I know nothing.

As if growing up with the same last name as a bumbling Nazi from Hogan's Heroes wasn't painful enough. Now I am starting to look like him. 

At least Sgt. Schultz was a sweet, harmless Nazi. I lean a bit more toward the Colonel Klink side of the Germanic genetic pool. 

Today as I spiral into what one co-hockey parent calls, "tournament brain", I realize spending 3 days at an arena is a bit like Stalag 13.

For the most part, you'll find a cast of allies, all married together for a united cause: our children. And, like Hogan, we can escape, but report back for the cause. Toss in a cast of characters with nothing in common but hockey, add boredom-induced silliness and you've got the makings of a sitcom.  

As in most successful TV shows, there has to be a bad guy, or a bit of underlying drama to keep things moving along. Would Gilligan make it off the island? Would Uncle Charlie ever catch Steve with his pants down, resulting in "My Four Sons". 

In the real Stalag 13 land there is a wonderfully, wicked word only the Germans would come up with. Schadenfreude. It means a 'malicious satisfaction obtained from the misfortunes of others'. I think it is also an excellent hockey word. Imagine a parent secretly wishing little superstar Johnny would have a bad day, or sprain an ankle, so their bubble boy could make the team. That's what I am talking about.  

Schadnefraude happens. I myself have felt it on occasion. Seldom, if ever, directed at the children, I have inwardly longed to see certain parents get run over by the Zamboni. But, it's the nature of the beast. Hockey parents are notorious for craziness, and I have found the more A's on a kid's jacket, the crazier some parents can get. At least here in Nova Scotia, no one has any money. You should see what they get up to in Toronto, where money can buy your kid a ride on the AAA bench, all season long.  

But that's life in Stalag 13. Today, and for the next 3 days, I will turn my brain off and happily know nothing. I will enjoy my fellow detainees, and the peaceful herd mentality of captivity.

With any luck, there'll be a fight. Hockey fights are good for killing time. My money is on the Dad with the beer belly and the axe to grind because he thinks his kid should have been on the team last year, but the assistant coach's kid's second cousin made it. He's spittin' mad, and looks like he'd take a swing at the goalie's grandmother if she looked sideways at him.   

Other than that, and the weak defenseman's mom is apparently sleeping with the Manager's wife – Schultz knows nothing.   

halifaxbroad@gmail.com  

The rhubarb stimulus package. Only in Nova Scotia.

A timely email landed in my lap yesterday from Rhubarb. Not the tart, stewed slop my maternal grandmother used to pass off as dessert. This was a sweet email from Paul MacInnes, the owner of Rhubarb Grill & Cafe down in St. Margaret's Bay.

I lived in the Bay back in '89 when I first arrived in Nova Scotia. How I got here is another story, but here I am. That gorgeous September, I rented a cottage on the water near Hackett's Cove for $400 bucks a month. Being from Ontario, I was licking my chops at my good fortune. I was told by some ignorant soul that the only thing you'd need for a winter in these parts was a raincoat, and can I tell you how wrong that stupid son of a bitch was, as I huddled by an electric space heater trying to stay alive in an uninsulated cottage in mid February, crying in my Keiths.   

The only things missing in that neck of the woods, at that time, were men with teeth and a finely tailored suit, and a decent place for a gal to dine and find a little warmth. There was some dubious looking pit stop at the highway entrance to my cottage but it was called the "Boil on the Fisherman's Ass" and it was shut down, likely by the health department, shortly after I unpacked my things. 

There certainly wasn't a place like Rhubarb. Or I'd still be down there. 

Since I will be spending the better part of the next 3 days sitting on my duff out in TASA, which for those of you lucky enough not to know, is the St. Margaret's Bay arena. Instead of scarfing back rink fries, I am heading down memory lane to find Rhubarb.  

It seems Rhubarb Paul is trying to have a little fun with this economic shithole we're in. Until May 3, every item on the menu will be priced off of the Toronto Stock Exchange. Huh?  Okay, I am a real blonde so I immediately had head tilted sideways like a golden retriever. Paul, he explained, has tied the prices of the food to the TSX. (1 point on the TSX = 1/10 cent.) Huh? So, if the TSX closes at 8340 points dinner will be $8.34. 

Oooohhh. I am still confused, but playing the stock market isn't exactly my forte. And I don't care, I am going anyway. The menu looks fresh and fantastic and reminds me a bit of Mimi's old restaurant in Mahone Bay.

Plus, Paul says it all started as "a way of making light of a gloomy financial situation, and we weren’t sure about how it would be received, but it people have been very excited and we’ve had a really good time with it". Good enough for me. 

He had me at pie. Or the thought of pie. See once I ran away from home and discovered rhubarb wasn't the ditch you tried to avoid whilst driving, and combined with strawberries and placed in a flaky pie crust, rhubarb was a slice of heaven – my whole world changed.   

Paul also said "one of the most important things Rhubarb stands for is optimism, and I think this promotion makes a strong, optimistic statement: that this too shall pass."

And that my friends is what it's all about. That, and the seafood curry Paul claims to be most popular with the natives. That too shall pass, through me.  

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Rhubarb is located at 8650 Peggy's Cove Road

Just 5 minutes from Peggy's Cove and a pleasant drive from HRM.

402-3163

Doug, if I call you at 10:30 Monday night, don't pick up. Okay, forget that, pick up.

I must be getting old, because I get tired and hungover just thinking about $5 martinis. 

If youngsters, Connie Zafaris and Sarah Langley want to drag my middle-aged ass out of the house at 8, on a Monday night – to chug martinis at Mezza – then they'd better be prepared to do the 5:20 am Tuesday morning rink run, and pay for all those vodka-induced, long distance booty calls I'll make to old boyfriends across North America.

I said I was old, not dead. 

Monday night's Arbonne Red Carpet Event is stacking up to be the kind of evening that starts off innocently enough. A coming together of women with a common goal – to get the hell out the house for some adult conversation and a few flirtatious encounters with Mr. Booze. Toss in friends, yummy (complimentary) Mezza appetizers, gorgeous Arbonne skin care products from Switzerland, and you've got something to talk about other than all the stupid things kids, co-workers, and men do, just to piss us off.    

Smart cookies, Connie and Sarah sound like they know how to throw a party and operate a skin care business. Choose a trendy restaurant on the Quinpool strip. Make a fuss, complete with paparazzi. Add a DJ, makeup demonstrations, and recession-priced "Lady in Red" martinis. They'll soon find out how long it's been since Mommy's had a night on the town.  

Which brings us to the red carpet. Thanks in advance girls, for making us feel special. A carpet we don't have to vacuum, get rug burn, or scrape dog shit off. Thanks for a great excuse to call up some gal pals and head out the door. Lord knows I could use a little lift, and a bulk purchase of Swiss-quality skin cream. That's quality stuff. I've been slapping Swiss chocolate on my ass for years now, and there's not a wrinkle in sight.       

Plus, admission is free. How sweet is that. Tuck a few fivers (and some old phone numbers) into your best push-up bra and go!  

halifaxbroad@gmail.com 

The Arbonne Red Carpet Event is Monday April 2oth, 8 til midnight at Mezza.

Admission is free but RSVP connimariazafiris@hotmail.com or sarah.langley@smu.ca to let them know you are coming.

Thank you, as well, to their evening's sponsors: Mezza, Bishop's Cellar, Joanne David, and Coco Beach.

Oh, charming Prince you befuddle me with your words.

I lead a blessed, fulfilled life. My days are Grace Kelly-glamourous, from the moment my perfectly pedicured toes hit the floor, until I lay my head down on my lavender scented, 1200-thread count pillowcase at night.  

Every day, I thank my lucky stars to be surrounded by like-minded trendsetters, and the Who's Who of contemporary design. My agenda is peppered with brain-storming breakfast sessions; power lunches with motivational thinkers; and cocktails with cutting-edge movers and shakers. I am in awe of my peers and how their insightfulness enlightens others. Their brilliant, inner-sparkle motivates and challenges me.

Just the other day, I had a conversation I'll share with you. It went something like this:  

"Colin, sweetheart, how many times do  have to tell you not to wipe your hands on the shower curtain".

"But it looks like a towel".

"I know it looks like a towel, but it's not a towel. It's a shower curtain."

"But it looks like a towel."

"I know it looks like a towel, but it is a shower curtain. Do you wipe your hands on the shower curtain at home?"

"Not if there's a towel." 

Here's another noteworthy, life-altering classic from my memoirs:

"Jack, you know what soap is, right?"

"Ya."

"Well, you know when you're in the shower that you use soap – everywhere – and rinse it off  until you're clean, right?"

 

"Ya." 

"Then, why are there skid marks on the towels?"

"What?"

"How come there are always skid marks on the towels?"

"I dunno. But if it bugs you so much, why don't you buy brown towels."

I could go on and on, waxing poetic about the witty banter that consumes my days. But I have to go. I hope you understand. We really need to catch up. Let's do lunch. Call me. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Hey, average Canadian, careful not to trip over the homeless guy on your way into the vase shop.

Easter passed like a kidney stone. Jack was away stopping pucks, and a Kool Aid allergy keeps me away from organized religions. Cold drizzle meant watching paint dry at the Masters, doing my taxes, going to the gym, or curling up with a stack of magazines. Guess what won.    

My taste in periodicals runs from Esquire to Tennis to Architectural Digest. Depending on my mood, and my budget, I pick up Communication Arts or Travel + Leisure. I sometimes buy GQ (for the articles). And being an interior design junkie, I always have my fix of home decor mags. 

After chatting with Michele, the owner of Atlantic News, I was happy to hear their newsstand is holding its own in this crappy economy. I buy all my magazines there because they are nice, and there's always an illegal parking spot right out front. Michelle attributes the steady traffic to consumers granting themselves more $5 indulgences, instead of splurging on major purchases. 

People can always dream, and what better way to escape than in a magazine. (Oh, I could say something really rude here but it's only Monday.)   

Back at the ranch, I didn't get far into one Canadian publication before I was dumbfounded by the content. Page 28 had a cute little painted dresser for $3200. Page 32 had a $326 garbage can. Page 34, a $12,150 vase, or, for those on a budget, a cheaper alternative for $1360.    

It seems someone has neglected to tell the new Editor what "recession" means. 

I actually flipped back to read over the Editor's message. Maybe I missed the part about the April issue being a tribute to Zsa Zsa Gabor. Her first line went like this: "When I think about spring, I get excited about simple things". Like $12,000 vases, Dahling?   

Hats off to households who can afford such luxuries. And perhaps I have the magazine's readership demographic all wrong, but I suddenly related to starving French peasants watching Marie Antoinette wash down cake with champagne. I wasn't exactly drooling – the vases weren't my taste – but I was shaking my head at the publication's lack of common sense and compassion.    

Please, don't get me wrong – people need an escape. I'm not saying I want to see glossy layouts of trailer park makeovers. Or money-saving DIY projects like fashioning homemade tampons out of last year's throw cushions. Or turning those beer cans into a festive holiday wreath. But come on.

To borrow a line from Sex in the City, methinks the 'idiot-stick-figure-with-no soul' Editor needs to give her platinum head a shake. 

I can't wait for the next issue, where they feature a newly-bankrupt women's shelter, picked up for a song, and fashioned into simply, fabulous high-end condos.  

Where's my $326 garbage can, I have something I want it to read.  

halifaxbroad@gmail.com 

Atlantic News is on the corner of Morris and Queen. If they don't have it, they'll do their best to find it for you. www.atlanticnews.ns.ca

So does that mean what I think it means... about Santa. And the tooth fairy. And God.

Easter, like most commercialized pagan holidays revolving around anticipation and inevitable disappointment, brings back so many fond memories for me. I'll never forget one very special Easter. We lived in the States, but we were visiting my grandparents in Canada. 

It was the usual Easter morning. Waking up way too early, throwing back Nanny's pilled electric blanket that smelled like Avon with undertones of Rothman's King size. I was so thankful I hadn't peed the bed and been electrocuted. That, combined with the freaky bedtime prayer ritual with the ever-so-comforting line: "If I should die before I wake." I was just grateful to have woken up at all. 

My brother and I started running around, poking under "chesterfield" cushions and along windowsills looking for hidden treats. Damn, the Canadian Easter Bunny was good! We searched and searched, and nothing. No hollow chocolate bunny. No marshmallow Peep chicks. Just a few dirty ashtrays and my grandfather's half-dead poodle, Tina snarling at us from atop the Phentex afghan. 

When my mother finally emerged into the chaos, she looked at us, and it went something like this; "Oh, you children are smart. Figure it out." I guess that sudden change in latitude for Easter weekend had really thrown her off. She had simply, forgotten. 

Wandering around Sweet Jane's yesterday brought back a flood of memories from my youth. And a few good memories as well. Gold Nugget gum in the little canvas bag. Necco wafers in the waxy paper wrapping. Strips of white paper with colourful candy buttons. 

Sweet Janes has gorgeous, ready-to-go Easter baskets filled to overflowing with selfless love, er, I mean, plush chicks, milk chocolate bunnies and comforting treats any wide-eyed kid would kill to have. Or, you can create your own basket. The staff have great suggestions and wrap things up so beautifully it looks like you've spent way more than you really did.  

In keeping with the times, you'll also find trans-fat free milk chocolate, European chocolate, yummy cupcakes, and some sassy adult candy packaging that would make the randiest bunny blush, or giggle. 

     
Sweet Janes has everything you'll need for a happy childhood. The only thing missing, are the ashtrays.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Just in case you ignore all the warning signs, and forget to fill someone's basket, Sweet Jane's is open Good Friday 10-6 Saturday 10 til 8 and even Easter Sunday from 10-6. Monday too!

Hey, if I get gravy on that little linen number, will it wash out?

Someone once told me I should go on the show "What Not to Wear", so it makes me giddy with pleasure to be talking about... wait for it... a fashion show! Ah, the sweet irony in talking high style while sporting jammies and a sweater, albeit cashmere, with a hole in the front from where the dog ate away the misfired Swiss Chalet gravy.

But this isn't just any fashion show. It's Mill's Spring '09 Fashion Show –  on this, their 90th year of existence in the land of the Junior League and the sou'wester. 

90 years. Talk about the ultimate small business success story. Can you imagine Spring Garden Road without Mills? 

The Mills show, in true, big-hearted Mickey MacDonald fashion, sounds like the perfect combination of a glamourous night out with prizes and a little heart-warming do-gooding. All proceeds from the event will be going straight to Palooka's Boxing Club. According to the PR spin from Mills, the evening is about "fashion and compassion". I've always felt sorry for my wardrobe so I say, let's go!  

The Mills show will be taking place at Palooka's which is an amazing spectacle, with or without celery stalk models walking around. A boxing nut, Mickey established Palooka’s Boxing Club to provide a positive environment where Halifax’s youth could develop "discipline, focus and self-confidence through physical activity". I sent Mickey an email to see if he could set me up with a boxing lesson, for fun (discipline, focus and self confidence) plus if you read below I could use a little face time with a punching bag from time to time.

Will I really be at the fashion show? Well, "what would I wear?" would be my first obstacle. Maybe I'll scoot down to Mills and see if they'll let me in. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Mills Spring ’09 Fashion Show will take place on Thursday, April 23 from 6:00 p.m. until 9:00 p.m. at Palooka’s Boxing Club, 2110 Gottingen Street. Tickets are available exclusively at Mills for $25 per person with all proceeds supporting Palooka’s Boxing Club. 

Make that bitter, and twisted.

This was going to be my final blog.

I spent a better part of yesterday in a funk that had nothing to do with my middle-aged spread, my dwindled bank account, or the amount of time I spend in a rink, instead of Tuscany.

My funk stemmed from a comment that arrived on my cyber doorstep before the morning paper or my first coffee. The comment came from a man and suggested, while my writing was okay, I seemed a tad, well, bitter.  

Bitter?

And that maybe I drank too much.  

Define, too much.

After my initial, "ya... so what, asshole" dismissive, I swung over to offensive mode, spewing bitter bile because it was, after all, 7:35 am on a school day, and I was on my third Mimosa. 

I then moved on to maudlin, as all bitter, drunk people do just before they drive their kids to school. I hated myself and thought, "He's right. Screw trying to be creative with my stupid blog. Who am I to think I could help small businesses, including my own, with a feeble attempt at self-depreciating humour." I guess you could say, I gave up.   

After a while, it dawned on me. Men don't usually seek out women who lean toward outspoken and comedic. It's a fact, backed by scientific research (and the large percentage of lonely women who laugh themselves to sleep). Most men want women to laugh at their jokes.

I started to rally the troops in my mind. I just had to. I thought of women (and men) who make me laugh out loud. My role models. My mentors. Even fictional characters, created by writers, who make my life a little lighter with a weekly running gag. My list began with:

Julia Louis Dreyfus's character, Christine in The New Adventures of the Old Christine. (Bitter single Mom, drinks too much, funny as hell.)

Christine Baranski's character, Marianne from Cybill. (Bitter, martini swilling, funny as hell.)

David Sedaris, writer (Bitter and twisted thanks to osmosis, or genetics. Funny as hell.)

Judy Gold, star of Mommy Queerest (Bitter and a lesbian, who cares if she drinks, she's 6'3" and funny as hell.)

Megan Mullally's character, Karen from Will & Grace (Bitter, lush, funny as hell.) 

Charlie Sheen's character, Charlie on Three and a Half Men (Bitter, alcoholic womanizer, funny as hell.)  

Holland Taylor's character as matriarch on Three and a Half Men (Bitter, boozer, funny as hell.) 

My list could go on and on, to include authors and friends, but I am too bitter and drunk to care. Instead, from now on, I'll change the tune of my blog to sober optimism. Here's how my days will read from my new, improved perspective. I hope you like it:

I awoke to a beautiful but grey, rain-soaked morning, the colour of wet cement. I was alone, but that's okay. I'm just happy to be alive, because every day is a precious gift. The basement was flooded but maybe I could make a wee frog pond or start an organic mushroom business. Look on the bright side I always say! I worked for a while – happily, for no pay, but I love what I do. Eventually,  I roused my beautiful boy who is such a morning person, and a joy to be around. I made him a homemade, nutritious breakfast and drove him to school on time. We chatted about Proust and iambic pentameter along the way, then he kissed me goodbye and said, "I love you, Mom... let's do some volunteering after school today!" Then, the dogs and I had a delightful walk in the park, and I love them so much I don't even mind bending over to pick up their excrement because sometimes it's the only exercise I get all week and I am grateful for it...

Oh, screw it. Men are assholes. Anybody have some Clamato?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Hey, Miss Winters, over here!

It's a real pity to live in a city with so many great photographers and hate having your picture taken. Saying "cheese" ranks right up there with tripe, Revenue Canada and pelvic exams, as things I try to avoid. When I croak, Jack will have to place one of those fake photos that come with a new frame, on top of my casket. Fine with me.

It's so bad, even Customs agents reel in horror when I flip open my passport. And I think that's why I get so many traffic tickets. The cops look at my license and think, "this bitch should stay at home and chew on the furniture".    

Have you ever gone to an event, where you made that extra effort to get the stains out of your good sweatpants, and dug out that nice bra you've been saving since 1997. You walked in, like it was the high school gym, feeling like you could pull it all back together. (You had a few warm-up cocktails at the neighbours). 

Later, you see a photo of that exact evening and there you are, in a Kodak moment, mid-sentence, mouth open, double chin, eyes closed, hand flopping around reaching for cake, and at least 60 or 70 pounds heavier than you remembered.  

Isn't that what girlfriends are for? To destroy bad photos and to assure you, the girl he was with was really ugly and they didn't look happy. Oh, and that unphotogenic really means, stay home and watch Friday Night Lights.   

This Christmas past, I was putting together an album of dead dog photos for Jack. My precious momentos live in a cardboard box in the basement, all stuck together and coated with some sort of yeast infection. Putting photos into albums is for people with way too much time on their hands.

Digging through, I found 13 years of Hooey shots. He was in nearly every picture of Jack from age 0 to last August. His nose, his tail – there was a piece of that dog in every shot.  

I also found a bunch of photos with strips torn off and chunks removed. Those are the photos of me, or where I used to be. I always tear myself out of the photo and keep the good half. The half with my arm, a smiling kid and the dog's ass. 

In the very rare pictures that made my cut, I always have the same pose. I raise my head to avoid a double chin, then my eyebrows go up so I end up looking Shelly Winters. Or Burl Ives. It seems I have inherited my grandmother's jowls (and ill temper). 

But never mind. I have nothing to complain about. The new owner of Life Style Portrait Photography reminded me of that just the other day. 

Shannon Rowarth purchased a thriving portrait studio from the much-loved Halifax photographer, Angela Davies. Angela died way too early from a cancer that never appeared to break her spirit. Thankfully, she left her personality in hundreds of amazing portraits. 

The good news is, Shannon carries on with the same whimsical, at-ease style people love. She captures personalities with energy and life. She makes people who hate having their photo taken feel happy in their own skin. Well not me, but other people.   

The bad news is, Shannon inherited a great deal of wonderful images taken by Angela, and she doesn't know who they belong to. Help. Shannon is offering these portraits in exchange for a small donation to the Cancer Society. If you were lucky enough to have "posed" (jumped, hung upside down) for Angela or know someone who did, please come and see if any of the images belong to you. 

I may go pick up a portrait of some yummy mummy around 30, with perky breasts and perfect teeth. At least then, Jack will have something to set on top of my pine box.

I'll be inside the box wearing my good sweats, clutching a well-worn photo of a kid, a dog, and an arm. Smiling.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Life Style is on Queen Street near the Starbucks corner.

902.422.6555  www.lifestyle-portrait.com

I said, just a minute! Mommy's shaving her legs... again.

Our power went off last night around 8:15. I was in the tub. Jack was pretending to do homework, watching the Knicks and the Raptors. The washing machine was going. The dryer was going. The dehumidifier was working overtime in the basement. 

Then nothing but silence. And darkness.

It was really nice. Like Earth Hour, without all the money wasted on hype and advertising. Jack got to play pyro, lighting candles around the house, and I just floated in the tub like a contented whale, wondering if I had neglected to pay the electric bill.

As most people would, I started thinking about Ma and Pa on Little House on the Prairie and how they must have had a lot of sex. Pa (Michael Landon) was pretty cute and I bet those wool britches got itchy after a long day of poverty. Once they got the blind sister up into the loft and Laura her A.D.D. meds, what else was there to do but throw back the quilts and rock Ma’s world.

It was always dark on the Prairie. (Must have been Nova Scotia Power territory).

I think that Caroline Ingalls must have been an insatiable vixen in a calico skirt. They had how many kids by the end of that show? 15? Including that little bastard Albert who looked alot like Charles to me. Where did he come from?  

Ma and Pa naturally got me thinking about a small appliance I had seen advertised recently.

Not a toaster. Or a coffee maker. This revolutionary time-saver was called “The Tinge”.

Battery operated and rechargeable, The Tinge would have come in handy last night, minus the doe-eyed dog hanging his head over the edge of the tub, and a boy within earshot. Plus there was the added fear of accidentally giving myself a hysterectomy.

The Tinge, you see, is a ladies' razor, that doubles as a vibrator, or "Pleasure Toy". No joke.

Sleek, pink, and discreet, the Tinge sells for $99 bucks and must have been designed by a man. Multi-tasking wizards that we are, no women I know would marry a razor, with something intended for use, up in OBGYN territory.

Maybe a vibrator and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Or a vibrator and a Submarine sandwich. A vibrator and a riding lawn mower. Or a vibrator that turns into a bowl of Cheesies afterwards and goes home. But not a razor. Back to the drawing board, boys.  

And, as desperate as my love life is, I have never considered going down Dildo Road. (And please, if anyone has, I really don't want to hear about it.) I can just imagine taking advantage of myself after Hockey Night in Canada with my rubberized Charles Ingalls. With my luck, I’d get electrocuted Or the dog would find it and bury it in the neighbours’ backyard, but only after walking around the block with it a few times. Or Jack would find it – or worse – hear me "shaving my legs" yelling Pa! Pa! Yes Pa! Yes! Yes!

No wonder their kid went blind. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Pick up your own Tinge at www.mytinge.com or shop locally for a safer version at Venus Envy, 1598 Barrington Street. I think they are still in business... Hey, I'd better go check!

He's thinking... Laureen is a very, very naughty girl.

What does it say about us – a nation of so-called democratic free thinkers – that not a single, solitary, ass-kissing soul stood up in defense of our Leader's blow-up wife, Mrs. Harper. I would have thought one tax payer, looking to have his potholes filled, would have raised the blue freak flag. Tory Spelling didn't even call. 

But did the kitty litter ever hit the fan over my mild, cat slagging. (See Thursday) I didn't even get started on how I think there should be a "Cat Trick" in hockey, and instead of tossing a perfectly good hat, everyone throws a dead... er, never mind. 

I thought I was nuts, but it was so refreshing yesterday, to find out that my deck is full compared with some of you people.

One really disturbing response came from reader who I will not mention by name, other than to say it begins with A, ends with Y and spells: Intervention. 

Not only did this crazy cat lover send me photos of her freaky-looking felines, she told me a tale that I will share with you today. Gather round. 

Once upon a time, there was a woman who loved cats. She loved her cats so much that she was curious about what they were thinking. The woman who loved cats did some research and found another whack job animal psychic who claimed she could speak to animals. Even the dead ones. For $40 bucks. (I am in the wrong business. I'll tell you what Fluffy is saying for $15.)   

Trust me it gets worse. 

Lauren, (not to be confused with Laureen, aka Mrs. Harper) the animal psychic at "Animal Talk with Lauren" talks to dogs, cats, horses etc. and claims she can "ask the questions that you always wanted to know - and get answers for you". 

I realized, then and there, that I never really needed to know what my dogs were thinking. I figured a wagging tail meant: life is good. Licking balls meant: life is really good. And eating cat shit out of the neighbour's shrubbery meant: my food sucks, but life is good now, want a kiss?  

Lauren is in Ontario, but, don't be discouraged, she does readings over the phone. All you have to do is mail in a picture of your beloved pet, dead or alive, along with your cheque or money order. 

This is the fun part. My friend did just that. She sent the goat whisperer some Canadian Tire money and a photo of her cat, Angus. And waited. The animal psychic called, and said, among other things, that Angus didn't like the clicking noise of the keyboard. She said, Angus didn't like it when they picked snot balls out of his nose. And Angus it seems, was a little light in the loafers because, according to the psychic, he liked to watch American Idol.

I know, I know... NO ONE likes American Idol, do they? Well, except it seems, my friend's cat. I cry bullshit but my friend was satisfied and said now she'd have something to talk about if Bridgewater ever hosted a dinner party.

Then, I had a thought.   

Allow me to quote from Lauren's website: "Having developed and practiced my talent for many years, I speak for animals. I willingly provide a voice for the non-human creatures of our world in the hope that I may assist them to obtain greater health, better understanding of their expected roles and better relationships with their human partners."

Non-human. Expected roles. I say for $40 bucks, we've found Mr. Harper's new speech writer. He is after all, a jackass. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Find out what your little hairball thinks at www.animaltalk.ca or call me at 902.422.0712. I too accept cash, cheques or Canadian Tire money. 

Look for someone wearing an "I'm with stupid" t-shirt.

It's not like me to be coughing up fur balls so early in the morning, but does anyone know what Stephen Harper's wife looks like? Meow. Does anyone care?  

It occured to me, as I was watching Michelle Obama doing us all proud over at the G20 tea party, that I don't even know what our "First Lady" looks like. I honestly, had to Google "Stephen Harper's wife" to find out the woman's name. Does that say more about me, or the lacklustre state of Canadian politics in general?  

On the other hand, I get all veklempt when I see Michelle Obama. I pray for her safety and happiness. She has a Harvard Law degree; hips; a sensible, yet bold, fashion sense; she puts her children first; she speaks her mind; and she stands by her hunky, sex-on-a-bun man. Finally, someone for American women – all women – to look up to. (And, she's tall!) The only remotely "bad" thing some moron could dig up about Michelle O was that she wears Spanx. And, like, you don't?    

(Aside.) Don't get me wrong, I liked Laura Bush. She seemed sweet, but she wasn't exactly a pistol, those twins were a couple of piss tanks, and she married George W. Enough said.

And look who France got!      

Apparently, the woman who curls up with our Perma-press pajamas, every-day-is-a-bad-hair-day leader, goes by Laureen Teskey. Or Laureen Teskey Harper. Or Mrs. Laureen Harper mostly these days. (Is that an election I smell?) And, she's on Hubby #2. Boy, Hubby #1 must have been a real humdinger if this is an upgrade. From what I could gather, Laureen and Steve share a love of cats, and well, that's about all I could gather, as I kept nodding off.

Cats! Don't get me started on cats.

I don't claim to care about politics and I wave whatever flag seems right at the time. But I am telling you right now, if there's another blood-sucking election, I'd vote for Ignatieff's wife. At least I could pick her out of a lineup if I had to. Geesh, her name is Zsuzanna Zsohar. She just has to be more exciting than What's Her Face, the one dumping the kitty litter at 24 Sussex Drive. Right? 

I say, Canadians – Canadian women – are due for a little personality. We haven't had a live wire in Ottawa since Margaret Trudeau. Well, maybe not that much personality, but you know what I mean. We need a cool couple. Too bad that Michaëlle Jean is already hooked up, because if we found her a handsome, leader-type fella, they'd fit the bill perfectly. We need the kind of couple where you like both the man and the woman, and would gladly have them over for a bowl of Cheesies, because they are fun. They light up the room. Like the Obamas. Or the Griffins from Family Guy.    

It's kind of like this: Imagine you are stuck on an all-inclusive, desert island. (I almost typed dessert island.) Would you rather be stuck with Michelle Obama, What's Her Face Harper, Vin Diesel, or Zsuzsanna Zsohar? 

Trick question.  

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

  

Here's one for the ladies literature and libations club.

One of my favourite things about living in Toronto besides men in nice suits, was frequenting a place called Waddington's. Not a pub, an auction house, but equally addictive. Around since 1850, Waddington's would hold major art and antique auctions, then, every other week or so, smaller not-so-fancy estate auctions. These were the ones I loved. Sifting through remnants of lives lived in rambling mansions in Rosedale or Forest Hill was fascinating to me. I bought my first slipcovered chintz chair there for $15 bucks. It smelled a wee bit like gin and old lady urine, but it washed up just fine.     

I really don't like standing around all day at an auction only to watch some fat cat with a palsy paddle scoop your bid. At 'Wadd's' you could go in the day before the auction and place blind bids on stuff. Books, furniture, art. I'd stick $10 to 50 bucks on this and that, and leave. The next day, you'd get a call, or not. They'd say, "You got Lot #25 for $45 bucks, come and get it." Of course, I'd have no idea what my prize was because I never wrote anything down. It was like Christmas, without the weird relatives. 

I seldom "have to" have anything, but I there's a book that speaks to several of my personalities, and I want it. It must have spoken to Brad Pitt too, as he just picked up the rights to make it Hollywood worthy. (Along with Natalie Portman but who cares about her.)  

A unique approach to romance, I love the title: "Important Artifacts and Personal Property from the Collection of Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris, Including Books, Street Fashion, and Jewelry." And I love the cover. I judge books by their covers no matter what anyone says.  

The author is Leanne Shapton, an art director who grew up in Toronto. She has since moved on to bigger and better places, like NYC, and you can bet she doesn't hang around hockey rinks. I confess to kinda-sorta wanting her life right now, as guilty as that makes me feel.

"Important Artifacts..." is an auction catalog that reads a bit like a graphic novel. Crazy huh, which is why I want it. The 325 lots up for auction are things from the defunct relationship between fictional characters; food critic, Lenore, and photographer, Harold. Through Lenore and Harold's personal effects – everything from jewelry, fine art, and rare furniture, to the seemingly worthless items like pajamas, Post-it notes, and paperbacks – the story of a love affair gone sour comes to life. Why didn't I think of that!?  

It makes me wonder what my life would look like in an auction catalogue: Lot #3 An incontinent poodle. Foggy memories. A complete wardrobe in sizes 6 to 16. A great kid. Travel photos. A broken heart or two. And some unpaid bills. 

What the hell, I'll put $17 bucks on the lot. The urine smell will wash out.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

 

Frog Hollow 429-3318 www.froghollowbooks.ca

   

So that's where that tuna melt went.

I couldn't turn my back on it any longer – I had company coming. Saggy and worn out from years of abuse, it certainly didn't owe me anything. The seat cushions were lumpy and out of shape. It was ugly and faded from too much sun, and had stuffing sticking out in places I could no longer cover up.   

My body was shot. 

Quite frankly, I was tired of all tugging and stretching to cover this thing up. Yesterday, I called in a professional. An interior/exterior decorator of sorts. I called The Courtyard and made an appointment with a personal trainer. 

Heck, I do work for them and they've been offering for years – dropping subtle hints like, "Hey, big girl! Did you know we have a state-of-the-art gym upstairs?" 

They set me up with Amanda Pickett. Amanda is one of those perky, petite, student council types I normally avoid. Waving a list of credentials longer than her years, she greeted me with a big smile and an optimism I was determined to squash. I hated "working out" almost as much as I hated accidentally wandering into the petite section. I hated running. And aerobics. And my thighs. And I told her so.  

The Courtyard in Bayer's Lake is an amazing tennis club, but most folks don't know it is also a fitness centre and FBI torture facility. Amanda lead me past row upon row of shiny machines designed for a variety of muscle-specific manoeuvres to make people talk. Those would come later she explained. But first, a little cardio.

A little cardio to that pint-sized dominatrix was a half hour on a elliptical machine – which would have been fine had she kept her boney fingers off the "resistance" button. Bench presses, followed by push ups (2) and free weights and I was about ready to walk out the door. What made it really unbearable were the wall-to-wall mirrors. My house has one small, face-height mirror over the sink for a reason. 

One nice thing about being old is you generally know thyself. For instance, I know if there's a man pumping iron in the free weight zone, I won't be going in there, even if you throw in a chocolate bar first. I also know exercise needs to be mindless, fluid and and somewhat enjoyable if I am going to stick with it. Like biking, or binge drinking, or tennis. I want to trick my body into exercise. 

I watched Amanda do a few crunches and decided that really wasn't for me. Nor were the things you do bent over in front of the mirror (to check your position) with a big toaster sized hand weight. Apparently it targets upper arm waddle, but I've suddenly grown fond of my waddle. I also liked to sit on the big bouncey ball, but rolling around on it looking for my core, that just took all the fun away. Thankfully, I actually, really, honestly did like the torture machines, especially the Suzanne Somers-on-steroids version of the thigh buster. Those were awesome.    

My body, Amanda diagnosed, has the equivalent of A.D.D. A fleeting attention span and a free spirit. It wanted to play the 'chase the fish' game on the rowing machine for 3 or 4 minutes –and not do lunges. It wanted to channel surf and yell "wheeeeee" when the elliptical goes too fast. My body wanted to be lied to, and distracted into sweating for an hour. (Hey, that's sex!).  

Amanda was great. She listened, and understood I was frustrated with the ugly old couch, and was ready to commit. Sort of. She wanted to know my schedule and eating habits, and there was no point in lying. I told her my danger zone was between 2 and 3 in the afternoon when I started Hoovering cookies out of the sofa cracks and getting really sleepy. I told her I was stressed and looked forward to a little box of wine in the evenings, and I wasn't prepared to let that go. She then told me how many minutes of cardio it takes to burn off one glass of liquid 'who cares'. That little twerp was evil. I really liked her.

So here I go. No more XL throws to cover up old lumpy. No more painting the walls around lumpy so folks won't notice the Halloween candy wrappers falling out of the cracks. Three afternoons a week, around cookie hour, I'll be working on a little reality renovation I call, "Me".

(Oh, there's a fun-house type mirror in the ladies change room at The Courtyard, that makes you look all Olsen skinny. I am going to steal it, but don't tell anyone.) 

Wish me luck.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Courtyard has Personal Trainers and some great new (so they tell me) Ab classes, Kickboxing etc. 

Class schedules are online at www.thecourtyardclub.ca or call 450-1016

And then I waterskied around Prince Edward Island.

History, and divorce rates prove that during the mating ritual, a man will say just about anything to lure a woman back to his pizza-box encrusted cave. My all-time favourite 'pants-off-now' line was spoken by a woman – not a caveman – and it did not start with, "Is that a blow dryer in your pocket?"

Hot summer breezes, and gin and tonic, bring feelings to the surface that may have otherwise stayed put. One summer afternoon, I witnessed a courting dance between a gal pal from Ontario and the charming, Boy Next Door. I had flown my friend in to play Nanny during a particularly busy work week. She had never been to Nova Scotia and I was in a jam. It was perfect.

It didn't take long for the Boy Next Door to spot the Nanny. He was dashing and single. She was 6 feet of tanned legs and had teeth like Chicklets, well before everyone was Javex-ing their enamel off. Soon, the handsome Boy was taking Jack and the Nanny for car and boat rides, and inviting us all over for cocktails. It was pathetic, but fun to watch. 

One evening, I heard the Boy ask the Nanny if she had ever been to Nova Scotia before. She shot me a look that said, "Shut up Schultz or I will kill you", batted her eyelashes and replied, "Oh yes, I was here a few years ago, when I biked around the Cabot Trail."

I nearly spit out my G&T and had to remove myself from sight. She had never even been to Cape Breton and had NO idea what she was talking about. The Nanny was in so deep I couldn't save her. Amazingly enough, he fell for it, or pretended to, and I think she eventually had him massaging her road-weary hamstrings. Such is the road to love.  

The week ended, and so did the courtship. Jack projectile vomited all over the dashboard of the Boy's prized convertible, and the Nanny went home. 

I often think about that summer. Our beloved Boy Next Door died playing tennis. But biking the Cabot Trail with the Nanny and Jack is high on my list of things to do before I go down swinging.  

Laying down my loyal B&R gauntlet for a moment, I see Freewheeling Adventures, a local biking company, have a six-day, biking tour around the Nanny's fabled route. Their Cabot Trail adventure is real, begins and ends in Baddeck and has a guided cost of $2195. Not bad considering it includes 6 days, 5 nights, 5 breakfasts, 3 lunches, 4 dinners, luggage handling, plus the much needed, van & guide support. (No mention of ice cold G&T's, but maybe if you batted your eyelashes.) Van support on some of those highlands would be akin to life support and well-worth the price of admission.  

I called the Nanny last night and told her I was going down this particular memory lane. We had a good laugh, and I asked her where that Cabot Trail line of hers came from. She said, "I don't know. He was so cute, it just popped out". Indeed. 

Keep peddling. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Freewheeling gang have been around since I was a guide. That's a long time. Since then, they have expanded their intineraries to places like Israel, Scotland and Slovakia. Good to see a local company going places!

For your next, or first peddling adventure go to: www.freewheeling.ca

You want a piece of this.

I always feel some weird external pressure to cook a roast and be nice to people on Sundays. It's like some sort of twisted, agnostic guilt weighing heavily on my soul. I never do – cook a roast or act nicely unto others though. 

Sunday mornings follow the usual Saturday night at our house; hockey, followed by Hockey Night in Canada. Only last night was different.

The neighbours had cake. 

Those crazy Catholics have so many kids and cousins and step-half brothers and illegitimate nieces there's always a cake being offered up. And, thanks to the burden of guilt, or genetics, they feel obligated to invite everyone they've known since kindergarten that can still hold a deck of cards and balance a rum and Coke. And us. 

I like a good piece. Of Cake. So I threw on my Saturday night special and headed out the door. It's a rare night out for me, and I was going to fight the fat cousin for the corner piece with all the roses. Then I remembered. It was 8:40. I was supposed to be staggering around in the dark, lighting tea candles with a piece of toilet paper on the stove burner. I was supposed to be huddled in front of the fire saving the planet by roasting marshmallows. It was Earth Hour.

I was about to pull the plug, when I had a rare Christian moment, and thought of Tom. Poor bastard had a bit of a sickness going on anyway, and now this – a world-wide dimming of the lights. The South End's very own prodigal son had returned. Our Peeping Tom was back lurking through rhododendrons, looking for a cheap thrill. Everyone from perky co-eds to cellulite burdened church ladies were encouraged to turn their Hanes-for-Her backsides and draw the blinds. Hell, I've been going to bed with my make-up on for weeks now with nothing to show for it but a stained pillow case and clogged pores.    

So I left the lights on and went for cake. 

I figured everyone needs a beacon of hope. A light at the end of their twisted tunnel. Tom has a mother somewhere worrying if her baby has enough to eat and a warm place to sleep. In the midst of the blackest night, Tom would see the light – my bedroom light – set down his freak flag and be saved. One glimpse of my Cabernet-stained flannel jammies and the tattered housecoat with TV Guide in the pocket hanging on my bedroom door, and Tom would be reeling backwards, sprinting for the nearest bus station, and on the road to salvation. 

By defying Earth Hour, I had saved Tom. Tonight by not cooking a Sunday roast, I am saving energy, and the life of a mad cow grazing somewhere under a starry sky in Alberta. Damn, I am good person. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Bite me. Please.

What a week. 

It started off okay – full of hope actually. Then, by 4:42 yesterday afternoon, I was a Stephen King novel, foaming at the mouth in a Kathy Bates-sized pair of elastic waist Mom jeans.

Nothing really bad had happened. In fact, nothing much really happened at all. Jack got over the flu. I worked. The snow melted. My attempt at tongue-in-cheek humour failed miserably, with many an email pointing out that it was indeed the WWF Wildlife folks and not the WWF Wrestlers who were backing the Earth Hour. No shit. But hey, even Stephen King made mistakes. ("Christine").

I guess I was kind of hoping for something good to happen.      

So, there I was in an awkward parking spot, in rush hour, in a recession, in perimenopause, waiting for my child to finish his "hockey workout" at 4:45, so I could chauffeur him to his next activity.     

The tail end of my truck (not to mention my ass) was admittedly sticking out a bit, giving every world-weary commuter an excuse to look over at me and give me that look. The one that says, "you stooopid, stooopid middle-aged woman with bad hair". Trust me, I know the look. My grandmother invented it.   

Then, before I knew it, it was 4:48. Six minutes had passed, but it seemed like decades. I have an education, I came to this country to change the world, why am I driving a cab? I kept looking through the window at all the fit, happy people huffing and puffing, working out and listening to their iPods. I was thinking, aside from bending over to pick up dog crap, or take clothes out of the dryer, that I hadn't really had any exercise all week, and how I will someday run over some co-ed wearing a hoodie and earphones who walks in front of my car because they are invincible and listening to Katy Perry full blast. The fact that I did not even touch the brakes will come out in the police report.   

Then I eyed the bag.

It seems, while in catatonic Survivor Mom mode, I subconsciously grabbed a bag of "Two-Bite" Brownies on the way out the door. Jack would want a snack, I guess was what I was thinking as I passed the apples on the way out the door. And, I'd like to meet the sick moron who named those heroin-laced fat bombs "TWO Bite" brownies. It must have been a man, because those are clearly "ONE-Bite" brownies.

I had my first at 4:51. 

By 4:59, the bag was empty and I was thrashing around in the car trying to get off my leash. You know when you drive by a parked car and the dog inside is lunging at the window, biting the glass, and it's kind of funny but scary at the same time. That was me. Even angry commuters stopped giving me"the look". They knew better. 

I was sniffing around the car looking for crumbs or the other half of a breakfast sandwich that had fallen between the seats, when I flashed to some email banter I'd had earlier in the day with my friend Amy. A single mom, self-employed writer, Amy and I speak the same tongue. We had been commiserating how a nice, big, firm stimulus package would come in handy right about now. I confessed to her that things were so stressful, and money was so tight, that I actually scrimped on dog food and and bought one-ply toilet paper and No Name Kraft dinner so I could keep a bottle of wine standing by. 

Amy just said, "Ya. Of course. That's just putting the oxygen mask on first." 

It was the line of the week.   

At 5:07 Jack approached the car. He had no clue he was 23 minutes late and while I had been sitting there the weight of the world and a bag of brownies had descended on me. He jumped in and said, "thanks for picking me up Mom" and started babbling about the great workout and "oh look, I'm late" and could we please stop for a snack, because he was starving.   

At that moment, a bright yellow oxygen mask dropped down from the ceiling. I strapped it behind my head, took a deep breath, turned the key and joined the stream of traffic heading somewhere other than there.

Isn't chocolate poisonous to dogs?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The downward facing hot dog.

This being spring and all, I was toying with the idea of taking up something new and cardiovascular – like chain smoking, or nordic walking. I see nordic walkers all the time these days - at sea level. They seem to travel in packs, clicking and clacking all over downtown looking for alpenweiss or a Jägermeister bar. I bet they really piss off blind people, who had the idea way before there were nordic walking clubs, and Lululemon nordic walking bras.

Not wanting to invest in expensive equipment, like spring-loaded poles – I thought – yoga. Why not? I tried Ashtanga yoga a few years back, but caught a glimpse of myself upside down and it scared me to death. Plus I tend to shave my legs and armpits, and dab on perfume, all of which were karma killers in that particular lotus land. What finished me off though were my uncontrollable fits of laughter (and subsequent bladder control issues) when everyone else was silently searching for some hairy, inner peace. So I play tennis. You can get angry and hit things in tennis.

But, nowadays, they have something called HOT yoga. Apparently everyone who can't afford smokes or poles is doing it. So I thought, what the hell. I'll try anything once. So, I did what I always do before venturing into unfamiliar territory – a little research. This is what I discovered:

Moksha yoga is a series of yoga postures that sound to me like every other yoga, except they crank the heat and you sweat like a pig, er, detoxify. 

They start with a Savasana or "corpse" pose. You lie flat on your back with palms turned up and the feet slightly separated. They used to call that the missionary position, but it's been a while. While playing dead, you are suppose to allow expectations to fall away. My expecations all but left town years ago, so I am now confident this hot yoga is for me.

Next is Intention setting. Being aware of your breath or something. (Take Tic-Tacs) Here is where you also work on your abs, if you can find them. Carefully worded, Intention setting is "especially for those with a busy life". Nice try, but it sounds to me like this 'Intention setting' is aimed at the edge dwellers who just had a complete meltdown in the parking lot after beating the family dog with a hairbrush, just because he was the only one home. You know who you are.

Then the hotties move on to a bunch of standing poses that honestly, just sound like vacumning in those hard to reach places, like the attic. Or cleaning the gutters on a really hot day. 

The floor series still sounds like housework to me. Having thoroughly warmed the body in the standing series, you begin to open the hips and spine. Ah, it's like childbirth, or scrubbing the toilet. I am beginning to think if I'm going to end up sweaty on all fours I want to get a baby, a clean floor or least a nice dinner out of it. 

Finally, Savasana ends the class the way it began: lying flat on your back, soaked and thinking of England. Likely because you can't move after all that housework.

So, hot yoga may not be for me after all. Really, why would I pay $16 bucks, plus another $250 on yoga clothes, when I wake up almost every night soaked in sweat anyway.

Where did I put those old ski poles? 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com 

Moksha Yoga Halifax is at 1512 Dresden Row, right across from Pete's Frootique. 

I have a really stressed out skinny friend who swears by it. Really. 

Excuse me, M'am, step aside, this is Fashion Week.

I had big plans to write about the end of Fashion Week, and how excited I was that Mary Kate and Ashley had a new fall collection, so my ski poles would finally have something to wear. But then life happened, as it always does, and I fell off the fashion wagon.  

Last night, around Coronation Street time, Puke Boy had a craving for solid food. After three days of a weird stomach thing (the details of which I will spare you) this was music to a mother's ears. He said he felt like a roast beef sub, so I hopped in the truck to fetch dinner. 

Meals at our house are not exactly well thought out, sit-down affairs. In fact, our fridge is an under-the-counter mini bar, minus the lock and the Barbie-size bottles of vodka. And, it is usually empty. We don't even own a table.

You see, Jack's palate leans toward beige food – toast, fries, rice, chicken balls no sauce, pasta (Kraft dinner) and any creature they can process into a nugget. I love spicy food, ethic food from any nationality other than ours, salad (with lots of dressing) and eating standing up at the kitchen counter or in front of the computer. The only thing we agree on is we both love eating in the car.  

So, off to the local sub shop I go. It was well past rush hour so there were two sandwich artists waiting to serve me. I hate lineups, so life was good. I ordered Jack's usual, and just as they were slapping extra cheese on his sub a lovely, young girl/woman approached the counter. She smiled, pretended she hadn't caught a glimpse of my jammies tucked into my rubber boots and started to order. 

"6-inch whole wheat", she said. 

The artist flattened the bread and waited, as did I, for her next selection. I guess I was in the way as she scooted around me, past the yummy slices of meat, and straight into the veggie section. She proceeded with her order, which at this time was still just naked bread splayed open on the counter.

"Lettuce", she said. 

A few seconds later she pointed at some cucumber. Then, and I am not kidding, she asked for a few pieces of green pepper. My head kept jerking forward like I was willing her to say, "salami", but with no luck. My eyes kept darting sideways, and I was thinking maybe she'd never been to see the sandwich artist and she didn't know you start at the other end where all the fat was congealing. Should I help her?!   

"That's it." she said.

It took a few seconds for it all to register, then my head snapped around so I could make eye contact with this person, and from somewhere deep within the words, "THAT'S IT??!!" came flying out of my mouth. 

"That's not a sub", I pleaded. "That's what I pull out of the lawnmower." 

She just smiled, paid for her bread and lettuce and left. Which left me, standing there dumbstruck. The now available, and clearly not exhausted, other sandwich artist looked at me and chirped, "What would you like on your sub, M'am?". 

"Nothing," I said, thinking how much I hated being called, M'am. There were some chips at home, and some ketchup packets. I could make a dip. I'd be okay.

Jack ate most of his sub, except for a bit of lettuce and cheese that I mixed into my dip. I caught the end of Coronation Street and a glimpse of what life would be like as a size 0. I suddenly felt sorry for Mrs. Olsen and all those meals she lovingly prepared, only to have her twins push their plates aside. (Or run to the can.)  

Maybe today I'll go the the grocery store, and celebrate the end of Fashion Week and his flu, by making a nice, beige dinner. His clothes are hanging on him now, but in some circles, that's fashion.   

   

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Gee, Mrs. Cleaver, that housecoat really brings out the red in your eyes.

I had another stimulating conversation on the way to the rink this morning. Mind you, it was early, but I think it's high time I introduced the boys (my boy, very much included) to double espressos, Emily Post, or public transit. It went something like this:

Me: Good morning. Did you have a good sleep? 

Them: Huh?

Me: Did you get to bed early, or did you stay up and watch the end of the hockey game?

Them: Wha? Uh. Ya.

Me: What about breakfast?

Them: Wha?

Me: Breakfast. First meal of the day. Did you guys grab some, or would you like me to stop at Tim's?

Them: Wha?

Me: Tim's. The drive-thru, named after the dead hockey player. Did you want me to stop for a hot chocolate and a bagel? Or a mimosa?

Them: Huh. Ya. Uh. I guess. 

Me: Geez, will you look at all this snow! I wonder if it'll be another snow day, so soon after March Break, because if it is, I may have to shoot myself.  

Them: Wha? 

Now, I imagine most of you gentlemen are thinking, "Why all the questions, it's five freakin thirty, shut up already." But, in my opinion, it's never too early to start teaching the smelly little primates, a little etiquette. 

So far in life, they have a pretty good grip on how to back-check, fore-check, stick handle, give a hit and take a hit. They can shake hands in a post-game line up, usually without taking a swing, so I think it's time they learned what fork to use. Or, how to eat soup without slurping; a proper handshake with eye contact and a firm grip; what to do with a dinner napkin; in what country is it acceptable to belch the National anthem after a satisfying meal; how to dance and how to a carry a conversation.

I could use a little Charm school myself, so I did some research to see if there was a "Miss Manners" type academy in Halifax. There isn't. The closest thing I could find was the Millicent Farnsworth Academy Charm School for Crossdressers in Toronto. No lie, the number is 416-413-0827. With this hole in the Halifax etiquette market, maybe there's a small business opportunity for someone who knows their salad fork from their fish fork. Why should the crossdressers get all the manners?    

My next thought was to rent DVDs of Leave it to Beaver, so they could learn a little Eddie Haskell-ese. You have to hand it to ol' Eddie, he may have been full of shit, but at least he knew how to pour it on. And that's all I am asking for. When these boys need to pour it on in life, that they will be able to deliver the goods. Like Eddie, only with a little sincerity thrown in.

I'll end with this inappropriate, yet humourous pearl. You read on, while I go phone Millicent Farnsworth:

There was a boy who worked in the produce section of a supermarket. A man came in and asked to buy half a head of lettuce. The boy told him that they only sold whole heads of lettuce and he would have to ask the manager if it was okay. 

He walked into the back room and said, “There's some jerk out there who wants to buy only a half a head of lettuce.” As he finished saying this, he turned around to find the man standing right behind him, so he quickly added, “And this gentleman wants to buy the other half.”

The manager okayed the request and the customer went on his way. Later on, the manager said to the boy: “You almost got yourself in a lot of trouble earlier, but I must say I was impressed with the way you got out of it. You think on your feet and we like that around here. Where are you from, son?”

The boy replied, “Minnesota, sir.”

“Oh, really? Why did you leave Minnesota?” inquired the manager.

The boy replied, “They’re all just whores and hockey players up there.”

“My wife is from Minnesota!” exclaimed the manager.

The boy instantly replied: “Really! What team did she play for?”

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Honk if you love life, and gorgonzola.

Many moons, and several pant sizes ago, I was working at an ad agency in Toronto and moonlighting as a bicycle tour guide for Butterfield & Robinson. It all sounds so exciting and glamourous to me now; debt ridden, lard assed, with a child who has been re-enacting the vomiting scenes from The Exorcist all day. But it was glamourous. Aside from of course, 28 hours of childbirth and all that followed, being a B&R guide was the happiest I have ever been. Ever. 

If you've never heard of Butterfield & Robinson, stop reading and go to www.butterfield.com, but grab a cloth to wipe up your drool. Cruising through their website is something I do, routinely. I get their monthly e-newsletter "The Slow Road" and put everything on hold when their exquisitely designed travel brochures land in my mailbox. Their trip descriptions are my escape. They stand for what is possible in life. They are my healthy addiction. 

George Butterfield guided his first bike trip to France in 1966, and never looked back. He has built a travel empire with a stellar reputation from a simple, but winning concept; exercise and the good life. Actually, biking and now hiking mostly, combined with princess-worthy accommodations, knowledgeable guides, regional gastronomic delights, and panniers packed with some form of alcoholic beverage. Bikers get thirsty. George's trips are decadent adventures, and boy those stretchy cycling pants come in handy after 6 courses of butter and Bordeaux.  

B&R followers are generally well-heeled, lean toward high-maintenance and were for the most part, memorable. One guest, Dottie Perry "The Whip" was in her 70's at the time, had plastic hips and knees, and should have had an act in Vegas. I tried to find her the last time I drove through Stowe, Vermont but apparently she was in a nursing home near Burlington. I didn't want to see her there, but wondered if she packed her feather boa just in case her inner Carol Channing surfaced at dinner. I guided several amazing people, like Dottie, who took 3 or 4 B&R trips every year. Let's just say, waking up in 1200-thread count sheets overlooking a private vineyard in Cisterna D'Asti or Puigcerdà doesn't come cheap. For example, six days of biking in Burgandy will set you back nearly $6000 (or the annual price of minor hockey) plus airfare. But if life were really, really fair, I'd be going regularly, and taking my stinky roommate.

Measuring happiness is a tricky thing. The older I get, the more thankful I am just to be here and breathing. My happiness is part and parcel with Jack's, and is fueled by dreams of trips yet taken. I am lucky to have memories of Jack feeding pigeons in Venice, or holding my hand as we succumbed to vertigo climbing the Eiffel Tower. We have hiked The Cinque Terre and sipped Pimms at Wimbledon. Ours are the 75-thread count versions of B&R travel but they amount to the same thing: adventure and bliss. While we have yet to cycle our way through Provence or Puglia, I have faith that we will. We just have to. It may not be on a B&R trip, but it will be with a tired-old B&R guide and the spirit of their slogan, "Slow Down to See the World". 

After all, once a B&R guide, always a B&R guide. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Start your week off right at www.butterfield.com. Or, cash in some RRSPs and book though your favourite local travel agent. B&R have great trips for kids too, but you may have to sell the little darlings to pay for it.

The beauty of Halifax.

When I try to  imagine Halifax without the Midtown Tavern – in any shape or form – it makes me really sad. And as much as I love the Athens, I still pine for that big, neon cow's head that not only said, Hogie's, it said Halifax. And now, Peter Duffy is gone. What next? Duke the Studio Stallion from CBC Weekend Morning forced into prostitution, or worse – lipstick?!

Wednesday night, I took the boys to the Macs hockey game at another creaky old Halifax landmark, the Civic Arena. We pulled into the Forum first (the bigger rink for those who are lucky enough not to know) but the lights were dim, so we headed into the Civic with the rest of HRM. Having friends with kids on both teams, I was aiming for Switzerland but ended up in McCain country. When I asked Kirk Mock (father of Jordan #8 ) why the Forum was empty and everyone was jammed into the Civic, he just smiled and said, "Who cares?! This is more fun... better atmosphere!" He was so right. 

So here's the seque finally. Earlier in the day, less than a block from the Forum, I felt that same warm, fuzzy Halifax feeling, only it wasn't at the home of hockey, it was at House of Beauty. Jack and I discovered Beauty one day en route to hockey. His regular barber was inching into retirement in Italy, and Jack's hair was making me crazy. Driving down Windsor, I spotted House of Beauty and slammed on the brakes. One look at the faded posters of women with freshly permed hair and Jack's eyes welled up. "No", he pleaded. 

Sisters Selma Hanna and Naomi Haidar are celebrating forty years of business at the corner of Windsor and Almon. Celebrating is a bit of a stretch though – for the first time, their business is slow. The row of bubble hair dryers are silent, and aside from Jack, the chairs are empty. The sisters blame the economy and their aging clientele, plus, they cannot afford to advertise. "Hot damn!" I thought... please, please let my pitiful little daily rants help the Beauty sisters! After all, isn't this why I started this small business blog?!

So... if you want a trendy salon with lattes and Brazilian waxing, House of Beauty is not the place. If you want a haircut, or your bangs or nose hairs trimmed, with no appointment or fuss, pull up to 2785 Windsor Street. There, you will be offered a Quality Street candy. You can catch up with General Hospital, and thumb through Match to find out what Diana's Princes have been up to. And, you can have a great conversation, with two wise, delightful women. Yesterday, the conversation went from Michelle Obama, (good) to incontinence, (bad) to how Sobey's will no longer allow them to pin their salon flyer to the bulletin board. (The bastards.) 

House of Beauty is Halifax at its very finest; hard working, no frills, and friendly as all get out. Like the Midtown, with hair on the floor. Long story short: Jack wouldn't get his hair cut anywhere else now, so I hope for everyone's sake, the sisters are around for another forty years.

To celebrate forty springs, Selma and Naomi are having a special. Men can get a perfect haircut for 11 bucks (Regular $13) on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Kids under 12, $8!! Ladies, you can get a perm, cut and style for $55 (that's good I think?!). What's even better is you'll leave House of Beauty feeling all warm and Halifax fuzzy. 

And that, is beautiful.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The House of Beauty 455-2180