Oh, Wilbur, I do believe I am blushing.

Imagine my panic and sheer delight when I saw the words: Equine Wedding Portrait Photography, all mashed together in the same sentence.

Giddy up.

I normally steer well clear of horses and weddings for a variety of oddly, similar reasons. Both scare the crap out of me. Both are a big, fat waste of money, and take you down a path you really aren't convinced you want to be on. Both horses and brides spend a great deal of time and energy getting Brazilian waxes, braided tails, and hooves trimmed, so they can trot around all happy and "look at me", just before being lead back to the barn. Forever. And, if one or the other gets spooked, someone ends up flat on their ass wondering what the hell just happened. Plus, trust me – once the blinders are off and the saddle bags start to slide, it's lipstick city.

Whoa, Nelly, get back on track.

Picture, if you can, my double delight to think I'd stumbled upon a freakier than Michael Jackson type scoop. Equine wedding. A true-to-life 'Girl Meets Stallion' beastiality romance. My mind was racing off to witness some sort of Mister Ed stud marrying the farmer's daughter, who incidentally dropped 60 pounds before the nuptials, then bounced back to looking like a Clydesdale before the honeymoon was over. Bloody brilliant fodder for creativity I say!

And, please tell me you are old enough to remember Mister Ed. If not, fuck off and go read Harry Potter or Confessions of a Shopaholic.

Okay, bear with me for a moment while I regain my composure. I just did a spell check for beastiality because my computer keeps questioning the spelling (or maybe it is asking me "why?"). Anyway, I am currently more disturbed than when I accidentally saw my grandmother's private parts (beaver) in the hospital once, when her nightie rolled up. While spell checking, I innocently (no longer) opened a beastiality website and now it is taking every fibre of my being not to go back to see if that young lady was really doing to the German Shepherd what I think she was doing. Jesus, I thought I loved my dogs but please make those images go away. They are burned into my corneas.

That dog was really happy to see her.

Anyway back to my incredible journalistic breakthrough with the equine wedding. Sadly, all my hopes for a title like, "Stud Trots Down Aisle with Cocktail Waitress" have been dashed. Instead, I bring you Christine Donavan, a talented, local photographer who captures boring old horses and stupid old weddings.

Beautifully.

Yes, Christine Donavan is a wedding photographer. And, she is a horse and pet photographer. What really pisses me off, is the two lines never cross. The line never blurs, even a bit, although she does have the odd shot of people with their dogs but nothing even remotely close to what I saw just moments ago on that sick, sick, website.

Jesus. You'd think Christine, with her eye for capturing the moment, would offer up just one drunk bridesmaid out in the barn with Mister Ed's cousin from Baltimore. A Polaroid even.

Is that asking too much?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Find Christine Donavan's work online at: http://cdonovanphotos.smugmug.com/ or email her at: donovanphotos@gmail.com.

Plagued by gilt.

Jack arrived home from Camp Hypocrite yesterday, sprouting the usual symptoms like a pox – sloth, avarice, insolence – reaffirming my belief in mandatory isolation after potentially harmful exposure.

To relatives.

A string of late nights, cocktail party chit chat, theatre excursions, and dinners that begin roughly around his bedtime and end when the last head hits the table – had reduced my otherwise sweet boy to a cranky, possibly contagious asshole in the throws of serious butter and silver spoon withdrawal.

Exhausted, filthy, and quick to criticize, the little prick even attempted a sideways guilt trip within seconds of deportation. I let the "I see I'm back to nothing to eat" comment slide, but when it was quickly followed by a "thanks for not being here when I got home" and then a resounding, "can you take me golfing?" – I snapped.

I'm glad he had fun and a little escape. It's been stressful around here, and he doesn't see his paternal relations often. But within seconds of arrival home, his Stockholm Syndromed ass was showered and sent to bed for a nap, like a cranky, 6-foot toddler.

In a matter of days, my little Patty Hearst had fallen hard for Jet Skis, power boats, late nights, and million dollar ocean views. Who could blame him? Our single-parent existence and the shaky foundation on which he was raised, revolves around mundane things like; sleep, education, unglamourous arena benches, hard work, love, orthodontist bills, discipline, survival, laughter, hockey costs, respect for women, work ethics, responsibility, routine, a little cheap plonk for mommy, and putting a roof over our heads. Did I mention respect?

His worshipping at the altar of style over substance hit a big ugly nerve. My kid needed a reality forecheck.

So, while selfless love and round-the-clock devotion may not be thrill seeking or sexy, at least when my head hits the pillow at a decent hour, because my child has to be at the rink by 5:30am, I have nothing to feel guilty about.

Except for maybe wanting to spank the ass of a 13-year old suffering from a sadly genetic, but thankfully temporary case of assholeitis.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Note: Shortly after posting this I made Jack his usual pancakes. For the first time he asked me why I didn't make them from scratch and why I didn't have a special pancake griddle. He is currently in his room.

Followed by a cool, refreshing chink.

I just emailed a tennis friend to say I could indeed play later this afternoon, but first I was taking the dogs for a kike.

Of course, I meant hike and not kike, but I snorted with laughter all the same. And, even though it was a politically-incorrect typo/snort combination, it meant today is already, by far, way more promising than yesterday – the most boring day on record.

The term kike, while terribly derogatory, originates from the Yiddish word "keikl" which translates back to "circle" in English. Apparently, the whole kike thing hails back to Ellis Island. Jewish immigrants, who were either illiterate, or had trouble with Roman English lettering, or were just plain pissed off after being on a cruise ship full of Torah thumpers for weeks on end, had a problem marking their immigration documents with an "X" because they associated an "X" with the whole Christianity thing. So they put a "keikl", or a circle instead. And who could blame them.

In fact, some of the Jewish people were so fucking happy to be in pre-Bush administration America, they took things one step further by drawing two eyes and a great, big grin in the keikl and shouting, mazel tov!

And that, boys and girls, is how we ended up with the universal symbol of happiness – the smiley face.

Those crazy kikes kill me. I'll need an Advil after we get back.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Boredom reigns.

I'm checking highway cams to see how far I would have to travel to see the sun today. I am that bored.

Even the dogs are bored. Fitzy just said he wished I hadn't cut his balls off, so he'd at least have something to play with.

Instead of whining and wishing I'd get swine flu so at least I could be bored and have an excuse for assuming the fetal position midday, I'm supposed to be writing a few witty, upbeat, 15-second radio spots – but so far they wouldn't sell anything, except for maybe assisted suicide or a membership drive for the local chapter of Bored Alcoholics with Vitamin-D Deficiency Anonymous (or BAWVDDA).

I even emailed someone I haven't seen since I was about 7-years old and living in suburban Chicago. He must be bored shitless too, because he has about 60 vlogs on YouTube. A vlog, for the unenlightened, is a video blog for people who don't mind having their face distorted by a web cam, and are too bored, or possibly too medicated, to write. I think I had a sleepover at his house once, but faked a stomach ache so I could go home. He had an older sister, I wasn't a slut.

Back then.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Innvite.

So far this morning I have given blood, picked up dog shit, and tripped over the goalie pads I will be paying 24% interest on until I die, which may be soon after my imminent stroke from having to pull a balled-up sock out of the pool of 7-Up on the TV room floor and shortly thereafter pull the tail end of a crunchy rodent out of the dog's mouth.

Fuck. How's your day been so far.

I must say, waiting at the blood collection centre made me feel quite slim. Most of the health care system leeches in that particular cross section of society were at least 100 pounds overweight.

Needless to say when the receptionist asked me if I had been fasting, I was less than gracious. Fasting? If by fasting you mean sleeping then yes, I have been fasting. Fast asleep. I went on to say, of course looking around your waiting room I would say some of those people look like they could easily knock back a Big Mac while catching 40 winks, no problem. But me, no.

I think she was also in a caffeine withdrawal-enhanced foul mood, because once again she asked me if I had been fasting for at least 8 hours. Counting back it dawned on me that I had a glass (or three) of wine and a bag of fat-free Orville Redenbacher laced with multiple tablespoons of butter (half cup) at about 9:30 last evening. It was 7 am, so quickly doing the math, I figured I was good.

Yes. I have been fasting... bitch.

So, can I tell you how nice it was to have an actual grown-up invite from Innkeeper Suzi Fraser! Suzi invited me to come and stay at her Mecklenburgh Inn in Chester. As a treat! (Please note: not one, but TWO exclamation marks so far in this paragraph, that's how excited I am.) I can only imagine waking up late, in a cheery room with an ocean breeze and the aroma of Suzi's Cordon Bleu breakfast wafting up the stairs. Forget the stroke, I'd die and go to heaven just to roll over and not have Fitzy's rat infested dog breath fogging up my face.

Sadly, I had to decline Suzi's lovely offer as I have two dogs, and a child with filthy socks and a hockey-induced personal hygiene problem, plus daily trips to Centennial Arena where I sit surrounded by crack whores and poverty thinking I should just rent a government-subsidized apartment out there next to the rink, since that is where I spend most of my time anyway.

The lovely, relaxing Mecklenburgh Inn is stumbling distance up the hill from the harbour (and The Rope Loft Tavern) in the Village of Chester and has been around since 1902, which is kind of how I feel.

You should go. Send me a postcard c/o Centennial Arena.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Mecklenburgh Inn is at 78 Queen Street in the Village of Chester. 1.866.838.4638.

http://www.mecklenburghinn.ca.

Adults of the corns.

I often wake up Saturday morning, covered with Cheesie dust thinking how maybe that last trip to the box of wine in the fridge was unnecessary, and how nice it would be to have a warm blueberry scone from the Farmer's Market downtown. I also wake up Saturday morning thinking how nice it would be to have a warm millionaire on the brink of leaving me a sizeable estate, but the scone is actually within my grasp.

That is, if it weren't for the children of the corns.

You know who I am talking about, right? The people who wear sandals with socks, obviously because they have really sore feet or why else would you do that. The people who have nose hairs and carry reusable burlap grocery bags and stand around admiring turnips and making stupid comments like, ooh, Gerrard, would you look at how marvelous this cucumber is, and, oh my what a lovely looking pie, and Honey, don't look at the veal, don't look at the veal!

I approach the Farmer's Market like a terrorist. I know what I want, and I want to get out of there before some scent-free Birkenstock freak picks up on my aroma of soap and deodorant and shampoo and Oscar de la Renta. I don't want a politically correctiveness scene, I just want something to soak up the Niagara region bulk buy of Sauvignon Blanc currently sloshing around in my stomach.

But first I need a coffee, which in itself is a mission since no one else seems to be in caffeine withdrawal. The sea of corduroy blazers and hairy legs stand like cult zombies, all pale and patient, waiting for their organic, soya, justice-for-all, no foam, no Columbian drug lord owned and operated bean farm, lattes. I just want a large – not grande – LARGE, coffee so I can scarf back my scone and get the hell out of there.

Also standing in the way of doughy bliss are the morons who think it's a great idea to wake up their filthy, matted hair, cloth-diaper clad offspring so they can gnaw on an organic carrot while Mommy and her "partner" tenderly browse through the pesticide-free basil, instead of leaving them at home in front of the telly watching violent cartoons, happily plowing through a bowl of Fruit Loops with breast milk.

Get out of my way, I smell yeast of the non-gynecological kind.

When I finally push past the couple trying to decide between the virgin arugula or the wheat-free cabbage, I get to the bakery only to see I have taken one too many loops in the park. There's a fucking line up. Hundreds, no thousands of poorly groomed philosophy major, NDP types with backbacks and yoga mats and environmentally-friendly travel mugs marveling at what a beautiful morning it is, pointing at my warm, blueberry scone. I hate line ups more than I hate men in leather sandals with yellow toenails so I make a low, growling noise like a wild beast and stomp out, heading straight to the Tim's drive thru for a stale tea biscuit that I flip to the dogs and go home and make a stiff Bloody Mary and go back to bed.

Thank god someone told me there's an alternative Farmer's Market every Friday on the grassy area where people in wheelchairs with IV poles chain smoke in front of the VG Hospital's Centennial Building. For those of you who are as confused as I am as to which poorly-funded hospital that is, it's the one with the big parking lot off of Tower Road where pro-lifers protest before they go to the Farmer's Market.

With any luck this Market will be inhabited by people who have actually had a pedicure in their lifetime, and also have places to be – like, jobs – and don't have the time to stand around and fondle tomatoes. The shoppers at this outdoor market will have showered for work, may have to ask for a plastic bag, and don't mind exposing their skin to direct sunlight. Plus with any luck their little Riatlin addicts will be tucked away in daycare, where they belong.

The list of vendors include butchers and real farmers and local coffee bean floggers and Julien's Bakery, Blossom Shops, Evans Fresh Seafoods and a whole bunch of other edible and non-edible delights that you can grab and go home. Oh, and it's from 10 until 2, so you'll have plenty of time to groom yourself before you go.

And if you spot someone wearing sandals and socks you can direct their lethargic meat and gluten-free asses up to the podiatry wing of the VG to have their corns lopped off once and for all.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Partners for Care (hey, I didn't think that up) Farmer's Market runs Fridays from June until October 9th. 10 until 2. They accept food bank donations if you are so inclined, but if you had food to donate why the hell go to a market?

So much for things looking brighter in the morning.

I confess to a full-blown chortle when I heard boxer, Arturo Gatti's wife had strangled him to death with her purse strap.

The news described her as his "sexy stripper" wife, which I guess made it even more chortle worthy. Being strangled by a beastly, whoa-has-she-ever-let-herself-go wife wouldn't have been half as fun. And Lorena Bobbitt kinda cornered the market on penis adjustments, so I guess strangling the punchy asshole in his sleep was the next best thing. His wife looked almost happy, and truly quite stripper sexy, as the police escorted her out – without a purse I might add.

I haven't chortled like that since the pharmacy student at the drug store asked me if I had ever used eye drops before, and I said no, and I wouldn't be anytime soon because Jack had an ear infection, then I chortled kind of like a crazy person, so badly I had to leave the pharmacy and let Jack pay for his own prescription.

Sadly, a good chortle is usually accompanied by a loosening of the urinary tract so I try to keep my chortles down to suppressed hysteria. Like the kind you get in church, especially at funerals, which is usually the only time I enter a building with a naked guy hanging openly on a cross. I always look around and try and make eye contact with the other sheep, signaling with my head over to the naked guy as if I am the only one there that thinks that's just fucking weird interior decorating. Why not a couple of deer heads and some real taxidermy action figures to get the full effect. Or a taxidermy of the last supper, only with groundhogs or something.

And why the last supper and not the last dinner. Maybe they were farmers.

Anyway back to the purse and how I am convinced Jack will likely, eventually, inevitably, snuff me out while I am sleeping (it off). I hope he uses a nice down pillow with a high thread count pillowcase, or maybe a life jacket when I am passed out in a deck chair on a Caribbean cruise after too many highballs at lunch. Then he can just flop me overboard and get on with his life. Poor bastard hasn't had an easy time with me as his mother. Actually he'd have to use a pillow or a life jacket because I don't own a real purse.

My grandmother used to hang on to her purse so tightly, like it was full of hundred dollar bills and crack, instead of old Kleenex, butterscotch Lifesavers, and a vinyl wallet with a library card and some red two-dollar bills. Once, my cousin Stephen undid my grandmother's bra in church to see if she would let go of her purse, which of course she did, and talk about chortle. Christ almost fell off his perch we were all laughing so hard.

Maritime Frame-it, now Frame-it (they dropped the Maritime bit) have (has?) a new line of purses that look like whoever designed them was a happy, creative, possibly high-on-drugs type person. Check them out.

I notice some of the purses have nice long straps, just in case you feel the need to strangle someone.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Frame-it has (have?) 3 locations: Spring Garden Road, Mic Mac Mall and Halifax Shopping Centre.

It used to be a loveseat. Now it's just a seat.

I never really pictured myself walking down the aisle in a crucifix museum, wearing a pouffy dress that would make me look like an even bigger asshole than I already am. Add to that, organ music and weird relatives staring, wondering if it's going to be a cash bar. Then finally being handed over to a man in a rented tux, who 13 hours prior was getting a lap dance from a pole dancer. This is the person you then publicly and soberly vow to honour and obey – until death. Well, sort of sober.

I'd like to meet the moron who thought up that sick ritual.

How many people roll over the morning after their wedding all hungover and covered with wedding cake icing and look at their new 'til-death-do-us-part spouse and say, what the fuck have I done? And, hey, wait a minute, that's not icing.

In truth, I would be afraid to get married simply because I change my mind too often. Daily sometimes. My taste also changes. One day, I'd wake up and say, "You know what, this has been fun, but I don't think you match with where I think I'm going with this colour scheme I have in my head, so would you mind getting your hairy ass off of my sofa, because that is going too".

No one expects you to take a vow to stay married to the same sofa until death, so why another human being? Oh sure you can reupholster. Or slipcover. Or move it to the den. And you can pretend to tolerate it, for the sake of the children. But, when the honeymoon is truly over, sometimes you just have to face facts and move on.

God, I love starting the week with a fresh, shiny coat of bitterness.

So, thank heaven for a new business in Dartmouth. I love them because their tagline is "The newest thing in town is slightly used." That could be said for the middle-age dating scene as well, but this happens to be a furniture consignment business. Your Home Consignment Centre.

How many times have you donated a perfectly good lamp, or piece of furniture, not because you're hoping some needy crack addict will want it for their living room, but just because the kind charity people will come and pick it up. It's easy. And you get to feel like a do-gooder, ever so briefly.

Well, this is a recession and every bit counts, so now you can call Your Home Consignment Centre instead. Not only will they come and pick up your no-longer-wanted-on-the-voyage items – you'll get some money if it sells.

Wouldn't it be great if, instead of divorce, you could just arrange to have your gently worn spouse moved to a convenient consignment centre. The person you see as a useless fart machine, who doesn't help with the kids or make you feel special anymore, just may be the apple of someone else's eye.

And with any luck they may come with a matching, icing-resistant ottoman.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Your Home Consignment Centre have a great, informative website that explains everything: http://www.yourhomeconsignment.ca/ or call 407-HOME.

Chips Ahoy.

The only thing I like about sailing is that someone usually has enough sense to bring along a few tubes of Pringles. Any other brand of chip would end up like everything else on board; soaked in a mixture of rum and vomit, and bruised from being tossed about like midgets at a bowling alley. Er, little people.

Walking in Point Pleasant Park yesterday it was almost funny to see billions of dollars worth of fibreglass turds, floating so close to Mayor Kelly's raw sewage boil. Marble Head. If ever a yachting race was more aptly named. You get one large asshole who managed to inherit enough money to buy a big boat, then stock it with a bunch of losers trying to escape reality by working as "crew" for beer. I can only imagine the headaches this morning after an evening of hearing themselves talk and record-breaking rum guzzling.

Even the grocery store is jam packed with miniature replicas of tall ships for next week's oncoming Tall Ships tourist-trapping flotilla. Like everyone else wishing Darrell Dexter would bring back food stamps, a plastic schooner is on the top of my grocery list.

Give me a power boat any day. A motor yacht. It goes where I says it goes (I's the skipper) and doesn't "come about" so fast your guests are ducking lest they get beheaded by a fucking swinging aluminum pole. And that's supposed to be relaxing? And just try and take a crap on a sailboat. You get so constipated after a few days you don't care if you get knocked overboard by a rogue wave. Death. Anything to loosen the bowels.

But I digress. The geniuses who work, so the lucky can play have brought us some life-enhancing accoutrements. Like the non-slip sole, designed so the really pissed sailor won't slip on the yacht club floor and subsequently sue the club's ass off. And the breathable, yet waterproof, hooded rain gear, so the sailor passed out in the parking lot won't suffocate but he will stay dry even though he is lying in a pool of his own Mount Gay vomit.

I bought the world's ugliest knee-length raincoat, er foul-weather gear, at The Binnacle on Purcell's Cove Road. Owner Chris Shaw said they couldn't give it away because of the colour but I didn't care – it had dog-walking coat written all over it. Oversized, even on me, with large pockets and a hood, I look like a overstuffed faded tomato, and I love it. In fact, so many people have stopped to ask me where I got that coat that at first I thought they were mocking me, but now, I know they are mocking me. And if I pass out in a puddle of my own vomit, I will stay dry.

The Binnacle, for those of us who don't own a boat, is a locally-owned Marine Chandlery that indeed has all the useless crap you'd need if you do own a boat, i.e. life saving saving equipment lest one of the crew accidentally fall overboard (drunk). BUT, they also have great bags and giftware and clothes and shoes and belts and stuff that you can wear until you die because they will never ever go out of style because they are "classic".

I think they do this because in all actuality sailors are so fucking cheap it isn't even funny.

After all, the beer fart, bullshit-laced wind is free, isn't it?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Binnacle is online at 15 Purcells Cove Road in Halifax or online at www.binnacle.com.

Looking for a lonely goat herd in all the wrong places.

I had an ECG this morning, which stands for "recession induced stress fucking heart attack" for those of you who are uninformed. I was also supposed to have blood work done but noticed on the form with all the little boxes ticked off that I had to fast for 6 hours beforehand which means unless I can find a vampire to draw blood at 3am in my kitchen, it ain't happening.

Fasting means no coffee, so unless they can come up with a blood test that skirts around caffiene, I'd rather die.

I had a lovely walk to the hospital though. Since I was going to the doctor, I put on the last pair of decent underpants our retriever (Free to a Good Home) hasn't chewed the crotch out of. I own a lot of crotchless panties now, which at least makes me feel like there's a glimmer of hope.

Walking toward the downtown core in the wee hours of the morning made me feel like I kind of had a normal life. I pretended I was a normal person, closing the door at home and walking to work at a real job where they hand out pay cheques and benefits and stuff, and where I'd be with real, adult people all day and take a lunch hour to work out, or scarf back fries at Bud the Spud, or have an nooner-laced affair with a wildly successful business man.

By the time I got to the cardiac arrest unit I was so depressed because I realized I don't really want a real job, I'd just like to make more money at the one I have. Plus, I realized walking downtown that whenever I put on decent underwear and get out in public all of a sudden I have to scratch my ass and when you work at home you can scratch your ass all day long and no one gives a shit.

So I get to the waiting room full of people that look a hell of a lot closer to a heart attack than I do and they call my name right way, only she said, "Cynthia Schwartz". I guess she didn't notice that I was 5' 10" and one pair of lederhosen away from herding goats in the Alps. Anyway I felt like saying to the fat guy next to me "you go first pal you're in worse shape than I am", but the nurse looked cranky so I didn't correct her for the Schwartz thing and went directly into the little dimly-lit cubicle with the comfy bed like I was told. She was all business because she wired me up and I wasn't even near that twitchy stage just before you start to drool and dream when she told me I could go.

Go? Fuck, I just got here. I didn't want to go home quite yet. I was comfy. This was an outing. At least give me a pap smear or something. I had good panties on.

So, after I got kicked to the curb, I was going to roam around the hospital gift shop for a while and pretend I had a sick relative upstairs or something, but I figured that was no fun so I just headed back up Jubilee Road in my skirt and good panties, looking like I was doing the middle-aged walk of shame after dancing at some cougar bar all night. I was going to side step over to Starbucks but figured for 6 bucks I could go home and scratch my ass and make my own coffee.

I hate being tired with a full day ahead of me, especially when I am tired for a stupid reason like having a baby, or watching Michael Jackson's last hurrah. While I was overjoyed to see Janet Jackson had major arm waddle while clapping, I couldn't help but think, what's with all the sunglasses inside and is it just me or is Smokey Robinson really Micheal Jackson's father? And did you notice that no one had any wrinkles? Smokey must be what... 97? Anyway, I kept watching just in case the King of Pop popped open the coffin and started moon walking like it was his big comeback or something. Then Brooke Shields made me cry so I turned it off, because I didn't want to look all puffy, just in case there was a handsome, yet desperate, cardiac arrest Doctor hanging around. I think Brooke must still have post-partum depression, but she looked good.

I wonder if Heidi's goats ever ate the crotch out of her panties.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Idle chit chat strongly discouraged, but a good rollicking beer fart is divine.

To say I never go out is by no means, a gross exaggeration. By going out, I mean out – no hockey auction, no child in tow. Going out means a bra from the archival section of my underwear drawer, and a babysitter. Jack is 13 now and I think he's had a babysitter maybe 12 times. In his life.

Fucking pathetic, I know. That bra cost more than my first car.

Friday night though, Jack was the babysitter. Left to fend for himself with 3 of his little cousins, two dogs, one friend of the little cousins and the 6-year old twins from next door – he was demanding danger pay even before we headed out the door.

We being Jack's cousin Sarah, and me.

Sarah's been in renovation hell for a long time, living in a construction zone, at times with no heat or roof (during last summer's rainy season), for well over a year. Add 3 little kids, a dog, a cat or two, a rabbit, way too many baby pet rats, and a husband whose job took a recession hit, and you've got someone who needed a night out even more than I did.

I told Sarah she could pick the restaurant because as long as it didn't have a dress code, a drive-thru or chicken nuggets, I really didn't give a shit. Actually, when I first asked her where she wanted to eat she said, "California".

Tempting.

It ended up a marriage of minds as we both wanted to try the newish Belgian restaurant, Brussels in Granville Mall. We also both hate eating outside on patios. We both wanted a comfy booth. And while I did not want to sit across from the man from the Bold and the Beautiful with the bright orange spray tan, Sarah was fascinated by him, so wanted the unobstructed view.

Told we'd have to wait 35 seconds for our table, we made a beeline for the bar. I am not a beer drinker but for one exception: Chimay. Brewed in Belgium by Trappist monks, Chimay in a chilled glass is better than even good sex. It comes in a really big bottle.

Hey, maybe more Catholic priests should place their divine energies elsewhere and start making stuff, like Blood of Christ Cabernet Sauvignon or mass-marketed Sacrificial Lamb Jerky or something. Just a thought.

Sucking back Chimay at the bar, like an (albeit immature) adult, was such a foreign concept, I realize, I may as well be a Trappist monk. I toil for little pay, isolated from the rest of society. Those robes look like one-size-fits -all, kinda comfy. And I have been hacking away at my bangs. Plus, it took me no time at all to convert Sarah over to worshipping at the altar of Chimay.

Anyway, I'll wrap this up because it was one of those you had to be there kind of evenings, and probably quite dull to those who leave the house more than once a year. Things took a slight turn for the silly when I asked the lady at the next table if I could borrow her glasses. I assured her I didn't have head lice and she was most cordial. Turns out her son-in-law is the head creative guy at a big ad agency in Toronto so I can scratch his name off my future job hit list. I don't think he found our exuberance for being out of the house as amusing as we did.

Sarah and I ended up sharing Congo (mango? I forget, we'd had a few) moules, fried cheese, a steak that was so delicious and tasted like it was dipped in butter, and frites with the mandatory mayo for dipping. For dessert, we skipped the waffles and had some sort of cakey thing that oozed warm, Belgian chocolate –and you didn't even have to stroke its ego first.

Needless to say this was not a heart-smart, low-cal meal for Canada's Next Top Model. We were a pair of Belgian plow horses escaped from the barn.

All of the kids were alive when we got home, so it was the perfect "date". No sexual tension. No forced witty banter or having to hold my stomach in. No skipping dessert lest he thinks me a pig. The only thing missing was a long, muscled arm in a nice suit, brushing my cheek tenderly as he reached for the cheque.

Monday is 2-for-1 Mussel Night at Brussels so I may have to head back and worship some more. Jack would love the frites, and maybe that bright orange guy will be there.

This monk needs to get out more.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Brussels Restaurant & Brasserie is at 1873 Granville Street in the Granville Mall. Reservations (you can make them online) are recommended, or you may have to wait at the bar chugging Chimay for a while. Wear elastic waist pants.

902.446.4700 www.brusselsrestaurant.ca

Read this only if you are between 12 and 96, have woken up with a headache and a stranger at least once, and have, on occasion used TV as a Nanny.

Dottie was hit by a car last night.

It's alright, I'll be okay once I jump start my heart. And she's fine. She chased a cat right under the wheels of a passing car. I heard a thump, and a cry I hope to never hear again. Fearing death and guts and an enormous vet bill, I died a little as well, but the next thing you know she came running toward me – a tad wobbly, and stunned as hell – but happy to be alive.

I think our angel was watching out for us both yesterday, if you believe in those things.

Even the stupid cat survived, although I am going to try and run it over today, even if it takes me an entire tank of gas. We'll see if that little fur ball has nine lives.

I only have one life, so no time for a website someone sent me a link to this week. They thought I'd get a kick out of it, but I wasn't worthy. Right in the middle of all the typos and self-absorption, the website claimed it was only for 29-to-44 year-old, clearly frustrated women who are busy, busy, busy working mothers with full-time, underpaid, overworked nannys, all searching for FUN, the perfect latte and a stimulating conversation about where to find the perfect latte. Oh, and you had to be a committed reader (or just committed) to appreciate or comprehend the depth with which some busy, busy moms will go to amuse their adorable children so mommy can shop and drink lattes that cost more money than their live-in nanny makes per hour.

So even though I am a busy, busy working mother, I don't have a nanny, a husband I list after the dog in my list of priorities, or a need to shop. Plus I am a tad over 44, so I am one life too old for that particular website. Thank fuck.

Here's a little free tip from a busy, busy mom: Nyquil. Cherry flavoured and it makes the little darlings drowsy and pliable as fresh Play-doh, so you can go about your busy, busy day.

Besides, I hear new studies have found that busy, busy mommys and daddys have been over stimulating their offspring. Apparently all the structure, organized playtime and hyper-parenting has made a whole new wave of kids who grow up and can't wipe their own asses.

Maybe Dottie was over stimulated and that's why she made the decision to run underneath the wheels of the car. Or maybe she was acting out her frustration because of her bad haircut, or because I threatened to put her in Sylvan Learning Centre if she didn't learn to roll over as well as the dog down the street.

Maybe I'll start a website strictly for 2-to-6 year old poodles who've made bad life decisions. Or a website for busy, busy 3-to-14 year olds who grew up thinking their loving mother was oddly, Filipino.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

I just did a design job for a lovely, local, child psychologist, so if you know anyone who needs her number, click on the link on the top right.

I'll trade you my beaver for your bald bird.

I just sat down on the can to take the Horrid's Canada Day Quiz when it donned on me. I really shouldn't eat Patak's Hot Lime Chili Pickle, and my god this is a boring place to live.

Having a 142nd birthday fall on a crappy, rainy Wednesday doesn't really help matters much. Why doesn't some over-paid bureaucrat wiggle the dates around, like May Two-Four weekend, so we can at least chug Canadian whiskey, wave the flag and throw up poutine on a crappy, rainy Friday night.

The good news is: unity. Thursday is guaranteed to be miserable, nationwide.

Yesterday, I heard the talk radio guy asking the obviously unemployed and under-educated listeners who their favourite Canadian was. The usual boring suspects rolled in: Wayne Gretzky. Don Cherry. Every other Canadian NHL player. Stompin' Tom. Shania (hold my hair back I am going to vomit) Twain. One loser said John A. Macdonald, like they were drinking buddies back in high school or something. Never mind that the so-called father of confederation was a Conservative, and a volatile drunk, he wasn't even Canadian. And he married his cousin.

My vote goes to the moron who decided a fucking beaver would be the proud emblem of our nation's heritage. A beaver.

So Happy Canada Day people. Looks like the guy holding the Bic lighter down by the harbour will get rained out again this year, but fireworks or no fireworks, we have big plans for this first of July. I am going to dump the dehumidifier. Twice. Do a little laundry. Scrub my proud emblem of our nation's heritage. Feed my other favourite Canadian some of our nation's pride – Kraft Dinner. And if the sun peeks out, I may even toss some burgers on the grill, because I have another craving for non-native Indian Patak's Hot Lime Chili Pickle.

Then I'll wrap up Canada Day, the way it began. On the can.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Hello, Muddah.

I've lost track of how many rainy days we've had lately, but if you count the wine bottles in the recycling bag I just hefted out onto the curb, I'd say we've had more than our share.

But gimme a break. Working at home is a self-motivating bitch at the best of times. Toss in a recession and an otherwise-active, now bored teenager and you've got a scene from Days of Wine and Roses.

"Look at me! Look at you. You're a bum. Look at you. And look at us. Look at us. C'mon look at us! See? A couple of bums". That's my best Jack Lemmon.

Things came to a head this weekend when I suggested Jack turn off XBox Live and read a book. His reaction had me lurching for the broom closet so I could beat him to a pulp and not ruin the $200 goalie stick within reach; but then I realized we don't have a broom closet, so I did the next best thing.

I decided I'd send the lethargic little fucker to camp.

That's right. Camp. Algonquin Park. Urine-stained bunkbeds. Hazing rituals. Mosquitoes the size of Timbits. Camp Counsellor's named Chip who themselves got sent away from the comfort of their Rosedale enclave eleven years ago, for playing too much PONG.

That'll teach him. If my kid thinks he can't survive one hour without Call of Duty, texting, or maid service, let's see how he makes out cooking dinner over a fire and wiping his ass with a fern frond after pushing a canoe through brackish water all day.

I emailed an old friend, Hugh Statten and told him it was an emergency and Jack was fairly normal, athletic, makes friends easily, but, he was bugging the shit out of me. Hugh's family own Camp Ahmek, on Canoe Lake, in Algonquin Park – Tom Thompson's old hangout. I worked there many moons ago driving the barge from the boy's camp to the girl's camp, so I figured I'd have an in. We'd leave immediately, and Jack could wait on the dock until the other campers arrived. July 6th.

The sad thing is, Jack would love camp. So screw that. I've decided to send myself to camp instead. Wine and Roses camp.

That's right. When I get a chance I'm off to a cabin at Milford House. Just past Keji park, on the way to Annapolis Royal, Milford House is the closest thing a girl will find to an Algonquin Park type camp experience east of Rivière du Loup. It consists of a main lodge that looks a bit like Green Gables (with a liquor license) and a lake dotted with little cottages – the perfect combination of rustic and rustic comfy. Sitting on the cabin porch, you'd swear Tom Thompson will paddle up to the dock for cocktails.

Jack and I stayed in a Milford House cabin a few years back before our mountain bikes got stolen. We biked all day in Keji park, then headed back to base camp. The bonus is, the Milford folks operate on the Modified American Plan which means rates include breakfast and dinner.

Hey, I said I liked camp, not camping.

So Jack, the bum, has dodged the first camp bullet. And we've since laid down some summer ground rules: No drinking before The Young and the Restless. Do not invite friends to stay for dinner while they are standing there, because dinner is yet to be determined and could be soggy crackers and cheese or something I scrape off the freezer wall. Daily outdoor exercise is mandatory, as is, reading something other than Sports Illustrated every day, and not just while sitting on the toilet. And XBox Live is limited to an hour, or two, per day. Unless it's raining, then drinking can commence with Regis & Kelly.

Oh, and if you roll your eyes at me, even once, in that teenage way, you'll be sharing a soggy sleeping bag and singing Frere Jacques around a campfire at a Bible camp for bums who stutter and wet the bed, somewhere deep in the Ozarks, until Labour Day.

And I mean it.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Milford House is 21 km (14 mi) south of Annapolis Royal on Route #8, in South Milford, on Nova Scotia's Evangeline Trail. Check out their website at www.milfordhouse.ca. Or call Toll-Free 1-877-532-5751. I cannot tell you how much fun it is there, rain or shine. Even with the little bastards tagging along.

Oh, that explains it.

According to the New England Journal of Medicine, the typical symptoms of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) include; depression, lack of energy, increased need for sleep, a craving for sweets, starchy foods, revenge, spicy foods, salty foods, President's Choice Smokin' Ribs, boxed wine, sparkling wine, holy wine, Gilmore Girl reruns, sending child off to live with cannibalistic Bible-thumping hypocrites (Catholics), Cheesies, calling old boyfriends and hanging up, Peanut Buster parfaits, ethnic foods, margueritas, Rueben sandwiches, coconut cream pie, an unyielding desire to kick small children, oh, and weight gain.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

It's all relative humidity.

I have never done anything gracefully. Take for instance, aging.

Long, curly gray hairs are popping out in the strangest places. They're like rogue, senior citizen pubic hairs, only on my face. Not that I have ever seen a senior citizen's pubic hair, but a girl can always dream.

Their ghostly gray, and my failing eyesight, make these Betty White hairs tricky to spot. I'll be driving in the truck on a rare, sunny day, glance in the rear view mirror, and the next thing you know I'm weaving down the road, steering with my elbows, plucking my chin, or my eyebrow. I really need to keep a set of pliers in the glove box.

This humidity isn't helping. Even Dottie's hair is all poodley pubic like.

It would help if I were handy. Take last week – I was lying on my back on the living room sofa when I noticed all these big wet spots on the ceiling. Either someone was having a great deal of fun in my attic, or the roof was leaking.

Then, I went downstairs like Clarice in Silence of the Lambs, only to find water coming out of my circa 1972 furnace. I think I saw the same model on the Antiques Roadshow, so it doesn't owe me anything. But the timing sucks.

And if that wasn't enough, my beloved dehumidifier broke. I don't know how anyone lives in Havenot without a dehumidifier. I am obsessed with mine to the point I'd rather have a dehumidifier than a stove, or a man – unless he was handy with pliers and could shingle a roof, fix a furnace, and make perfect Yorkshire pudding.

I bought my dehumidifier the first summer I lived here when I realized all those photos taken of Peggy's Cove were fucking Photoshopped lies, because it's only sunny one day a month from November 'til late August.

Knowing the time had come, I tried to order a cheap model online, but I couldn't wait for delivery. I even played the "my child has severe allergies" card in Sears to see if I could get a discount and a quick delivery. Jack blurting out, "I do not have allergies!" didn't help. Kids can be such assholes when you're trying to pull off a big fat lie.

Being a recession and all, I decided to take the old Kenmore dehumidifier to Sears small appliance repair. I asked Jack to bring it up from the basement but he went all rubbery on me, so I hefted the thing up the stairs and on to the back of the truck myself, all the while tripping on the cord and cursing at life's misfortunes. By the time I was on my way to the Home Comfort repair shop, I was sweating like a fat girl at a dance, and sprouting hairs the texture of piano wires.

The parking lot looked promisingly empty, because I hate line ups almost as much as I hate Bayer's Lake and Celine Dion. I hefted the tired old moisture machine out of the truck and up the front stairs. I kept yelling at Jack to "get the door!" but for some reason he was thinking I meant the car door so he got all confused and did nothing. I managed to kick the wheelchair button with my foot, staggered into the repair place, and plopped the machine on the linoleum.

I looked up and saw my worst nightmare. One underpaid staffer and at least a dozen senior citizens standing in line with nothing else to do but get their toaster fixed and chat about incontinence, and the weather. The digital sign said they were on customer 95, but I think that was his age. I went over to the red number dispenser and pulled a paper number, only they were all stuck together so I got 113, 114, 115 and so on. I'd be there all day, unless a few of them dropped dead before lunch.

What happened next I am not proud of, but it did give Jack something to talk about at my funeral. (As if the "What are you looking at, asshole" t-shirt I'll be wearing in my coffin wouldn't be enough.) I decided life was too short to wait, so I grabbed my dehumidifier by the power cord and headed for the side door like a caveman. "Come on", I muttered as I kicked the wheelchair button and headed down the ramp. The dehumidifier's little wheels were trying desperately to keep up, but I was going too fast. It kept ricocheting, slamming into the wall and the metal railing.

I wheeled the dehumidifier out into the parking lot and up into the receiving dock. It was like playing crack-the-whip with a drunk five-year old on roller skates. The dehumidifier gained so much momentum the water collecting container blew out and tumbled across the parking lot. It finally crashed to a halt at the loading dock door where I gave it a quick pat and walked away, never looking back.

When I got in the truck Jack was laughing but he didn't want to make eye contact. Best not stare into the eye of the beast. Just then I heard a "ping".

Another hair.

I found enough room on a credit card to purchase a new dehumidifier. It's whirring down in the basement, next to the exercise bike and the tool box full of rusty pliers.

Oh, if you do happen to see me lying in a coffin, or on a beach chair somewhere, and you see a rogue, gray pubic hair popping out of a nostril or a beauty mark (cancerous mole). Give it a tug, will ya.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Bremners Plumbing and Heating (453-4800) came and looked at the furnace. Maders Roofing (492-2868) looked at the roof. 'Seems there was nothing wrong with either. Humidity maybe. Good news is, there was no charge for friendly, quick-response, old-fashioned service. Maybe I charmed them.

If hockey be the food of love, play on!

The boys got a quick lesson in irony of situation this weekend.

We were walking in the rain after one of their Play On! road hockey games. As we passed a group of non-hockey kids hanging out by the port-a-potties in the Commons, one girl, about the same age as Jack, stepped away from the pack to express herself. She was clearly making a statement even before opening her potty mouth, although she had so many piercings it's a wonder she could talk at all. Dyed, spiky black hair. Dirty, ripped black clothing. She was a menacing, 100-pound accident looking for a place to happen.

"You're fucking wasting your lives!" she yelled at the boys, as she stamped out her cigarette and spat on the ground.

"That", I said to the boys, "is irony."

They had no idea what I was talking about, and my explanation missed the net, so I am thrilled to see Shakespeare by the Sea is cranking up for another season in Point Pleasant Park. I'm embarrassed to say I have never been. It's one of those situations where you never fully explore your own backyard. Jack and I have been to the Globe Theatre in London, twice, but never to a performance right down the road.

I plan to change all that, as I see they are doing Macbeth. And, at least this summer, if you don't like the play, you can scoop some plastic tampon applicators off the beach and hurl them at the stage.

I am determined to go because Jack studied Macbeth in school this year, only they didn't read the play. Or act out any scenes. I think I've mentioned this before but it still has me frothing at the mouth. The teacher told them Shakespeare wasn't meant to be read, messing with their already foggy 13-year old heads for any future Shakespeare assignments. They watched the movie and the cartoon instead.

But, never mind. That chapter of his education is over. He made the Honour Roll somehow, and I hope to instill in him the love of Shakespeare. Or, get him to appreciate the language. Or, at least get him to like it. A tiny bit. Oh, hell, keep him awake during a performance in the park.

The one-act play, performed by the lovely, young lady in the park this weekend gave the boys a chuckle. But her soliloquy had all the makings of a drama, not a comedy. A tragedy even. Where the hell were her parents on Father's Day?

Shakespeare by the Sea is also doing Love's Labour's Lost and Jack and the Beanstalk. Maybe we'll start there. A haggard single mom with a limited wardrobe trying to make a living in a recession, all the while raising a boy. At least the plot will be easy to follow.

So as I play on, searching for my golden egg this rainy Monday morning, I realize being Jack's parent makes my life far from being a waste. It makes me the richest woman in the world.

How fucking ironic.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Shakespeare by the Sea opens July 1st in Point Pleasant Park.

The 2009 schedule is online at www.shakespearebythesea.ca

Now, sweetheart, look at the camera and say "frozen cheese burritos". And can you suck your cheeks in a bit. Now hide behind the door. That's it.

I had to laugh when I saw something in this morning's Horrid. No, not our new NDP Premier doing his best Barney Rubble on the front page. That made me cry actually. The ridiculous thing I saw was in Section F.

On the front page of Section F is an article about fashion retailers finally embracing curvy women. (Anyone with breasts and hips.) The chosen photo for the article shows a very pretty, and pretty normal looking, "plus" size young woman wearing a trendy, feminine-looking frock. No big deal, only they have her posed next to a giant refrigerator in a grocery store. Why a grocery store? They've even captured her posing with the fridge door open. And she has a glazed-over expression on her cherubic face, like, if no one is looking she's gonna lean in and start scarfing back frozen french fries like a pig rooting for truffles. Apparently F is for fucking stupid and insensitive. Who was the size 0 art director on this photo shoot?

Yep, they are embracing curvy women all right. Embracing so hard they're squeezing the self-esteem right out them. Er, us.

I was a curvy woman, embracing all things South Shore yesterday. We headed home via Chester, where I had yet another "meeting", only this time with Elaine and Derek, owners of The Rope Loft.

We arrived at prime time and I slowed down just enough so the boys could scramble out and grab the last table out on the dock. This is the coveted seat for Rope Loft dining, not only because dogs are welcome out there, but, when seated at this comfy table for 4, you are so close to the water, the next table over is on a boat.

The Rope Loft, while one of the prettiest spots in the province, has never been known for mind- blowing food. Well we can scrap that old news. They have a new chef and he is my new hero. The food this year is as spectacular as the scenery. No shit.

I have been craving mussels for weeks now, so I was thrilled when Jack's friend Chief said he'd share some with me to start. Soon after they arrived, I wanted to shove Chief into the harbour so I could eat them all myself. The mussels were fresh and plump, but the sauce they were swimming in was orgasmic. A tomato base, with garlic, fresh herbs and chunks of spring onions. There wasn't enough bread to soak it all up, so I used a spoon. It was that good.

Jack of course wouldn't try the mussels, and he stuck to his beige food mantra, ordering fish & chips. I wisely followed the mussels with the Seafood Crepe.

Hang on for a moment while I mop up the drool just thinking about it.

There, that's better.

My crepe arrived, and it wasn't one of those tubular crepes with a teensy little shrimp curled up in the fetal position. This was a hefty, plus-size crepe folded up and over bulging fistfuls of fleshy, big-girl scallops, hunks of lobster and size 14 shrimp. All accessorized with a wonderful, creamy curry sauce.

I'm no food writer, but I eat enough crap to know when my taste buds have been truly enlightened. The portions were so chubby, we didn't even have room for the praline pecan/dark chocolate combo that Chief and I were going to go sharesies on. If dessert was as good as the main attraction, that kid would have been swimming for sure.

I am trying to think of an excuse to go back down there for another round. I should have left something behind. Like my child. Or the dogs.

So here's to curvy women who eat. If being model skinny means skipping lunch at the Rope Loft then pass me the plus-size panties.

F is for "who fucking cares, life is short, flabby is fabulous, and I am starving".

Take my picture while I am eating though, and I'll chew your arm off.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Rope Loft is located in Chester's Front Harbour by the Tancook Ferry Dock.

For hours and a peek at the new menu go to www.ropeloft.com. 902.275.3430.

Take a sweater, it can get breezy.

Hot flushes.

I wasn't going to bore you with anything today, being Friday and all, but then I got a call from Tom Murphy, the new guy slumped in Jim Nunn's old La-Z-boy at CBC.

'Seems it was a slow news day because they wanted my take on the Halifax Harbour Sewage fiasco. I told them I look like Burl Ives on camera, and anything I would have to say would be censored, so it was a waste of time. But I gave him my "what fer" anyway.

It was pre-cocktail hour and I was in abnormal state of bliss having been in "meetings" at White Point all day, so he got off pretty easy. I did say, while as much fun as it is to point a finger at Peter Kelly or the Homer Simpson character they had watching over the poop plant, I place a great deal of the blame for the stuff washing up on the beach, on women.

Yes, you heard it. I am not going to wave the asshole flag at men today.

Oh don't worry, we can still blame men for everything else, and we can blame our kids for stretch marks and the subsequent lurching toward the wine coolers midday, but ladies, when it comes to the plastic tampon applicators rolling around in the surf, the finger is pointing straight at us. And it's the middle finger.

I know, I know, every 28 days, I get a little cranky too. And by this stage in life you may have brand loyalty. But I don't see corporate Mr. Playtex or Ms. Tampax Compact frolicking on the beach in Point Pleasant Park. They're up in Toronto making tidy little salaries creating those bad ads where Mother Nature brings you a monthly "gift" all wrapped up in red paper. When they flush, it doesn't show up down by the water at Ontario Place. I say, lets gather up all the plastic party favours on the beach and send them back to Proctor & Gamble, or Playtex, with a big fucking red bow.

Oh, I am so excited to have something to "rag" about.

And maybe if, okay when, I get really hopped up on crantinis and hormones, I'll call Sobeys and Superstore and Shopper's Drug Mart and say, "what the fuck". Pull those little plastic pocket rockets off of the shelves until Peter gets his groove back.

In the meantime, if you really need to shove something plastic "up there", make it vibrate and rock your mini van world.

Or recycle. Or use cardboard applicators. Or, your finger. Or, here's an idea: Everytime you feel the need to flush a plastic applicator down the toilet, toss it on your lawn instead.

Oh yes, that's right sista. I am mad now. And it's not even the "time of the month".

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The serotonin South Shore.

When I moved here in 1989 to attend the Nova Scotia College of Art & Design, I had an old Toyota cargo van and a clean slate.

I had never stepped foot east of Quebec before, so everything was new. And exciting. My heart was freshly broken and by moving East, I managed to leave alot of emotional baggage back on the curb in Ontario. That was what I kept telling myself anyway.

When I wasn't at school, or slinging beer at the Granite Brewery, I would toss a duvet and a few pillows in the van and head out. I had no clue where I was going. Ever. But I didn't care. Sometimes I ended up in Cape Breton. Outside of Tatamagouche at a Jost tent event. In Annapolis Royal. In a bar that used to be an oil drum somewhere on the foggy Eastern Shore. Maybe I dreamt that one. In Petite Riviere. At a Gaelic College. I was like a baby discovering toes.

What really struck me as odd was how many Haligonians stuck around the city most of the time. Oh sure, some went here and there to cottages, or "down" to Cape Breton to see family, but I was accustomed to the mass evacuation North that happened every Friday in Toronto, all year round. Why stay in any city, unless it's Venice or Paris, when you don't have to.

Which is how I felt yesterday as we wheeled out of town toward White Point and this sunny porch I am now sitting on.

The boys, of course, were hungry the minute the car started to move and they were leaning toward a Not-So-Happy-Meal at McD's. But I had other plans. The truck normally heads to Juliens, or the Rope Loft in Chester but again, my mind was already racing toward Mahone Bay.

It's a fact: nothing cures a broken heart like a warm blueberry scone. Or mushroom paté. Or a butter tart. Or a cinnamon bun. Or those peas you can shell while driving, tossing the pods and your bitterness out the window.

I was heading to JoAnn's Market in the heart of Mahone Bay.

Having owned Wholly Mackerel for several years, I knew I would find peace amongst the familiar flowers and raspberries and coconut cream pies. At the market, I also found my old neighbour Racheal Whynot, all grown up and gorgeous, home from her first year at StFX. Time flies. The last time I looked, she was eight.

With one glance, the boys quickly got over their Big Mac attack, ordering custom sandwiches, cupcakes and sucking back Propeller root beer like college freshmen. I couldn't decide whether to go healthy or head straight to the bake case, but in the end I opted for spanikopita and some mushroom paté. I drove down the coast dipping my Julien's toasts into the creamy paté, happy as a pig in shit. As a bonus, Jack hates icing, so I got to eat the top of his cupcake, proving once again, he is indeed the love of my life.

We arrived here at White Point slightly before tee time. The lads made it very clear, very nicely, that I was not necessarily needed on the golf course.

I got dumped. Kicked to the curb. Not even an "I'll call ya".

Having been dumped before, I knew solace was easily found on the South Shore.

I found Doug and Danny up at the Lodge and quickly tucked in to some lively banter and a little Jost Muscat. A business meeting. Doug and Danny and I have been in a three-way work relationship, getting on one another's nerves, going on 14 years now. The longest relationship I have had with anyone.

The Resort is doing well these days despite record numbers of Americans staying at home staring at their own financial statements. It seems locals are sticking close to home as well, opting for a trip to the South Shore of Nova Scotia, instead of the south of France. Looking out at the beach and the clear blue sky I think, why would anyone want to be anywhere else.

As I sit here nursing my 4th coffee, I think the weather man is a drunk, as it may already be too hot to golf. I hope the boys try and dump me again. This day has "take your big fat ass to beach" written all over it.

The sadness and bitterness about canceling my own trip home to my beloved Georgian Bay is fading away. Besides, I might have bumped into the asshole who dumped me and what fun would that be.

Rumour has it, he still loves me. Or maybe I dreamt that.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

JoAnn's Market in downtown Mahone Bay is well worth the drive, just for a coffee and a blueberry scone.

White Point is a 90-minute drive from downtown, or 100 minutes if you pull off the highway to mend a broken heart with a slab of asshole pie.

Does dating assholes qualify me as a proctologist.

First of all, I'd like to examine the asshole who invented golf.

And just to save you ladies time and money, an "Executive" course does not mean a parking lot full of hot looking, successful executives looking for a little fun on a Tuesday afternoon. I wore my best sports bra for nothing.

To summarize golf in a nutshell – it is stupid. The ball is too hard and too small. The cup is too small and waaay too far away. A net would have made more sense. The drink chick driving the John Deere hauling cold ones doesn't take credit cards. Or, at least my credit card. Five holes is enough already. There's too much bending over with no reward. And there's nothing to do between swings, or in my case, between hitting the turf repeatedly with a over-priced stick. And for this you pay money. Lots of money.

But the clothes are no longer frumpy, in fact they are really nice now. And I cleared the lake on the 18th. And my kid LOVES it, so I am sticking with it. So be prepared for more musings from the 19th hole.

And I promise not to say asshole for an entire week if you do a couple of things: If you are a man, bend over and take one for the team by having a prostate exam. If you are a woman, make sure the man you love finally succumbs to having something shoved up his hole-in-one for a change. Then, please sponsor me in Sunday's Father's Day Run for Prostate Cancer. Click on the image of the fat ass humped over in the garden up to the right. It'll take you straight to my pledge page. I know it's a recession and you already gave to whatever, but how often do I ask for anything except a little lovin' now and again. Besides, I have a beautiful boy who, despite his insistance on wearing the same boxers for several days and being a goalie, well, I'd love for him to live forever.

And, let's face it. Women already outlive men by about ten years. That's ten long years of no chance of ever having even bad sex again (hey I am already there!) and a decade of listening to old women whining about book club and hot flashes. And besides, mens' nose hairs are so cute when they get older, about the time when their pants finally start to rise up instead of down.

And as we all know, most men are assholes, so if prostate cancer weeds out even a few of the good ones, then what will we be left with.

Golfers.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Prostate cancer is the number one cancer threat to Canadian men. (Besides women with sharp knives who refused to sign a pre-nup). Please support me by making a secure online donation. Click on the link below:
http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?SID=2246718

In hindsight, I could have earned my tourniquet badge.

You know you really have nothing to say when you begin with, "I read an article once...".

I read an article once, a few winters ago, in Esquire magazine. Written by a man, the article was about women. (I could say here it was a short article but I won't. Too predictable.) In it, he wrote about a sort-of test he gave women on first dates. It tested their sense of humour, or lack thereof. He also used it as a measure to see if he had any chance at all of getting lucky.

The test was a joke. If his date laughed, things were looking up. If she didn't laugh, he'd likely be going home alone. Soon.

The joke, more of a statement really, went like this: Never trust an animal that can bleed for 5 days and not die.

He was of course, talking about women.

I admit, I laughed when I read that joke. I thought it was clever and funny. But keep in mind, I have often been accused of behaviour more in keeping with a man, than a woman. I was, after all, Grade Nine shot put champion. Looking back, that moment of brute strength pretty much ruined me for ever being considered desirable. Men lust after cheerleaders, not shot put champs that could laugh at a crude joke.

Am I betraying the sisterhood when I say love being with men? By being, I mean hanging around, even fully clothed. I like their simplicity. I like their suits. I like their five o'clock shadows. And except for that post-hockey, pre-shower, dead muskrat aroma, I like the way men smell. I also like the ease with which men hang out together. Watching football. Playing golf. Fishing. Growing up as a tomboy, and until this very day, I love being one of the guys.

Maybe it's because women are too complicated. We have too many holes. Too many emotions. We read too much into things. Or maybe it's because I loved my Dad. Who the hell knows. I know you reach a certain stage in life when it's not cool for a single woman to just hang out with guys. That's called being a slut, even though that may not be the intention. I really did want to play pool! But then at the nursing home, it'll be cool again. Especially when there's only one guy left.

I played in a women's doubles tennis match this past weekend, and it made me realize I actually should have been a man. I like to hit the ball hard. I like to sweat, get the job done, then go home and have a few cold ones. I don't need to hang around and cuddle.

This weekend, one of our opponents arrived quite late, then had to leave the court mid-match for a good 15 minutes. She didn't have equipment failure. Or an urgent message from Bernie Madoff. Nor did one of her children fall off of the jungle gym and break a limb. Our opponent left the court to take a feminine hygiene break.

This would never happen in a men's match. Men would stick to the rules. Besides, if a man was bleeding so profusely he had to leave the tennis court, he would die. Or he would seek the comfort of a comely nurse with a heaving bosom. Then he would go home, take a Midol, crack a beer, and then die. Simple as that.

At the time, I was sympathetic, and of course, gracious under pressure, all the while gritting my teeth, thinking my usual, "what the fuck". Had the tables been turned, would this ultra-competitive woman have allowed such a breakage of the rules? By the time our stigmata-inclined opponent made it back onto the court I was so mad I couldn't see straight. I started swinging at the ball like I was the one with the raging hormones, a big red zit, and serious blood loss. In hindsight, I should have reeled off that joke before play resumed. Just as a test.

Let's remember, this wasn't Wimbledon. Was the need to prove oneself so great? Some folks might congratulate this woman for forging on regardless. Folks that don't know the rules of the game. Some bra-burning, Birkenstock-clad, no scents freaks might even say, "good for her".

I say, it was bloody rude.

Look at the calendar. Geezus, by the time you are old enough to play in the Women's "Never Going to See 29 Again" category, you should know your body. You should know a light day from a fucking tsunami. Even Jack knows to stop, tuck and roll when the big blue box arrives in the bathroom. Be prepared. Why do you think the Boy Scouts of America have that as their motto! Every 28 days a man needs to be just as ready as we do. To run.

Fifteen minutes or more, of my time, on a sunny weekend, was wasted. Fifteen minutes I'll never get back. Time that could have been spent climbing trees, or riding a white horse in a white bikini, or at home with my feet up, watching the game, scratching my tennis balls.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

I know I am supposed to be talking about small businesses but I really couldn't think of a business to tie in here except for maybe the NSLC or Shopper's Drug Mart or the Boy Scouts and they all seem to be holding their own (!) in the recession.