On second thought, I'll hang on to my virginity.

"Let!"

In tennis, someone yells, "let" to stop the play, ignore the point in progress, and start again. Where I play, it's usually because some Titanic survivor's ball has escaped the boredom of ladies' doubles and rolled onto an adjacent court, pleading for refugee status after being tucked up a pair of 86-year-old tennis panties.

Imagine if you could call a let in real life. A "do over" that could potentially erase whatever was happening at the time, so you could simply move on – perhaps in a wiser direction. A life let would mean fewer broken hearts. No Monica Lewinski. No rug burn, (well maybe a bit of rug burn) and no Bush administration, round two. Jon and Kate would have shagged once and avoided "Plus 8" and that ridiculous King Koil hairdo of hers. No doubt John McCain would have partnered up outside of Alaska. And Hugh Grant would have chosen a cold shower over a hot hooker. The list is endless.

This past weekend, during my weekly Sunday morning men's doubles game, one of my opponents yelled "let!". I looked around and couldn't see any hazards, but I did see a big grin on his face. I turned to see an attractive young girl walking behind the court. After she passed, he just laughed and said, "Sorry, I was distracted... go ahead".

Now, if I were indeed the man hater I was accused of being this past weekend, I would have found that stoppage of play offensive. If I truly loathed men, as one man suggested, I would have stormed off the court and joined a book club, or a La Leche League, whatever that is. Instead, I laughed and thought how playing tennis with the guys is actually the highlight of my week. I think I've mentioned this before, but I like being one of the boys.

As for me being a man hater – poppycock. Fair to say I do not suffer fools of any gender gladly, in fact not at all, which is why writing is so damn much fun. And sure, I like poking fun at men because – while easy targets – most men don't get all huffy and defensive and cry "sexism" when you call them assholes or make fun of their short game. In fact, I've found most men actually like the attention – negative or otherwise. And, while I seldom get complaints – I hear from more disgruntled readers when I'm too limp dicked and playing nice. So, I guess you could say I only hate men who lack a sense of humour and accuse me of being a man hater, which is kind of a vicious circle – like crying because you're fat, all the while getting your Twinkies all soggy with big, fat salty tears. Hey wait a minute... "let!". "Let!". Why am I justifying myself like I'm married to the asshole? If your feelings are hurt, fuck off and join Oprah's book club.

Thank you, I feel so much better now. Play on.

Plus, how could I be a man hater when I almost pass out every time Andy Roddick serves and his shirt flies up exposing those little hip muscles that will eventually turn into love handles. I'd never hate Andy, even when he's all soft and bitter after his divorce from that hateful Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.

How could I hate a gender that can buckle your knees with one firm hand on your lower back; and smell so good after shaving even when covered with little bits of bloody Kleenex; and fix stuff; and look so damn fine in a good suit and tie. Oh sure, you've got the occasional asshole on your team, like Michael Vick and Hitler – but hey, we take responsibility for Celine Dion and Roseanne Barr and Madonna and Lisa Raitt and Shania fucking Twain and Pipi Longstocking.

How could I be a man hater when my last thought before sleep (just after licking the Twinkie icing off of my lips) is the well-being and happiness of the wee man in the bedroom next door.

Furthermore, would a man hater promote Nuts 4 Ribs, an event in support of testicular cancer awareness happening on the Halifax waterfront this Saturday? I think not. But I like a good rack of ribs and nuts as much as the next guy.

Besides, I flew all the way to Toronto for a big, fat hug last week and it sure as hell wasn't from Serena Williams.

Maybe he meant man eater.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The 3rd Annual Nuts 4 Ribs is happening this Saturday, August 22 from 11 am til 11 pm on the Halifax waterfront (next to the Waterfront Warehouse). There will be a ball hockey tournament, beer, and of course, ribs! What more could a gal want. For more info go to: www.nuts4ribs.com.

Horsepower. Now I get it.

"Kick him". "Kick him harder". "Kick him again". But here's the thing – I didn't want to kick him. I was in love with him.

Let me back track for a moment, as my hands have just now stopped shaking long enough to type after riding the Behemoth roller coaster at Canada's Wonderland. Let's just say I won't be standing in line to ride that son-of-a-bitch ever again. Oh, can I add, other than my reluctant, yet willing, co-Equinox Adventure pal Deb, I didn't see a whole lot of 40-something mothers begging to get on that colonoscopy of a joy ride.

In some sick way, I am glad I did it. Leaving the Behemoth and that mecca for teenage thrill seekers in my rear view mirror left me feeling somewhat placated, and happy to be alive. But never again. I was on the second leg of the journey, heading north on the 400 highway toward Muskoka, in a brand-spankin'-new 2010 Chevy Equinox. Jack was busy yapping at me about why we didn't have a cool car with XM radio and a Star Trek dashboard complete with a big screen navigation system. He'll never let me forget that we almost bought an Equinox, but to save the lining of my nostrils I opted for a pick-up, so his foul-smelling goalie gear could ride back in the fresh open air. After zipping around Southern Ontario in the newly-designed Equinox, I admit, I too have regrets. That little cross-dresser could fly.

I failed to mention to the good folks at GM that back home in Nova Scotia I was one point away from riding the bus. I have a heavy foot. Thankfully, I was in Ontario where people don't drive like hungover lobster fishermen in no rush to get to church, or the wharf for $2.95 a pound. The Behemoth was barely out of sight before I had the Equinox's peppy, 182-horsepower engine elevating my heart rate as we raced to my next fear-facing adventure – horseback riding.

The sexy, satellite navigation landed us practically in the paddock at Maple Lane Farm in Bracebridge, where the mere sight of Trigger and his buddies made me feel like I was going to vomit. The last horse I rode took me directly under a tree branch, knocking me flat on my fat ass. I swear that walking glue stick was chuckling as he trotted away.

Our arrival was expected by the kind folks at Maple Lane Farm, who were quick in directing us to the barn so we could change out of our city slicker clothes. I'm sure they were getting a big kick out of my tennis shoes and Deb's golf visor. We stood out like hemorrhoids.

The farm was a beehive of activity – little girls, teenage girls, and beautiful women were everywhere, walking around pushing wheelbarrows of shit, grooming horses and mucking stalls. A little blonde girl with braided pigtails, no older than eight or nine, walked by with a saddle thrown over her shoulder and a big grin on her face. They were all filthy and productive and deliriously happy. No iPods, no exposed belly buttons and no pre-teen nightmares demanding a ride to the mall. It felt like the Equinox had taken us to another planet where girls and women oozed confidence and self-esteem.

The only man in sight – the owner Ken – was young, (and hot) and the father of two little cowgirls in the barn. Ken assured us their trail horses were docile and would not take advantage of our fear and lack of skill. Muttering "bullshit", it wasn't long before I was looking at the back ass of my enormous, yet apparently trusty steed, "Kramer".

Our willowy trail guide Deanna, described Kramer as the stable's sofa. She was right. It took about five minutes for me to swing from fucking terrified to totally at ease. As we headed down the path, across a wooden bridge and into the rural Ontario I love, time and stress slipped away instantly. We were meandering through a wildflower-strewn pasture on a sunny day, and I was quickly slipping into 2-martini-mellow mode, when all of sudden it dawned on me. It was one of those light bulb moments. An epiphany of sorts.

Kramer was rocking my world.

That big, dumb hulk of a manly beast was taking me and my Levi's to a very happy place indeed. No wonder all those women back at the barn were smiling! Riding along, swaying back and forth with my thighs pressed against his back and my Hanes for Her jammed against the saddle doorknob, well, it was so earth moving I almost, well, never mind. Let's just say, if Jack and my fellow adventurers weren't along for my ride I would have taken Kramer back to the barn for a smoke. And, I swear, at one point just before he took me safely across the river, that handsome sack of brown-eyed dog food turned around and winked at me.

So ladies, listen to me. If you want horsepower, a sleek, roomy interior, and a hands-free door closing button for when your arms of full of liquor store bags and babies – then get yourself an Equinox. If you want a guilt-free, commitment-free, afternoon delight with a happy ending – pull on some tight jeans and get yourself a horse.

Giddy fucking up.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Maple Lane Farm (and Kramer a.k.a. Vin Diesel) are both worth the drive to Bracebridge, Ontario. www.maplelanefarm.ca. If you really feel the need for steed while in Nova Scotia, head to Hatfield Farms. www.hatfieldfarm.com

Wanting to get off in a variety of ways.

"Do one thing every day that scares you."

Eleanor Roosevelt said that. Mind you, while overloaded with smarts, Eleanor fell short in the looks department. That first glance in the mirror every morning likely scared the crap out of her. Just think how poor FDR felt.

Yesterday, Jack and I embarked on a bit of an adventure that has already seen me face-to-face with a number of my fears, with more to come today.

We are in Toronto taking part in the Canada's Wonderland GM Equinox Adventure. I am here to blog about the experience that has thus far found me white-knuckled and stone-cold sober on a flight through thunderclouds; and up close and personal with an old boyfriend I haven't seen since, well, two pant sizes ago. My pants, not his. Yesterday was my first taste of that sick, sad truth that ordering even a Barbie-sized bottle of vodka on Monday morning is somehow erroneous – and men really do get better looking as they get older. How fucking wrong is that.

But that was yesterday. Today will be the bladder, bowel, and acid reflux test of a lifetime. This morning after our briefing, I have to ride the roller coaster at Canada's Wonderland – the mother of all rides: The Behemoth. The tallest and fastest bitch of a roller coaster in Canada. As I sit and type this I have that sick feeling in my stomach, like a bed wetter at a sleep over. I'm a control freak. Control freaks don't make the best passengers on any ride. The last "amusement" park adventure we went on was the Reindeer Ride at Santa's Village and I swore it was the last. Jack was about 4, and we had somehow ended up at the only dry resort in Muskoka, where I sat drinking red wine out of his sippy cup all night. That rickety Reindeer Ride went 3 feet off the ground and I sat terrified behind Rudolph, squeezing Jack so hard I almost suffocated the poor bastard.

Last night I asked him what he'll do if I suffer a heart attack on The Behemoth and die in a pile of my own filth, mouth frozen open in horror. He just laughed and said he'd walk away and pretend he didn't know me. Fair enough.

And, here's the good news: if I survive The Behemoth, I get to hop in a shiny new 2010 Equinox where I'll likely test the vomit resistance of the leather interior as I head up Highway 11 to go trail riding on a nasty old horse with a chip on his shoulder who can already sense my fear from 200 miles away.

The sun is up. I can see my nemesis – The Behemoth – from the hotel window. Fuck my fears Eleanor, this room as a mini bar.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

One chorus from Oklahoma! ma'am and this $20 tip is yours.

On warm, summer evenings – who am I kidding – even sometimes in the dead of winter, I'll send Jack over to the neighbours around cocktail hour with strict instructions to 'look really hungry and stare at their food like you haven't eaten in weeks'.

Our neighbour is an incredible cook, although calling him a cook is a bit of an insult – he's more of a gourmet. Over there, even on weeknights, they have things like meat and real risotto and asparagus wrapped in pig's foreskin with sprigs of rosemary, and shit like that. He used to make rich sauces and gravy but since his bypass surgery, meals are more heart friendly, but still delicious, and one hell of a lot better than what's normally cooking on this side of the alleyway.

Last weekend, Jack didn't even have to suck in his gut and look all weak, because the neighbours were ordering take-out and since we were standing drooling in their backyard around 6 o'clock, they kind of had to ask us if we wanted to join them.

Of course, I said "Yes, can we have Thai" and was instantly excited on a variety of levels. Not only was I starving, and thirsty, but Jack's cousin Sarah told me she had a craving for Thai food recently and when the delivery guy arrived he was a transvestite. This I had to see. Besides, I never get to eat Thai, or Indian, or Szechuan, because my little roomie, Beige Food refuses to try anything, unless of course he's eating at the neighbours.

My real craving had less to do with Thai and more about me needing an injection of spice in my life. The kind of spice a jolly tranny normally brings to the table. I was imagining six-inch heels, a big blonde wig, fishnet stockings and an Adam's apple, or maybe a Marilyn or Liza look-a-like. I could barely wait for Divine or Dame Edna to ring the damn doorbell.

Of course by the time the bell rang, I had everyone else all hopped up on hope and possibilities, and we politely took turns pretending it was perfectly normal to be hanging around in the foyer offering to hold the food and make change and stuff.

Can I just tell right now you how disappointed I was.

The delivery transvestite was a look-a-like alright. Only he looked like a younger version of me: Tired. No make up. Mom jeans. Sensible shoes. Boring glasses. Hair, cut in a bit of a bob, but thinning a bit which is not like me, I have lots of hair and look like Captain Kangaroo in a bob. And while he, er, she, had lovely breasts that looked liked helium balloons they were so high, and accentuated by a tight black top – there wasn't even a hint of cleavage or tassels or sparkles or anything. Not a studded, red leather bustier in sight. Maybe she was having a bad day or saves all his nice, glam clothes for when she goes out or maybe he didn't want to get her feather boa covered in Pad Thai, but he really looked like she needed a makeover.

And a hug.

My hopes for seeing a robust, flamboyant transvestite belting out show tunes were crushed. All I got was somebody's son at the door, trying to make a living and figure out who he wants to be in this cruel world. Jesus, even the transvestites in this city are a drag.

I started thinking about the delivery boy's Mom and how worried she must be, and how kids break your heart without even trying because you love them so much you want everything in their little world to be perfect and happy. There I was, all verklempt because Jack is a goalie in a growth spurt, but imagine if deep down, he really wanted to be a goalie on the girl's ringette team. Or a synchronized swimmer. I would want him to be happy even if that meant lopping off any hope of ever having grandchildren. Wouldn't I?

Fuck, I was so sad, I could barely eat that third helping of green curry.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Halifax has a few good Thai joints. There's Chabaa, Baan Thai, Ginger Grass, and I just drove by one on Barrington Street called Talay Thai. I am pretty sure they all deliver, but don't get your hopes up.

So how's it going. A blow-by-blow of the worst summer on record.

It was inevitable, but since the locusts have only recently come and gone, the timing was merely icing on the shit-filled cake that is the summer of 2009.

Jack needs new skates.

The poor bastard has been curling his left toe for months now, resulting in a permanent, speed bump-type blister on top. I told him when he also got a blister on his right toe, we would talk.

For those of you spared the devil's offspring who play hockey, buying new skates is no longer cruising into Canadian Tire and plopping down $40 bucks for a shiny pair of CCM's. Skates these days are high-tech Kevlar, carbon-infused, diamond-encrusted miracle boots that cost more than my first car. Plus, Jack is a goalie. The most miserable position since the Missionary requires bullet-proof skates with a protective shield even Bill Clinton couldn't penetrate. The added layers of glowing white, kryptonite foot protectors make goalie skates appear clown worthy and likely inflate the already ridiculous $559 price tag.

Used skates are routinely out of the question because my child has freakishly narrow feet. Size 12. I know this because I just had to plop down cash for size 12 golf shoes, so he would be worthy to attend this week's golf camp. When did someone change my kid's last name to fucking Rockefeller?

So, in a cash crunch, I have decided to add Professional Roaming Prostitute to my business card. That's right, in addition to mowing lawns and cranking out ads and corporate identities, I am going to start offering myself for sale. Only, instead of the usual hand, blow, rim, or kinky spank job, I am going to perform degrading and humiliating acts you likely already do yourself, for little or no pay. So, effective immediately, for cash only, I will: Take your pelvic or prostate exam for you. Or, I will drive your kids to the beach, soccer field, lacrosse game, baseball diamond, riding lesson, swim lesson, dance lesson, piano lesson, sailing lesson or tennis tournament. I will check your child for toe jam/swine flu and/or lice. (I give great head). I will come over at dawn and drive your kid to the arena, or your asshole to the airport. I will make seductive groaning noises when I pick up your big gas thingie (not your husband) for the BBQ and return shortly with a full one. I will get on my knees and scrub your floors. I will return your videos. Plus, for a slightly extra fee I will do the ever-so-degrading back-to-school trips to the mall with a pissy teenager. (With danger pay if that teenager happens to be a girl.)

The list of jobs I'll do for a buck is endless. But, I am a professional and as such, accustomed to turning tricks for the sheer thrill of it all.

For instance, today after golf and before hockey I will swallow (my pride) then pull hundreds of dollars out of my bra for a pair of skates he'll grow out of by this time next year. I would use them to slash my wrists, but wouldn't dare for fear of dulling the platinum blades.

I will do this at Sportswheels in Sackville because Ronny appreciates how hard we working girls go at it, for little pay. Sportswheels also accept trade-ins, or "contra" if you know what I mean.

I wonder how much a set of used knee pads go for.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Sportswheels is located at 209 Sackville Drive. They have a nice, shiny new website: www.sportwheels.ca

No, actually. But you can kiss my ass.

Can I pick your brain.

If there are 5 words I hate more than those I don't know what they are, except for maybe, 'The speculum may feel cold' or, 'Hi, this is Revenue Canada' or, 'It's not you, it's me'.

Funny how it only takes a few words to set the tone of the day. This very morning, the first five words out of Jack's mouth – before his crusty eyes were fully open – were, 'Can you take me golfing.'

I quickly followed with, "Go back to bed, asshole".

It's been a long summer, plagued by too much rain and not enough work. I don't do boredom well, so let's skip August and bring on September. Even Jack's lawn mowing enterprise has been derailed by Mother Nature. Yesterday, with threatening thunderclouds, I drove him to one of his jobs. While he got busy on the front lawn, I wandered around the back to move hockey nets and the occasional pile of dog shit out of his path. I peeked in the shed for a whipper snipper and eyed their lawn mower, so I cranked it up and started on the back.

I always mowed lawns as a kid. My hatred for small children pretty much ruled out babysitting and camp counseling, so mowing lawns was a dream job by comparison. I even worked in the local graveyard for several years, so consider myself to be somewhat of a lawn mowing aficionado. And I take pride in my work.

As I was happily working my way around the back yard, it dawned on me that Jack was making about $80 bucks an hour. Well, not continuously, but at $20 bucks a lawn, with an average of 15 minutes per cut, that's pretty good money. Plus, there's no tax man, it's cash in hand, no one ever asks for a deal, and people are generally very appreciative. Never once has someone called him to say, "Jack old boy, I have a very important meeting this afternoon and I was wondering if you could you drop everything, come over and walk around in circles in my back yard, pushing that machine with a whirling blade, keeping in mind, I have no intention of paying you, but I need to look good, plus everyone will see what an amazing job you have done for me and want to hire you, so you can thank me later".

Jack does mow a few pro-bono lawns out of the goodness of his heart (I make him), but no one ever calls him to say, "Jack, I hear you are the best lawn mower in town, and I was wondering if you could put aside all your paying jobs and come right over now, and mow your heart out for this incredibly good cause. Think of the exposure. You can thank me later".

So, I know it's late in the season, but I am going in to the lawn mowing business. Fuck Jack, he leaves slivers of grass uncut, and besides, I'll do it $5 bucks cheaper. And, the first five callers get a free hand job, because after all, it's how you market yourself, and I'm a genius with the hedge clippers.

You can thank me later.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For a free estimate call Kiss My Grass at 422-0712. If Jack answers, hang up.

Our lady of the par 4.

One eye shut, leaning on the counter, I found myself gazing at the pharmacy lady, saying, "Crystal meth?.... what?.... Crystal meth?"

"Yes dear," she said all wide eyed and church lady-crazy looking. "In the city they use Sudafed to make crystal meth. So we keep it behind the counter."

"Are you kidding me? Do I look like I cook... anything? And judging by those pin curls, you've been cranking up the bunsen burner a bit yourself back there. No. Right now, I just want something to dry up the cesspool of Cabernet Sauvignon and snot currently clogging up the front of my face, so I can drive back to the city."

We'd been at White Point on what turned into a full-on golf mini-break, instead of the sit-like-a-lump-reading-on-the-beach-with-a-Corona mini-break that I had envisioned. Of course, I had taken full advantage of my client's hospitality, and had the requisite White Point headache.

Always claiming to hate golf, I confess to actually getting a bit of a kick out of it now. It helps that I really don't get all worked up about my performance. My child, on the other hand, loves golf. A beginner – but apparently a natural – like most sports, he takes every shot to heart and is beyond frustrated when things don't quite go as planned.

His technique is to choose a club carefully, walk up to the plate or whatever it's called, take a few patient practice swings, lining things up in his head. He then steps up to the ball, his little face all serious and focused on the task at hand, and swings.

I play most balls with a 7 iron. I take a swig of my Schmirnoff Ice, walk up to the plate and let 'er fly. I must say when I make contact, this big girl can make that little ball dance, but I spend a fair amount of time replacing the big chunks of sod that usually land about 15 feet away. But who cares. I am walking by the ocean with my beautiful boy and life is, for those moments, very sweet.

Life hasn't been all that sweet lately, and I keep waiting for something good to happen. I recall some lesbian, Virginia Woolf I think it was, writing about wasting time waiting for the big, glorious light when actually life is about worshipping the daily candles that flicker in the dark, or some bullshit like that. Mind you, she killed herself, but never mind. I want the big light. A sign. The big break. The big Publisher's Clearing house cheque that Ed MacMahon was going to bring to my door before he went to everlasting golf with Johnny. And I want it now.

Teeing up for whatever hole we were on, Jack knocked his ball into the creek and was having a hissy fit. I miraculously lofted mine up and over the little hill, pissing him off even more. I must say it was a nice shot and although I couldn't see my ball, I knew it wasn't in the trees. We were on one of those lovely hilly holes by the ocean and feeling no pressure from a foursome of keeners behind us, I left Jack cursing and combing though the creek for his ball and wandered toward my ball.

Now, what I am about to write is the honest to God truth, no bullshit, Scout's honour, cross my heart and hope to die. I couldn't make up something this fucking awesome if I tried.

I crested the hill and saw my ball. What was so amazing wasn't that my ball was lying in a perfect position for the next shot. What was amazing was my ball was lying about 2 feet away from a bag of Cheesies.

No shit. My ball was sitting next to a bag of Cheesies.

I laughed, and then I started to cry. The significance of Cheesies in my world goes beyond the chemical-induced euphoria and greasy goodness. Cheesies haven't been the same for me since my friend Sheelagh died. Together, she and I embraced the value of a big bag of Cheesies and a bottle of wine on many a weeknight, while our boys belched and giggled and played road hockey out in front of the house. I haven't been able to whole heartedly enjoy a bag Cheesies since the day Sheelagh died.

But there it was. The sign. Sheelagh had left me a bag of Cheesies as a sign. She was telling me that life was precious and good, and these are the moments to be cherished, and not to worry so much. She was telling me that everything was going to be okay.

Jack caught up with me and we sat on the bench overlooking the sea, eating Cheesies. He was chatting happily about which clubs to use for this next hole, having left the anquish of his past shots well behind him. I was thinking about how much I loved him and how lucky I was to have him as my golf partner, even if he was an asshole when he missed a putt.

I guess that's what I like about golf. And life. There's always hope that the next shot you take won't suck as badly as the last one.

Hope. Golfer, Mike Weir is bringing this same hope to town with his Miracle Golf Day for Kids in support of the IWK Health Centre. It's a two-day fundraiser happening August 30 & 31st. There are lots of ways to get involved, so tuck a bag of Cheesies in your golf bag and start swinging that wallet around.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

If you are looking to get involved or have sponsorship inquiries, please contact: 902.422.6277 or info@iwkbravo.com. Or check out the website by clicking on the link to the right.

Sisterhood of the diminishing light.

Friday night in Havenot, in a filthy rain that has smashed all previous Biblical box office records, found us once again at the video rental store. Didn't God promise Noah he wouldn't screw with the weather after the whole ark thing? Lying bastard.

There wasn't a parking spot between the store and our house, so I dropped Jack at the door and trolled around the block a few times, finally wedging myself in between two minivans loaded with proof that the whole birth control thing should have been mandatory.

Blockbuster was packed with moist, pale looking people who either couldn't afford a cottage, or figured it was too miserable to swat mosquitoes, even in paradise. We were all searching for an escape – something to look at other than each other.

Jack immediately beetled away from me like he normally does when I wear my XXL, faded red, knee-length raincoat in public places. The coat makes me look like an asylum escapee with a giant, postpartum hemorrhoid, but it was keeping me dry, and covering up the fact that I was already in my pj's and had gained a few, since I last saw the sun.

I wasn't going to rent anything, but figured what the hell, we have two TV's and he's likely to rent something stupid or violent, or something stupidly violent, in which case I'd be stuck staring at the other TV watching a Tori Spelling, made for TV movie like I was last Friday night.

I had just cruised into the Romantic Comedy, Colin Firth section when my eyes caught the image of Joaquin Phoenix's clean-shaven, pre-David Letterman face. Perfect. I grabbed the box to see what the movie was about, then stopped. Fuck. I didn't have my glasses. Without them, the only word I could make out was LOVERS. Everything below LOVERS was a 12-martini blur. And forget the back cover. Shit. Why do I leave the house without my glasses, mace, and those enviro-friendly shopping bags I have multiplying down in the basement. Last week, I had a shopping full cart of Hungry Man dinners, ice cream and Pogos before I remembered I was in the plastic bag-free Superstore. Refusing to buy another hemp bag or green box, I hauled everything out to the car using my big raincoat as a pouch. It took a few trips but I eventually headed home with a back seat full of groceries all rolling around like happy, free-range chickens.

Anyway, back to my predicament in Blockbuster. I reeled around to see two women who were, I might add, invading my personal space but nonetheless within reach. I made sisterly eye contact and said something to the effect of, "Christ, I have finally made it to the stage in life where I need a goddammed chain around my neck to hold my goddammed reading glasses because I am apparently one cataract away from needing a white fucking stick".

Dead silence.

I kept waiting for one of the women to step up and say, "Oh, here, borrow my glasses, isn't growing old a bitch". Or, "I rented that last week, it's good, even with Gwenyth Paltrow", Or, even a "Here, take a sip of this airplane size bottle of vodka I keep in my purse while I read it to you, because I feel your pain, sista."

But no.

They just stared at me with their Lululemons pants shoved up their asses, like they were from a brainwashed cult, or Mississauga or someplace – afraid I was going to whip a Colt 45 out of my enormous raincoat and blow their pasty white faces off. Make my fucking day.

One of the women maintained eye contact but slowly pulled her child in closer. I glanced at the other, and realized I was completely alone.

I stormed away with enormous strides, exhaling those Tourette's type swearing/spit combos all the way over to Drama.

I eventually found Jack hiding in the Gaming section. He pretended not to know me at first until I thrust the CD box in his face and said "Read the back and tell me what this is about".

His narrative started with a monotone, "Following a trauma..." whereupon I yanked the box from his hand and thrust in another one. He began, "While traveling in Umbria..." Perfect, I said, grabbing the box and heading for the checkout. Let's go.

Like a drowning man, Jack snatched whatever movie he could lay his hands on and we headed home. I was all settled on the couch with popcorn and my Maggie Smith movie when my neighbour called to say she was contemplating suicide if the rain didn't stop, to which I said, come on over, we may as well do it together. I have red wine. It'll be fun. Like Book Club, with brain splatter.

Then I told her about the women in the video store.

My neighbour didn't miss a beat, saying, "How did you come across?"

What do you mean, how did I come across?

"I mean, did you sound all crazy?"

What do you mean all crazy?

"Well", she said, "Maybe you came off as a little crazy. Were you wearing your raincoat over your pajamas?"

Well, ya, but do I really come off as crazy?

"Not to me, but I know you."

I offered to rewind the movie, but she decided she'd stay at home because I only had red wine and she preferred white, but I told her if I saw her legs swinging back and forth in the attic window I'd happily come over and cut her down. Because that's what real sisters do.

I wouldn't even wait for my movie to be over. I'd just pause it, grab my big raincoat and a glass of wine, and run right over.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Waiting for to go.

Flashback to 1984, studying Waiting for Godot at U of T. I must have been going through a faux-intellectual phase, or in lust with an English major, because I pretended to enjoy (and comprehend) the world's dumbest play, all the while looking around thinking, what the fuck, am I the only person in this lecture hall who thinks their dog could have penned this?

Now, much of my life is spent waiting – in my car – at times forgetful of who, or what I am waiting for. Now, I empathize with Beckett's buffoons, created on the back of a cocktail napkin right underneath the words "get a real job". Now, I feel the angst of taxi drivers forced to wait outside – meter not running – while someone checks their ass in the mirror, one last time, just to see if it shrank a bit since the last time they checked, five minutes ago.

Now, Beckett's joke on the literary world make sense.

Like the taxi driver, every minute I spend eating stale Timbits discovered between the seats, or checking for nose hairs in the rear view mirror, is time that could be spent doing something. Like making money. Or, in the case of the taxi guy – performing life-saving surgery – because back in his country, he is a well-respected Doctor. No wonder the man is so pissed off when you finally manoeuvre your two-sizes too-small skirt into the backseat of his cab. He's a Doctor for Christ's sake, he's supposed to keep you waiting.

As a result, had my body been found elegantly splayed on the floor of a seedy Las Vegas hotel room yesterday, or more likely, slumped over the wheel of my car in the arena parking lot – tracking my final hours would have been a CSI cakewalk, even for the slutty redhead.

Eating, while waiting in the car, had produced an art moderne masterpiece. My fashionable outfit of the day looked like a homeless Jackson Pollock painting. A blank canvas converted by an artfully launched coffee and a dab of cream cheese. A dribble of Diet Coke. A chocolate Popsicle. Lunch was in Bedford, where I accidentally dipped my left breast in the gravy at the Chickenburger, meaning I was either carrying the travel tray really high, or, I need to crank the bra up a notch or two.

Soon thereafter, to complement the warm, mocha tones of the morning came a quick dab of ketchup, followed by a splash of mustard-infused relish. My masterpiece was beginning to take shape, and according to the car radio it was only half-past one.

To this end, I have decided that the good folks at Proctor & Gamble should invent a Tide-to-Go stick that doubles as a vibrator you could plug in to the cigarette lighter in your car. Perhaps killing time in the parking lot would take on a whole new meaning if a gal could do a little stain prevention and honk her horn, simultaneously.

Then I'll write a play about it that ends with, "Yes! Yes! Let's go!" (she moves).

Alas, we no longer have to wait for the the Nova Scotia Designer Craft Council Summer Craft Market. It starts today and goes until the 26th in Downtown Halifax. I was particularly excited to see an artisan in attendance called Glowing Members, but I read the pamphlet wrong, it is actually Glowing Embers. Too bad. I was hoping they could fashion a handy, glowing, travel pouch for my Tide-to-Go joystick.

As craft fairs go, this one promises to be a particularly gauzy-skirt, hairy leg-infested affair, with lots of NSCAD types flogging acid flashback-inspired silver jewelry, earthenware, and organic clothing woven from virgin llama pubic hair.

I may drive by the show at Spring Garden and Queen, slowing down just enough to avoid a lethargic, Vitamin B-deprived potter and subsequently burn my crotch with a piping hot double-double.

No problem. I'll have time to kill.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The NSDCC Summer Craft Market starts Friday July 24th 10am to 8pm and runs Saturday and Sunday 10am to 6pm.

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