Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Betty White is the new black.

Let's get one thing straight. Just because I poke fun at the recent cross burnings and the subsequent glorification and sympathetic arm thrown by the local media to the inbred brethren who fanned the flames – doesn't mean my grandpappy was a carded member of the KKK. Fact is, my ancestry might point more toward Bratwurst McMuffins, and life-size posters of Eva Braun on my great, great, great Uncle's Heinrich's bedroom wall. But that doesn't make me a Nazi.

I happen to live in a region of Canada where people from Ontario are regarded as strangers from a strange land, and unless your great, great, great Aunt (pronounced "Ont") Fiona swam up on shore after surviving a sobering swim from the Outer Hebrides – then you are, and will always be, from "away".

I like being from "away". It makes me different.

Anyway, where was I?... I made fun of the Herald, defended my honour... oh!...

So I bought these black (no racial slur intended) fleece pants on sale at a local sporting goods store. Fleece is my new fabric of choice given the amount of time I spend walking or standing around in sub-zero conditions. Fleece says, "I am outdoorsy. I like to be warm while crawling around neighbourhoods at night with my gas can."

My fleece pants make my ass look like overstuffed sofa cushions, but I love them. I love them so much that yesterday, I pulled them out of the dirty laundry pile that was waiting for the white load of sheets already in progress.

Walking in my fleece pants is a constant reminder that my Sumo-esque thighs rub together with gusto these days, and I hope I don't get bald patches on my pants, between my legs where the fuzzy pile could potentially wear off. And don't get me wrong, some of my best friends are bald Sumos.

Enough already.

Yesterday at the bank, I was stuck behind really old people who roll really old pennies, and pay every fucking household bill at the teller. I love old people. I just think they should be let out only on rare, special occasions. Anyway, yesterday at the bank, I took special notice of one octogenarian Snowbird – the one cashing in her sizable pension to get US dollar bills while blathering on about her great grandkids. (Aside: Do people talk so long to tellers because they are called "TELLERS" and people think they need to TELL them stuff. Because please don't feel the need to TELL them anything – especially when there's a volatile woman in fleece pants and a parka huffing and puffing behind you.) I noticed that the ol' doll, who had moved on to discussing Cubans jacking cars and jacking up the crime rate in the Sunshine State, was wearing a pastel coloured velour tracksuit that looked an awful lot like my fleece pants – and no one was citing her for racial injustice. In fact, it was all I could do, not to go up and stroke her brittle legs to feel if her geriatric velour was indeed my fleece, and say, "hurry it up, you warm, misunderstood old bigot."

I didn't have to. It was depressing, yet clear: Betty White's cousin's velour was my fleece. My fleece was her velour.

Tonight on CBC's Dragons' Den you'll see someone who is making a difference in this world without offending anyone except the occasional poppy-importing drug lord. Nova Scotia's very own nattily-dressed Barb Stegeman is empowering seniors and Sumos and the people of Afghanistan, one aromatic spray at a time. She's doing it – because it's the right thing to do – and because she can. Barb's book, The 7 Virtues of a Philosopher' Queen evolved into The 7 Virtues™ Fragrance Line, made from rose petals and orange blossom crops from around the world. To quote Barb, "Every time we purchase organic scented oils harvested from legal crops from countries, we are doing our small part in being the change."

I am going through the change. She is being the change.

You can purchase Barb's original The 7 Virtues Afghanistan Orange Blossom Eau de Parfum, and her new The 7 Virtues Noble Rose of Afghanistan at Mills in Halifax, and at select Bay stores across Canada.

You can also purchase sexy Juicy Couture velour track suits at Envy in Havenot. The colourful and comfy tracksuits have "Juicy" written across the bum. Personally, I don't need a headline to announce that my ass is indeed, juicy.

And without "Juicy" on the bum, you're just an old cynical old bag from "away" watching Dragons' Den on a chilly, February evening in Havenot – thankful for Barb and fleece and freedom and the freedom of speech that comes with senility.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Dear Halifax Regional School Board.

Dear esteemed elected members of the Halifax Regional School Board,

I understand your office must be in Tuscon, Arizona or maybe Perth, Australia because it's a beautiful sunny day here, and yet, my Little Bastard is still lying on the sofa like a week-old bagel.

He should, by all rights be at school, starting the second semester that was supposed to begin Tuesday because Monday was another Board-appointed holiday, but then last Thursday was a snow day even though there was only a slight rain falling – barely enough to make your hair all frizzy. Maybe being from such a dry climate you think frizzy hair is a valid reason to call an emergency drizzle day. I don't know. So then the Thursday exams were moved to Friday, and Friday exams were moved to Monday, whereby the much-needed Monday Board holiday was moved to Tuesday.

Are you with me?

So, I just called your office to say, "what the fuck" and apparently you are all golfing and won't be in until around ten, which makes me wonder why the Little Bastard shouldn't be able to roll into school, say, around 10!? Let's make it 10:15 just to be on the safe side. There is a higher risk of melanoma walking the 3 or 4 blocks to school on such a sunny day, and they'll need to seek sidewalk shade. Although, being from the Arizona branch of the HRSB, you likely slice off suspicious, irregular brown spots in the lunch room as a matter of routine.

When you get in from golf, give me a shout. I'm sending the Little Bastard over with his buddies and their toenails and their X-Boxes so they can fart on your office furniture all day. A word of precaution: they get awful hungry every 50 minutes, so have plenty of frozen mini pizzas and Pogos and chocolate milk and chips on hand. Since they cannot read, you'll have to operate the microwave for them. And, since they cannot communicate, expect all requests to come via text messaging. The good news is: they don't require plates, or utensils, or even napkins – preferring to eat with their filthy hands, wiping their mouths on the snot-encrusted sofa cushions.

Heck, back when I was a kid, we used to walk drunk through 15 miles of snowy, inbred drug lord country, wildly shooting at dairy cows because we were hallucinating – yet we never missed a single day of school. Even when the Olympics were on, and the Crazy Canucks skied like hell – almost like they were stoned, or being chased or something – there we were, dutifully slumped at our desks. God love ya for having the the insight to move Monday to Tuesday, calling off Wednesday and Thursday, and the power to shift March ahead of February, allowing the entire school system to fall slack jawed because little Billy made the Canada Games Ringette team.

Only Thornbloom, throwing a massive White Sale the day after a little Canadian dust-up, shows such a gift for impeccable scheduling.

Please call me when you get in, after you have a coffee of course, and catch up with your emails, and talk about the latest episode of The Bachelor.

After lunch then, unless someone in your office opens a bottle of white-out and you declare a state of emergency.


Thornbloom's annual White Sale is on at Spring Garden Place. Get 'em while they're hot!