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.
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
ps. I know favouritest isn't a word. Fuck off.
