Meltdown with matching pants.

The recent debacle over Havenot's proposed contention centre leaves us once again looking like a pack of blind and naked hillbillies in a shit storm.

I thought of this, as I jockeyed for position, for 23 minutes, in my pajamas and rain coat, in the freezing drizzle, waiting for the Little Bastard to emerge from a community based recreation centre that clearly gave no thought whatsoever to weather, traffic flow, or the concept of drop off and pick up.

By the time the Little Bastard sauntered out to the truck, I was frothing at the mouth. As the passenger door opened, I heard, "We're driving *Bruce home." (*Name has been changed to protect the innocent.)

Please note he said, "We're driving *Bruce home," not, "Hi Mom, sorry I'm late, Wow! that housecoat really accentuates the gray in your hair, is it okay if we drive *Bruce home?"

My head spun around and I said, "No! We are not driving anybody anywhere!" I went on. "*Bruce has two perfectly capable and sober parents with a minivan, and I already feel like a brainwashed fucking chauffeur listening to John Tesh and the windshield wipers going back and forth for over 23 minutes. Get in the goddamn car!!"

Just then, the back door opened and I heard *Bruce say, "Thanks for driving me home."

Bruce wasn't getting off that easy. I asked him if his Dad's cell phone was still working, and suggested maybe his parents could possibly call me when he needed a ride home, if for no other reason than to make me feel less of a worthless chump, placed on Earth to shuttle smelly teenagers from venue to venue, because I had nothing better to do. Nowhere else to be. No plans.

"Like my new track suit?" the Little Bastard said to break up the ice now forming on my moustache. "They couldn't get blue pants crested until Christmas, so the pants are black."

That's when I really lost it. "You mean, I just paid $120 dollars, that I don't have right now, for a hideous tracksuit, that you do not need.... and the pants don't even match!"

"It's really nice" he said, "It has our logo on it."

There are at least 15 hideous jackets and numerous nylon pants at our house with a variety of team logos on them. Many were awarded as trophies. Many, he had to have because the entire team had them, and as a stupid parent, you don't want your kid to be the only loser wearing last year's coat. So you buckle and break, and fork out another $120 bucks – never letting go of the reality that you have been wearing the same hideous, coffee-stained hillbilly rink coat for as many years as you can remember.

So, there I was, in the greasy darkness, having an invite-only pity party, driving like a maniac over the bridge and out of my way to drop off *Bruce. When we arrived at his house, it was all warmly lit with a minivan all snug in the driveway. There was likely a Rockwell roast in the self-cleaning oven, and a family curled up in front of the TV. I barely stopped long enough for him to grab his bag out of the back. I wanted out of there. Here. Anywhere.

I wanted out.

Bedtime rituals were a sombre event that night. I took my pity party to bed, mad at myself for being an emotional whack job; for being so bloody broke at this stage in my life; and for losing it in front of a kid who just needed a lift home. I was pissed off at spending $120 bucks, before Christmas, on a tracksuit that I needed more than he did. I'd look good walking the dogs in the filthy monsoons of March, sporting a $120 dollar tracksuit. I lay there thinking, I've never had a $120 dollar tracksuit. I've never even had a track suit. And to be perfectly honest, I've never wanted a stupid tracksuit. I just wanted someone to shelter me from the rain, tuck me in, or pick me up from just about anything – even a fall from grace.

The Adsum House Mystery Art Auction is happening tonight at the always playful house of Fred on Agricola. The concept is rather fun, and all proceeds go to support programs at Adsum House for Women and Children. Women and children who don't have jackshit, let alone a warm bed and a $120 tracksuit. The art, all valued at $100, will be auctioned off from 6 to 8:30pm this evening. The mystery? Everyone is in the dark as to who created each piece – the artist is revealed only after purchase.

With dawn came hints of blue, in a vomit coloured sky. As I dragged my morning frumpiness past the new tracksuit lying on the sofa, I saw something I hadn't noticed in the darkness of night. There – below the team logo he worked so hard to be a part of – was a band of black in the navy blue tracksuit.

In the light of a new day, there was hope, and heat, and coffee, and a happy boy. My life was good. And the pants did match.

Maybe I could squeeze my ass into his old pair.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Tickets $25 available from Adsum House by calling 423-5049.

Brett Favre is a pussy.

Note: Contents of this blog recently offended a gentleman so proceed with caution.

Here we are, just past the 'glass is half empty' mark in November. I saw a house lit up like a Bethlehem whore last week, and my Movember moustache has reached the stage where I could easily apply to be a mall Santa. Only 38 more sleeps 'til Christmas.

Where am I going with this? Oh. I received an email the other day from a fellow blogger, although "fellow" seems like the wrong word, but let's go with it since it's 5am and I am out of coffee filters and toilet paper – the latter being a bit of an issue after consuming a grandiose tub of 7-bean salad from the Lebanese market on Agricola Street yesterday. Which is to say, the market is located on Agricola, I did not consume the delicious-but-deadly bean bomb on Agricola. I waited until I got home.

Nowweretalkingwithjodi.blogspot.com emailed me, to ask if she could put a link to this blog on her blog, which was awfully nice, so I figured I should maybe check her out, just in case she was some crazy, cat-killing, menopausal soccer mom with a foul mouth and nothing nice to say. Suffice it to say, Noweretalkingwithjodi had me at "hello" as I launched into her article about walking while performing Kegel exercises. Noweretalkingwithjodi has apparently trademarked something she called The Kegel Pole-ka™ and before I lose any gentlemen here, the Kegel is an exercise women are supposed to perform, to prevent our beavers from turning into porridge and hitting the linoleum.

Or so I thought.

The Kegel, as it turns out, is something else we have to share with men. Designed by Dr. Arnold (you guessed it) Kegel – the exercise was designed to strengthen the pubococcygeus muscle which stretches from the pubic bone to the tail bone forming a "hammock-like floor" that supports the organs of the pelvis and contributes to the function of the sphincter.

Sphincter. Damn. I should have gone with the 5-bean salad. Is the sun up yet? I hate that word sphincter. Is there a Dr. Sphincter?

And raise your hand if you find it difficult to get in, or crawl out of a hammock. On the rare occasion that I have hammocked, once I finally get in, spilling my drink in the process, all I can think about are the marks the scratchy ropes are making on my fatty thighs currently poking though the hammock holes – and how the hell am I going to get out? So a hammock-like floor near my asshole seems like a road I don't want to go down this morning. But, being Movember and since we're supposed to be providing jock support and awareness of male cancers, and being the good sport that I am – I tried Noweretalkingwithjodi's trademarked Kegel Pole-ka™ in the park, but since there are no telephone poles in the park I tried hoisting up my beav between birch trees, but soon lost interest and figured if my beaver hit the linoleum no one would notice or care anyway.

But isn't it nice that women can sit down and blog about intimate things like beavers, where, if men sat down and poured out their guts there would be endless blogs about why Brett Favre is a pussy, and how they wouldn't need a little blue pill if she didn't make them drive a little silver minivan, and the 20-year old who smiled at you at the gym (because you reminded her of her dad, silly). That kind of thing.

If women ruled the world there would be more wine bars like Obladee on Barrington Street. Whine (not a typo) bars should be located everywhere there's a overzealous crossing guard and a playground. Perhaps women would feel less need to sit down in the dark and pound out tales of woe and woebegone beavers, if we could sit down every afternoon and shoot the shit watching Oprah while enjoying a Cabernet Sauvignon from an expensive glass that didn't have Winnie-the-Pooh on the side – before returning home to wade through piles of laundry and homework, while sweating like a pig with a moustache.

38 more sleeps until Christmas, and no more sleeps before I am officially on vacation. Well, not a lying on a beach in a hammock-type vacation. Not exactly a vacation at all. I am going to glorious downtown Moncton for a hockey tournament – but anywhere that's not here, and has toilet paper and a mini bar – is a vacation.

That's all I'm sayin'.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Obladee Wine Bar is at 1600 Barrington Street in the old Frozen Ocean location.

Turning back the clocks to a disco beat.

Well, the floodgates were certainly cranked open this weekend, as Havenot and surrounds were pounded with everything from a slight mist to a full-out deluge.

And I'm not talking about the weather.

I was a basket case from Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon, when Night Fever by the Bee Gees came on the car radio and finally nudged me over the watery edge. Thank God there was a lineup in McDonald's or the Little Bastard would have witnessed an outpouring of emotion the likes of which haven't been seen since Erin's boyfriend, G.W. Haines was killed on The Waltons.

Night fever, night feeeeeeeevaaaaaa. We know how to show it.

What had me in that particular rubber room moment, was time. It's going way too fast. That song came out 33 fucking years ago.

This weekend's sad reality that time was whizzing by, first hit me when I arrived at the rink early on Saturday morning. The Little Bastard was coaching little goalies as part of Hockey Nova Scotia's Development Weekend. I sat in the stands and watched as my 6'3" baby offered words of encouragement to five and six year-old players who barely reached his knees. Wasn't it only yesterday that he skated out on his ankles, beginning a journey that would take us both on a path I wasn't prepared to go down? Come to think of it, I was crying then, too.

Ten years have flown by like a disco beat.

Over the weekend, I dropped him off, and picked him up – from Halifax to Fairview to Bedford's shiny new fourplex. I arrived early so I could watch him and the little kids, mindful of the tears streaming down my face, fearful I would look like a lunatic, or at least more of a lunatic than I normally do. To think, I silently prayed this whole hockey thing would go away so we could be free spirits and travel and ski on sunny winter days. To think, I used to grumble and bitch and moan (and still do) about the cost and the time and the whacked-out parents, and the endless fundraising. (Anyone want to buy tickets on a chance to see Sidney Crosby vs Montreal?)

To think, this sport I fought so vehemently against had actually shaped my little boy into a brave, kind young man. There he was – coaching – something I guess he picked up naturally after ten years of being coached by gentle, fun, selfless, incredible men who gave their precious time to my fatherless kid.

Well, I sat in the stands, or stood behind the glass and cried all fucking weekend. I was so happy. I was happy to think I'd get another precious hour Saturday night. I was happy it was rain and not snow. I was happy the Thornbloom gals opened a new shop-ette in Spring Garden Place called SHE is ME selling cozy hats and gloves and accessories, suitable for the fanciest of rinks.

Sure, I spent the weekend driving, or waiting in the car, or sitting in the rink blubbering – but I was happy. There's no other word for it – although maybe the dead Bee Gee said it better:

Here I am prayin' for this moment to last.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

SHE is ME is located in the old Moneysworth & Best shoemaker's location in Spring Garden Place.

What to wear to a drive by shooting.

Would someone roll back the fucking clocks already. I just spent 15 minutes looking for dog shit in the rainy darkness of November.

Oh, sorry... Movember. Yes, it's that time of the month when men across Havenot and around the globe, are showing off unsightly facial hair in support of prostate cancer, or, because the poor, simple souls love the attention, or, have recently had the joy of bending over like Ned Beatty in front of a rubber-gloved Dr. Gus Grant.

The lads at Golf Central are participating, as is Jordi Morgan the new and downright listenable (new word) host of Maritime Morning on Talk 95.7. Hell, I'm growing a mo, just because I can.

I can also boast that I have plans for Friday night. Let me repeat that: I have plans for Friday night. No rink. No going to bed, crying into a box of Triscuits. This broad is stepping out. Fortunately, I took time from my hectic life of-late, to rotate my summer wardrobe into my fall wardrobe – so my good long sweats are all clean and pressed and ready for an evening at the Parkside Pub in Dartmouth. (You may have heard of the Parkside Pub, as there was a drive-by shooting there recently.) I can't wait. It's the Little Bastard's Major Midget hockey auction and, as anyone who's had the pleasure of attending one of these highbrow affairs can attest to – hockey auctions involve an abundance of boxed wine, fried pepperoni, strained conversation over the volunteer auctioneer's squealing microphone, and plenty of arm waddle flapping in the breeze when you accidentally bid on yet another corporate golf shirt someone kindly donated whilst ordering another box of Chateau Despair Blanc.

Anyone give me 10? 10? 8? 8? Do I hear 5? 2? Fuck.

My hair is good though, because I paid my hairdresser a visit the other day. Brenda Dillman. I can never remember her married name. I do remember losing a bet to Brenda once. I bet her there wasn't one nice man (who was good in bed) left on Earth, who wasn't gay, an alcoholic, divorced, a gay divorced alcoholic, or in love with his mother/sister/boss/cousin/Brett Favre. She won. She got married to whatshisname. Mike. Mitch. Mark.

Brenda Kennedy. That's it! Brenda Kennedy. The mind is a beautiful thing.

Brenda has left Spirit Spa to join Kim Grant in her lovely new salon, Flaunt, on Windsor Street. Kim Grant is, and I'm no lesbian (yet), the most beautiful woman in Havenot. Brenda Whatshername is no slouch either, plus Brenda's so fun, you almost get over the humiliation of staring at yourself in the mirror with wet hair and a moustache.

So off I go! Good sweats, good hair, bullet-proof bra, downy upper lip, and a hard on for some boxed wine.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Flaunt Salon is located at 2166 Windsor Street. Call 425.0020.

The Parkside Pub is at 14 Highfield Park Drive in Dartmouth. Come bid on some really great stuff in support of the Dartmouth Ice Dawgs (Subways). I gathered up goodies from Golf Central, Thornbloom, Empire Theatres, White Point, Core Essentials Gym ... it'll be fun. Really, it will.