So that's where that tuna melt went.

I couldn't turn my back on it any longer – I had company coming. Saggy and worn out from years of abuse, it certainly didn't owe me anything. The seat cushions were lumpy and out of shape. It was ugly and faded from too much sun, and had stuffing sticking out in places I could no longer cover up.   

My body was shot. 

Quite frankly, I was tired of all tugging and stretching to cover this thing up. Yesterday, I called in a professional. An interior/exterior decorator of sorts. I called The Courtyard and made an appointment with a personal trainer. 

Heck, I do work for them and they've been offering for years – dropping subtle hints like, "Hey, big girl! Did you know we have a state-of-the-art gym upstairs?" 

They set me up with Amanda Pickett. Amanda is one of those perky, petite, student council types I normally avoid. Waving a list of credentials longer than her years, she greeted me with a big smile and an optimism I was determined to squash. I hated "working out" almost as much as I hated accidentally wandering into the petite section. I hated running. And aerobics. And my thighs. And I told her so.  

The Courtyard in Bayer's Lake is an amazing tennis club, but most folks don't know it is also a fitness centre and FBI torture facility. Amanda lead me past row upon row of shiny machines designed for a variety of muscle-specific manoeuvres to make people talk. Those would come later she explained. But first, a little cardio.

A little cardio to that pint-sized dominatrix was a half hour on a elliptical machine – which would have been fine had she kept her boney fingers off the "resistance" button. Bench presses, followed by push ups (2) and free weights and I was about ready to walk out the door. What made it really unbearable were the wall-to-wall mirrors. My house has one small, face-height mirror over the sink for a reason. 

One nice thing about being old is you generally know thyself. For instance, I know if there's a man pumping iron in the free weight zone, I won't be going in there, even if you throw in a chocolate bar first. I also know exercise needs to be mindless, fluid and and somewhat enjoyable if I am going to stick with it. Like biking, or binge drinking, or tennis. I want to trick my body into exercise. 

I watched Amanda do a few crunches and decided that really wasn't for me. Nor were the things you do bent over in front of the mirror (to check your position) with a big toaster sized hand weight. Apparently it targets upper arm waddle, but I've suddenly grown fond of my waddle. I also liked to sit on the big bouncey ball, but rolling around on it looking for my core, that just took all the fun away. Thankfully, I actually, really, honestly did like the torture machines, especially the Suzanne Somers-on-steroids version of the thigh buster. Those were awesome.    

My body, Amanda diagnosed, has the equivalent of A.D.D. A fleeting attention span and a free spirit. It wanted to play the 'chase the fish' game on the rowing machine for 3 or 4 minutes –and not do lunges. It wanted to channel surf and yell "wheeeeee" when the elliptical goes too fast. My body wanted to be lied to, and distracted into sweating for an hour. (Hey, that's sex!).  

Amanda was great. She listened, and understood I was frustrated with the ugly old couch, and was ready to commit. Sort of. She wanted to know my schedule and eating habits, and there was no point in lying. I told her my danger zone was between 2 and 3 in the afternoon when I started Hoovering cookies out of the sofa cracks and getting really sleepy. I told her I was stressed and looked forward to a little box of wine in the evenings, and I wasn't prepared to let that go. She then told me how many minutes of cardio it takes to burn off one glass of liquid 'who cares'. That little twerp was evil. I really liked her.

So here I go. No more XL throws to cover up old lumpy. No more painting the walls around lumpy so folks won't notice the Halloween candy wrappers falling out of the cracks. Three afternoons a week, around cookie hour, I'll be working on a little reality renovation I call, "Me".

(Oh, there's a fun-house type mirror in the ladies change room at The Courtyard, that makes you look all Olsen skinny. I am going to steal it, but don't tell anyone.) 

Wish me luck.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Courtyard has Personal Trainers and some great new (so they tell me) Ab classes, Kickboxing etc. 

Class schedules are online at www.thecourtyardclub.ca or call 450-1016

And then I waterskied around Prince Edward Island.

History, and divorce rates prove that during the mating ritual, a man will say just about anything to lure a woman back to his pizza-box encrusted cave. My all-time favourite 'pants-off-now' line was spoken by a woman – not a caveman – and it did not start with, "Is that a blow dryer in your pocket?"

Hot summer breezes, and gin and tonic, bring feelings to the surface that may have otherwise stayed put. One summer afternoon, I witnessed a courting dance between a gal pal from Ontario and the charming, Boy Next Door. I had flown my friend in to play Nanny during a particularly busy work week. She had never been to Nova Scotia and I was in a jam. It was perfect.

It didn't take long for the Boy Next Door to spot the Nanny. He was dashing and single. She was 6 feet of tanned legs and had teeth like Chicklets, well before everyone was Javex-ing their enamel off. Soon, the handsome Boy was taking Jack and the Nanny for car and boat rides, and inviting us all over for cocktails. It was pathetic, but fun to watch. 

One evening, I heard the Boy ask the Nanny if she had ever been to Nova Scotia before. She shot me a look that said, "Shut up Schultz or I will kill you", batted her eyelashes and replied, "Oh yes, I was here a few years ago, when I biked around the Cabot Trail."

I nearly spit out my G&T and had to remove myself from sight. She had never even been to Cape Breton and had NO idea what she was talking about. The Nanny was in so deep I couldn't save her. Amazingly enough, he fell for it, or pretended to, and I think she eventually had him massaging her road-weary hamstrings. Such is the road to love.  

The week ended, and so did the courtship. Jack projectile vomited all over the dashboard of the Boy's prized convertible, and the Nanny went home. 

I often think about that summer. Our beloved Boy Next Door died playing tennis. But biking the Cabot Trail with the Nanny and Jack is high on my list of things to do before I go down swinging.  

Laying down my loyal B&R gauntlet for a moment, I see Freewheeling Adventures, a local biking company, have a six-day, biking tour around the Nanny's fabled route. Their Cabot Trail adventure is real, begins and ends in Baddeck and has a guided cost of $2195. Not bad considering it includes 6 days, 5 nights, 5 breakfasts, 3 lunches, 4 dinners, luggage handling, plus the much needed, van & guide support. (No mention of ice cold G&T's, but maybe if you batted your eyelashes.) Van support on some of those highlands would be akin to life support and well-worth the price of admission.  

I called the Nanny last night and told her I was going down this particular memory lane. We had a good laugh, and I asked her where that Cabot Trail line of hers came from. She said, "I don't know. He was so cute, it just popped out". Indeed. 

Keep peddling. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Freewheeling gang have been around since I was a guide. That's a long time. Since then, they have expanded their intineraries to places like Israel, Scotland and Slovakia. Good to see a local company going places!

For your next, or first peddling adventure go to: www.freewheeling.ca

You want a piece of this.

I always feel some weird external pressure to cook a roast and be nice to people on Sundays. It's like some sort of twisted, agnostic guilt weighing heavily on my soul. I never do – cook a roast or act nicely unto others though. 

Sunday mornings follow the usual Saturday night at our house; hockey, followed by Hockey Night in Canada. Only last night was different.

The neighbours had cake. 

Those crazy Catholics have so many kids and cousins and step-half brothers and illegitimate nieces there's always a cake being offered up. And, thanks to the burden of guilt, or genetics, they feel obligated to invite everyone they've known since kindergarten that can still hold a deck of cards and balance a rum and Coke. And us. 

I like a good piece. Of Cake. So I threw on my Saturday night special and headed out the door. It's a rare night out for me, and I was going to fight the fat cousin for the corner piece with all the roses. Then I remembered. It was 8:40. I was supposed to be staggering around in the dark, lighting tea candles with a piece of toilet paper on the stove burner. I was supposed to be huddled in front of the fire saving the planet by roasting marshmallows. It was Earth Hour.

I was about to pull the plug, when I had a rare Christian moment, and thought of Tom. Poor bastard had a bit of a sickness going on anyway, and now this – a world-wide dimming of the lights. The South End's very own prodigal son had returned. Our Peeping Tom was back lurking through rhododendrons, looking for a cheap thrill. Everyone from perky co-eds to cellulite burdened church ladies were encouraged to turn their Hanes-for-Her backsides and draw the blinds. Hell, I've been going to bed with my make-up on for weeks now with nothing to show for it but a stained pillow case and clogged pores.    

So I left the lights on and went for cake. 

I figured everyone needs a beacon of hope. A light at the end of their twisted tunnel. Tom has a mother somewhere worrying if her baby has enough to eat and a warm place to sleep. In the midst of the blackest night, Tom would see the light – my bedroom light – set down his freak flag and be saved. One glimpse of my Cabernet-stained flannel jammies and the tattered housecoat with TV Guide in the pocket hanging on my bedroom door, and Tom would be reeling backwards, sprinting for the nearest bus station, and on the road to salvation. 

By defying Earth Hour, I had saved Tom. Tonight by not cooking a Sunday roast, I am saving energy, and the life of a mad cow grazing somewhere under a starry sky in Alberta. Damn, I am good person. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Bite me. Please.

What a week. 

It started off okay – full of hope actually. Then, by 4:42 yesterday afternoon, I was a Stephen King novel, foaming at the mouth in a Kathy Bates-sized pair of elastic waist Mom jeans.

Nothing really bad had happened. In fact, nothing much really happened at all. Jack got over the flu. I worked. The snow melted. My attempt at tongue-in-cheek humour failed miserably, with many an email pointing out that it was indeed the WWF Wildlife folks and not the WWF Wrestlers who were backing the Earth Hour. No shit. But hey, even Stephen King made mistakes. ("Christine").

I guess I was kind of hoping for something good to happen.      

So, there I was in an awkward parking spot, in rush hour, in a recession, in perimenopause, waiting for my child to finish his "hockey workout" at 4:45, so I could chauffeur him to his next activity.     

The tail end of my truck (not to mention my ass) was admittedly sticking out a bit, giving every world-weary commuter an excuse to look over at me and give me that look. The one that says, "you stooopid, stooopid middle-aged woman with bad hair". Trust me, I know the look. My grandmother invented it.   

Then, before I knew it, it was 4:48. Six minutes had passed, but it seemed like decades. I have an education, I came to this country to change the world, why am I driving a cab? I kept looking through the window at all the fit, happy people huffing and puffing, working out and listening to their iPods. I was thinking, aside from bending over to pick up dog crap, or take clothes out of the dryer, that I hadn't really had any exercise all week, and how I will someday run over some co-ed wearing a hoodie and earphones who walks in front of my car because they are invincible and listening to Katy Perry full blast. The fact that I did not even touch the brakes will come out in the police report.   

Then I eyed the bag.

It seems, while in catatonic Survivor Mom mode, I subconsciously grabbed a bag of "Two-Bite" Brownies on the way out the door. Jack would want a snack, I guess was what I was thinking as I passed the apples on the way out the door. And, I'd like to meet the sick moron who named those heroin-laced fat bombs "TWO Bite" brownies. It must have been a man, because those are clearly "ONE-Bite" brownies.

I had my first at 4:51. 

By 4:59, the bag was empty and I was thrashing around in the car trying to get off my leash. You know when you drive by a parked car and the dog inside is lunging at the window, biting the glass, and it's kind of funny but scary at the same time. That was me. Even angry commuters stopped giving me"the look". They knew better. 

I was sniffing around the car looking for crumbs or the other half of a breakfast sandwich that had fallen between the seats, when I flashed to some email banter I'd had earlier in the day with my friend Amy. A single mom, self-employed writer, Amy and I speak the same tongue. We had been commiserating how a nice, big, firm stimulus package would come in handy right about now. I confessed to her that things were so stressful, and money was so tight, that I actually scrimped on dog food and and bought one-ply toilet paper and No Name Kraft dinner so I could keep a bottle of wine standing by. 

Amy just said, "Ya. Of course. That's just putting the oxygen mask on first." 

It was the line of the week.   

At 5:07 Jack approached the car. He had no clue he was 23 minutes late and while I had been sitting there the weight of the world and a bag of brownies had descended on me. He jumped in and said, "thanks for picking me up Mom" and started babbling about the great workout and "oh look, I'm late" and could we please stop for a snack, because he was starving.   

At that moment, a bright yellow oxygen mask dropped down from the ceiling. I strapped it behind my head, took a deep breath, turned the key and joined the stream of traffic heading somewhere other than there.

Isn't chocolate poisonous to dogs?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The downward facing hot dog.

This being spring and all, I was toying with the idea of taking up something new and cardiovascular – like chain smoking, or nordic walking. I see nordic walkers all the time these days - at sea level. They seem to travel in packs, clicking and clacking all over downtown looking for alpenweiss or a Jägermeister bar. I bet they really piss off blind people, who had the idea way before there were nordic walking clubs, and Lululemon nordic walking bras.

Not wanting to invest in expensive equipment, like spring-loaded poles – I thought – yoga. Why not? I tried Ashtanga yoga a few years back, but caught a glimpse of myself upside down and it scared me to death. Plus I tend to shave my legs and armpits, and dab on perfume, all of which were karma killers in that particular lotus land. What finished me off though were my uncontrollable fits of laughter (and subsequent bladder control issues) when everyone else was silently searching for some hairy, inner peace. So I play tennis. You can get angry and hit things in tennis.

But, nowadays, they have something called HOT yoga. Apparently everyone who can't afford smokes or poles is doing it. So I thought, what the hell. I'll try anything once. So, I did what I always do before venturing into unfamiliar territory – a little research. This is what I discovered:

Moksha yoga is a series of yoga postures that sound to me like every other yoga, except they crank the heat and you sweat like a pig, er, detoxify. 

They start with a Savasana or "corpse" pose. You lie flat on your back with palms turned up and the feet slightly separated. They used to call that the missionary position, but it's been a while. While playing dead, you are suppose to allow expectations to fall away. My expecations all but left town years ago, so I am now confident this hot yoga is for me.

Next is Intention setting. Being aware of your breath or something. (Take Tic-Tacs) Here is where you also work on your abs, if you can find them. Carefully worded, Intention setting is "especially for those with a busy life". Nice try, but it sounds to me like this 'Intention setting' is aimed at the edge dwellers who just had a complete meltdown in the parking lot after beating the family dog with a hairbrush, just because he was the only one home. You know who you are.

Then the hotties move on to a bunch of standing poses that honestly, just sound like vacumning in those hard to reach places, like the attic. Or cleaning the gutters on a really hot day. 

The floor series still sounds like housework to me. Having thoroughly warmed the body in the standing series, you begin to open the hips and spine. Ah, it's like childbirth, or scrubbing the toilet. I am beginning to think if I'm going to end up sweaty on all fours I want to get a baby, a clean floor or least a nice dinner out of it. 

Finally, Savasana ends the class the way it began: lying flat on your back, soaked and thinking of England. Likely because you can't move after all that housework.

So, hot yoga may not be for me after all. Really, why would I pay $16 bucks, plus another $250 on yoga clothes, when I wake up almost every night soaked in sweat anyway.

Where did I put those old ski poles? 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com 

Moksha Yoga Halifax is at 1512 Dresden Row, right across from Pete's Frootique. 

I have a really stressed out skinny friend who swears by it. Really. 

Excuse me, M'am, step aside, this is Fashion Week.

I had big plans to write about the end of Fashion Week, and how excited I was that Mary Kate and Ashley had a new fall collection, so my ski poles would finally have something to wear. But then life happened, as it always does, and I fell off the fashion wagon.  

Last night, around Coronation Street time, Puke Boy had a craving for solid food. After three days of a weird stomach thing (the details of which I will spare you) this was music to a mother's ears. He said he felt like a roast beef sub, so I hopped in the truck to fetch dinner. 

Meals at our house are not exactly well thought out, sit-down affairs. In fact, our fridge is an under-the-counter mini bar, minus the lock and the Barbie-size bottles of vodka. And, it is usually empty. We don't even own a table.

You see, Jack's palate leans toward beige food – toast, fries, rice, chicken balls no sauce, pasta (Kraft dinner) and any creature they can process into a nugget. I love spicy food, ethic food from any nationality other than ours, salad (with lots of dressing) and eating standing up at the kitchen counter or in front of the computer. The only thing we agree on is we both love eating in the car.  

So, off to the local sub shop I go. It was well past rush hour so there were two sandwich artists waiting to serve me. I hate lineups, so life was good. I ordered Jack's usual, and just as they were slapping extra cheese on his sub a lovely, young girl/woman approached the counter. She smiled, pretended she hadn't caught a glimpse of my jammies tucked into my rubber boots and started to order. 

"6-inch whole wheat", she said. 

The artist flattened the bread and waited, as did I, for her next selection. I guess I was in the way as she scooted around me, past the yummy slices of meat, and straight into the veggie section. She proceeded with her order, which at this time was still just naked bread splayed open on the counter.

"Lettuce", she said. 

A few seconds later she pointed at some cucumber. Then, and I am not kidding, she asked for a few pieces of green pepper. My head kept jerking forward like I was willing her to say, "salami", but with no luck. My eyes kept darting sideways, and I was thinking maybe she'd never been to see the sandwich artist and she didn't know you start at the other end where all the fat was congealing. Should I help her?!   

"That's it." she said.

It took a few seconds for it all to register, then my head snapped around so I could make eye contact with this person, and from somewhere deep within the words, "THAT'S IT??!!" came flying out of my mouth. 

"That's not a sub", I pleaded. "That's what I pull out of the lawnmower." 

She just smiled, paid for her bread and lettuce and left. Which left me, standing there dumbstruck. The now available, and clearly not exhausted, other sandwich artist looked at me and chirped, "What would you like on your sub, M'am?". 

"Nothing," I said, thinking how much I hated being called, M'am. There were some chips at home, and some ketchup packets. I could make a dip. I'd be okay.

Jack ate most of his sub, except for a bit of lettuce and cheese that I mixed into my dip. I caught the end of Coronation Street and a glimpse of what life would be like as a size 0. I suddenly felt sorry for Mrs. Olsen and all those meals she lovingly prepared, only to have her twins push their plates aside. (Or run to the can.)  

Maybe today I'll go the the grocery store, and celebrate the end of Fashion Week and his flu, by making a nice, beige dinner. His clothes are hanging on him now, but in some circles, that's fashion.   

   

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Gee, Mrs. Cleaver, that housecoat really brings out the red in your eyes.

I had another stimulating conversation on the way to the rink this morning. Mind you, it was early, but I think it's high time I introduced the boys (my boy, very much included) to double espressos, Emily Post, or public transit. It went something like this:

Me: Good morning. Did you have a good sleep? 

Them: Huh?

Me: Did you get to bed early, or did you stay up and watch the end of the hockey game?

Them: Wha? Uh. Ya.

Me: What about breakfast?

Them: Wha?

Me: Breakfast. First meal of the day. Did you guys grab some, or would you like me to stop at Tim's?

Them: Wha?

Me: Tim's. The drive-thru, named after the dead hockey player. Did you want me to stop for a hot chocolate and a bagel? Or a mimosa?

Them: Huh. Ya. Uh. I guess. 

Me: Geez, will you look at all this snow! I wonder if it'll be another snow day, so soon after March Break, because if it is, I may have to shoot myself.  

Them: Wha? 

Now, I imagine most of you gentlemen are thinking, "Why all the questions, it's five freakin thirty, shut up already." But, in my opinion, it's never too early to start teaching the smelly little primates, a little etiquette. 

So far in life, they have a pretty good grip on how to back-check, fore-check, stick handle, give a hit and take a hit. They can shake hands in a post-game line up, usually without taking a swing, so I think it's time they learned what fork to use. Or, how to eat soup without slurping; a proper handshake with eye contact and a firm grip; what to do with a dinner napkin; in what country is it acceptable to belch the National anthem after a satisfying meal; how to dance and how to a carry a conversation.

I could use a little Charm school myself, so I did some research to see if there was a "Miss Manners" type academy in Halifax. There isn't. The closest thing I could find was the Millicent Farnsworth Academy Charm School for Crossdressers in Toronto. No lie, the number is 416-413-0827. With this hole in the Halifax etiquette market, maybe there's a small business opportunity for someone who knows their salad fork from their fish fork. Why should the crossdressers get all the manners?    

My next thought was to rent DVDs of Leave it to Beaver, so they could learn a little Eddie Haskell-ese. You have to hand it to ol' Eddie, he may have been full of shit, but at least he knew how to pour it on. And that's all I am asking for. When these boys need to pour it on in life, that they will be able to deliver the goods. Like Eddie, only with a little sincerity thrown in.

I'll end with this inappropriate, yet humourous pearl. You read on, while I go phone Millicent Farnsworth:

There was a boy who worked in the produce section of a supermarket. A man came in and asked to buy half a head of lettuce. The boy told him that they only sold whole heads of lettuce and he would have to ask the manager if it was okay. 

He walked into the back room and said, “There's some jerk out there who wants to buy only a half a head of lettuce.” As he finished saying this, he turned around to find the man standing right behind him, so he quickly added, “And this gentleman wants to buy the other half.”

The manager okayed the request and the customer went on his way. Later on, the manager said to the boy: “You almost got yourself in a lot of trouble earlier, but I must say I was impressed with the way you got out of it. You think on your feet and we like that around here. Where are you from, son?”

The boy replied, “Minnesota, sir.”

“Oh, really? Why did you leave Minnesota?” inquired the manager.

The boy replied, “They’re all just whores and hockey players up there.”

“My wife is from Minnesota!” exclaimed the manager.

The boy instantly replied: “Really! What team did she play for?”

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Honk if you love life, and gorgonzola.

Many moons, and several pant sizes ago, I was working at an ad agency in Toronto and moonlighting as a bicycle tour guide for Butterfield & Robinson. It all sounds so exciting and glamourous to me now; debt ridden, lard assed, with a child who has been re-enacting the vomiting scenes from The Exorcist all day. But it was glamourous. Aside from of course, 28 hours of childbirth and all that followed, being a B&R guide was the happiest I have ever been. Ever. 

If you've never heard of Butterfield & Robinson, stop reading and go to www.butterfield.com, but grab a cloth to wipe up your drool. Cruising through their website is something I do, routinely. I get their monthly e-newsletter "The Slow Road" and put everything on hold when their exquisitely designed travel brochures land in my mailbox. Their trip descriptions are my escape. They stand for what is possible in life. They are my healthy addiction. 

George Butterfield guided his first bike trip to France in 1966, and never looked back. He has built a travel empire with a stellar reputation from a simple, but winning concept; exercise and the good life. Actually, biking and now hiking mostly, combined with princess-worthy accommodations, knowledgeable guides, regional gastronomic delights, and panniers packed with some form of alcoholic beverage. Bikers get thirsty. George's trips are decadent adventures, and boy those stretchy cycling pants come in handy after 6 courses of butter and Bordeaux.  

B&R followers are generally well-heeled, lean toward high-maintenance and were for the most part, memorable. One guest, Dottie Perry "The Whip" was in her 70's at the time, had plastic hips and knees, and should have had an act in Vegas. I tried to find her the last time I drove through Stowe, Vermont but apparently she was in a nursing home near Burlington. I didn't want to see her there, but wondered if she packed her feather boa just in case her inner Carol Channing surfaced at dinner. I guided several amazing people, like Dottie, who took 3 or 4 B&R trips every year. Let's just say, waking up in 1200-thread count sheets overlooking a private vineyard in Cisterna D'Asti or Puigcerdà doesn't come cheap. For example, six days of biking in Burgandy will set you back nearly $6000 (or the annual price of minor hockey) plus airfare. But if life were really, really fair, I'd be going regularly, and taking my stinky roommate.

Measuring happiness is a tricky thing. The older I get, the more thankful I am just to be here and breathing. My happiness is part and parcel with Jack's, and is fueled by dreams of trips yet taken. I am lucky to have memories of Jack feeding pigeons in Venice, or holding my hand as we succumbed to vertigo climbing the Eiffel Tower. We have hiked The Cinque Terre and sipped Pimms at Wimbledon. Ours are the 75-thread count versions of B&R travel but they amount to the same thing: adventure and bliss. While we have yet to cycle our way through Provence or Puglia, I have faith that we will. We just have to. It may not be on a B&R trip, but it will be with a tired-old B&R guide and the spirit of their slogan, "Slow Down to See the World". 

After all, once a B&R guide, always a B&R guide. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Start your week off right at www.butterfield.com. Or, cash in some RRSPs and book though your favourite local travel agent. B&R have great trips for kids too, but you may have to sell the little darlings to pay for it.

The beauty of Halifax.

When I try to  imagine Halifax without the Midtown Tavern – in any shape or form – it makes me really sad. And as much as I love the Athens, I still pine for that big, neon cow's head that not only said, Hogie's, it said Halifax. And now, Peter Duffy is gone. What next? Duke the Studio Stallion from CBC Weekend Morning forced into prostitution, or worse – lipstick?!

Wednesday night, I took the boys to the Macs hockey game at another creaky old Halifax landmark, the Civic Arena. We pulled into the Forum first (the bigger rink for those who are lucky enough not to know) but the lights were dim, so we headed into the Civic with the rest of HRM. Having friends with kids on both teams, I was aiming for Switzerland but ended up in McCain country. When I asked Kirk Mock (father of Jordan #8 ) why the Forum was empty and everyone was jammed into the Civic, he just smiled and said, "Who cares?! This is more fun... better atmosphere!" He was so right. 

So here's the seque finally. Earlier in the day, less than a block from the Forum, I felt that same warm, fuzzy Halifax feeling, only it wasn't at the home of hockey, it was at House of Beauty. Jack and I discovered Beauty one day en route to hockey. His regular barber was inching into retirement in Italy, and Jack's hair was making me crazy. Driving down Windsor, I spotted House of Beauty and slammed on the brakes. One look at the faded posters of women with freshly permed hair and Jack's eyes welled up. "No", he pleaded. 

Sisters Selma Hanna and Naomi Haidar are celebrating forty years of business at the corner of Windsor and Almon. Celebrating is a bit of a stretch though – for the first time, their business is slow. The row of bubble hair dryers are silent, and aside from Jack, the chairs are empty. The sisters blame the economy and their aging clientele, plus, they cannot afford to advertise. "Hot damn!" I thought... please, please let my pitiful little daily rants help the Beauty sisters! After all, isn't this why I started this small business blog?!

So... if you want a trendy salon with lattes and Brazilian waxing, House of Beauty is not the place. If you want a haircut, or your bangs or nose hairs trimmed, with no appointment or fuss, pull up to 2785 Windsor Street. There, you will be offered a Quality Street candy. You can catch up with General Hospital, and thumb through Match to find out what Diana's Princes have been up to. And, you can have a great conversation, with two wise, delightful women. Yesterday, the conversation went from Michelle Obama, (good) to incontinence, (bad) to how Sobey's will no longer allow them to pin their salon flyer to the bulletin board. (The bastards.) 

House of Beauty is Halifax at its very finest; hard working, no frills, and friendly as all get out. Like the Midtown, with hair on the floor. Long story short: Jack wouldn't get his hair cut anywhere else now, so I hope for everyone's sake, the sisters are around for another forty years.

To celebrate forty springs, Selma and Naomi are having a special. Men can get a perfect haircut for 11 bucks (Regular $13) on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Kids under 12, $8!! Ladies, you can get a perm, cut and style for $55 (that's good I think?!). What's even better is you'll leave House of Beauty feeling all warm and Halifax fuzzy. 

And that, is beautiful.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The House of Beauty 455-2180

He who smelt it...

The harmful emissions released into the atmosphere from my sofa, have more to do with the 3 boys playing Cod-5 and eating Cheesies, than chemicals – but, I do remember that "new sofa smell".

That new car, new sheets, new mattress smell was likely ‘off-gassing', and is often associated with sick building syndrome. VOCs (Volatile Air Compounds) are the carbon-based chemicals used in furniture manufacturing that can evaporate at room temperature. (Like wine!) Also, new furniture materials and foams contains formaldehyde, which is considered a carcinogen and can lead to skin, eye and respiratory irritation. This nasty off-gassing eventually fades away with time and ventilation, but your fear of furniture shopping likely never will. 

Years ago, I worked with an art director named Joe Durning, who came from a large Irish/Italian family with a ton of kids. Joe told me a story about his mother being so sick and tired of her kids destroying her furniture that one day she PAINTED the sofa. It was her way of slip covering. Maybe she was on to something –  re-use, recycle – long before it was trendy. Those old sofas may be butt-ugly, but it seems they're better for our health and the environment.

A recent study, “Killer Couches,” by Friends of the Earth, tested 350 pieces of household furniture in stores and domestic residences and found high levels of toxic, halogenated fire retardants. The report states, "the most toxic, bio-accumulative, cancer-causing, hormone-disrupting fire retardants are being used in furniture manufacturing."  And that's in tree-hugging California! 

Kinda makes that hunt for the perfect loveseat a little more thought provoking.

I found hundreds of scary articles about toxic furniture and fabrics, but there is good news: The boys will eventually go away to university. And, there are great "green" fabrics and furniture collections on the market with safe stuffing (soya!?) and made of 100% recycled polyester or organic cotton. Thornbloom, in Spring Garden Place carries a line of organic bedding and even organic toxin-free mattresses. For those who wake up, stuffed up and puffier than normal, it could be the 20-year old mattress you're lying on. (Or the glass of Great Shark you had before bed). Sadly, to date none of these products are Cheesie-dust resistant, but Al Gore assures me they are working on it.

So, when someone from the bench yells, "PUFFER!" and 27 hockey parents go running to the car for Jimmy's asthma medication, maybe it's not just the Zamboni fumes – maybe it's your TV room!

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Naturaworld mattresses at Thornbloom, Spring Garden Place 902.425.8005

Enough with the cupcakes, I need some red meat!

My strategy for wearing a bathing suit in public pool areas is simple: Head to a tropical clime with no direct flights from Halifax, scope out the most Rubenesque woman I can find, and sit next to her. My strategy for cupcake tasting was quite the opposite: I took a runner.

I don't normally hang out with people who run. In fact, I am normally fighting the temptation to to plow them down with my truck, and back over them again, while simultaneously eating a burrito. But this particular runner has yet to jog herself into that breast-less, period-stopping stage where they flop across finish lines in Speedo bathing suits looking like Holocaust survivors. And I once saw her inhale a big bag of Cadbury Mini Eggies and it wasn't even Easter. Aside from her obsessive pavement pounding, she's okay.

I called the Runner to see if she wanted to walk down to Susie's Shortbreads with me, but apparently the Runner doesn't walk, so I picked her up and we drove down to Dresden Row. I could chase tennis balls all day, but ask me to run a block and I go all limp and whiny – I guess that's how the Runner is about walking. But she'd likely already clocked 57 miles before lunch, so I figured she could match me cake for cake in the long stretch, and would know what to do when I hit the wall.

Our tea time at Susie's was a sugary delight from start to finish. Girly pink counters, checkerboard floors and clean as a whistle, the bakery was buzzing with annoying mini March breakers, and a couple of Ruben's women unabashedly sharing a cake, or two. Dragging the Runner along was a great idea – like letting someone else carry the extra-huge buttered popcorn while I waddle behind with the Diet Coke. (Or not ordering fries, then eating Jack's, so it didn't really count). I tried to whisper to make it seem like the Runner was doing all the cupcake ordering, but it didn't really matter. We were at a bakery not a salad bar. The Runner and I ended up sharing a Peppermint Patty, a Susie's Classic and a Pink Lemonade. There was no shame, but I was thankful we weren't pool side.

In typical, thin-thighed fashion, I discovered the Runner likes cake better than icing, so ours was a match made in heaven. In the end, Susie's Classic got the Runner's thumbs up and my heart went to Peppermint Patty. The lemon/butter combo in the Pink Lemonade left me craving lobster, so not my favourite. The only thing missing for me was a big scoop of ice cream and a vomitorium. I'm getting too old to get that loaded on butter in the afternoon.

We had a great chat with TJ Peach, the owner of Susie's. No dummy, TJ got herself an MBA, stole her Mom's cookie recipes and went to town. She even had Mom "Susie" there slaving away, happy as a clam. And who wouldn't be? The place was hopping, customers were cooing and the cash register was ringing. No recession it seems in the Halifax cupcake market. One smart cookie, I'd say.

The Runner and I were too full to try the shortbreads, and I was going to buy some for Jack but figured I'd just eat them before he could get his greasy paws on them, so we'll have to go back.

Are Susie's cupcakes the BEST cupcakes in Halifax? Are they better than Sweet Jane's? Funny you should ask. I was approached by a friend in the park this morning who suggested that FRED'S had the best cupcakes in town!? How can I make an honest and sound judgement until all the evidence is in... my stomach.

I'll keep you posted, but could someone please challenge me to find the best filet mignon, Caesar salad and Cabernet in town. The Runner is starting to look pale, I think she needs some protein.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Susie's Shortbreads is at 1589 Dresden Row in Halifax, a mere block from Sweet Jane's 

www.susiesshortbreads.com

Knit one, purl... er... now Séamus where was I?

I'll tell you something. It's a well-known fact that when the Irish weren't drinking, they were knitting, although sometimes the two crossed over, resulting in the cardigan. 

And another thing. Did you know every clan had their own knitting patterns, the one above being the Flinn pattern, which is a joke because I couldn't get my wee Jackie boy near a wool sweater since he could say "scratchy". 

Are you lishening? Irish historians claim, these clan patterns were guarded closer than the Bushmills (and ladies knickers) hidden under Father Sean's bed. Apparently, the unique and intricate patterns helped identify bodies of fishermen washed up on shore after an "accident" at sea. (Drunk, fell overboard, never felt a damn thing.)

Brings a tear to me eye just thinkin' about it. In fact, I am going down to the Plaid Place on Granville this afternoon and getting myself a nice, big Clan Schultz cardigan for the rink. But first, a wee toast...  

 "May the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind illegitimate children chase you so far over the hills of Damnation that the Lord himself can't find you with a telescope".

Wait, I think that was a curse, oh never mind.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Truly beautiful Aran sweater, 100% wool from The Plaid Place, Halifax
www.plaidplace.com

The battle of the buttercream and the bulge

It seems I hit a sugary nerve with a few folks about my cupcake rant. There hasn't been a public outcry for justice this outrageous since Coke changed its recipe. But, Justice will be served. And she'll be served cupcakes tomorrow, Tuesday, at Susie's Shortbreads on Dresden Row in Halifax.  

Think of me, while you are chugging green beer and pretending to be Irish, as I am FORCED to taste Susie's St.Patrick's Day cupcakes (and whatever else I can grab when she's not looking). The things I do for my country.

Bikini season will just have to wait. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

March break travel tip: Get down under from $5.99!

Two things happened last week that had my normally clean thoughts going totally down under. I watched the movie, Australia, and I received an email from Quantas announcing some pretty fair dinkum deals to Sydney. Oh, to have room on my Sears card!

First, let me officially apologize to Nicole Kidman, for slagging her so often, because I thought she was awesome in this role. There, I said it. I also heard this movie was long and boring – but Hugh Jackman was in it – how bad could it be? Plus, I have never trusted a film critic since Forrest Gump, when I sat there in amazement praying for Forrest to choke on a box of chocolates so I could go home.

In a nutshell, Director Baz Luhrmann's campy vision of Australia on the brink of WW2 was an artsy delight. But, it was his treatment of the Aboriginal people and their Dreamsongs that captured my heart. To me, the relationship between the boy, Nullah, his land, and his people, that took this movie from good to really heartwarming. (Okay, okay there's a scene where Hugh has no shirt on and he's pouring a bucket of water on his sweaty self, and his muscles are smokin' and it gave me thoughts that went waaaaay down under, and I realized "hey, I'm not dead yet!")

Focus.

I knew a bit about aboriginal Dreamsongs from the few months I spent traveling in Australia, but more from Bruce Chatwin's book The Songlines. Having spent a great deal of my 20's and 30's "wandering", the mid-section of the book "From the Notebooks" remains close to my heart today. It embraces "why man wanders" and is wedged between a wonderful ficticious journey through the Outback, and some philosopical queries Chatwin had about his own life. It sounds really boring and heavy, but trust me, it isn't.

If you have $5.99 and a couple of hours to kill, I encourage you to rent Australia. Jack was turned off by the romantic embrace on the DVD cover, but he would have loved it. If you have $10.88 there's a used copy of Songlines, in paperback, on amazon.ca. I'd loan you my copy but I can't find it. (Maybe I left it in Australia, along with a few brain cells and half my liver). If you have $399 each way, get your ass to JFK and catch the Kangaroo to Sydney.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Walk slowly and carry a big purse.

I don't know what's on your agenda for today, but I am swinging by Meghan Laing's Open House on Springvale. I'm not looking to move closer to the golf course, and I don't care how nice the hardwood floors are. I am going to knock back a few cupcakes. 

How I approach it will be simple, I've been thinking about it all night: Feign interest in the sun-filled living room, then the new furnace, all the while scoping out the cakes. Once I have the tray of deliciousness in in my sights, I'll distract all other interested buyers with a well-timed, "oh look, French doors!" while I lop the icing off cupcake number one.

My obsession with cupcakes started when Jack was still cute and gullible, I guess around Junior Kindegarten. I looked forward to any and every opportunity to pretend I liked children so I could sign up for cupcake duty. Let the other Moms bring peanut-free juice boxes or carrot sticks. I was bringing the cocaine of kiddie land. I was bringing the cupcakes. 

Jack learned at a tender age that baking with Mommy was no fun at all, in fact it was outright dangerous. The mere smell of cooling cupcakes had me doing a Hulk-esque morph into Martha Stewart on acid. The poor child always wanted to help, but his idea of decorating was not in step with mine. His was a chubby fisted, free form mashing of gummy worms and drool. His was fun. My cupcakes had to be flawless, and unique, every single one of them and I didn't care who got hurt in the process. There was no room for error, or fun. I even went so far as to buy a big white turkey platter so the cupcakes didn't touch one another on the long, painful ride to school. I don't know how many of you have ever asked a five year old to sit perfectly still with a tray of cupcakes on their lap, under fear of death to not "TOUCH or even breathe on them!" The poor kid. 

Anyway, back to the Open House. I figure by the time I check out all 3 bedrooms, the backyard, and send the realtor to the car a few times for more "information", I should be able to suck back a good half dozen. Here's my secret: I only ever eat the top, just to the ruffled paper part. Cake is highly over-rated, it's the icing I kill for.

So if you're in the market for a cute house, my advice is to get there early. Those advertised "hardwood floors" won't last long once I get there. If you happen to miss the Open House, Sweet Janes on Doyle Street does a pretty good job on their cupcakes. Theirs are "New York" style, whatever that means, and they are close enough to the cash register that you can pop a few in while they tally up the gummies. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com 

I'm not bitter, Cole Harbour is where I chose to spend March Break... really.

Okay so maybe I am a little bitter. I hate Cole Harbour. This morning, as many are waking up to tropical breezes, Manuel the pool boy, and the hum of the Marguerita machine, I am heading to the aptly named, Gray Arena. Happy March Break!

Heck, it won't be so bad. There are thousands of hockey parents across Canada standing in my homely, yet comfortable rink shoes – so I'll be in good company. We are all sacrificing something, because our kids love the game and we love our kids. RRSP's. Nice clothes. Trips south. None of that really matters if your kid grows up to be an asshole that won't pass the puck in any real-life situation. Hockey is teaching them "grace under pressure." Wish I had played.

This year, in between games, I am determined to find the harbour in Cole Harbour. So far I have only seen strip malls, strip joints, the football field, and the rink. Maybe this year, I'll also do a "drive-by". Not a shooting, although it is tempting some days. I want to drive by a particular suburban house where another set of hockey parents spent many a March Break bundling up and filling thermoses to avoid paying for rink hot chocolate.

You know the house. Sydney's house.

Today when I am feeling sorry for myself, I am going to think of all the hours and sacrifices made by Sydney Crosby's parents. (Not because I, for one minute, place my boy in that talent pool, so don't get me wrong.) I just wonder if Mrs. Crosby ever complained because Syd grew AGAIN, and "there goes the money to take the family to Orlando". If his Dad used to make Syd, "curl his toes" so he could make it through the end of the season without buying new skates. Or, if his little sister was dragged to the rink in her pyjamas because they couldn't afford a sitter. Probably. They are only human.

Do you think Mr. Crosby ever swore at the 16-year old ref making $15.00 a game? Or, if Mrs. Crobsy ever berated Syd for ruining her dryer, when they couldn't afford a new one? I doubt it. They seem like nice, decent people. After all, they gave the world their only boy for everyone to worship or to criticize, publicly. I bet some people (Ovechkin fans) even swear at Sydney. Good thing he's making more than $15 bucks an hour, because that could ruin a kid's self esteem.

This family from Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia gave us all a fine boy we can hold up as an example to our children. Nice guys do come first.

Maybe Cole Harbour's not such a bad place after all.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Photo of Crosby family

The answer to, "what does a woman really want?"

No, not that. Not that either.

We want flowers! Fresh, delivered, and spontaneous. Don't wait for Mother's Day, and heaven help you if we see the exact same bouquet, sitting on your Mother's coffee table. The simple, spontaneous gesture of sending or bringing a gal flowers for no reason at all will drag your ass out of that doghouse and back doing chores before you can say, "pass me the remote." Oh, and another thing, just because you give a woman flowers don't expect that she owes you, anything! No, not even that.

Just ask Penny Taylor, she's been busy making women, secretaries (oops, administrative assistants) and dead people happy for years. A Master florist, (whatever that means, but it must be good) Penny is the owner of three Blossom Shops, delivering fresh "I screwed up" bouquets from Windsor to Sackville and most recently, Halifax. (Penny has acquired Fenwick Flowers) I was in Penny's Fenwick Street shop this week (don't let the construction stop you) and spotted a gorgeous bunch of snapdragons that would have brightened up my miserable day.

"Snadragons?" he says. Yes, Grasshopper, TSN may be the only channel, but roses are not the only flower.

Not to scare you back to knuckle dragging, but if you really want to complicate things, every flower has a "meaning". I know, just when you were thinking, "how can I screw this up" – you can. Red roses are nice but sending them to your Mom is just creepy. They mean desire. Go for peach, or yellow. And to be safe, I don't know any woman who doesn't like spring flowers. Daffodils mean "you're the only one." (that she knows of). Here's one you'll want to remember – hyacinths mean "Forgive Me", mind you, they are short lived and smell worse than that AXE stuff but if you're in really deep, consider it.

My favourite flowers to receive are well, ANY, but I buy myself tulips whenever I can. Our fridge may not contain food, but the vase on our counter always, always has flowers. Hard to mess up with tulips, and Penny seems to have wooden shoes tucked under her bed as Blossom Shop's tulips are the best I've seen. But basically, guys, any flowers will do. It's truly the thought that counts, unless of course that thought is, "If I give her this, she'll give me that". Don't go there.

With March Break looming, and many families staying close to home next week, it's a perfect time to start racking up brownie points. Having kids at home doing God knows what while you're at work, or running around shops and neighbourhoods can wear on a person's nerves. Jack's been off for a week already and he's lucky I haven't signed him up for the first Bible or Arts & Crafts camp that would take him.

So, one click on the doghouse and you're on your way. Or call Penny at (902) 425-3423 or Toll free: 1-866-798-4043. Penny knows where I live if you'd like to send me some... I'd be really appreciative, if you know what I mean.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Yikes! I just realized it is Friday the 13th! Reverse the karma, start dialing, boys!

Porcelain prayers from Naugler country

The lads and I finally escaped to White Point before the Coach could throw in another last minute game. As I type this I am sitting on the toilet drinking wine – not because I am multi-tasking, the lid is down – I am just charging the laptop and it was the only 3-prong plug/seat combo I could find. I love this place.

The drive down here was miserable... snow, sleet then sideways rain. The boys were watching the movie Gran Torino in the backseat and I was listening and trying to cover the dog's ears lest they pick up on Clint's racist ramblings. Hearing about Clint's treasured '72 muscle car seemed appropriate as we entered Naugler country, which is, for those that don't know, generally anywhere the crow flies south of Bridgewater. When I spotted the first hand-made "FOLK ART" sign, I knew I was in my old stompin' ground.

Years ago, I had a folk art gallery in Mahone Bay, called Wholly Mackerel. Keeping the shelves stocked in July & August meant many a lonely ol' trek, baby in tow, down to Italy Cross and area in miserable old Mid-March, February and November.

Eddie Mandaggio. Bradford Naugler. Malcolm Corkum. Bubby Mooers. Leo Naugler. Verna Zwicker. Ransford Naugler. Some names, sadly, I can't even remember now. Faces and colloquialisms, never to be forgotten. Boy, I could write a book on those adventures.

But that's not where I am going. When I arrived and got hooked up with White Point's fancy new wireless, there was a message from Iain MacLeod. Iain's a real writer with whom I shared many a relaxing (!@!?) moment working on Danny Graham's Liberal campaign. Danny lost, but I won a great friend in Iain, even if he does like to chat, while I do not. Iain's message was about a tough writing assignment he was working on – a "thinking of you" message for Tom Roussell.

Tom, for those of you who don't know, owned Soho Kitchen with folky-artist Kyle Jackson. When I first moved here in 1989 to attend NSCAD, Soho was the first Halifax restaurant I ever visited. It was there I fell in love with Nova Scotia folk art (and pie). I'll never forget walking in and seeing Kyle's art and a show of small Lorne Reid paintings. At the time, Lorne's paintings were around $150 dollars and out of this student's reach. But they ignited a love affair that lasts to this day.

Tom and Kyle's restaurant was more like walking into a friend's house. Great music, whimsical art, amazing food and the warmest "hello" hollered from the kitchen or around the corner. That was Tom. Rosey cheeks, wild eyebrows and a non-annoying American accent. Tom always had opinions – reflections really – and they were wise and wonderful. Tom despised bullshit and loved life. This was evident from the space he created. Tom's Soho oozed comfort and "love of life". I hate to think of him tonight in a sterile, art-less hospital room, fighting a long, losing battle. I know he would rather be cruising the backroads looking for an antique whirly gig or listening to jazz at the Soho. Tonight, I just wanted to sit on the can and tell my little world about Tom and our mutual love for simple pleasures.

I am not one who normally prays in the classic sense, but the gods of Naugler country watched over Jack & me on many an icy curve. Tonight I pray for Tom to be without pain and carving up big slices of his heavenly, pecan pie.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Folk art by Kyle Jackson

p.s. While I was doing my final edits on this, my little dog, Dorothy Parker was living up to her name, by drinking the not so little nightcap of port I smuggled back from the Lodge. I guess I'll be holding her ears back as she speaks into my porcelain throne tonight.

Ken... or G.I. Joe?

Barbie, Barbie, Barbie. Still perky, high maintenance and standing on your tippy toes after all these years. I must say she looks good for 50, even though rumour has it the ol' doll's been to see Dr. Louis Boileau more than a few times. But hey – no kids, no job, no sleepless nights worrying about having to sell the Barbie Camper to pay the mortgage. Heck I'd be a 39-21-33 too if I were in her freakishly small, and likely bunion-riddled shoes. But enough about Barbie. I want to talk about Ken.

Remember Ken? Hair issues. Painted, then fuzzy. Then the 70's and that bad sideburn phase. And the Malibu days... after all that sun, he likely looks like Brad Pitt at the beginning of Benjamin Button. Ken was the only guy I ever knew who had a matching terry-lined jacket for his bathing suit. Whatever happened to the original metro-sexual, after Barbie kicked him to the curb.... for G.I. Joe.

Oh come on, don't pretend you didn't know! Don't look the other way like you never snuck into your brother's room and borrowed G.I Joe so he and Barbie could burn a little plastic. Just look at the guy... six-pack abs, manly combat gear, non-committal, big hands, great kisser. G.I. Joe treated Barbie like crap and NEVER called. Sigh. He was the perfect man.

Or was he?

Ken never missed the anniversary of your first kiss. Your parents LOVED him. (Well, your mom more than your dad.) Ken had a trust fund. A fashion sense. A college education. Ken never showed up drunk for dinner wearing a skin-tight white t-shirt and army pants. Ken was reliable. Ken loved kids. Ken brought your mother flowers. And, what Mattel deprived Ken of "down there" he made up for being double-jointed. But Ken was nice. The ultimate kiss of death.

So, Barbie? Do you think about Ken and Joe when you're cruising around town in your VW Barbie convertible? Are you lonely? Do you ever have too many glasses of Chardonnay and call them, then hang up? Last I heard, Ken was happy, running a B&B with Skipper's brother down in Provincetown. And Joe, he fell off the radar after an unsuccessful attempt at settling down with Midge's cousin. Hit the drink pretty badly, they say.

Too bad. Ken and G.I. Joe were great guys... so flexible, and so forgiving when you ripped their heads off.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

(Guys and Dolls, who was on the couch more in your Barbie Dream House... Ken, or Joe? Ken and Joe? Ken with Joe? Barbie and Midge?)

The real reason I love tennis...

I think this one requires little or no explanation.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

WOULD SOMEONE SHOW ME HOW TO WORK THIS $#@!@#$ TV!

Last night I was curled up watching TV when the movie The Interpreter came on. Nicole Kidman I can live without, but I love Sean Penn, so I was happy. I microwaved TWO bags of those mini FAT FREE Reddebakker's, melted TWO (maybe 3, but who's counting) heaping tablespoons of butter and settled in. Life was good. Until I started to nod off. It was 10:15 and waaaay past my bedtime.

The movie was good, so I thought, "I'll record it!" How hard could that be? I see Jack doing it all the time and he can't even remember to wear socks. I also see him FREEZE live TV, and that really freaks me out.

Anyway, I started to search though the cracks of the couch to find the remote. I found lots of change, Murphy's sock, a bowl or two of mushed up chips, pens, colouring pencils, half a grilled cheese, the phone, the dog's leash and several remotes. So which remote is the one you use to record something? The buttons were all blurry so I had to go find my glasses. The new dog I occasionally call "Free to a Good Home" has eaten a pair of Ray Bans and 3 pairs of prescription glasses (kudos to Insight Optometry Group as they felt my pain and comped me the last pair) so at least I didn't have to give Fitzy a prostate exam to find my eyeglasses. This time.

Anyway, I found my glasses, but I may as well have been blind, or blind drunk because launching a NASA rocket would be easier than trying to record a movie. It took me 17 years to figure out my old VCR that still blinks, 12, 12, 12. On that machine, I slid the VCR thingie, into the thingie and pushed RECORD. Easy. Now I have 42" of flat screen that went to grey alien fuzzy after one button push. Link? Guide? Play? It took less than 30 seconds for me to not only lose the movie, but I lost any attempt at getting off of Future Shop island. I was marooned, covered with butter, and very, very annoyed.

So if anyone out there wants to give this grayish blonde a lesson in TV land, it would be appreciated. And if anyone knows if Nicole was a good guy or a bad guy, and if Sean sleeps with her, please let me know.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

When my ship comes in, please, please let it be this one.

I haven't won yet, but soon after you see me doing the lottery happy dance, I am buying a Canadian flag to stick on the back of this beautiful thing. Let's call her Pearl. Built in LL Bean country, Pearl is a Back Cove 37. A lobster boat that took a side trip down Rodeo Drive. A motor yacht. I won't bore you with all the engine details, but she sleeps 5, has a fridge and some attractive blue-and-white striped cushions, so what more could a girl ask for?

Imagine how sweet life could be if we all had our health, and a picnic boat like Pearl parked down in the Arm. We could load it with kids and cheap bubbly and Pringles and ride out waaaaaay past Peter Kelly's poop for an evening swim. The kids could fish. The adults could do whatever it is adults do. Even the dogs could come.

I like sailing, kind of. I like the idea of sailing better though. It's like horseback riding... the wind in your hair, the ultimate freedom – but the reality is the horse is a high-maintenance money pit that poops. Kind of like a sailboat. Plus I want to go where I want to go, NOT where the wind or Mr. Ed tells me I can go. I want to be in control. I want to be Skipper. I want a Back Cove 37.

Years ago, I attempted to buy a lovely, old yellow and white picnic boat, but the bank didn't think she was as "yar" as I did. I had visions of Jack and I all curled up under the stars in some cove, somewhere. It would be like owning a floating trailer. A portable cottage. A Moveable Feast. But back to reality, and Pearl.

In the winter, Pearl and I will head south, like any sensible Maritimer should. I'll visit her between hockey games and we'll be courteous and fly the American flag now that Mr. Bush is longer steering that ship. In the spring, Pearl will return to the Arm where she will become once again, our floating family room.

So if you have any RRSPs left, or if you've been saving and scraping for years and have a sizeable nest egg, I say, life is short! In the spirit of those who live for the moment, I say, call Jimmy Snair at Sunnybook Yachts (Toll-free 1-866-590-9210) and order up your own personal Pearl, or something that floats and sleeps 5.

Life is full of regrets. Buying your boy a boat shouldn't be one of them.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

"Here's looking at you, with your permission, kid".

I know, I know. It's International Women's Day and I should be out ceremoniously burning my bra (Lord knows it's seen better days anyway) or moaning about the fact that women do two-thirds of the world's work but receive only 10% of the world's income. But I am not. As the decades-old Virginia Slims cigarette slogan says, "You've come a long way, baby." We most certainly have – and we have a long way to go – but heaven help the man that calls any of us "baby" these days. I have to say, I find that sad.

I am a single Mom, hopefully raising my son to be a gentleman, and a feminist. But I grew up in the 60's with a man who brought home the bacon and admired beautiful women. My Dad was no Ward Cleaver, but even Ward knew a beautiful gal when he saw one. I remember when I was about 11, walking with my Dad in New York when an attractive woman walked by. My Dad smiled at her and said quietly after she passed, "what a beautiful broad". It was not intended in any way to be hurtful or perceived as lecherous. She was pretty and she smiled back. It was a compliment from an admiring member of the opposite sex. It was a Wall St. version of a construction worker's whistle, but it was not intended to degrade or harass.

Ironically, just a few blocks over, Gloria Steinem was letting fly a few cat calls of her own – publishing the first feminist magazine, Ms. It was 1972, and I bet you lunch at the Pierre that Ms. Steinem would not have appreciated my father one bit. And visa versa. In 1998, Steinem was inducted into the American Society of Magazine Editors Hall of Fame alongside Hugh Hefner of Playboy. My Dad would have had a chuckle about that.

While the feminist movement has done wonderful things for women, I do believe it has taken the Bogart out of courtship, flirting and romance. The "gentleman" taking care of the "lady" has gone the way of the American auto industry. (Maybe that fine gentleman, Obama can help bail out the romance industry as well.) Today's men are so confused about what is acceptable and what women want, they don't know what to do – and who can blame them?! A simple act of chivalry, or an admiring glance can add up to one big, fat sexual harassment suit. I want my son to give up his seat on the bus for a woman of any age. I just don't want him to be beaten up for it.

So call me a female chauvinist pig, but I like it when a man helps me with my coat, or opens the car door for me, or does that sidewalk switch manoeuvre my dad used to do, so he would be on the dangerous curb side of the road. All of that makes me feel, briefly, like a beautiful broad.

Happy International Women's Day, ladies and gentlemen.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Happy Birthday Viagra!

What do you get the much heralded little blue pill for (his? or her?) 10th birthday!? To be honest, we've never met. I have never even shared a good giggle or snort with a girlfriend, (or a guy friend) over their encounters with the cheeky little Diazepam. So what does that say? I am finally too "young" for something!! Hallelujah! Mind you, I did try to slide into the Halifax Macs hockey game as a senior citizen last Sunday, and the gentleman at the door almost granted me the $2 off until his wiley co-worker spotted that forty-something twinkle in my eye. What a relief. But back to that hard to buy for, pesky blue pill.

Ten is double-digit time. Ten is finally being able to mow the lawn, only to find it isn't as much fun as it looks. Ten is rounding the corner from being a baby to a daytime babysitter. And, sadly, ten is about the time, some creepy kid in your class tells you there is no Santa and that Jolly ol' St. Nick actually does some pretty disgusting, unspeakable things to Mrs. Claus.

So no gift Viagra, but you get my very best wishes. I hope you get a cake shaped like a rocket or SpongeBob Square Pants. I hope you can still blow out all of your candles, and get your wish. Maybe we'll meet someday, and I apologize in advance should I burst out laughing and ruin the moment. I'll close this on "happy ending" with one of the many Viagra jokes I found online.

Happy Birthday, Big Boy.

A man and his wife went to the chemist to pick up his prescription for Viagra. Seeing the $10 per pill price, the man was astonished - but his wife had a different opinion - “Oh, $40 a year ain’t too bad”.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

See how it drapes so nicely over my six pack.

Ring the cowbell! I have found the ultimate hockey Mom outfit... it's sexy, it's haute couture, and ONE SIZE FITS ALL! (Plus it's BOGO with a free book light if you act fast!)

Available in several colours, Bedford blue, Hawks red, and Chebucto green, the Snuggie boasts a hands-free (easier to eat those rink fries) design in washable acrylic fleece. Devonshire, here I come!

Honestly, if the Zamboni guy doesn't notice me now, I throw in the towel... hey.... there's an idea... a spring hockey Snuggie out of towel material! I'll be rich! I'll get a box at the Metro Centre and seasons tickets to the Mooseheads!!

Life is suddenly so good.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Is anyone counting my trips to the buffet?

One of the many nice things about having a client like White Point Beach Resort is I get to go there. Not only do they treat me like a princess (okay, a dowager Queen) but I actually feel like I've been somewhere far, far away... because it is so damn relaxing. That could have something to do with the infused hot pepper vodka they use to make their Bloody Caesars, but let's say it's the lullaby of the crashing waves.

I've been doing the ads for White Point since I was very, very pregnant. Jack is now 13 and has size 12 feet, so that's a really long relationship. Over the years, we have seen gas prices, exchange rates, ferries, weather, wars and election years (George Bush) play havoc with tourism and visitors from the States. Through it all, White Point has maintained a loyal staff, loyal clientele and a really pleasant demeanor. That speaks volumes.

I do believe, you are either a White Point person, or you are not. White Point people don't care if there's sand on the porch or up their crack. They don't notice the bunny poop on the paths, or little kids playing happily in the corner of the dining room while Mommy and Daddy have another glass of wine and their first adult conversation in months. White Point people have favourite cottages, and a favourite waiter. White Point people like bird watching, golf, naps, and a good round of horsehoes by the lake. White Point people actually look for those scratchy wool blankets that the Housekeeping staff tuck away in bedroom bureaus. (The new duvets are nice, but the scratchy wool blankets are better than Valium.) And White Point people love to gather in Founders Lounge for after-dinner sing-alongs that last long after my window is cranked open and the wool is tucked under my chin. Who would have thought "Puff the Magic Dragon" would remain so popular after so many years!? (Maybe it's that vodka?!)

Vodka aside, here is the perfect example of why I am, and will always be a White Point person. Last June, I took Jack and our beloved 13-year old Lab Hooey to White Point, for what I knew would be Hooey's last visit. Hooey had been there numerous times over the years, and we all have fond memories of him waiting patiently for a breakfast sausage outside the Lodge door, or hopelessly trying to catch a resident rabbit. He was a well-respected guest. After dinner, on our last evening, I asked our waiter if he would please wrap up some pork roast scraps from the buffet "to go" (for the dog, not me). Moments later, the Chef came out of the kitchen, kneeled down next to me and asked, "How would your dog like his steak done?"

"Rare", I said.

We are heading to White Point after school today, without Hooey, but with a couple of Jack's hockey buddies. With pals in tow, my prowess for cannonballs into the deep end will no longer be needed – nor will it be necessary to muster enthusiasm for endless rounds of horseshoes, karaoke, Chinese checkers, bunny chasing, rock painting, ping pong and shuffleboard – or pretend to love the taste of 23 burnt marshmallows while playing our 7th game of chess by the fire. Everything else, thank heaven, will be the same.

Rare, indeed.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

ps. If you're bored, come on down! I'll be the one reading by the fire. Hail, Caesar!

WP waves photo: Norman Whynot, Contractor extraordinaire, Mahone Bay

Does this coffee table make my ass look fat?

You know those before and after makeovers you see in magazines – where women transform from a "last call" passport photo to Cindy Crawford with the flick of a makeup wand (and a ton of Photoshopping). In the housing market, that's called staging. 

Kathleen Heithorn-Althoff is the friendly genius behind Blossom Solutions in Halifax. A small-but-mighty stager with amazing taste, Kathleen can work that same magic with your home or investment property. Popular south of the border, staging has finally caught on in Halifax. Savvy realtors and home owners have realized the benefit of spending a few bucks up front, for a much greater return. Kathleen, a self-proclaimed neat freak, has never been busier, or happier. It seems clutter is recession proof. (Maybe you could flog all that "stuff" on kijiji?!)

So, how does it work? Once your budget is determined, Kathleen can swoop in and de-clutter a knick-knack infested living room, or kindly suggest the mallard duck wallpaper border has to go. Often it's as easy as renting some art, a fresh coat of paint in a modern, neutral colour, or letting go of the puke green wall-to-wall. Sometimes, it's moving the 64" screen TV (and the husband) out of the living room and into storage for a while.  

In addition to small miracles, Kathleen can also totally furnish a vacant or newly-constructed home or condo, complete with flowers and accesories. While temporary, many home buyers do end up falling in love and keeping the staged furnishings. No surprise... just take a look at the incredible "Before and After" photos of a Halifax condo. Makes me wonder if she could pull me out of this hockey mom, fashion frump slump I'm in. Katheen? 

For more incredible transformations go to www.blossomsolutions.ca. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com