Jesus for Dummies.

Yesterday was a mish-mash of wonderful excuses for doing nothing at all.

First, it was sunny and hovering slightly above freezing. After suffering through a schizophrenic weather pattern of rain, ice and snow – anything remotely close to pleasant was worth basking in. Yesterday was also the 100th anniversary of International Women's Day, but until it's officially a paid day off for women, who really gives a shit. It was also Fat Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday, Pancake Day, or unleavened Tim Horton's Breakfast Sandwich day, as it's now known in our house.

I mashed them all together and declared it Fat Women's Tuesday, and proceeded to avoid my long list of things to do, quite merrily.

Yesterday, my pal Norman asked me what I was giving up for Lent. Silly goose. He knows perfectly well my attendance in church is spotty at best – mostly forced, and resulting in a great deal of time spent staring at the ceiling, sweating up my good clothes wondering if I'm about to be struck by lighting to organ accompaniment, and what kind of crustless sandwiches will be dished out afterward, and am I supposed to be standing up or sitting down, and thinking there just has to be better hymns with rhythm out there, and do they wash that filthy chalice, and what page are they on, and why did that weird couple with the ugly baby suddenly turn around and offer limp, damp handshakes – mumbling something about the force being with me, all the while avoiding eye contact, lest I be the Devil.

I don't have to give anything up for Lent, but if I had to give up something it would be shoveling.

According to the Bible, a bestseller likely because of all the hotels: Jesus (the hero) took off somewhere for 40 days and went without Sportscentre to prepare for the playoffs or something. I think this is when he grew that scraggly beard. Correct me if I am wrong, but didn't it also rain cats and dogs for 40 days and nights? Were those 40 days when Jesus was off a-Lenting, the same 40 days during which Noah was "told" to build an Ark and blow town? The plot is so hard to follow. And where does the Easter bunny come in? And if Jesus really rose from the grave like the book says, does that mean there's no heaven, and no Philly cheese angel? Because rising normally suggests a coming up from below. But hey, you know what they say – go to Heaven for the weather and Hell for the company.

(Note: My friend (and hero) *Kelly is a breast cancer conqueror, and a big-time believer and maybe the two go hand in hand, but my guess is I'll be hearing from her real soon.)

Maybe I'll give up coffee for Lent. Oops, too late.

Does the word relentless stem from Lent?

I know! I'll give up giving up. I tend to give up every winter. By give up, I mean "let myself go". It means succumbing to gray skies and brittle nails and middle age and a serious case of the "poor mes". By giving up giving up for Lent, I can still embrace Cadbury mini eggs and vodka and doing unto others. It's fucking perfect.

Come to think of it, I snuck in a quick giving up on Monday, just under the Lent wire. I gave up on ever having my flowing long locks of youth, or an elegant senior citizen chignon. I left my pubic-like gray curls happily on the floor of Flaunt Hair Salon. While I was there, I picked up some self-esteem and Kevin Murphy shampoo for "extremely tortured" hair. Oddly enough it's called Born.Again.Wash. Fitting for this period of religious highlights and damp weather.

With my sassy new church lady hair and 40 days of emotional sunshine, I can walk on frozen water, breathe fire, repent, repel, revel, regurgitate, rejoice – anything but give up, goddammit.

It's gonna be a miracle.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

*Check out Kelly's inspirational blog about kicking the shit out of breast cancer at: Gingerbreadguts. I think her page design would look better though, if Jesus' face appeared in the latte foam.

Flaunt Hair Salon is at 2166 Windsor Street. 902.425.0020.