Monday, November 30, 2009

Little bastard's team wins Esso Cup gold.

48 funeral sandwiches. 19 bowls of chili. 97 coffees. 6 ounces (+) of Baileys in preparation for penalty shot. 34 assorted squares from visiting Cape Breton grandmas. More Baileys. 5 awesome coaches. 5 days lost. One gold medal. Several teammates with trophies. Several teammates with injuries playing on regardless. One great goal with 7 seconds left. More Baileys, thanks Diane. And one happy little bastard sporting award for "Goaltender of the Esso Cup tournament".

Practice tonight at 5. Back to work.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

One hot Hooter Mom.

This morning's rush-hour fire at Hooters had absolutely nothing to do with the friction and subsequent sparks created by my thighs rubbing together while wearing my flesh-toned Hooters nylons.

No one was hurt in the blaze, although our dinner plans for this evening are currently up in smoke.

Here's hoping for a speedy re-opening, and better timing. If you have no idea what the hell I am talking about, keep reading.

And now, a word from our sponsor.

I have to go "work the door" at the rink this morning, which is kind of like "working the room" minus heat, cocktails, networking potential, intelligent snippets of conversation, and the possibility of getting laid, or hired.

Before I go, can I confess to letting out a bit of a snort when I heard a Canadian woman was handed a three-year sentence this week for fatally stabbing her husband. That's the same time an Australian woman received this month for killing her old boyfriend's dog.

At least those women will get food, likely some free skill training, and a warm bed. And sure, that bed may have some big butch named Carla lying in it, but after two, unpaid, three-hour shifts working the rink door today, I'll be looking for a room with a little padded wallpaper.

At least tonight's dinner is looked after. We're going to Hooters – proud sponsor of my son's hockey jerseys. The girls at Hooters won't be wearing as many layers as I will today, but boy can they work a room. Teetering with size 12.5 feet on the edge of puberty, Jack can't see beyond the menu or the 38" flat screens fixed on TSN, but I notice my lessons on making eye contact are falling a bit short.

Hooters bills itself as "delightfully tacky yet unrefined" but I give them thumbs up for good food in a fun, family atmosphere. While the name may suggest cleavage and jugs of beer, what you actually get is a perky, young student working her way through school. I like the Buffalo shrimp, Cobb salad, deep-fried dill pickles, and the fact that they stepped up to pitch in with hockey expenses.

I'd better go. It'll take me an hour to squeeze into my tank top and orange short shorts uniform. This Hooter Mom is workin' the door.

Hooters is located in at 120 Main Street in Dartmouth.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Self, I said. We're screwed.

My text message to Cousin Sarah was pithy. It said: I need you to be my bitch. For cash.

I pounded it out on my iPhone just before succumbing to banal late night television and a nightcap. I drifted off thinking how much work I had to do, and that Jay Leno is so not funny, it's not even fucking funny. People with sleep disorders should watch Jay Leno, except they'd fall asleep all pissed off because he makes so much money and the man couldn't deliver a pizza.

Anyway, unlike the teenagers that surround me, texting is not something I do well. Maybe my fingertips are fat, but I cannot text while walking, eating, shitting, driving, or while carrying out a conversation – even if that conversation is with myself and goes something like this; "You are so fucked. I know. No, really, you need to ask for help. I know, but I hate asking for help. And you look all puffy, ease off the Goldfish crackers, you're not four. Fuck off. And quit pulling at your sweater, you're fat, it didn't shrink. Kiss my ass."

So my text message to Cousin Sarah probably looked more like this: I'd you me batch, forsaken.

But here's the beauty. Like dogs sniffing strange ass in the park, or deciphering a drunken toddler's whiny jibberish, Cousin Sarah will understand my message, and she will help. She will help, because she knows I never ask for help, because I hate needy people. And Sarah delivers. Not like when you ask your kid to do something, like make a bed, or put away clothes, and you end up doing it again anyway, because they don't do it right, and hey, wait a minute, I am a fucking control freak. I am not.

There isn't a personal shopping/concierge service in Havenot, or I'd be advertising it here ––––––––––––––– so I am starting one, effective today. It's called Control Freaks Concierge or maybe Yo Bitch I haven't decided yet, so if you need anything done, call me, and I'll text Sarah. For $50 bucks, no wait, $100 bucks an hour we can be your bitches and be in all the places you need to be but can't. And we have good taste. Except in men, so if you need a man, you're screwed. And except for this week, because my best bitch is already busy.

Which brings me to my favouritest line ever, delivered by the VP of a major bank, shortly after a disastrous first meeting with a Board she was about to co-chair. She said without emotion, staring straight ahead as the elevator doors closed, "I get paid to work with assholes. I don't volunteer to work with assholes."

So this week, don't expect to hear from me (unless you're a ref) because Canada's Most Creative person :) will be selling 50/50 tickets and flipping pancakes, because when you sign your kid up for hockey and pay thousands of dollars so your kid can play and be happy, there's some really fine print somewhere on the sheet with the shoots LEFT or RIGHT boxes that says; all hockey parents must volunteer 158 hours per week, oh, except for the dad who is recently single and announced that he cannot possibly volunteer because he is a single parent now. Oh boy, I can't wait to bump into him at the next hockey black-tie cocktail function. I'd send him a text message that says "You usless dipsht lamp dik tull", but he likely wouldn't get it.

Cousin Sarah would. She really would.

ps. I know favouritest isn't a word. Fuck off.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Putting the "Christ, are you kidding me?" back in Christmas.

Crank up the Family Guy Christmas CD. According to one of those, Daddy's getting a blow job downtown because Mommy's obsessed with nutritious snacks-websites – 'tis the season for politically correct toys.

Yep, so long G.I. Joe. Take your six-pack abs and missing penis and move in with Barbie. Awareness is the new BattleBot.

Take for instance, Playmobil's Airport Security play set – it looks like a real blast and encourages anti-terrorism and race sensitivity. It also comes with a teensy, tiny, little box cutter.

Or, if you want to teach your child a real lesson, let it be about bullying when he shows up on the playground making low-carb emission sounds, pushing an eco-friendly Recycling Truck from Green Toys. According to, "It's a truck, it's a lesson in recycling, it's an example to us all." It's a kick in the 'nads from the child who got Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2 for XBox in his stocking, is what it is. You may as well hand your kid a blue bag and let him suffocate to avoid the humiliation of being beaten to ratshit while separating mini garbage during recess.

And I don't know about you, but I'd miss being all hungover Christmas morning, undoing those endless wires covered with the blood of 5-year old Chinese children making 15 cents an hour, twisting and twisting, so your toxic plastic, Twin Tower Exploding Transformer with Semi-Automatic Rapidfire won't break in transit from Hong Kong to Havenot. Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without child labour.

Let's not forget Gwen – Mattel's latest American Girl doll. Don't let that blonde hair and white eyelet dress fool you – Gwen Thompson has a dirty little secret. American Girl's latest bestseller is homeless and living in the backseat of her car. I couldn't make shit like this up. According to Gwen's "story", Daddy skipped out, Mommy lost her job in a recession hit, and the bank booted them out of their dollhouse. For $95 USD you can teach your daughter that men suck, women are useless without men, single moms are deadbeats – and no one cares – so long as you have shiny hair.

Fuck, give me a break. If Christmas was supposed to be politically correct, Santa's workshop wouldn't be stocked with underpaid midgets wearing tights, cranking out toys like Pole Dancer Dolly, complete with edible g-string (okay, I made up that g-string part) or Barbie's friend, Happy Family unwed slut Pregnant Midge. Oh, and my favourite, Power Wheels Cadillac Escalade by Fisher-Price. For $349.99, it teaches your child, if you're going to do a drive-by shooting, you may as well be guzzling gas. The vehicle comes in black, naturally, with tinted glass, and is recommended for ages 36 months to 5 years. (36 months, for those who don't speak Mommy, is approximately 3, or when they start saying "why" over and over until you have to whip out the Nyquil to shut them up.)

Face it. Christmas is a pathetic excuse to eat and drink too much; make your annual boozed up trip to midnight mass for agnostics; and spend money you simply cannot afford. I fuckin' love it. Why ruin it with political correctness.

If you're really stuck on what to give the little bastards, Sweet Jane's on Doyle Street has edible gifts, hysterically funny and politically incorrect gifts, plus, great retro tin toys. Who cares if the kids don't like them – they'll rekindle all sorts of flashbacks from your childhood, like the Christmas morning Daddy set Chatty Cathy's hair on fire with his Marlboro Lights.

He said the little bitch just wouldn't shut up.

Sweet Janes is on Doyle Street, just down from the Port of Wines.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Like white on Rice.

Last night's torch lighting in Havenot was a rip roarin' success, and apparently had nothing whatsoever to do with Condoleezza Rice's decision to RSVP: "No way in hell, uh uh, ain't comin" to next month's cleverly named, A Conversation with Condoleezza Rice event, scheduled for December 10th.

Event organizers claim it was their decision – not Ms. Rice's – and had nothing to do with last night's Twitter message from the government-operated Come to Life propaganda website proclaiming in 140 characters or less: HRM– You're so fucking white!

Way to roll out the welcome mat, Halifax Regional Municipality – twin city of Backofthebus, Mississippi. Even Sidney Crosby looked narrow minded in his white hat.

Damn, and I was so looking forward to forking out $139 to $899 just for the opportunity to stand up in question period and ask, "Hey, Condo... George Bush? What the fuck were you thinkin', girlfriend?" The man had a jockey on the White House lawn.

Nevermind. Lucky for us there are a few tickets remaining for tomorrow night's thought-provoking performance by Buddy Wasisname and The Other Fellers at Dal's Rebecca Cohn Theatre. Plus, I am pissing myself in anticipation of all the jumping up and down, because the Amethyst Scottish Dancers will be flipping their kilts on November 29th. And wait, there's reason to go on living, because Tommy Hunter will be on the Dalhousie stage January 17th, which is a fucking miracle because I think Tommy is actually dead.

For those of you with painfully boring lives, who feel it is necessary to entertain your little bastards 'round-the-clock lest they miss one Montessori moment before piano lessons, Franklin the clearly gay Turtle will be here with his gal pal, Beaver on March 13th. Beaver is a person of colour, just so you know in advance.

So much worth coming to life for here in Havenot. Who needs to sit through an evening with a vibrant, Stanford-educated woman, with a past worth talking about, when we can all chuckle along with Buddy Wasisname, tapping our Clark's crepe soles to hits like: Peein' in the Snow, Cryin' my Arse Off, and Flies in the Beer.

It's a good thing Elton John got in and out of here, before Come to Lifers could twat, er, Tweet: HRM– you're so colonial and middle-class heterosexual it isn't even funny!

For tickets to exciting Rebecca Cohn events go to:
For tickets to see Art Garfunkel at the Metro Centre, I hear Art will be handing them out at the door.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Stephen Harper says, "Let 'em eat pussy."

The last of autumn's red, yellow, and orange have fallen to the ground in a heap. Time to rake the Lays, Doritos and Cheetos Halloween treat bags off of my bedroom floor and start thinking about the "C" word.

Why wait for the Americans to polish off their airport and artery clogging Thanksgiving festivities to kick off the gluttonous, greedy glory that is Christmas. I'm kicking it off today.

What better timing, with the latest statistics showing Food Bank shopping is skyrocketing across Canada, making me feel like I really must get off my fat ass and do something aside from cracking open the "lite" egg nog and lacing it with a fifth of rum.

But first, let me get all maudlin for a moment when I say we lost one box when we moved to Toronto (and back) last year. Sadly, that one box contained our Christmas stockings and our much-loved, carved Santa (holding the holy mackerel) who sat on the mantle year after year. Fuck. The lovely man who carved the Santa as a gift has died and well, fuck again. Jack was due on Christmas Day and thank Jesus that selfish, son of a single mother didn't want to share his big birthday, because my little miracle popped out 5 days early, pushing 10 pounds and wearing skates, or at least that's what it felt like – but not before I had a local woman hand knit a stocking that said "BABY". Jack loved that stocking because it was huge. I loved it because, well, I am a sentimental old bitch who can't knit.

So, while I am entitled to be a tad bitter about Christmas right off the bat, because I loved those material possessions that signified a tradition in our little family – this year I am not going to let that stand in the way, because despite taking a bad recession hit, we really don't need anything. Okay, Jack needs new upper hockey gear, a new trapper apparently, his borrowed skates are falling apart – and I could use a new bra – but other than that, and compared to alot of others, we are doing okay. I have to watch my gag reflexes when I say, "we have our health and each other".

I never thought I would write a sentence like that. Fuck! Maybe it's because I've been up since 4am working on the Esso Cup booklet for Jack's hockey team as a volunteer. Sigh, my moment of glory as Canada's Most Creative person is all but a faded memory. That, and my once perky breasts seems to be touching the waist tie on this housecoat.

Anyway, a few years ago, when I had cash that actually flowed, Jack and I adopted a family from the Metro Food Bank. I asked for, and was given a single Mom and her child. I was handed a wish list that was so short and selfless, I went totally overboard in response. The Mom asked for; a toothbrush, pyjamas and a toy police car for her four-year old boy – likely because the little one saw Daddy whisked off in the backseat of a real one with sirens flashing. For herself, she asked nothing. Not one thing. By the time we were done, I think I spent over $500 dollars filling a box with toys, food and new clothes for both the Mother and child. The money didn't matter. It was the most fun shopping we did that year. Even Jack, normally a greedy little prick at Christmas, got into the spirit of giving.

So that's my cheery Christmas kick-off. Don't worry, this lapse into altruistic do-gooding won't last long. By the time the Packers and the Lions signal the official start of "shopping for things you cannot afford, for people you don't even like-season", I'll be back to spewing bile, all cranked up on the peppermint schnapps I bought as a little treat to slide in my Adopt-A-Family's gift box.

As for this recent Food Bank crisis, I say Mr. Ebenezer Harper, our own little Marie Antoinette, should stop worrying about his limp majority, shut up, man up, and cough up a fur ball in the form of canned goods and cash. Bad enough his beloved cats eat better than some Canadians. I may call him collect at home, right now while my claws are out.

Merry "C" word.

To participate in Adopt-a-Family, please call the Metro Food Bank at 902.457.1900 ext.234. If you are lucky enough not to live in Havenot, most major cities and towns have similar programs.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Widows and whiners and wheezy toddlers. Christ, my head hurts.

Waking up without one's pyjamas on is usually a good thing, except I was alone, and I had gone out to dinner wearing my pyjamas, and went to bed wearing the clothes I had on, which happened to be pyjamas. Are ya with me so far? How I lost them in the course of the night is a mystery, but maybe I've got some explaining to do.

Cousin Sarah and I. Wait. How come sentences that start with "Cousin Sarah and I" usually wind up with one of us being arrested, or worse, projectile vomiting all over the phone after drinking and dialing the jerk that dumped me for the puffy débutante with the trust fund.

Last night was set aside to plow through the November Stinks entries. I arrived at Sarah's house in my pyjamas because I was tired and my pants are too tight and I was hoping to scarf back some chow and get the hell out of there so I could be in bed by 8.

But oh no. Fate found me pyjama clad at a surprise victory party in my honour – which was really nice, but I am a go big or go home kind of girl which meant waking up naked covered with lemon icing and thirsty as all get out. Realizing it was Monday and I had a child, I woke the little bastard up, but he just moaned something about being too post-hockey tournament tired to go to school, so I thought, screw it, chugged a Diet Coke, and went back to bed.

Jammie day.

So, while better late then never, Cousin Sarah and I have just now sifted through the many entries in the November Stinks contest, and let me say some of you have filthy mouths and sick minds and are just awesome. Choosing just two winners was really tough because it seems asthma and breathing problems are rampant here in Havenot, maybe since you're all descended from the same inbred coal miner from New Fucking Waterford, Cape Breton.

I must say, the funniest November Stinks email came from a man of all things, and to quote a line from his entry: "I've got full-on swine flu, and have been sweating like Father Lahie on a school bus." So, nice try Trent Laing. You get an honourable mention, but no cigar.

The winner of the night at White Point goes to Kim McNeil because she made me and Cousin Sarah cry, so damn you Kim for having a dead husband who died in the month of November – a husband you actually loved – which truly sucks. If you didn't love him and he died, you wouldn't be heading down to wipe your ass on White Point towels.

The winner of the Surgically Clean Air air purifier goes to Marcie Young, because Marcie has twin girls which is freakishly bad enough (think puberty) but to make things worse, the twins were preemies, both have asthma, and her husband works out of town a lot, yadda yadda. Through it all, Marcie still seems to have a sense of humour, so she gets a heavy duty air purifier to make life stink a little less for her, and her girls.

And I am a winner too, thanks to the nice folks who voted, and to Marketing Magazine and their key sponsor American Express, but I feel like a loser today because I woke up naked and alone and covered with icing and fuck, I love icing. How did I miss my mouth with a fork full of icing?

I must be slipping, because Lord knows my mouth is seldom shut.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Casual Friday the 13th.

This morning, I dropped the Barbie-sized hotel body lotion bottle and it sprayed all over the carpet and the bedskirt, and it was creamy white and it looked like I was having waaaaaay more fun than I actually was last night, and I didn't want the nice cleaning lady to think I was a slut, so I cleaned it all up, then went stalking businessmen in suits in Toronto's financial district, only it felt like I was at a Liberal convention in Havenot because there were no men in suits, only men in khakis and Wallabees, and it dawned on me that it was casual fucking Friday the 13th and I thought, this day sucks.

Then I won. I won Marketing's Creative Faceoff! No, really. It must have been a mercy win because my fellow finalists were all lovely, talented, young, smart people... did I say young?

And my speech, well, it was, I forget. But I'd like to thank you for voting.

Am I slurring?

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

I'll leave a trail of chips so I can find my way home.

There are two things I learned very quickly upon arriving in Havenot:

One should spit, and not swallow, the white stuff on the top of a donair. And, don't fuck with Remembrance Day.

As a result, I am pounding out a hasty note to let you know that ruffles are in. And I'm not talking the chips with r-r-r-ridges. I know this because I've spent the last few days running around trying on clothes that made me look like Babar's post-Celeste rebound alcoholic second wife.

You see, much like Peter and Joey in the 1970 classic, Goin' Down the Road, I am headin' to the centre of the universe to seek fame, fortune, and a free night at the Royal York, as a finalist in Marketing's Creative Face-off. While one critic hailed Goin' as "amusing but pathetic", I'd settle for a little amusement, a little room service, and the occasional trip to the pool via the mini bar. Pathetic perhaps – but just the satisfaction of wiping my ass on someone else's towels will seem like a luxury.

The brunch is on Friday, when they will finally announce the big winner. I am told there will be Mimosas, and I'll try not to embarrass myself as a representative of the maritimes, even though I am still considered from "away", even after 20 years and giving birth to my uncle's second cousin's stepbrother, who went to StFX and pronounces the letter H like "HAITCH".

I will not be wearing trendy ruffles, but may wind up with a few potato chips nestled in my bosom, should I take to drowning my creative sorrows in the hotel lobby bar, alone and bitter with disappointment. You see, even after catching a glimpse of myself bending over in a full- length mirror and the subsequent meltdown that had me slumped on the floor of the change room – I did manage to secure a ruffle-free frock for the ball – so that pressure is off. Hopefully I won't throw up, or spill my Mimosas, so I can return said frock for full store credit on Monday.

But wait! You can still vote for me. In fact, I'd love it if you would. Plus, there's still time to make a pledge for Danny Graham's piss poor excuse for a lip wax. And you have until noon on Friday (Toronto time) to send in your entry for the November Stinks contest. Remember – you could win Surgically Clean Air, or a night of wiping your ass on White Point towels – just for letting it all out.

Tomorrow though, is different. Tomorrow, I will keep my foul mouth shut for two minutes (didn't it used to be one minute?) and think of the brave men and women whose sacrifices changed history – and of those who continue to sacrifice in this current crazy war against crazy people, so very far from home. After all these years, I am still in awe of the military presence here. It all kind of makes my dwelling on ruffles and wrinkles and rolls seem awfully trite.

Peace. Love. Mini Bar.

Vote for me one last time at
Make a pledge to Danny over on the right by clicking on Movember.
Send your November Stinks rant by email to:
Shop for really cute things that would look great on someone other than me at Biscuit General Store on Argyle Street in Halifax.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Dictators for prostate cancer.

Taking one for the team, seems to be Danny Graham's modus operandi, but seriously, I could 'Grow a Mo' faster than this poor, cherubic bastard.

Movember is all about Changing the Face of Men's Health and who better to step up for assholes across Canada, than our very own class-act, Liberal bra-burning, boy next door.

Nova Scotia's beloved baby face may not have won all of your votes, but he wormed his way into the hearts of many a lonely senior, up and down the craggy coast. This month, Danny will be sprouting some peach fuzz and setting his nose hairs free – all in support of prostate cancer.

A "Mo Bro" starts Movember – or, November – with a face as smooth as a baby's ass and (in some cases) grows a nice, thick manly moustache all month long – all the while begging for votes, er, support from friends and family in the form of patronage, er, donations.

So come on people! This can't be easy for the do-gooder legal beagle who, at most, shaves quarterly when he files his HST. Plant a big, fat kiss on his other cheek by whipping out your big, fat non-partisan cheque book.

The prostate is about the size of a large walnut and needs routine probing, or it can be deadly – kind of like our current leader's brain. All it takes is one Liberal to step up, whip out his caucus, and make a difference in all of our lives.

This one's got my pat the ass.

Show your support for Danny by clicking on the Movember man on the right. For more information go to

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

So you think you can dance. Well, Billy and Susie, you can't.

Quick. I have to write this down before I forget my dream. Moments ago I woke up with a song in my head: "Take a Letter Maria... dadadada... Address it to my wife". That one-hit wonder was the music for my dance in the Tango competition, but I was having a hard time finding the spot on the *CASSETTE tape where the song began. (*If you have to ask what a cassette tape is, fuck off).

Of course, I went to an online dream interpretation site and apparently to dream of dancing signifies: freedom from any constraints and restrictions. (No bra yet this morning.) Your life is balanced and in harmony. (!??) Dancing also represents frivolity, happiness, gracefulness, sensuality and sexual desires.

Gracefulness. Sensuality. So we know that dream interpretation site sucks. And hey, wait... did I have a partner? I was dancing with someone. But who? Please make it be Colin Firth. Or a man.

Naturally, I went to the Halifax Dance site just to see if a gal wanted to learn how to Tango if that was even possible in this godforsaken part of the world. Apparently you can learn how to Belly Dance (Monday 12 - 1) Intermediate Flamenco (Thursday 1-2) Pilates (is that a dance? Tuesday 6-7) and Salsa Into the Fire, which sounds dangerous (Thursday 8-9). But no Tango.

I may sign up for Movement for People with Mobility Issues (Wednesday 12-1). That's perhaps more up my alley, and you could do it on a full stomach.

I could never watch Sesame Street on a full stomach and I noticed those little stuffed freaks just made it to 40. Jack hated Sesame Street thank God. Maybe it was because I always sat there next to him, biting the heads off his animal crackers making fun of Maria and Bob and all the other gender confused, likely Catholic, pedophiles on that show. Even Oscar the Grouch pissed me off. Cookie Monster? Challenged. And Big Bird. Don't get me started on that annoying waste of a chicken nugget – I don't even have my bra on yet. Miss Piggy was the only funny one and I think she's in Rehab.

And pity the poor puppeteer. No wonder Jim Henson checked out early. Imagine spending your entire career with your hand shoved up someone's ass, while they get all the glory and the expense account. Hey wait, that's advertising.

More coffee and further journalistic research has found I clicked on Free Lessons and got a cheesey video. No wonder their last posted dance class was May 2008. I guess Tango didn't go over so well in this land of Celtic jumping up and down 'til you puke or your kilt flies up.

I'm going back to bed. Maybe I'll dream of my mystery dance partner or horizontal folk dancing, or doing a choke hold on the Snuffaluffagus, or an episode of Sesame Street where Bert and Ernie (and Bob) finally come out of the fucking closet after 40 years.

Hey send me those I'm getting more emails about how hard it is to express yourself, yadda yadda. It's called alcohol people. Same juice that gets you up on the dance floor. Someone has to win Surgically Clean Air, and it could be you.

Learn how to Hip Hop at

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Aloha. That's Hawaiian for "Welcome to Ballbuster".

Aloha! Aloha?

H1N1 boy caught my eye then bolted for cover.


I know it was likely her first day on the job, and life hadn't beaten her down yet, but "Aloha?!"

It was pissing November rain and gray as shit outside. We ran out to grab flu boy a video, because apparently he was going to survive H1N1, but could possibly die from boredom, that is, if I didn't get to him first.

He walked into the video store with strict instructions not to cough up a loogie or even look sick, lest they call the health department. Just grab your stupid movie and let's go. But, no such luck. As soon as we pushed the turnstile, the perky salesperson spun her head around, and greeted us with a cheery "Aloha!". It stopped me in my tracks. The poor thing was grinning like an idiot whacked out on Red Bull and her little brother's Ritalin. No one is that happy making minimum wage. In November. In Havenot.

Jack took one look at me and bolted. I saw him snickering in the XBox section. He had one eye on those big shoplifting mirrors that make you look all bloated and suspicious. Or at least I think it's the mirrors. Is it? Is it the mirrors or do I look like that?! Anyway, he was watching – waiting to see what I would do.

My mouth was all twitchy trying to keep my lips together, and my eyebrows were in a crazy arch that may never come down – I said,"Aloha?", then burst into hysterical, uncontrollable, crazy person laughter.

What the fuck. I am so far from ever being in Hawaii again it's not even funny, yet the Polynesian greeting hit me like a sucker punch line. I almost peed my pants right there in the popcorn aisle. It was all I could do to get out of there with the new GI Joe, and To Kill and Mockingbird.

Who am I kidding, he'll never finish the book.

That's what she was. A mockingbird. That fountain of youthful exuberance was mocking me with her cheery "Aloha!". I don't care what Atticus said – and as hot as Gregory Peck was – I wanted to kill the mockingbird. Actually, I wanted to run out of the store, throw my bathing suit in a bag and head for the airport before I sucked the life out of her chirpy, positive outlook with one hysterical glance. Honolulu here I come. I'd pick up a mu'u mu'u when I got there.

I am clearly losing it.

To think they are still trying to ban To Kill a Mockingbird in some high schools. It's okay to go to school with a tattoo exposed on your lower back that says "Ride this bitch" – but civil rights? Forget it.

I just dropped a frozen chicken nugget on the basement floor, wiped it on my shirt and threw it in the oven. Motherhood is all empowering.

I give up. November still stinks no matter how many of you have written in to say that life is beautiful, and I mustn't be so bitter, blah blah. Piss off. But, it seems there are a few of you out there who get it. Oh ya. I am not alone it seems. So keep sending your rants in, because you could win expensive, pollutant-free fresh air from, or a night at White Point – and have some fun doing it. Let it all out. Or, make it up, if your life's so bloody perfect.

Or go to Hawaii. Maritime Travel have a sweet package to the Sheraton Kauai that'll have you knee deep in paradise before my videos are due back.

Oh shit.

I just went to take the nuggets out of the oven and noticed they were still sitting on top of the stove, frozen solid, covered with cement dust and dog hair. Fuck.


Monday, November 2, 2009

Oh, that just stinks.

Birds were singing, the dog was puking, my head was pounding, and I had a foggy recollection of dancing – which would explain the bruises. Fuck. It must be November.

I had all the classic symptoms of wine flu, and Jack now has what I assume is swine flu, so he's stuck to the couch like an ingrown hair. He's a terrible liar and it's hard to fake a phlegm loogie flying across the room, so my guess is – he's sick.

While I've managed to dodge the over-hyped swine bullet, I am a full-blown pig – having eaten all of the comfort food I lovingly prepared (purchased) in an attempt to get the little bastard to eat.

Life just fucking stinks. Jack's Halloween loot bag lacked substance, my house is a "before" picture, my fat jeans are too tight, and I just got a little horny peeling the cellophane off of an English cucumber. It's been that long.

The good news is, I made the final 5 in Marketing's Creative Faceoff! The bad news is, some drunken cricket players must have made the rules, because apparently everyone has to vote again, making this the most boring democratic process since the Bush Gore Florida fiasco. I hate asking for help, unless of course my hair's stuck in your zipper.

So I'm giving shit away. Good shit. I'm calling it my November Stinks Contest and it's on right now until Friday the 13th of November. That's right, it's time to pay back everyone who voted once, twice, and now three times – with prizes and a chance to vent! The good folks at Surgically Clean Air have donated an amazing first prize (okay I slept with them once a long time ago but I must have been good). One lucky person could win a super dooper air purifying machine guaranteed to suck the foulness out of the black cloud that's hovering over November. Worth a shitload of money, the Respirade 200T is state-of the art and works on a 6-phase system designed to improve your quality of life by removing harmful toxins and pollutants from the air you breathe. Note: Improve quality of life. No typo. I figure with hockey bags and allergies and H1N1, this could make someone's life stink a whole lot less.

Second prize also guarantees to improve quality of life by getting you the hell out of town and tucked in for a night at White Point Beach Resort. It includes breakfast for two, just in case you pick up some total stranger at the Lodge after your fourth martini.

All you have to do is send in an email to and in 100 words or less (oh hell, write as much as you want) tell me why your life sucks and why November stinks and just let it all out. Bitch. Moan. Whine. Have a hissy fit. This is your chance for a literary colonic. Let the shit fly ladies and gentlemen. Get it off of your sagging chest.

The winners will be chosen by me, Cousin Sarah, and a box of wine. Now don't all go getting cancer or anything just to win the prize because that would just be stupid and may not even guarantee an automatic win. Plus I need you to vote. Again.

November really stinks. Let's rip the cellophane off and have a little fun with it.


Check out the Respirade 200T at Or go to for more information. Or click on the black box to the right.

Check out your night away from home at

Enter as often as you like at Contest ends at noon on November 13th. Winner will be announced on November 16th. White Point Gift certificate is valid until Dec 15th, 2009. Respirade 200T will be delivered to your home or office. Don't worry, your stink won't be published unless you want it to be.