-eyed teenage girls writing their names over and over as "Mrs. Someone" has gone the way of asbestos insulation. I don't know any self-respecting woman – aside from the china doll-like elderly woman down the street – who wouldn't be offended by the "Mrs." handle, two seconds after deep throating a chunk of wedding cake.

My own mother eventually got her mojo back after her divorce. She dropped the dust cloth, shed a few pounds, started her own business, and dated with abandon. I haven't seen my mother in over a decade. It's a long story, but she's been having a few heart issues, and we've started a new chapter. I was waiting to hear whether I'd won my Small Claims Court case, to see if I could afford the luxury of a new laptop for a lengthy road trip. I need to see her, and proudly show off her only grandchild – but court decisions take time, and I didn't want these ridiculous men (and their Mrs.) to hold power over me, any longer. So with the last dying breath on my credit card, I booked a flight.

June was a corner piece with butter cream icing and extra roses.

July is empowering.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Here's to you, Mr. Robinson.

If ever there was a shit-eating grin it belonged to Gary Robinson. And because, over the years, there was occasionally spillover – from his birthday, on to mine – I always wake up on May 31st and remember to say, "Happy Birthday, Gary Robinson".

Shortly after my parent's marital shit hit the fan, my brother and I found ourselves living miles from our comfort zone, in the ski resort area of Collingwood, north of Toronto. Gary was one of the "city" kids, or "skiers" – a group of supervision-free teenagers, displaced for one reason or another, to our respective shag-carpeted ski chalets north of Toronto.

There was Stephen Rawn. And John Laughlin. The Sterio kids. And Reggie Margesson. The Bryce boys I remember fondly because Andy, the eldest (now a Priest) used to climb through my bedroom window. And then there was Michael Moore, who came to live with us shortly after the Toronto School Board strike, and never went home. I love Michael Moore.

Together, we rode Mrs. Dawson's school bus – the stereotypical bright yellow tube of hormones that would pick us up from Blue Mountain and Georgian Peaks – hang a serious left to pick up a few country kids on gravel roads overlooking the Bay – before looping back toward Georgian Bay Secondary School, where we would quite often eat a muffin, then hitchhike back home to go skiing.

But that's another story.

Gary and I were just pals. Gang members of a Club drawn together by place and time. Besides, he would never be interested in a tomboy like me. Like a sister, I think he took me to dances so he could ditch me and go after someone a little more "fun". I haven't seen Gary in years, and I hope he is okay. Last time I saw him was at a funeral – and it was a funeral held at a bar – so it was a fitting place to bump into someone like Gary, who always enjoyed a beverage or two.

I tried to find him on Facebook just now. Apparently there are thousands of Gary Robinsons in the world – but none of them appear to be mine. Anyway, the Gary I know wouldn't be sitting at a computer desk, reaching out for cyber friends. Unless he'd changed. Alot. If there was a Laughbook, I bet could find him. Gary had a 1940's gangster's laugh. More of a rolling, sinister, chuckle – and as you can see from the above photo (if you can get past the glare on my forehead and that centre part and hey, note how fucking perky I was) – his laugh was always accompanied by a grin.

A wonderful, shit-eating grin.

Gary and I share this birthday season with Inkwell Boutique on Market Street. In these days of hasty emails and text messaging, maybe it's time to slow down, and catch up with old friends the old-fashioned way: Drunk dialing at 2am. Or write them a letter on Inkwell's custom letterpress stationery. This unique little shop is celebrating their first year of business, this Saturday from noon until 6. They are promising cupcakes, and who doesn't appreciate a good cupcake.

If you happen to bump into Gary today, tell him I said Happy Birthday.

Tell him, I hope he's happy. Tell him, I am sorry I don't get "home" very often. Tell him, I regret losing touch. Tell him, I hope he has plenty to chuckle about, and healthy kids (and a healthy liver) and good friends who love him. Still.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Off the coast of Happy, heading toward Bliss.

Once again, RRSP season came – and went – securing my bed in the government assisted nursing home.

And I don't care.

I am currently between the Croatian islands of Vis and some other island I cannot spell, nor afford. It is just past 9 am, and I think it is Wednesday.

But again, I don't care.

It is hard to explain the happiness one feels surrounded by this much beauty, fun people who were merely strangers a few days ago, and a happy kid – no longer a reluctant traveler after a few days of cycling and living on a luxury yacht.

Take for instance this morning. After a few tippy yoga moves on the upper deck – breakfast was a United Nations of fresh yogurt, plum jam, kiwis, tomatoes, cheese, strawberries, crusty bread and liverwurst – with a little Nesquik cereal the Little Bastard found in the local market. Broken English, German, Aussie laughter, some great 'Monty Python meets Rumpole' British humour, with a cup of coffee or two to wash it all down. Islands drifting by. The occasional porpoise. Sunshine.

Heaven.

Yesterday we cycled on the island of Vis, only recently opened to tourists after several years of military occupation. Tito (smart fella) hid from Hitler on Vis. I hid from reality, although the first 10 kms were a test – an uphill battle after a morning of heaving seas and stomachs – and there was a bitchy head wind messing with my mind. I wanted to turn back to the boat, and have Robert pour me a glass of wine. What the fuck was I doing out here? My knees were sore. My ass was sore. I felt old.

Then I thought of my friend battling cancer back home. She would love to be here – and we'd be laughing, and pushing each other up the hill. Her laughter rang in my head. That amazing, throaty, mischievous laugh. And, so, with that laugh in my heart, I kept pedaling.

Like Dori, the annoying fish played by Ellen Degeneres in Finding Nemo, I just kept swimmin'... all the way to the top, where the island did a big "Ta da!" – opening up the curtains to a 5 km ride downhill into a sleepy seaside fishing village, and a pistachio gelato. Or maybe lemon. Or maybe blueberry.

Standing up on the pedals like a drunk 5-year old, I succumbed to gravity, letting it pull me toward the sea. Ignoring the brakes, and leaning into the first corner – my bicycle bell suddenly started ringing itself. Brrrrrring! Another corner. Brrriiiiiiiiiiiiing! All the way down to the village – past churches, and vineyards, and yawning cats – my bell was laughing at me. With me. For me.

For her.

At the bottom, the Little Bastard was already tucking in to 3 scoops of chocolate gelato, and he was smiling. Or maybe he was laughing.

It didn't matter.

The boat is pulling in to our island of the day. 50 kms ahead with a 9 km climb before lunch. A late lunch hopefully.

Before the nursing home, there is Tuscan Tennis. And a Bhutan trek. Maybe a well-earned stomach bug or two in India. Skipping along the Great Wall. A safari? Prague. And tomorrow.

Just keep swimmin' and the bells will ring themselves.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Raising lovely little bastards.

I watched and chuckled this week, as a navy-blazered father smugly taught his children that doing what is right, is not as important as getting something for nothing. That lying and condescension and bullying are funny, and that money and appearances and a free ride, are more important than integrity, respect, kindness, or hard work.

Oh well, fuck them.

This week, I also had the privilege of lending a hand to two teenagers whose parents have taught them to "give more than they take" from this life. The 'give more than you take' message is also the mantra my Little Bastard has been hearing since he could reach for the last cookie.

Laura Hebb and Grant Millier aren't spending the summer sailing, or sitting in the basement playing Xbox. In a few short months, the Halifax neighbours will be embarking upon a “Journey for a Lifetime” with Coalition For Kids International. As ambassadors for Canada, Laura and Grant will travel to some of the shittiest areas of Poland to grant wishes to underprivileged and terminally-ill children.

Let me repeat: Grant wishes to terminally ill children in Poland.

I don't have alot of spare time to wax on about how great these kids are, but my laundry list of things to do before I go on a completely selfish adventure of my own, is nothing compared to getting these kids on the road to what already appears to be quality lives.

So let's cough up, shall we!? Laura and Grant need to contribute $3900 bucks each for the Foundation, and it's easy to help. Trust me when I say, you are not funding a European holiday for these two! Even the smallest donation will make YOU feel better.

And it's not even about you.

Click on the sentence below:

I want to help raise amazing kids and not assholes, because the world has enough assholes already.

Please be sure and enter Laura Hebb and Grant Millier's names in the JFAL Participant area so they can assign your donation to these special kids.

Wow, I feel better already... and I earned the right (tongue in cheek of course) to call Laura and Grant's incredibly warm, funny, and selfless mothers the honorary "Douchebags of the Day."

Thank you.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

May day.

The Little Bastard has been watching back to back episodes of Mayday, which can only mean one thing: We're going on an airplane.

It took 3 Lorazepams and a gin and tonic to get him on our flight to Peru last year, and that was just for me. The kid is a nervous flyer  – who isn't? But he also loathes my idea of a so-called vacation.

Unlike many people content with a swim-up bar and seven days of all-inclusive Caribbean bliss – I prefer a bit of an adventure with my umbrella drink. If I am going to get traveller's diarrhea, I want it to be memorable – for instance – outside my tent, in the middle of the Urubamba. Finding the Southern Cross is easy when the nearest softly-lit washroom is 2 days away, by donkey. My child on the other hand, prefers 5 stars, 800 thread count sheets, a toilet, and tickets to a professional sporting event.

To thine own self be true.

Since writing the above sentence, I drove the Little Bastard to school and witnessed a cyclist being struck by a car. The cyclist had an apparent death wish – no helmet, and he was wearing headphones. The driver was elderly, and hopefully wearing adult diapers, as she likely shat herself when the blue haired asshole landed on her windshield like a bug. The kid was okay, and the old gal will likely lose her license – but my point is – life can change in an instant.

Why sit around a pool, when you can dive in?

Take for instance, Halifax Investment Advisor, Bernard Miles. To him, a bull market means running his ass off, down the streets of Pamplona – inbred bovines in hot pursuit. Bernard's idea of a holiday is participating in July's annual Festival of San Fermín's running of the bulls. According to him, "What guy doesn't have a bit of an inner Hemingway?" Too many of them, I say.

Bernard doesn't invest any of my money, because I am spending it – but if I had two nickels to rub together, I'd give it to someone who is wise, and knows how to live. Like Bernard. My child will inherit a big fat sense of adventure – hopefully not for a while – although I admit to a recent obsession with The Big C – in real life – and on television. Watching Laura Linney dealing with her destiny is not only brilliantly funny – it leaves me in tears. Screw RRSPs and tucking money into a 401K. This is it.

So, off we go, in 13 days. Plenty of time for my clients to load me up with work, on the off chance I fall off a cliff or get run over by a drunk Croat. And, while this next adventure is what I call "soft" compared to last year's schlep to Machu Picchu – it does involve 6 flights, 3 days of 'Anne Frank goes to a coffeeshop' in Amsterdam, and 7 days of biking the Dalmatian Islands. The fact that we'll have our own washroom onboard a yacht, means this next adventure is my attempt at striking a happy balance.

If you're feeling somewhat under appreciated and in need of an adventure – call Maritime Travel, or consider joining this weekend's Merlot Militia in Annapolis Royal. The old HMCS Cornwallis military base has gone through a bit of a renaissance since closing its doors back in 1994. Today, as the Annapolis Basin Conference Centre, this multi-functional property – nicely situated on the Annapolis Basin – is host to a series of Boot Camps. I use the term Boot Camps loosely, as this first 2-day retreat is designed for those whose idea of a push up is a demi-cup underwire bra. To enlist, or to design your own Boot Camp, call 1-888-830-4466.

Not content to sit around eating bonbons all day, Annapolis Royal is where explorer Samuel de Champlain wound up, on his scurvy-riddled search for beaver. As we all likely will, Champlain eventually stroked out – shitting his pants one final time – leaving his relatives to bicker over his estate.

My bet is, Champlain left this world with a smile, no regrets, and some fucking incredible stories.

Happy May Day, May Day.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

No relation.

Nothing like being elbow to elbow with my boy, eating ribs, and watching the game. I was so happy.

"Mom, why don't you sit over there?" The Little Bastard said, pointing his saucy finger at the chair across from him.

"Because then I can't see the TV... and this way we can watch the game together." I said, scooching further into the bench seat without taking my eyes off the screen. "OH NO! ... I hope they don't hurt Crosby's head!" I said, tucking into my chicken.

"Mom, Crosby's in the box already. It's hard to get hurt in the box." said the Little Bastard with a mouthful of fries.

"I know. I am just worried about his head. I think he has a soft head." I continued, taking a bite of coleslaw.

"AAAAH!" I screamed, moments later, as a puck went flying by the Philadelphia goalie. I'd seen him interviewed recently, and the poor schmuck appears to have a severe learning disability, or a permanent head injury. "I hate it when they score on the goalie."

"Mom, who else would they score on?" the Little Bastard said, looking over at the next table to see if they'd been as offended as he was by my outburst. "And, I thought you were cheering for Pittsburgh."

His tone was beginning to get on my nerves. If I wasn't knee deep in pork, I'd have stuck my elbow in his rack of ribs.

"I am cheering for Pittsburgh, I just hate seeing goalies get scored on." I said. "It's a goalie mom thing."

"That was a good goal" he said. "It wasn't the goalie's fault."

"If the puck goes past the goalie... it's the goalie's fault" I said. "Although you probably blame me, if a puck goes past you." I said laughing. "That's why I sit in the parking lot."

"Mom, there's no way the goalie could have had that shot. It was amazing." He said, defending the position he is all too familiar with.

"His poor mother. I wonder if she's watching?" I said, taking a slurp of my lemonade. "What time would in be in Russia? I wonder if she chugged vodka when she was pregnant, and that's why he's so stupid? They likely wouldn't have pre-natal vitamins in a country where you have to line up to buy toilet paper."

"What are you talking about?" My dining companion said, his Q Smokehouse Bad Attitude BBQ sauce rubbing off on his disposition.

"Baryshnikov... the stupid Philadelphia goalie." I said knowingly. "I'm just wondering if his mother..."

"You mean Bryzgalov?" The Little Bastard interrupted, correcting me. And he was using that tone again.

"Ya, whatever... I'm just saying, I wonder if he has fetal alcohol syndrome or something – although, I think your eyes are either side of your head – like a fish – when you have fetal alcohol syndrome. Like that fish... is it a grouper? Remember – we saw one at the Plantetarium in Monterey – and Baryshnikov's eyes are practically on top of each other they're so close together."

"Mom... you mean the AQUARIUM in Monterey? And you saw BRYZGALOV on TSN for like, 30 seconds." He said. "The guy's amazing. Maybe he just doesn't like answering STUPID questions." He said, with a look only a teenager can give.

"What are you talking about?" I said, starting to get pissed off.

"What are YOU talking about?!" He said.

"Did you see where Ovechkin is dating one of the pretty Russian tennis players. What is it with Russia – you're either really beautiful, or butt ugly. There's no middle of the road when it comes to Russians." I said, glancing at the screen. "OH MY GOD! When did Phillie score again? How did it get to be 4-2? Poor Sidney... although, I bet his mother will be happy to have him back home early." I continued. "Phillie have always been a bunch of goons. I remember, growing up, there was this guy named Dave Schultz – only they called him "The Hammer" – Dave the Hammer Schultz. No relation of course. I remember watching those games with my Dad. I used to get called "The Hammer" at school. Between "The Hammer" and Sergeant Schultz from Hogan's Heroes, and the family with the daschund named Schultzie that moved in next door to us in New Jersey – Jesus, my last name was a curse. No one attractive ever has my last name..."

With that, the Little Bastard wandered away to fill up his fountain pop, leaving me alone, wishing I'd ordered the lemonade with two shots of Jack Daniels, instead of fucking Splenda.

When he returned, I did a recap of the game: "The Phillie guy with the bad hair just accused the other guy of pulling his hair – but who could really blame him? I'd pull it too. He looks ridiculous with that hair. Is that a playoff thing like those cheesey moustaches poor Sidney tries to grow? He must get hot under his helmet. I think boys look so much better all clean cut looking – like Sidney. I hope you never have to try and grow a moustache, although I don't seem to have much trouble. Anyway he was complaining to the ref – but I think he's going to the box anyway."

"Mom, are you done?" The Little Bastard said. "Let's go, so we're home for the 2nd period."

"But you have a whole shitload of fries. Have some pecan pie, so I can have a bite." I said, pointing at the basket of handcut fries lying close enough for me to smell the greasy goodness.

"I ordered those as backup." He said. "Because you always eat my fries."

"I do not." I said.

"You do so!" he corrected me, "Which is why I ordered those."

"Well that's just a waste... you know I'm not eating carbs." I said.

"He looked at me like I was a moron, then he laughed, and said, "You ate an entire thing of microwave popcorn this weekend... those are carbs! Drink up, let's go."

"I think it's a flounder." I said, tossing my napkins on the table.

"What?" he said, getting up from the table – exasperation and Bad Attitude BBQ sauce, all over his face.

"The fish with the eyes on both sides of its head." I said matter of factly. "I think its a flounder, not a grouper."

We stepped out onto the street, and I put my arm through his. "That was delicious, wasn't it?" I said. "And fun. I'm waaaay too full. I really have to take up that challenge from those Evolve Fitness guys. They won't know what hit them when I roll in. It's fun to watch a game with you. Way more fun than watching it alone."

"I love you." I said, moments later, looking up at my beautiful boy.

"I know." The Little Bastard said, with a resounding sigh.

We approached the car, and I thought how lucky I was to have a boy. I can't imagine what we'd ever talk about if I had a girl.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

There's no place like Home.

Raise your hand if you had any of the following growing up:

Personal trainer.
Semi-personal trainer.
Sport psychologist.
Sport physiotherapist.
Math tutor.
Chemistry tutor.
Nutrition coach.

Orthodontist.
Goaltending coach.
Tennis teacher.
Golf instructor.
Driving instructor.
Agent or "family advisor".

I don't know about you, but I had a pair of sneakers and loosey-Grey Goosey parental instructions to 'make my way home when the street lights come on'.

My family ski days meant escaping the warm, Marlboro Light confines of the station wagon, for the exhaust fumes of the ski hill parking lot – watching as my parents sped away as fast as they could. No helmet. No ski coach. Just a twenty dollar bill – Andrew Jackson – curled up in tip of my mittens.

Learning how to swim wasn't a multi-layered, badge winning affair. It involved being tossed into the deep end of the pool by my father – who, by the way – went golfing every Saturday morning, and never taught me, or my brother, how to swing a club.

What happened to those good ol' days?

This week, the Little Bastard called an emergency session with his math tutor, the evening before a test he would most likely fail anyway. This, after confessing his inability to listen to his teacher even after she'd moved him away from his friends, up to the front of the class. He suggested Ritalin. I suggested a whack on the back of the head.

Paying $30 bucks to a tutor, so he can fail a math test makes me grit my unstraightened teeth. Forking over another $10 so he can sip a venti latte whilst doing so, makes me want to shoot myself in the foot. Meeting the tutor for this emergency session also meant another hour of me waiting, while my child becomes a "well-rounded person" at my expense.

I don't remember my parents sitting around waiting for me to do anything except move out.

Besides, we had already stopped for a bite at one of those seedy strip mall restaurants – so this was looking like a $100 evening. Time hadn't been good to this establishment either, and I have never wanted to shower so immediately after dining anywhere – ever. Nevertheless, after asking for the table to be wiped, and sitting on my coat for fear of getting an STD – I choked back some haddock and a spinach salad.

The Little Bastard had a belly full of wings when I dumped him at Starbucks. And I had an hour to kill.

Pondering my options – given my location, and the impending darkness – I decided to hit Homesense – the graveyard of interior embellishments no one really needs. I only shop with purpose, and I currently have a client in need of a few rugs. You never know what you may find in the decorating dumping ground if you have time, patience, and someone else's money on your credit card.

By my calculation, I had roughly 15 minutes before the store started flicking their lights for last call. I headed toward the rugs at the back of the store, but got sidetracked – first by a display of hideous outdoor pillows – followed by a sudden, debilitating stomach cramp that may, or may not have been brought on by bad taste. The cramp passed, but returned with gusto in the fake flower aisle. A giant, rusty ceiling fan began whirling in my bowels, as I stood helpless between the plastic ferns and the door.

Did I have time to go home? I reached for my phone to check the time – my fight or flight response kicking in as I tried to ignore the tsunami pushing its way painfully through my colon. But no phone. And no luck ignoring the pan-fried haddock beating its way downstream.

At that precise moment, it dawned on me. I was about to shit my pants. In Homesense.

Biting my lower lip, my mind went toward the exit, but my gut headed to the back of the store. Surely a place flogging fluffy white towels and toilet brush holders had a washroom. If it was locked, I was screwed.

Sure enough, after dashing back and forth in full survival mode, I spotted a matching set of His and Hers washroom doors, and pushed through one of them – my ass making contact with the porcelain just in the nick of time. Fearing splashback, and sweating like I was in labour, I took off my coat and settled in, praying no one would feel the urge to share the premises, at least until tomorrow.

Or the next day.

My first thought was relief, followed by awareness: a lack of toilet paper, and nothing to read. You'd think there'd be decorating magazines in a home decor store washroom – but given what was currently happening down south in my rec room, I wasn't about to complain. Instead, I started to laugh. I laughed because at least this was a night out. I laughed, and wished I had my phone, but there likely wouldn't be reception, and the sound effects would be horrific. And, who would I call? I sat and held my head, and giggled, while nature ran its course. I looked at my feet: Converse sandals and Smartwool socks. What does that say? I examined my sad looking fingernails, and remembered this was Red Tent weekend. Maybe I should spring for a ticket – to be charitable and social – and get a manicure while I was at it. Red Tent is the annual fundraiser in support of The Marguerite Centre – a refuge for women recovering from addictions and abuse and loose bowels. (I made the last one up.) Then my feet fell asleep, and I wondered what the hell time it was, and how long had I been in here? I wasn't in any shape to be leaving just yet, but it had to be nigh on closing time.

I pictured myself locked inside Homesense, and I started to laugh again. I envisioned giving myself a much-needed sponge bath with rose scented soap from the scented soap section. I imagined drying myself off with 100% supima cotton towels, and wrapping myself in a child's twin sheet like a toga. I'd make a comfy bed out of goose down duvets and leopard skin dog beds, and I'd feather my nest with sateen percale 8000-thread count Egyptian cotton. An array of hideous throw pillows and a bedside lamp from the lighting section would make my temporary home worthy of HGTV. Finally, I'd shake up a mocktail with some stale margarita mix from the kitchen section, and drink it from a plastic patio glass. If only I could Jack Bauer my way into Best Buy and borrow a Plasma TV, I'd be all set.

Every woman deserves a safe place to call home.

But I had to pick up my boy.

Fearful of drawing further attention to myself, or the bathroom makeover I'd performed in stall number two – I somehow managed to get myself up and out of the store – gracefully – without cramping up, or breaking into another laughing fit. I zig-zagged my way out, slowly, casually – past picture frames, dog-eared cookbooks, and naked backyard statuettes – straight into the parking lot. I felt like a shoplifter who'd dropped their pilfered load.

Moments later, I pulled in to Starbucks to see the Little Bastard close his books, and fork a fistful of cash over to his tutor. He jumped in the car and asked me where I'd been – and I started to howl. I didn't even apologize for being late, as I attempted to recreate my Homesense adventure. He didn't find my story nearly as hysterical as I did – but I guess you had to be there. In fact, the Little Bastard was having such a good time watching me crack up, I decided to do it more often.

I babbled and laughed all the way home – making absolutely no sense, whatsoever.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Red Tent is the primary fundraiser event for The Marguerite Centre, and it's happening Sunday, April 15. Tickets are still available by clicking here. Please spring for one, even if you don't go, or try your luck at the Silent Auction by emailing Linda at alexanderleonard@ns.sympatico.ca.

The break up.

It's not you it's me.

We don't laugh the way we used to.

I think we should see other people.

Can we still be friends?

The break up was inevitable. Two people thrown together by circumstance, clinging together for survival through thick and thin. Although, had that been us on the Titanic – you would have jumped in the lifeboat first – and I would have let you. I have always loved you Jack, more than life itself.

But, who am I kidding? It was bound to get monotonous. After all, this has been the longest relationship I have ever been in. And let's face it – I haven't been the easiest person to live with – so hat's off to you for sticking around. Mind you, I've been the sole breadwinner while you flitted through life, blowing my hard-earned money like a horny salesman in Vegas.

But my love was unconditional.

So what finally pushed us over the edge? Was it the vacuum of nothingness created by a sudden excess of free time. Or was it simply, The Clash of the Titans?

I do recall it went something like this:

"I really want to go to a movie, but Sam has to work, and no one else can go." He said, flopping down on the couch.

"I'll go!" I said, excitedly, already tucking into my mental bucket of large popcorn, double layered with real butter. I haven't had a carb since January, and I was already drooling. "I haven't seen a movie in ages!"

And that's when it happened.

"That's okay. I'll just play Xbox." The Little Bastard said, reaching between the cushions for the controller.

The unsinkable hit the iceberg.

"So... you'd rather NOT go to a movie, than go to a movie with me?" I asked, intercepting the invisible beam that travels from the sofa to the Xbox. "Is that what you're saying?"

The Little Bastard looked at me, then he tried to look around me.

"Listen, Scooby Doo... do you have any idea how many brain cells I have destroyed over the past 16 years, sitting though your stupid movies?" I asked, point blank.

And out it came.

"Do you think I actually liked Flubber? Because, remember when you were all cute, and covered with red dye from an $11 box of Skittles, and you said, 'Mom, wasn't that funny?' Well, I lied. I hated every stupid second of Flubber!"

I was just getting started.

"I hated Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The Fockers. Cody Banks. Snakes on a Plane. Clifford's Really Big Stupid Movie. Thunderbirds. Daddy Stupid Daycare. Fat Albert!" They were beginning to flow like fake topping on a kiddie pack. "I bit my tongue all the way through Eddie Murphy screwing up Doctor Dolittle? How stupid do they think children are!? Big Momma's House?!"

"That wasn't Eddie Murphy" he said. "That was Martin Lawrence."

"Who cares?!" I screamed. "I sat, no I tried to sit through Rugrats Go Wild – completely sober – and practically had a breakdown pacing back and forth in front of the concession stand." I was beginning to sweat. "No one... not even I have to pee 14 times during a 90-minute movie!"

I wasn't done yet.

"The Santa Clause. Spy Kids 3D. Oh! And what about MVP: Most Valuable Primate? A hockey playing monkey? You loved that piece of shit!" I hollered at the now stone-faced seed of Chucky. "I don't remember that little cinematic gem walking away with any Academy Awards."

But the night was still young.

"I sat through fucking Pokémon for fuck's sake. Pokémon: The Longest Most Plotless Movie EVER! I sat through that Japanime retaliation for Hiroshima desperately trying to make eye contact with other parents, with hopes of sliding out to the parking lot to drop acid. And let's not forget The Rescue Heroes. Baby Genuises. Inspector Gadget!" I spat.

And I wasn't finished.

"Alvin and the Chipmunks! Kung Fu Panda! Snow Dogs! Air Bud! Digimon! Mr. Popper's Penguins! Thomas the Stupid Gay Fucking Tank Engine! And what about that insipid waste of film with the stupid metal giant." I crescendoed. "I only went to that piece of drivel, because you said Vin Diesel was in it. And it was animated!!!" I said, waving my arms around.

"Iron Giant." he muttered.

"You owe me a movie, you ungrateful little shit!"

I was exhausted, and quite frankly I couldn't drag any more film titles out of my suppressed emotional data base.

Or so I thought.

Just then, a flashback to a place in time more horrific than childbirth, suddenly reeled its ugly and enormous breech head – and with my last dying breath – I screamed, "SPONGE BOB FUCKING SQUAREPANTS!"

And with that, I left the room.

I fell to my knees in the living room, and went about building a fire – crumpling up old newspapers and last semester's chemistry notes. I caught a glimpse of Movie Times in The Chronicle Herald and reached for the Bic lighter.

"Want me to do that?" The Little Bastard had come a grovelling. "Need me to carry up some more wood or anything?"

"No, I'm good." I said, forever stubborn.

"Mom, if you really want to go to a movie, let's go." He surrendered.

"Okay." I said, meekly. "Maybe there's something we both want to see."

"Wrath of the Titans starts in half an hour." He said. "It's a sequel."

I just stared at the smoking kindling.

"Salmon Fishing in the Yemen is playing at the Oxford." I said. "Lots of leg room in the balcony. You like fishing."

And with a whoosh my fire ignited, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen over the room.

"You know what, I don't really feel like popcorn. Let's just stay in." I said, tossing in a log.

And with that, the final sparks of a beautiful relationship flew up the chimney – and I faced up to something I'd known for a really long time.

The little boy who used to spill his $7 dollar Mountain Dew reaching his chubby, buttery hand over to find mine – in the dark, during the scary parts – had drifted away. Soon, it would be Home Alone 5.

Time to find my own lifeboat.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Life is a bowl of cherry.

"Here, sweetheart." I'd say, handing the sweaty Little Bastard the bottle of Nyquil. "Take a couple of swigs."

He was always so compliant and cute when he was sick.

"Now go back to sleep." I'd whisper, plodding back to bed, counting how many hours of shut-eye I'd get 'til his meds wore off.

I had to laugh when I saw the IWK's new commercial for Poison Awareness Week. Two bored-as-shit mothers, driving home the message that a kitchen spoon is not an ideal tool for measuring children's medicine.

Who used a spoon?

The chances of getting cough syrup – or that banana flavoured crap – from the bottle, into the snot-encrusted mouth of a wheezy toddler was hard enough at 2 am. The oral syringe the pharmacist gave you is long gone – so why then risk pouring elixir that cost more than a bottle of Drambuie, onto a wobbly spoon, in the pitch dark – splashing it down the front of their pyjamas, so they wake up all sticky, covered with red dye, dog hair, and pillow feathers?

My system was better: A half swig was a teaspoon. A double-fisted swig with no spillage – was a tablespoon.

In the morning, the Little Bastard would rush in – pupils still a bit dilated – but rested. We'd both be breathing easier after a good night's sleep.

The IWK's Child Safety Link for Morons website has several tips that make me wonder how the Little Bastard survived childhood at all. In preparation for Poison Awareness Week (March 20 to 26) here's what I learned:

1. Be as accurate as possible when giving your children medication.

I think this means to make sure they are your children, and not the neighbour's kid. Because if they truly meant for you to read the instructions, they would make it larger than 2pt type. (And how would two-fingers of scotch translate into milliliters?) Rule of thumb is to double it. Kids are designed to throw up for a reason.

2. Be sure to record when, and how much medicine a child has been given each time, so as to prevent double-dosing.

Because you have nothing better to do than keep a fucking diary. Generally, when the kid starts to whine and demand food – or stops looking all glassy eyed – it's time to top him up.

3. Child-resistant packaging does not mean “child proof”.

True. Which is why I always had to get my child to open it.

4. Take care not to refer to medicine as “candy.”

Children are gullible, but not totally stupid. Although, it does taste like candy. Are they implying you should add to the sick child's misery, instead of sugar coating things a bit? And if your kid is so stunned that he really can't tell the difference between cough syrup and a gummy worm, I think you have more to worry about than poison control – like for instance – coming up with the tuition for Bridgeway Academy.

Oh and here's my favourite:

5. When visitors come to your home, keep their purses, bags and coats out of your child's reach.

I don't know about you, but when visitors come to our house, they are called 'friends' and they take their poisons out of their purses, bags, and coats – and place them within reach. Then, they ask the child to "scoot into the kitchen and grab the corkscrew with the pointy bits, and run back quickly, so mommy doesn't have to get up".

6. Keep emergency numbers, such as the IWK Regional Poison Centre number, near the phone.

Near the phone? Do they mean the cordless phone that hasn't been seen in days? Or the rotary dial phone mounted on the wall next to the 1972 calendar. And, aren't we supposed to call 911? Or do we call for a pizza and hope the doughy crust soaks up some of the over pour?

It really is good to know our Capital Health marketing dollars are going to such good use – considering the average wait at the IWK Children's Hospital is about two days. Unless of course, your kid has a corkscrew lodged in his eye – in which case, you jump the queue.

I have such fond parenting memories. Like the time I ran over the Little Bastard's foot when I dropped him off at the Grammar School. I didn't even know what had happened, until I picked him up later in the day. Seems the cough medicine I'd been double fisting all night contained codeine, and maybe I shouldn't have been operating heavy machinery after all.

But it tasted like cherries.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Black like whatshisname.

The Little Bastard has a spare period this semester – or as he constantly reminds me, since dinosaurs no longer roam the Earth – it is called a "free".

A revolving "free" to a 16-year old means: being picked up early on Mondays, sleeping in Tuesdays, long lunches on Wednesdays... and so on. "Free" means I am just settling in to work and he is back home, or he is calling to be picked up for lunch, or he is texting because he is bored, or worse – he is home early – flopping on the couch and demanding snacks like a pissy toddler. I keep reminding him that a "free" is designed for catching up on reading – or God forbid – studying. Free for him, means less freedom for me. Less sparedom.

Last week, I had the pleasure of rousing him from his "free" sleep-in, by standing at his bedside waving a snow shovel. I was wearing pyjamas and the look that says: "Don't fuck with me." He is very familiar with that look – so out he went, half asleep – to help our sweet little neighbour Marg with her sidewalk. I went back to work, and after a half-hour or so, he arrived at the back door.

"What took you so long?" I said.

"I am Mr. Shelby's* new coloured man." the Little Bastard said with a smile.

"What?" I replied, making a face.

He dropped his soggy layers on the floor and said, "Mr. Shelby said his 'coloured man' usually takes the bus to come and shovel, so until the transit strike's over, he asked if I could shovel his walk."

The only saving grace was Jack's air quotes on the words "coloured man". Phew.

"Did he really say, "coloured man?" I asked... wincing.

"Yep" he said, chuckling, "what's for breakfast, Mammy?"

Today is Leap Day – a gimme for dreary ol' February – and time for the Gregorian calendar to catch up with the sun, or something like that. It also tacks on an extra day to Black History Month. Or African-American history month. Whatever. Time for the Mr. Shelbys of the world to catch up and recognize that Michelle Obama isn't just planting watermelons in the White House garden.

In addition to his "free", The Little Bastard is required to take one history course to fulfill his high school diploma. He chose Canadian History over Mi'kmaq Studies, Gaelic Studies, or African Canadian Studies. In a school that sadly, appears to be socioeconomically and racially divided – I would think that African Canadian studies should be mandatory.

But it isn't.

And dinosaurs still roam the Earth – because old-school thinkers like Mr. Shelby are still one chorus of "Wade in the Water" away from growing cotton in the backyard.

Respectfully, and because it is not his nature, the Little Bastard didn't say anything to Mr. Shelby. Nothing along the lines of, "Does the 'coloured man' have a name?" Or, "How bout that Asian NHL player... who woulda thought those rice pickers could skate, huh, Mr. Shelby?", all the while whistling a few bars of "Jump down, spin around, pick a bale of cotton." (Ironically, a song we were taught in kindergarten, growing up in the States.)

I think I would have poked the hooded hornet's nest a bit.

So, while it is too late to change the train of thought (definitely not the Underground Railroad) embedded in our elders – I find it sad there hasn't been one mention of Black History month in The Little Bastard's classrooms. One would think that February, with an extra day, would be a good time for discussing Uncle Tom's Cabin, or Beloved, or what's happening out in the hallway. Is that too much of a leap?

And I have to believe, that underneath his crusty racist exterior – Mr. Shelby is a kind man – he just doesn't see anything politically incorrect or malicious about calling his longtime employee "my coloured man". Although, personally – I think the word "my" is perhaps even more dangerous than the word "coloured."

So, The Little Bastard has a new taste of freedom – and he likes it. Flaunt Salon have a new line of self-tanner that works with your DNA, instead of dyeing your skin Halloween orange. If, like me, you are shackled to your desk for March break – relax, and get Jenny to apply a sun-kissed St. Tropez tan evenly and smoothly. Or, purchase a kit and self-tan your lily white ass 'til the cows come home.

I'm thinkin' maybe I'll pick some up – and if the transit strike looms on – I'll apply for a job down the block – enlightening sidewalks, one shovel load at a time.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

*Names have been changed to protect the ignorant, er, innocent.

Curds in my way.

I just dumped a mish mash of broccoli and cauliflower down the garburator. Tonight, I'd rather not eat, than eat that nursing home shit.

It's been two weeks since I've had a carb, a chunk o' cheese, or a cocktail... and I'm cranky as all get out. I've got carpal tunnel from chopping lettuce, and I've stewed enough rhubarb to put Grandma Walton to shame. I've lost 605 pounds so far, but 600 of that was a nasty client posing as a monkey on my back.

Tomorrow is my second "check-in" pep talk – and hopefully I've lost something besides my sense of humour and my joy of living.

I won't lie. These past two weeks have been torture. 64 ounces of water a day in – means 64 ounces of water out. I am so sick of salad I could puke, and the mere sight of someone sipping wine on television has rocking back and forth like a lunatic. I even licked a potato chip before placing it back in the Little Bastard's bowl.

While determined, I am missing my rituals. My five o'clock slab of That Dutchman's Farm gouda. My drive-thru green tea lattés. Weekend bacon. Pan-fried anything. And the Little Bastard's leftovers. I miss Yum Fancy Granola. I miss Monday night Shake 'n' Bake in front of the TV. I miss almonds, and cold butter on Julien's baguettes. I miss crunch. I miss Malbec. I miss fucking TicTacs. I miss corn – and I never eat corn.

I miss me.

So why the high-protien, low-fun health kick? It's not like I'm the next candidate for the Biggest Loser or anything. But February is Heart & Stroke month, and both of my parents suffered heart attacks – one, more fatal than the other. Mind you, they both smoked like Turks – but heart disease and stroke and teenagers, are the number one killer of women – so I'm screwed. And if that isn't enough – my pants are tight – and not in that "nice ass" kind of way. Plus, the good folks at Maritime Travel have us off on another adventure – only this time – instead of trekking with no oxygen or pillows, we're biking. And biking = biking shorts. And I don't want to look like two harbour seals are dry humping in my pants, as I zig zag up a Croatian hillside.

So I will soldier on – chopping and purging and peeing – dreaming of popcorn with layered butter, and scooping just one nightcap of ice cream, all the while, ignoring rave reviews for Dartmouth's new, ill-timed Cheese Curds Gourmet Burgers + Poutinerie.

Julia Child said, "The only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cook.” The grand dame of all-things butter died at 91 – soft as a wedge of gooey Camembert – hopefully clutching a croissant to her defiantly-clogged arteries, while duck fat rolled down her beautiful, smiling face.

Julia also said, “Life itself is the proper binge.”

And I want to be around to binge, and bitch, and bike... for a long, long time.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

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