Friday, January 29, 2010

Quantity vs quality.

Warren Jeffs must be the happiest man alive. With a reported 50 or so wives, Valentine's Day must have been a bitch for the convicted polygamist and self-proclaimed prophet.

Having a direct line to God, or an obsession with butt-ugly, flannel-clad women with Conan O'Brien hair, likely wouldn't help most men on February 14th – the most disappointment laden day of the year. Failure to launch the romance rocket is rampant with those whose knuckles still scrape the ground when it comes to knowing what a woman really wants.

Let's pretend for a moment that Valentine's Day was like the Superbowl, which happens to land the Sunday BEFORE Valentine's Day. From what I understand, most men already have a Superbowl game plan – one that likely includes: Other men. High-fat snacks. Cold beverages. A large, unobstructed, wide-screen television with Surround Sound. Back slapping. High five-ing. Buffalo wings. No interruptions, except during half-time, unless someone wearing a Dallas Cowgirl's uniform is performing. Farting. Spillage. Camaraderie. Skin-tight football jerseys from high school or college and the subsequent exposed spare tires affectionately named Bubba, or "Hey Honey, do you want a piece of this after the game."

My guess is most men think about Valentine's Day, uh, never – or, on the 15th, while lying in the doghouse holding the remote – or, when their other half calls to remind them that it is Valentines's Day, and "did you call your Mother?", at which point you are already screwed because restaurants are overflowing with happy gay couples, or couples whose wives made the reservations while you were scratching your balls watching Peyton Manning blow Drew Brees back into the girl's locker room.

Polyandry, for those who haven't heard the term, is much like polygamy, except polyandry is when a woman has multiple husbands. Funny how this never happens.

The folks at Uncommon Grounds and Sugah! must have messed up the occasional Valentine's Day, because they have made it fumble free. Yesterday, they delivered perfectly packaged, quality chocolate to my door, with a note that said: "Everything in moderation". Those sick bastards. Imagine, being faithful to one U Weight diet when six, virgin chocolate bars packaged to look like a dozen, perfect red roses appear. Milk & White Chocolate dusted with Maple Sugar. Milk and Dark Chocolate infused with Nova Scotian Sea Salt. Dark Chocolate with Coffee. And Dark Chocolate with Cayenne. Fuck. Wrap them in Little House on the Prairie calico flannel and Warren Jeffs would bust out of the Utah State Penitentiary.

The countdown to Superbowl Sunday is on. Think of all those little flags being thrown in the air as a gentle reminder, gentlemen.

Uncommon Grounds are located at 1030 South Park Street, 1801 Hollis St. at Duke facing Upper Water, and the corner of Sackville & Argyle (The Marriot Residence).

Thursday, January 28, 2010

The kindness of strangers.

"Who made you king of Shit Island?"

I just said this to my child, which should solidify my ranking as Mother of the Year. Or at least the month.

When the little bastard announced he was full, after being in bed for 9 hours, I snapped and made him drink an entire glass of chocolate milk laced with protein powder. Not since the creamed corn fiasco of 1999 have I seen such dramatic gag reflexes in action. For a second, I thought he was going to blow, which really would have pissed me off.

He's late for school, but at least he knows who's boss.

While it may not seem like it at times, I love my child more than life, and confess to getting all weepy (mid-cycle) when I heard the Forum hockey crowd gave Mike Danton a standing ovation last night. Good for you, Havenot. That's somebody's kid out there.

As a mother, and a hockey mother, I just want to hug this Danton guy. Hey, he's hot, so it's a bit pervy, but my motherly instincts meld with my cougar instincts and I want to, well, I was going to say lick him, but I meant, mother him.

My gut tells me Mike Danton chose the wrong person to watch his back. That's my new line, "watch your back", borrowed from Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side. I sat and wept through that movie last week, (without popcorn, which is really why I was crying, thank you very much for this willpower, U Weight.) If you haven't seen The Blind Side, it's a true story about NFL offensive tackle Michael Oher – and it's a heart-warming, heartbreaker about the importance of watching out for others. Grab your little bastards and go.

I didn't have anyone to watch my back growing up, and it wasn't until yesterday, when I experienced the kindness of strangers that I realized sometimes it's a place, and not a person, watching out for you.

My little dog, Dottie has been spooked by all dogs since she was attacked a few weeks ago. Yesterday, a peaceful walk in Long Lake turned into a nightmare when a barking, approaching dog caused her to bolt. Usian Bolt. My ten-pound poodle mix bolted out of the Lost Lake woods, through the parking lot, across the Bay Road and into the Prospect Road intersection, where I arrived breathless and frantic only to be told she went "thataway!". Before I could even see her, she apparently headed toward the on and then off ramps of the Bicentennial highway, through heavy morning traffic all the way to deep into Bayer's Lake Industrial park. For those of you who don't speak Havenot, that's fucking scary.

Now, picture my fat ass running and/or driving after her like my Toyota's gas pedal was stuck. Who knew I could run that far, that fast, and in a state of hysteria that must have given a few commuters a good chuckle. The few that is, who didn't stop. Along Dottie's escape route, truck drivers, commuters, pickup trucks and small cars pulled over, jumped out of cars, risked their lives stopping traffic, gestured to where she was headed, chased through ditches and stayed with me until I eventually found her, deep on a cul-de-sac, frightened but alive.

I didn't know if I should hug her, or beat her to death.

The people watching my back yesterday were total strangers, and if I could hug them I would. Susan Andrews from Tantallon was the only name I got because she stayed with me until I had Dottie in my arms. Thank you again, Susan. The other kind people just got in their cars, waved or gave a thumbs up, and drove away before I could thank them properly.

Tomorrow, I am heading to the Victoria General Hospital's Farmer's Market, where I will load up on healthy crap I can ram down the little bastard's throat. I watch his back, and it looks like he's been at Auschwitz for a few years. Much like their successful summer market, the VG Winter Market will have local, organic produce, gluten-free products, Blossom Shop flowers, fresh-roasted coffee and everything you'll need to make your child gag before school.

Mike Danton likely didn't know most of the people cheering him on last night, but I hope he as felt loved and watched over as I did yesterday.

We've got your back, Mike. And what a lovely back it is.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Horticultural escort service. Or, I feel dirty.

A filthy rain has turned my Coronation Street back alley into a ice sheet worthy of Colleen Jones. This, combined with sheer boredom, finds my tongue playing with the remaining half of a molar and causes me to ponder how long it's been since I've seen a dentist, and jolly ol' England.

Notwithstanding the wicked "jet lag" I got from my fear-of-flying Ativan(s), knocked back with champagne(s) stolen from the first class trolley – my England is a merry place, and home to the little bastard's Uncle Stu. While my brother is the doting, fiscally-responsible Uncle – Stu is the charming, larger than life, will he ever grow up (I hope not) -Uncle. With Stu, we visited the Tower of London – where he chased a few Swedish au pairs from the Crown Jewels to the Royal Armouries – and from there, carried on to his favourite haberdashery, favourite wine shop, favourite pub, favourite smallest pub, largest pub, The Bridesmaid's Arms, The Butcher's Arms, The Punter's Arms and finally, the Masturbator's Arms.

Wimbledon, aside from the Pimm's, was the only respite we had from Uncle Stu's generous and libatious tour of his adopted country. Wimbledon – and window shopping on King's Road.

At the time, Uncle Stu lived in Chelsea – and for those who haven't been to that part of London – think Nanny's pushing prams that cost more than my first car. Think Designer Guild, Cath Kidston and Osborne & Little. Think of delicious little antique shops, paper shops, button shops, ribbon shops, curio shops, lamp shops, and a large mirror in a shop window that said, "Blimey, do all Canadian women dress like fucking, backpacking lesbians?" I have never felt so under-dressed and under-monied in my life – but I was drunk on the unique sights, textures, ideas, and unique "if only" possibilities that is King's Road shopping.

Maritime Travel has a bloody marvelous opportunity to pop a few Ativans and head over to London's Chelsea Flower Show, May 23 to 27th. And, if Chelsea shopping and mingling with horsey toothed Burberry addicts at the Royal Horticultural Society's most famous "feast for the imagination" isn't enough to get your brolley in a bag – Maritime Travel is sending along the effervescent flower guru, Neville MacKay as your guide. There's no way in hell Neville's as fun as Uncle Stu, but the man does light up a room.

And really, who gives a shit about the flowers. Just go, and be inspired by beautiful things everywhere you turn. Plus, escorted tours are great for several reasons: You don't have to think. And you don't have to worry or plan. Someone will be there to mop up your airplane drool. And, if you play your cards right, you may learn something – like never mix peonies with lilacs.

Or champagne with Ativan.


For more information on Maritime Travel's Escorted Chelsea Flower Show junket, click on the flowers to the right or call Maritime Travel at 1.800.593.3334. Space is limited.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

You say potato, I say vodka.

I had a lump removed yesterday.

It was blonde, about 5' 11" and operated a sock farm in the TV room.

Normally, a lump-free "away tournament" weekend would begin with a bottle of red and a bowl of popcorn – and end with me licking the icing out of a bag of Double Stuff Oreos. Last night, thanks to this U Weight régime, I played tennis, then made an artichoke, spinach and tofu frittata.

To fucking fu.

What is happening to me? Kid-free Friday nights are for cheesies, Cabernet Sauvignon, and long distance calls you regret the next day. Not frittatas! It pains me to even type that word. Chips and Dip flow from the fingertips with ease.

During my routine drop-in quickie counseling at U Weight this week, I once again marveled at what a cynic I was heading in to this "lifestyle" program. Here I am on Day 14 without salt, wine, bread, butter, wine, sweets, coffee, Cheez Whiz, and wine – and I haven't cheated, or felt hungry once. There's even flax oil in my fridge. I can drop a tofu log in my smoothie without gagging. Warm almond milk, without Kahlua, is my evening beverage of choice. And, I don't care what's in the horse-sized herbal supplements – the last time I felt this energized and determined to eliminate garbage from entering my pie hole, I was pregnant.

Tomorrow, I am going to check out the OptiMYz Health, Fitness & Lifestyle Show at the WTCC. Maybe I'll make eye contact with someone who understands that the real me is way more fun than the flax-swigging me, and that I am one intervention away from calling the whole thing off, ordering a pizza and pouring 100% proof in my papaya smoothie.

Gandhi said, "You must be the change you wish to see in the world". But he was a protein-deprived, anorexic old fucker in diapers. I just want to bend over in my ski pants without passing out.

Hey, I said I was lump free this weekend, not angst free.

For more information on the OptiMYz Health, Fitness & Lifestyle Show go to The U Weight gang will be at the show if you want to drink my sugar-free, fat-free Koolaid.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Fast times. Or, "See you next Wednesday, unless it's sunny, Mrs. Burke".

The last time I was in a high school cafeteria you can bet two things: I was likely stoned on my brother's homegrown. And, I was more than likely scarfing back a muffin before the first bell rang – or, just before I hitchhiked back home to ski.

My attendance at the little bastard's high school orientation this week brought forth a bile-laced backpack of emotions about my own brief, disastrous dalliance with high school. Let's just say I wasn't on Student Council.

A post-divorce twist of fate found my brother, my mother, and me, transplanted to our ski chalet in Canada – light years away from the middle-class suburban American enclave where I grew up. Before it all imploded, I was a relatively normal, straight-A student and athlete. I was even a fucking cheerleader. My father returned to the States to begin his new life – or as it felt at the time – his new life without me.

On a typical morning in our new life, shortly after missing the bus, fellow teenaged urban refugees would pile into our 1966 Mustang convertible and drive the 12 or so miles to school. It's amazing how much dope you can smoke in 12 miles. We'd fall into the school parking lot in a cloud of smoke, laughing like idiots, ready to face the day. Or not.

A few years ago, I ran into Doris Burke, my old homeroom teacher. She reminded me that I would often arrive for attendance, only to disappear before first class. Mrs. Burke died a few years ago, so it's a bit late for an apology – or an explanation. Besides, how do you explain lost?

The shift in education systems had me skipping a grade, immediately upon arrival in rural Georgian Bay, which is why I was only 15 when I was eventually dragged to the Principal's office, and kicked to the academic curb. I had a 92% average – with a major in Bucking Authority – but as my beloved English teacher Jack Morgan told the truancy committee, I just didn't belong there.

Years have blown by to find me sitting in my child's orientation this week, realizing I still don't feel as if I belong anywhere. And since when was Yoga a credit course?

Pass the bong.

Tonight, Dr. Gabor Maté will be speaking about Hold on to Your Kids: Why parents need to matter more than peers. This lecture will take place at the McNally Theatre Auditorium at St. Mary's University. I may fire up the hot knives and go.

While I eventually managed to get myself to university – and graduate – most of my adult life has been spent wondering how my parents could let a child fall through the cracks so violently. I still grapple with forgiveness. And I still feel robbed. I never got to throw up on my prom dress, or play Varsity anything. Captain of the Havoc team didn't make yearbook.

Suffice it to say the little bastard is paying my dues – or their dues. His world is packed with love, bedtimes, a rabid drug/alcohol sniffing dog, more love, and zero tolerance for the stereotypical, teenage asshole attitude – often at the expense of my own happiness. Isn't that what parenting is? I wouldn't know.

What I do know, is I would throw myself in front of a school bus before I would allow my child miss out on a normal, happy, high school experience. If there is such a thing.

I guess we'll find out.

For tickets to Hold on to Your Kids, call the Sacred Heart School of Halifax at 422-4459. $10 per person in advance or $15.00 at the door. This event is sponsored by A.C.I.S.
For more information on the good Doc go to:

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Now that's special.

Now that I've located my eyeglasses, survived a successful week of herbal U Weight detox and read about the 16-year old kid in Dartmouth who had sex with the family cat, I'm feeling quite good about things in general.

At least my little bastard hasn't asked me to rescue one of Havenot's 90,000 feral pussies.

Even yesterday, while having lunch with a close friend and recent breast cancer survivor, I looked up to see a sock draped off a painting in the living room. My living room. The sad thing was – upon closer inspection – it was my sock. My lovely friend "from away" was already using a tea towel as a napkin, eating my U Weight Week 2 high-protein, low-fun diet food, and shoving the dog away from her plate – but compared to all the shit going on in the world, none of that really seemed to matter. My friend was alive and beautiful, and life is good.

But the Olympics are really starting to piss me off.

I already envision curling up in bed February 15th with the dog, the flicker, and a heart-shaped box of chocolates I picked up half price – only to have The Mentalist pre-empted by bobsledding. Or worse – curling. Call me a curmudgeon, but until that Canada vs Russia hockey final airs, I am tuning out. Besides, if I catch one glimpse of Stephen fucking Harper all beady eyed, wearing a ridiculous looking fur hat, fresh out of the closet in his slopeside Whistler condo, I'll vomit. And nobody wants that.

Give me the Special Olympics any day. No egos. No steroid use. No pomp. And everyone is a winner. Now that's worth watching.

The Annual Special Olympics Dinner is Wednesday, January 27th at Pier 21. Forget that it's a fantastic cause – go on the off chance that guest speaker, Olympic paddler Adam Van Koeverden might get all liquored up and take his shirt off.

The evening Auction and Dinner is the organization's largest fundraiser, with all of the monies raised going toward the athletes and their programs. The committee is looking for auction items, and a really special turnout. To purchase tickets, click on Adam's multiple 6-packs over to the right.

To donate cars, golf clubs, boats and things, email Chris Nolan at

(No cats – feral, adorable, or horny as hell, will be accepted.)

Monday, January 18, 2010

Even my hindsight is blurry.

If anyone finds my glasses let me know. Until then, happy Monday.


Sunday, January 17, 2010

Michaëlle can do Haiti. I'll slide over to Club Med Turks and Caicos.

The images pouring out of Haiti ice my agnostic cake, and cause me to ask, "What the fuck? Why pick on those people?

I want to help, but feel helpless. My chosen career path makes me feel rather useless at times. But I could lift concrete, dole out fresh water, soothe crying babies, and lift more concrete. I want to dig through the hellish rubble with high hopes, or no hope at all. I want to blow Harper's head off, for not cutting his all-inclusive holiday short – if for no other reason than to say, "Pack your bags MP's, we're going to Haiti".

Instead of helping, I am going to fashion a Haitian voodoo doll out of an old Buzz Lightyear and pretend it's Harper. Guess where the pins will go. Then, I am going to the park, hockey, and finally to Maritime Travel's Vacation Superstore. Not because I have two nickels to rub together because if I did, I'd go lift concrete – instead, I'll go to dream – of warm places, with white sandy beaches and sunshine.

Like Haiti.

Go to Hell, Harper. I hear they could use someone with your shoveling experience.

To give a hand to Haiti, click on the Red Cross Link over yonder.
The Vacation Superstore is on today 10 until 5 at the WTCC. Click on logo for $2 off admission.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Our lady of the rinse and spit.

Why the mother of the precocious child of Satan was crawling toward me on all fours was was incidental. The fact that she was French made what was about to happen, all the more fabulous.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

The average person spends approximately an hour a day waiting, which translates to 2 0r 3 years over a lifetime. What woman hasn't guzzled a litre of Baby Duck – staring at the phone before succumbing to the drink and dials? And while I refuse to line up for anything other than a chairlift, like most parents, I spend in inordinate amount of time waiting for my child in a rink, a parking lot, or like the other day, at the dentist.

Normally, waiting has me muttering like Rainman, frothing at the mouth and wrenching my neck to see what's taking so goddamn long. I usually calculate how much I charge an hour then suggest someone pay me for my time wasted, that is, when I finally get to wherever or whatever it was I was waiting for. But not the other day.

The U Weight Dextox has removed all traces of caffeine from my system, and I am as calm as a lobotomized dairy cow. Albeit, a flatulent one. Just before the little bastard jumped out of the car to run to his appointment he said, "Mom, don't ever complain about my hockey gear again."

Yes, the influx of whole foods into my system has been a lively experience. Toot. Sweet. The cabbage, broccoli, even the kale salad I gagged down, have created a veritable wind section in a silent, but deadly orchestra. Fortunately, Planet Organic on Quinpool make daily, Gandhi-portioned veggie mixtures that are affordable, and actually taste good (avoid the kale) adding to my arsenal of mass destruction.

Which takes me back to the waiting room.

In haste, I had forgotten my iPhone – my lifeline to the office – so after a second of panic I reached for the stack of magazines. While most medical offices have germ-infested National Geographics from 1972, my dentist has current magazines, art books and a variety of newspapers. There I was, far from the madding crowd, on a cozy couch surrounded by tasteful paintings – all the while allowing my nuclear bomb-dropping asshole to roam like a free range chicken.

I was happily farting and reading about the stereotypical gay couple with taste, a pug dog, and a million bucks – who transformed a whorehouse in Parkdale into a chic haven – when the little French she-devil was released from her check up. While the mother parlez vous-ed nonchalantly at the counter, the little bitch practically ripped the door off of the hinges, knocked over the magazine rack, and was running around like a fucking maniac even the Supernanny would have executed.

The cashmere-clad mother, being the wise, latte sucking woman that she apparently was, decided she could go on parlez-vous-ing if she just handed her petit démon the superball that the ADHD poster child had picked out of the dentist's treasure chest. Great fucking idea. And hand me a fucking fusil de chasse while you're at it, Maman, so I can take the little freak down while you keep talkin'.

In a flash, the once pleasantly soporific waiting room turned into a pin ball machine, as the new superball glanced off every wall, lamp and frosted window. Giving much credit to the little maniac, she didn't even miss a beat when I gave her my best squinty-eyed glare – the one that sends most children running for social services. Even my farts couldn't keep her from invading my space. I was just about to nonchalantly raise my crossed leg and kick her in the castor when the ball rolled under the couch upon which I was sitting, setting off a methane cloud that signaled the end of the world. Salmon, I think. Peace at last.

But oh no. The little Ritalin junkie runs and starts tugging on Maman's cashmere. Before I could reach for an Airwick, Celine Dion's distant cousin comes whooshing over asking me if I'd seen a leeettle ball?. I shook my head and gave her my best French waiter look of disgust, but before I could blink, she dropped to her knees like prayer time at the Hajj and started heading my way. Her gray roots were aiming straight for a cloud of gas so powerful, Jack Bauer from 24 would have been knocked back.

So what did I do? With a smirk and a chuckle, I licked my finger, flipped a page of the February 2010 House and Home, gently rocked over to one butt cheek and dropped the pièce de résistance.

The chick pea bomb.

Another surrender for the French, another successful day of U Weight Detox.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Mrs. Lot speaks out.

There's nothing like a piping hot cup of cat piss to get you out of bed in the morning.

Day 3 of my Kick Ass U Detox began with an observation: herbal tea is for assholes.

I am cranky, yet determined, and hopped up on vitamins, quinoa, broccoli, salmon and sweet potatoes – the resulting methane a major threat to the ozone layer. I even had to skip the little bastard's basketball game for fear the ref would call a personal foul. On me.

Day 2 of U Weight detoxification felt like a nasty hangover – a wicked headache, lethargy, bitchiness and a longing for fries with gravy – but apparently that means it's working. The toxins are exiting the all-night bender that is my body – but I am already planning a BYOB toxin party in my head. I'm inviting: olives, anchovies, soy sauce, dill pickles, jerk sauce and margaritas. I may not sprinkle salt liberally on my food, but these few days have proved I like life on the salty side.

According to pulp fiction, a housewife known as "Lot's wife" disobeys bossy angels by looking back whilst blowing town – and subsequently gets turned into a pillar of salt. My new theory is that Sodom, or God, or some fat angel, was on the U Weight Detox suffering from serious sodium and caffeine withdrawal. And, Mrs. Lot was a cheeky slut who deserved a name.

Yesterday I almost got down on all fours and licked the sidewalk.

The nice thing about U Weight is the support. I have emailed them several times with questions like, "Kahlua and low-fat soy milk... good?" and "Can I smoke the herbal tea?". The U Weight counsellors are kind, patient, and nuts about proper nutrition and the resulting healthy lifestyle. They also can't wait to get their hands on my kid with his beige food addiction.

The absolute worst fucking thing about being in self-inflicted detox – besides the frequent trips to the bathroom and the grocery store – was passing a new Southern-style BBQ joint on Barrington Street. My timing sucks. Bonehead's Smokehouse is everything a woman wants: Smokey BBQ Ribs, Pulled Pork and Brisket Sandwiches, homemade Mac and Cheese, hand-cut fries, sweet potato chips, pit beans, potato salad, and chili. Those bastards at Bonehhead's practically flung their doors open and waved a pulled pork sandwich at me, just as I was leaving Sodom for Veggieville.

I may not have looked back, but this broad can't wait to pull pork.

Boneheads is at 1014 Barrington Street, near the curve at Inglis. Dine in, or call for pick up: 407-4100. Boneheads is open from 11am-10pm Sunday through Thursday, and 11am-11pm Friday and Saturday.

Kick start your fat ass FREE! by clicking on:

Saturday, January 9, 2010

The Last Supper.

Why was my tennis doubles partner following so closely behind me? One up-one back, or side to side is the rule – but she was all over me like Serena Williams on a line judge.

Then came the ultimate a-ha! moment. I was playing singles. The thing flopping around behind me was my ass.

Enough with blaming metabolism, Christmas, New Year's, swine flu comfort food, stress, winter, middle age, rink fries, no time, money, or energy. My betrayer is myself. My stressed-out 2009 has nothing to do with the fact that it is 2010. Time to stop shoving bread and wine down my pie hole like it was the Last fucking Supper.

Serendipity found me and my ass hanging over the drink cooler at The Courtyard begging for a post-game Diet-Pepsi and face to face with a poster for U Weight Loss, a nutrition guidance program. It was a sign.

I said to myself – Self, U are a pig. U must do something. So I did. I start U's cleansing Kick Start 7-day Detox tomorrow – even after my initial conversation with their highly motivating staff went something like this: Can you have wine on the detox? No. Coffee? No. Chips? No. Popcorn with or without butter? No. Bread? No. Vodka? No. McFlurrys? No. McAnything? No.


No bread. No wine. For seven days and nights starting tomorrow, which just happens to be a Sunday. But this is Saturday night, my last night of freedom before the little bastard returns and unsuspectingly walks into Detox Mama Hell. Tonight, I am heading out to Mezza with the skinny bitches – who eat and drink like Sumo wrestlers – and never gain a pound. Tonight, I will break bread with my betrayer: My self. I also plan to drink her fat ass under the table.

I may even order the lamb.

The cross I am about to bear is a heavy son of a bitch, so being the merciless heathen that I am, I am taking you with me. Prepare thyself for a living hell.

Come along on the U Weight Detox journey with me, starting with a free DETOX kit.
Go online: or call U Weight at 902.4318746, tell them I sent you. The clinic is located in Clayton Park, nestled between Nubody's for Fat Chicks and Princess Nails. How convenient.

Mezza is on Quinpool Road and has kick-ass Lebanese food served in a decadent atmosphere.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

One lump or two.

Tulips on my desk. Skid mark-free towels. Tennis. A happy child.

Time has clearly beaten me down to reveal a simple person, or a simpleton, because it doesn't take much to make me happy. I was actually going to add "the sun on my face" to the above list, but true as that is – it sounded absolutely moronic and out of character.

Have my standards sagged so low that the sun on my face actually makes me happy? Am I John fucking Denver? And if so, why do I live in a shithole of a place that is cloudy 93.7 percent of the time?

This morning, after waving goodbye to the bus hauling the little bastard, it dawned on me – while he was off merrily stopping pucks with his team, I had four entire days to myself. By "myself" I mean the self that I was before I became Mommy. Or lately, Moooooom, with eyes that roll up so far into their sockets he looks like Chuckie.

But I hate that self. That self was selfish and had sex and a career and pelvic bones and nice clothes. I think I am actually afraid of that self because we have grown so far apart. I no longer recognize the bitch. Was she happy? What did she do all day? What would we talk about over Long Island iced tea?

So, for four days, my self and I can do anything we bloody well want – within of course the constrains of time, finances, the fact that I have no pants that currently fit, and two dogs who follow me around like I was Jim Jones. But what do we want?

I read about a book called The Happiness Project, so I Googled it and started reading the author's book blog. Gretchen Rubin is happy all right – she's got an investment banker husband and a book on the NY Times Bestseller's list. She's skinny, likely frigid despite kids – and is, in my opinion – boring as shit. Give me volatile and tempestuous over that sugary bestselling crap, any day. Happiness is overrated.

Since I have time, I ask: are most happy people boring, or just annoying? Or medicated? Are outwardly happy people really miserable pricks when no one is around? Is happiness just an act? Most of the happy, nice people I've met, for the most part, aren't very funny. And funny is right up there with ambitious, naughty, and big feet when I describe the perfect man. Which brings me to ask – would you rather be stuck on a deserted, all-inclusive island with a nice, happy person, or a dark, funny person?

Maritime Travel's Vacation Superstore is coming up, January 16th and 17th at the WTCC in Halifax. Billed as the "two hottest days of winter" you can pick up really great deals to relatively deserted islands dotted with Speedo-clad Germans cranked up on happiness – thanks to bottomless Piña Coladas and Vitamin D.

I admit to being outwardly miserable most of the time, so when happiness goes fleeting by, I grab it by the balls. And like most things you passionately grab by the balls – in the light of day – they're usually not all they're cracked up to be.

Kind of like being alone for four days.

Oh! Self! Look at the time... it's Happy Hour!

Get two bucks off admission to the Vacation Superstore at

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Putting off procrastination.

"Mom, you may not want to stick your face in that particular towel."

With that, the little bastard ran out the door, leaving me with a shit-encrusted pile of laundry and a backlog of work, anxiously awaiting even the slightest burst of inspiration.

Hello 2010.

It is during this silent purgatory between being at home and working at home when my mind wanders to trendy boardrooms and the beauty of leaving the laundry behind and morphing into a respectable human being. In advertising agencies around the globe, latte-sucking fashion victims would be feeding off one another's creativity in an attempt to start the new year with a brilliant, award-winning bang. I waddled over to the mini bar in my pajamas, with hope that an early, mid-morning snack and the fridge light bulb might trigger the one currently switched off in my head.

All I needed was a compelling 30-second radio script, a few witty headlines and a name for a start up company. Not exactly fucking rocket science, but maybe a few loads of laundry would get my creative juices flowing, at least until Happy Hour.

Crazy, bored people with anger issues usually end up scrapbooking or splattering brain matter all over post offices with an unlicensed semi-automatics – so lately – to thwart such drastic displays of creativity, I've been firing off resumés.

Yesterday, I sent my CV to Jump Headhunters. Jump is relatively new by Havenot's Mayflower standards, and their mantra is "creative career solutions" which is exactly what I am looking for. I told them I was crazy, bored, and looking for a high-paying job, 3 mornings a week – unless it was sunny because I play tennis – so maybe 3 cloudy, late afternoons. I'd have to switch the afternoons to midday if the little bastard has hockey, and of course I'd need an hour off mid-shift to walk the dogs, unless I could bring the dogs to work. I also wanted an office with a door and a comfy sofa-bed, because like Mad Men, I often nap after a boozy power lunch, or I may want to screw my secretary. I wanted an allowance for nice clothes – real clothes with shape and without skid marks or sports teams emblazoned on the front. Failing the clothing allowance, maybe I could wear pajamas to the office on puffy days. I wanted benefits: dental, life, travel, a car allowance, parking, and 6, no, wait, 8-weeks holiday, plus every other Friday off. I was looking for lively banter with happy, educated, beautiful people, and I would need an assistant who looked like Andy Roddick and was smart enough to cover for me when my creative juices were really flowing, if you know what I mean.

So far the phone hasn't been ringing off the hook with multiple offers. The Executive Search squad at Knightsbridge Robertson Surrette issued a restraining order after reading my resumé, but their mantra is "human capital solutions" which is creepy in a white-slave, human trafficking kind of way, so maybe they should hire me to come up with a new tagline.

In the meantime, I have to pull an ad out of my ass before Regis & Kelly. 'Better go.

Jump Career Solutions is at 6112 Quinpool Road. Call 482.4319 or cruise job opportunities online at:

Or, try your luck with the respected Knightsbridge Robertson Surrette headhunters, online at Just don't mention my name.