Cross walks.

Thump. Thump.

If you've never had the pleasure of running over a cat, you won't appreciate the satisfying rapid fire double thump as rubber makes contact with kitty litter-encrusted fur – not once but twice.

Thump. Thump.

The Little Bastard and I ran over the neighbour's pussy last week – and while he claims I accelerated – I confess to showing signs of weakness by toeing over to the brake at the very last second.

I don't know what got into me.

Nevertheless, the cat survived, as we both turned and watched it scurry away – hanging on to its entrails, and eight of its nine lives.

Same holds true for the emaciated runner who dashed into the crosswalk last week. (It was a good week.) While I did not hit him – or his balls flopping around in flimsy, too-short shorts – it was truly tempting. The bag of sinew and bones and Red Bull neither slowed his gait, nor jogged in place until it was safe to cross. When said runner saw that I had no intention of slamming on the brakes, he ran behind my car and subsequently flipped me the bird. Had the Little Bastard not already been late for hockey I would have gone around the block and hunted the indignant asshole down. Apparently he was absent in Kindergarten the day they taught: Stop. Look. And fucking Listen.

Thump. Thump.

However, I will slow down, if ever I see the Street Connection bus. Lucky me, I live in a neighborhood where children and students are over fed, and full of hope, and Budweiser, and opportunities. Not so much in neighbourhoods frequented by Street Connection's Mobile Soup Kitchen. Established in 1992, the Bus feeds thousands of needy children and adults across HRM. HRM! Funny to think some people don't eat by choice – so their thighs won't slap together when they're running – while others don't eat because choices have been made for them.

If you have anything left to give after covering your own asses, please consider a donation to Street Connections. Christmas sucks when you have nothing and an empty tummy – so let's flip hunger the bird. Your donation ensures that every child will also receive a gift bag – and a little hope – along with their turkey and pie. Mail cheques to: Street Connection 2 Fox Hollow, Tantallon, NS, B3Z 1E5 – or I'll swing by and pick it up. (Just don't leave your cat outside.)

Thump. Thump.

That's not me running over cats or needy children or Bible thumping, although the Street Connection Mobile Soup Kitchen is fueled by faith.

Thump. Thump.

That's my heart.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For more information: Click here: Street Connection.

(If you'd like to make a donation, please call Sandra Pattison at 826.1100 so she can plan for food and gift purchases.)

Closure.

I've been trying to break up with this blog but I can't.

Both needy and co-dependent, our relationship has flat lined since the economy rebounded – resulting in more work than I can deal with, and not enough lucid hours in the day. (If you recall, we started courting when I was knee-deep in angst, and the bank was threatening to pull the rip cord on my life support.)

Then I spent the entire summer in a rink parking lot – and since this blog is internet based – I couldn't even bitch and moan between donut bites and swigs of canned Chardonnay.

But last week, something happened.

Last week, someone told me I'd lost my edge. My fucking edge. Who am I without my edge? Just another mommy blogger trying to help small businesses while boring people to death with tips on how to fish a cigarette butt out of pancake batter.

So here ya go.

And I am not sure what I am more upset about: the fact that Colonel Russell Williams gets to rot out the rest of his meaningless life in protective, tax-paid security – or, because that sick fuck looks better in a one-piece bathing suit than I do?

I say, as a mother: put the Colonel in lace panties and throw him in to the King Pen cafeteria on meatloaf night.

Because there aren't enough hours in the day to tell your kids you love them, over and over and over again.

It's not you, it's me. And I'm not going anywhere.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Surely they meant profound.

I've been trapped in the hockey/life/work equivalent of a Chilean mine.

Back soon, just catching my fucking breath.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Swipe this.

"Swipe towards me." she said with disdain.

I looked at the debit machine.

"How can I swipe it toward you, when you're standing right in front of me?" I asked. "The swiper thing goes up and down."

She looked up from investigating her chipped, black nail polish and repeated, "Swipe towards me."

I was in a place I hated more than church, on the brink of forking out $55 bucks for what would amount to one shitty, spice-free beige meal even the dogs wouldn't eat. I had no eco-friendly bags in a bag-free zone, no time, and no patience for this ignorant fucking teenager with so many facial piercings she looked like she'd survived the Challenger explosion.

"I can't swipe it toward you." I repeated, not willing to be out-bitched by this slip of a greasy-haired Avril Lavigne wannabe. "It's physically impossible. You are standing right in front of me."

Blank stare. Sigh. Clearly it was time for a little life lesson before Monday no-hockey home cooked meal night.

I began, "Listen, either move the fuck over to the left, in which case the stripe would indeed be facing toward you – or be more explicit." I advised. "Try being a little more creative with your insolence and disgust for authority, lemon gin hangovers and minimum wage". I continued. "Try, 'stripe goes back toward where we stock the Depends'." I suggested. "Or, how about 'stripe goes down and to the left, kind of like your sagging breasts, you miserable old bag'."

Blank stare. Clearly she was no Shamwow, willing to soak up my tips on how to survive in a cruel and graceless world.

Tired of messing with the checked-out girl, I swiped, then threw my groceries into the cart. I then threw them into the backseat of the truck, then into the frying pan, then on to a plate. Finally, I placed the brown and beige pile of slop lovingly in front of the Little Bastard, who looked at it with the same disdain as Avril back at the Superstore.

"Don't say one bloody word!" I said to him, as he looked at the gray strips of rainbow flecked beef, nestled on a bed of stiff rice. "It's a stir fry."

I sat down, took a bite, and made a declaration. Or a proclamation. Whatever.

I announced that this would be my third, and my final, Monday no-hockey home cooked meal night.

All I could hear was a murmur, through a mouthful of chewy horse meat, "Oh, thank God." I believe he said.

For $55 bucks we could have had 18 hot dogs at the Dawg Father, two delicious meals in a booth at the Greek Village on Quinpool, or takeout – twice – from The Armview. For $55 bucks I could stock up on frozen entrées from Jane's on the Common or the Italian Market. For $55 bucks I could have bought two bottles of wine, opened a bag of Cheesies and called Swiss Chalet. No mess, no fuss, no teenage 'tude, and everybody's happy.

Whipping up a home cooked meal after working all day – just to prove a motherly point – means I have to buy everything right down to the pan. Even that little chubbette Rachel Ray couldn't throw together a meal with ketchup, Five Alive, a jar of stuffed olives, and a muffin tin.

Fuck it. If the little bastard wants a home cooked meal he can marry a moron, learn how to cook, or go live with the neighbours.

It's October, and I'm hanging up my spatula. Just in time for Thanksgiving.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com