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

Click here to give to the Heart & Stroke Foundation.

The buddy system.

Anyone with shares in Robert Mondavi, or the Pinot Grigio crop of 2005 should be rejoicing after last week's gathering of comfortably-heeled Havenot hens.

The fact that I showed up at such an event was totally out of character – having always preferred hangin' with "the guys" and swiggin' from a bottle of Chateau Crude de Noncommittal – a lively blend with hints of mischief and an undertone of reckless abandon. The fact that I was one of the last to leave, was no surprise.

By choice, I don't get out much – so when I peck my way out of coop, it's like Lesbian Bipolar Prison Break. And wading into that particular sea of familiar X chromosomes was rather pleasant. Like swimming though your own pee in a freezing cold lake.

Of course, there were snacks. Dim lighting. Cocktail napkins with cheeky jokes on them. Guest towels. And it was fun to hoist a glass with women I rarely see outside of the grocery store, the rink, or driving by – screeching at their own kids from behind the wheel of a minivan. And while we may not hang out or chat on a regular basis – we all have age, professions, and motherhood in common. Juggling acts that often go unappreciated except among peers. And by the looks of things, we can all guzzle our share of "mommy juice" when handed a hall pass.

What really struck me about the group as a whole was – they were all beautiful. Fit. Sexy. Funny. Wise. They also all had a voice – independent thinkers who hadn't been assimilated into their partners' personalities. (That voice was loud! Once the wine started flowing you could barely hear yourself speak.) And for the most part, they all seem pretty happy – even the ones battling sore hips, cancer, ill parents, divorce, and/or asshole teenagers – all the usual shit life throws under your bus.

Eyes look better with a few crinkly laugh lines.

I was particularly interested in seeing two of the party goers. Both women had recently transformed their eating habits, and their bodies – and I was anxious to see if they'd stuck with it. In truth, part of me was hoping to see them all puffed up like Adele, scarfing back cheese balls like Henry the VIII.

Like me.

Fact is, they were both radiant, goddammit. And as I stood there in my 'good sweats' admiring their cute clothes – I knew it was time to stop blaming my age, my schedule, genetics, and my recently diagnosed hypoactive thyroid – and get back on the horse of fucking misery, and ride.

Diet time.

Looking back, I haven't been on a "program" since January 2010. At that time, I did it as a joke – to give me something to bitch about – and to prove it couldn't be done. Boy, was I wrong. With the help of Halifax fitness and nutrition guru, Glenn Faltenhine of Healthy Halifax, I not only managed to lose a chunk of me – I actually enjoyed it. High protein, low carbs, and no booze. No cheesies. No picking fries off the Little Bastard's plate. No chunks of cheese on salty crackers. No carrot cake. No booze... did I mention that?

My apologies to anyone with shares in Argentinian Malbec crops.

So here I go again – only this time I have a buddy. A like-minded hen who's also lost her strut. We have a proven-succesful program, a goal, and a mandatory weekly weigh-in and all the humiliation that goes with that.

Hey, maybe I'll head down to Thornbloom's Annual White Sale and pick up some incentives... like some sexy new bedding. Or a salad bowl.

What have I got to lose?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Namaste, asshole.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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?"

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.