Anaphylactic my ass.

I nearly spat my nutritious breakfast pastry across the Toyota showroom reading the Globe and Mail this week. I was long overdue for an oil, lube and filter, and taking full advantage of O'Regan's hospitality suite, when I happened across something in the Globe's Life section.

What nearly sent my stale Danish flying was a ridiculous feature on children's back-to-school lunches. According to the Globe, the latest craze for the medicated and unfulfilled are Bento boxes – the Japanese compartmentalized trays designed to keep your wasabi from creeping up on your sashimi. And visa versa.

All I could think was, Jesus, what next? Kids throw most of their lunch in the garbage anyway, so why kill yourself trying to cover all the food groups in an artful display. Isn't that what Flintstone's vitamins are for? Jack's lucky to get a package of dry Ramen noodles and a can of tonic water most days. Bento boxes? Whoever has enough time to be crafting Super Mario or Hello fucking Kitty! out of sticky rice and organic ham should seek help immediately.

Things are just out of control, what with allergies and everything. A kid in grade two could bring in Daddy's hunting rifle for Show and Tell but, god forbid he should whip out a peanut butter sandwich and point it at somebody. How come nobody was allergic to peanut butter when I was a kid? Huh? We all scarfed back PB&J sandwiches sprinkled with the occasional cigarette ash from our mother's Virginia Slims, and no one fell to the floor gasping for their last breath. My mother whipped our nut-infested lunches together in two seconds flat, so she could head to bridge club and that first Gimlet of the day. By the time we got to school we smelled like chain smokers from riding in the back of the station wagon with the windows rolled up. No asthma in our family.

I recall Jack's first foray into no-nut land. It was Junior Kindergarten. We were living in Toronto, and I won't mention his name, but Spencer was apparently allergic to everything. And by everything, I mean everything. This pale little freak used to run around with his syringes in a little holster, armed and ready, just waiting for a bee or Snickers bar to emerge from the darkness and penetrate his weakened immune system. All year, the 40 other kids in the class had to make allowances for this one little peckerhead's sensitivities. What made matters worse, was the little medical marvel wasn't even nice. He'd hoard the best toys, and cut in line, then start wheezing if someone dared confront him. I sat through the entire, non-denominational, nut-free Christmas pageant hoping the little asshole would fall off the stage.

It got so bad, midway through the year, I was tempted to stick an Oh! Henry in Jack's lunch so he could whip it out and test that kid's level of tolerance once and for all. What's the worse thing that could happen – he pees his Osh Kosh B'Gosh? The kid was packin' his life-saving syringe and the teachers were already so petrified they had their fingers on the phone, dialing 911 every time Spencer picked his nose and ate the booger. Imagine the excitement in story time circle if he suddenly puffed up and went all purple, morphing into Barney before he could reach for the Epi pen. How cool would that be?

I say, if your kid is so allergic to nuts, then you should home school the little bastard so the rest of the world can slap some peanut butter on Wonder bread, throw it in a paper sack, and get on with it.

But hey, if you are really so unsatisfied and lying awake at night worrying about your kid's healthy, nutritious and colorful midday meal, I suggest a few Margarita's before you start packing the lunch. It's amazing how creative you can get on tequila. Your little darling will be the most popular kid in class when he whips out the Red Bull, the NSLC wine bag full of cheesies, the stale Halloween candy, and the Tic Tacs, for dessert.

Or, head to Sweet Jane's and pick up a retro tin lunch box. They've got great designs, like Curious George and Star Trek – and you can just scrape last night's leftovers straight in and close it up. Plus, if your kid is being bullied by the dieting fat kid with the Bento box full of star- shaped zucchini slices, you can always teach your child to wind up and flatten anyone within an arm's radius with his new, Muhammad Ali lunch box loaded down with cans of microwaveable Alphagetti.

As for the trendy and over-priced Bento boxes, here's a little recession tip: Head to the grocery store and pick up a couple of TV dinners. Feed the kids, then rinse and save the TV dinner trays. Then, if you really feel the need to separate the baby carrots from the tofu smiley faces from the sticky rice you fashioned into a likeness of yourself just in case your kids missed you during the day, you can – and at a fraction of the price. Plus, if you splurge and get the Hungryman dinners, you can even use that spot where the apple cobbler goes, as an ashtray.

Stay tuned for more handy, back-to-school tips, like faking the need for the Heimlich manoeuvre, so you can get felt up before gym class.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Sweet Jane's is on Doyle Street, conveniently located near the Rare Wine store.

Smashing the hell out of the sow's ear/silk purse erroneousness.

I give you, Sarah's house. Before and after.

Not the chirpy Sarah Richardson from HGTV. Not the one with the backup team of blondes, the gay sidekick Tommy, and the rich husband floating her robin's egg blue-boat.

I'm talking about Jack's cousin Sarah. Sarah Burns. The person I call on when I need a date. The gal who can take down the entire food and wine menu from Cut in one fell swoop is also the person I call on when I need design advice, the name of a good plumber, tiler, finish carpenter, lighting supplier, or sometimes, just a hug. Sarah Burns is a fucking genius deserving of her own show and a big ass bank account.

Not one to blow her own horn, there are in fact, few streets in Halifax (and North Toronto) that haven't been touched by Sarah's magic renovation wand. There's the Henry Street tear down. The Larch Street miracle. The 'no fucking way' on Preston Street. And now Roger's Drive.

A sane person would have taken a bulldozer to the Brady Bunch crackhouse of horror – but not Sarah. She saw beyond the ugliness, rotten carpet and fake ferns, to spacious rooms and the potential of a split-level living space. Sarah saw 5 bedrooms, 5 baths, an open-aired loft, polished concrete, hardwood and two fireplaces. No one – not even her normally 'go for it' realtor, Meghan Laing – could talk her out of it. Good thing.

What makes Sarah's renovations so mind blowing, isn't so much the quality finishings and truly, unique ideas in every inch of available space. Sure, she searches far and wide for the perfect lighting fixtures. She designs crown moldings, handrails and custom mud rooms. And she doesn't just walk into Home Depot and point. What really separates Sarah from the pack is she actually lives in the chaos from beginning to end with 3 small kids, dogs, cats, a nasty foster cat I would have put to sleep immediately, reptiles, hamsters, 2 horses for a night, bunnies, visiting relatives – and on this project – a husband who took a recession kick in the nuts.

And she thinks I am the crazy one.

No cameras rolling. No glory. No screaming at contractors on cue (because there is no contractor). Sarah survived a summer of torrential rain without a roof. She survived empty bank accounts and despondent carpenters. And, she survived her own meticulous blueprint changes. How she survived, I'll never know. Sarah is the poster child for grace under pressure. I have honestly never seen a crack in the woman's armour, even after a post-disaster bottle of Prosecco. While the sky was falling repeatedly, Sarah's kids always had smiles on their faces and ribbons in their hair.

And now it's time for her next project. A neglected farmhouse outside Caledon, Ontario? An industrial space in the north end? Who the hell knows. Sarah will drive by some forlorn piece of architectural shit and see roses blooming. Like she did on Rogers Drive.

Pictures don't do this home justice – you have to see it. And while tire kickers are discouraged (unless of course you're packin' fresh flowers and/or a nice bottle of Veuve Clicquot, in which case drop by) if you're in the market for an envelope-pushing design priestess on any level, this is her living resume. Listed with Meghan Laing at Domus, it hasn't been on the market long – and if history repeats itself – the discerning buyer with an eye for perfection will snap it up. They always do. This time, they'll be wowed by the luxurious, marble master bath with the Star Trek shower and soaker tub complete with wall-mounted TV. Or, the sparkling custom kitchen, open to the sunken den with fireplace. Or the entire silk purse.

Architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe was clearly showing his blonde, Nazi roots when he said, "God is in the details". If this is true, then Sarah's is a house of worship complete with a soulful choir and funeral sandwiches following the service.

I can't wait for someone to buy it so I can watch the next episode of the real Sarah's House.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

You can catch Meghan Laing at 830.1377 or email her at: meghanlaing@domus.ns.ca. To hire Sarah as a contractor, design consultant, guru or dining companion, email her at sarahburnsswanson@ns.sympatico.ca.

Heaven holds a place for those who prey.

They're gone. Off to school. Never looked back. Little bastards barely stood still for the obligatory photo. I have to work, but it makes me wonder what my mother did in these moments of eerie calm.

My guess is, she'd fire up a smoke, make a few beds, and whip up a curried shrimp quiche for her bridge club. I'd ask her, but she'd likely take a puff of her smoke and start to cry. "What do you mean what did I do?! (exhale) I was the perfect mother". End of conversation.

My childhood memories have, for the most part been suppressed, thank God. It's like a huge chunk of my life was spent swimming underwater with my eyes open, unable to hear, or see clearly, everything that was happening above the surface. While difficult to breathe, it's safe and quiet under water.

So, I'm a fucked up product of my environment. No need to call in Dr. Phil.

I do recall my mother telling me I needed stitches every bridge night. I have alot of stitches from head to heel, so she must have played a great deal of bridge. I often wonder who drove me to the hospital, because I have no memory of that.

Growing up during a time when Moms stayed at home, while Dads went off to work in the city seems so 'other worldly' now. We lived comfortably, in northern New Jersey and my Mom drove my Dad to the train station every morning, where he caught the Erie Lackawanna into Manhattan, and his job on Wall Street.

Manhattan, in the late sixties, was different than it is today. Business lunches were Mad Men-esque boozy affairs, and no one headed to the gym for a workout. Men smoked and flirted with secretaries and never worried about rushing home for Billy's soccer tryouts, or because they were coaching the hockey team. Dads were distant, and smelled like after shave and cigarette smoke, and power. Or, at least my dad did.

One memory I have not suppressed was jumping in our baby yellow Mustang convertible and meeting my dad's train. My brother and I would get watermelon Zotz candy somewhere near the station, and my Mom would sit in the car and smoke, looking all dark-eyed and glamourous. Looking back at photographs, she was a babe. I look like my dad.

Before my mother left to dutifully fetch my father, she always whipped up a blender full of whiskey sours, placing the glass container into the freezer, so they'd be perfect when he got home. I remember sugary packets of whiskey sour mix and the blender noise signaling the approaching father figure.

Let's just say we didn't exactly rush for the baseball mitts when my dad came home. He retreated to the sanctuary of my parent's bedroom where he would place his loose change on the dresser, remove his suit, smoke, drink whiskey sours, and prepare himself for a role he was never really cut out for. Banker he could handle – being a dad was like a suit that never quite fit.

Once, and I remember this vividly, we went to meet my dad's train. The Erie Lackawanna arrived, then pulled away. My Dad never emerged as he normally did. This seemed odd, and in pre-cell phone days I'm sure my mom sat and waited for the next train, and possibly the one after that. Who knows. As it turns out, that evening my dad stayed on the train, whooping it up in the bar car 'til the end of the line. Those of you who find that sad, and take pity – pity not. I am my father's child. I likely would have done the same thing.

I remember working all day, and before heading into the house I'd drive around the block a few times. I was so fucking tired but I knew the minute I walked in the door I'd have to slip into Mommy skin and be happy, and bursting with love and energy. Of course, there were no whiskey sours waiting in the blender, because I was a single mom. In fact, Jack was strapped in his car seat as I cruised around the block peacefully. That heavenly purgatory between who I was all day, and who I had to morph into at home, was like swimming under water.

Yesterday, I drove an extra lap around the block unnecessarily, but only because my neighbour's boy was loading up his car heading off to a second year of university. I wasn't wheeling around to say "good luck" or anything. Feeling very much like Mrs. Robinson, I went around the block to catch another glimpse of Ben. No shit. Ben. I drove around the block to take another look at Ben. No longer the curly headed teenager, Ben was a man. Benjamin was a gorgeous man with no shirt on and abs that looked like a grilling pan from a shiny, new oven.

I almost hit the tree in front of his house.

Now, imagine if this were the late sixties and I was 3 whiskey sours into the afternoon and beautiful and confident and horny. Imagine, if I knew my kids were in school and my husband was likely grabbing the secretary's ass in NYC, and I had the moxie to sidle up to young Benjamin and seduce him. Hey, I'm no Anne Bancroft but whiskey does strange things to a middle-aged woman.

Of course, I didn't seduce Ben. I just waved – twice – and kept driving. Jack had hockey and I had to work. Besides, who am I kidding, I couldn't seduce the last olive out of a jar.

I just can't help but think parenting in the late sixties must have been way more fun. Every house had a Contiki bar in the basement. Moms stayed at home and drank and smoked all day. And I don't recall ever looking up at a baseball game and seeing my parents cheering positively in the stands.

Dads today, well, they are scent-free and drive unsexy mini vans. They leave work early to coach teams, and drink wine occasionally at dinner parties, and maybe a beer watching the game. Moms work full time and raise kids full time and rush around all fucked up and loaded with guilt about having to work – and worse – wanting to work. Hey, going to work is a hell of a lot easier, and often more rewarding than staying at home, raising a pack of ungrateful little kids who grow up and write shit like this. No wonder my Dad stayed on the train. I get it.

Needless to say my parents divorced. The train ride between work and domestic life was never quite long enough. My memories of it all are fuzzy, but sometimes when I'm walking through Sweet Jane's retro candy aisle, I pick up a little canvas bag of Gold Nugget gum, or Charleston Chews and I get flashes of sweet, and sour, childhood memories. If you haven't been to Sweet Jane's it's a hell of a lot cheaper than therapy and you won't believe the emotions that can surface in a fucking candy store.

Swimming under water certainly has benefits. You can cry under water. And, while under, there's always a glimmer of hope that when you emerge from the deep end, someone will be standing at the edge of the pool waiting to hand you an ice cold, whiskey sour.

Look at the time! Jack will be home for lunch soon and I'm fresh out of mix. Where did the morning go.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Sweet Jane's is on Doyle Street and they deliver, just in case you're rushing around trying to get ready for work, or a bridge game.

Last minute back-to-school survival tips for the disengaged.

First, you must locate the filthy, sunburnt little bastards.

If this proves difficult – chalk it up to growth spurts, lack of interest, or newly-sprouted facial hair – grab last year's school photo and head to the nearest golf course, hockey rink, gym, baseball diamond, lido, tennis court, corner store, or the neighbour's basement with the man cave and Surround Sound system you will never be able to afford, despite daily reminders of how inadequate your present TV room is. Look for someone who resembles your child, only taller.

Have a shot of tequila.

Hose them down in the backyard, or if it's really nasty behind the ears, or near the parts you haven't laid eyes on since they were in Buzz Lightyear Pull-Ups, take them to the Rubber Duck Car Wash (with 8 convenient locations in HRM). You may also, at this time, feel a need to reintroduce them to a variety of once-common day-to-day basics like; soap, eating utensils, milk, and peeing indoors.

Have a shot of tequila.

Next, shop around for school supplies. I found a gold mine of stationery surplus under the sofa cushions in our inadequately-equipped TV room: 4 pens, six golf pencils, one eraser, 2 socks, half a ruler, a compass, 4 Sharpies, a pencil sharpener, 3 paper clips, a few Duotangs, and a sandwich. When that million dollar list of 'must haves' arrives home from the teacher, you'll be way ahead of the game.

Have a shot of tequila.

Cut a smallish hole near the toe of last year's sneakers – to try and get few more months out of them, and allow the fetid steam to escape.

More tequila.

Have your child memorize a few young adult book titles, just in case the teacher asks what they've been reading over the summer. "Sports Illustrated while taking a crap" is not the correct answer.

Have a shot of tequila.

Pass them the toenail clippers with the reminder: "No, it is not cool to see how far the toenails, especially the big yellow ones, can fly". Shut the bathroom door. Flying toenail clippings have been known to lodge themselves in peoples' corneas, blinding them for life.

More tequila.

Scrape a Pogo or a Pizza Pop off the wall of the freezer and pack them, with love, in a recyclable poo bag normally reserved for dog shit. Toss in a buck or two for bomb making supplies, er, nutritious snacks.

Make a tequila smoothie for lunch.

Cut off their thumbs. Or, call Rogers, Koodoo, Bell, or Telus and have their little text message machines from Hell disconnected, once and for all. You never know – if not texting while eating, shitting, sleeping, or hanging with the person they are texting – they just might, possibly, maybe, with any luck, learn something other than, how to abbreviate and write "hey".

Make tequila ice cubes for later (multi-tasking).

Pull socks, lunch bag, maggots, report card, gym clothes, unopened library books, sling shot, and suspicious furry thing out of last year's back pack, then douse with gasoline and light it all on fire. Call a cab and head to Walmart. Grab the first, cheap backpack you can get your hands on, and some Oreo Cakesters for the ride home. Go back and grab more Cakesters because you ate them all while in the line-up full of people fatter than you are, buying crap they also cannot afford.

Slice open finger cutting the last lime.

Make a reservation at the local psych unit, or preferably White Point Beach Resort or some other place with room service, where the Principal can't find you – on the off chance the first day back doesn't go so well.

Have a shot of tequila in some warm milk.

Call White Point back, and book a 2-for-1 tee time. Then call an old boyfriend and hang up. (It's the tequila.) Craft a well-written note to the teacher, apologizing in advance for anything your child may blurt out in class, due to an inherited form of acute, verbal diarrhea. Pin it to the luncheon poo bag so they won't forget.

Tuck them in, just before midnight, freshly scrubbed, in something other than a bathing suit and a sleeping bag – and in their own bed – not on the sofa, in a tent, on a boat, or on the floor of the neighbour's man cave covered in chips and root beer. Thank your lucky, fucking stars they survived another summer, and try not to cry because you love them more than life itself and they are growing up so fast – and because they fell asleep in seconds – not one bit nervous about the first day at a new school, wearing old shoes.

Sleep tight.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The fall 2-for-1 golf deal is back on at White Point so let's get the hell out of here!

For reservations call 1.800.565.5068. Or book online at www.whitepoint.com.

The Rubber Duck Car Wash has a great website: www.rubberduckcarwash.com.

Or...

Call Maritime Travel at 1.800.593.3334 and at least have something to look forward to besides mid-term report cards and the subsequent "no-TV-until-your-marks-get-better" bullshit rule that lasts about two hours and just about destroys whatever sanity remains after the clocks go back leaving you drinking in the darkness until June.

New York is the perfect place to change your identity, even for a long weekend.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Mastering the art of French kissing.

Channel surfing at this time of year, when you don't like reality shows, dancing, Big Brother, talent, or CSI – leaves a person pretty much watching reruns of Property Virgins on HGTV. Last night, before I succumbed to the cute plumber buying his first home – again – I caught a bit of an interview with Sheryl Weinstein.

Not exactly a household name – unless you live in New York and have a mezuzah hanging on your door frame (a mezuzah is a small box that hangs on your door frame with a note inside that says something like, "Listen, Israel, if you forget your key one more time, no motzah for you") – Sheryl Weinstein's fifteen minutes of shame has begun.

If Hell hath no Fury like a woman scorn'd, then look out Katz's deli, because Sheryl Weinstein is pissed and she's not taking it lying down. Well, actually she did take it lying down, and apparently on her knees, and standing up – banging her head against the mezuzah when Bernie Madoff came a callin'.

Sheryl Weinstein not only lost millions in Bernie's Ponzi scam, it appears Bernie also made off with her dignity. Years ago, Sheryl had an affair with the slimy bastard, which of course, she has written a tell-all book about. Apparently Madoff's Other Secret is on the shelves and Sheryl is busy working the talk show circuit. Who really cares, but I did watch long enough to hear that her nickname for Bernie was "Mr. Windydink", and apparently Bernie was a great kisser. My guess is, he must have been decent enough in the rack too, considering how many people he screwed.

Anyway the thought of kissing Bernie Madoff made me feel a little sick, which is odd considering the only person I've necked with recently is my now-deceased dog, Hooey. It did make me think maybe I should screw someone evil like Bin Laden or Pete Rose, and write a tell-all book about it. Or, like the blogger Julie in the movie Julie & Julia, take on a blogging challenge like cooking – only instead of cooking – I could French kiss someone different, every day for a year. And then I thought, no. Anyone who would want to French kiss me would either be too drunk, too old, too senile, behind bars in a women's prison, or too certifiably crazy – so never mind. There's has to be an easier way to achieve fame and fortune aside from allowing Bernie Madoff types to visit my safety deposit box.

I remember the first time I ever experienced the art of French kissing. I was about 12, a dirt-bike riding tomboy and a late bloomer (ugly as shit). The thought of kissing someone hadn't really crossed my mind. Mind you, I wasn't exactly innocent, having had access to the "articles" in my grandfather's Playboy magazines for several years. Grandpa kept a stash of Playboys in the sliding bookshelf that doubled as a headboard, in the room where we slept when we visited Ontario. Anyway, no suppressed weirdness there, but in hindsight, and with knowledge her grandchildren were arriving, maybe my grandma could have moved that reading material out of the room and replaced it with Goodnight, Moon or Reader's Digest even. But never mind.

Caving in to peer pressure one afternoon, I found myself cross-legged in a circle playing Spin the Bottle. To this day I remember thinking it was all fun and games, until that is, the bottle spun around and pointed at my flat-chested Adidas t-shirt. Leaning in with my eyes closed and my freckled face all scrunched up, I was doing okay until it happened. The boy delivering the kiss opened his mouth and stuck his tongue in my horrified pie hole. If that wasn't enough to make me puke, he then proceeded to probe it around, like he was looking for a lost piece of Bazooka or something. I recall my eyes bulging open and out, reeling back in horror, thinking he was likely having a seizure or something was terribly, terribly wrong. It was, the most disgusting and embarrassing thing I had experienced to date.

Anyway, the good news is, I grew to love the occasional, randy necking session, and it was kind of sad when necking became something you did for 5 seconds before you struck a pose like Miss July (who was also a Gemini and liked walking in the rain with no undershirt on).

So maybe Mastering the Art of French Kissing isn't for me. Besides, I haven't been to the dentist for a while, since things like professional oral care and pedicures take a backseat to hockey gear and groceries during a recession. I am a compulsive teeth brusher though, but maybe that's from years of trying to get the taste of that boy's tongue out of mind and my mouth.

When I can scrape enough money together to visit the dentist, I'm thinkin' the Community Dental Centre out in Sackville is the place I wanna be. I'm in Sackville all the time getting skates sharpened anyway, and besides, Dr. Heather Maclean made free mouth guards for Jack's entire hockey team one year. And, as much as I like Heather, there's a hot, new dentist out there. I figure if you have to drool, it may as well be because some young buck like Dr. Matthew MacIsaac has his youthful fingers jammed down your throat. You can just lie back in your mom jeans with the elastic waist and pretend when the good Dr. says, "open wide" that you're 16 and .... Christ! On top of all else I'm a pedophile – Dr. MacIsaac is about twenty fucking four.

Oh well. If anyone out there has any idea of something I can do every day for a year, besides offend people, please let me know.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Community Dental Centre is located in the mall where Wal Mart used to be at 752 Sackville Drive. Their phone number is 865.7260 and their website is www.communitydental.ca.

Nice girls do so swallow. And other references to wine tasting so not to scare you off.

I was lying in bed just now thinking about Galileo's telescope, which is such a big fat lie because I don't really give a shit about Galileo's telescope and until I turned on my computer had no clue it was the 400th anniversary of his "slim, brown stick" as one reporter called it (which naturally made me, just now, think in another direction altogether). Oh, the mind works in mysterious ways. Or not at all.

What I was truly, honestly lying in bed thinking about, was how I had absolutely nothing whatsoever to write about, especially after the Runner emailed me last night to comment on how yesterday's spew of filth about Hurricane Bill contained several references to boners and blow jobs, and how someone's 100-year old grandma reads this shit. I think she was telling me to clean it up, but then the Runner said she had read it twice so I thought, "Who's the sicko here?" and maybe she's just experiencing a runner's low, or her fat content had dropped dangerously below 6%, or her nipples were sore from chafing, or maybe she's just pissed because I haven't taken her cupcake or veal tasting lately, and I really must, because aside from her obsessive running and her daily running tally on what a disgusting, foul-mouth pig I am, she's okay.

I guess I'll be hearing from her today because, can I tell you what a fright I had last week when I went to the can, and after reading the entire local newspaper from cover-to-cover in under two minutes, I was about to wipe my ass with the Arts & Life section to get my 50 cents worth, when I suddenly looked in the bowl – and upon seeing red – realized I had asshole cancer and was going to die! But then it dawned on me that I had eaten a tub of beet salad from Planet Organic and phew, man, those beets hang around just long enough that you forget you've eaten them and get a real mortality wake-up call.

Beets, despite scaring the crap out of me, are my favourite of all root vegetables. Once, I dyed all of my white t-shirts and stuff purple, using beet juice as dye – hey, I was young and likely stoned, don't judge me. Beets are life's little reminder that everyday, even the crappiest days, are a gift. Now I choff, snort, and chortle at that Hallmark notion but it's true, so listen the fuck up. I feel like I should be swaying with a wine glass in one hand and a smoke in the other when I say, "listen the fuck up" all the while sloshing red wine like beet juice all over my jammies.

How's that for my segue into wine and it's not even 6:22. Blow job. (Had to throw that in for the Runner.)

So, listen up all you wine loving, beet eaters. There's an event coming up of great importance (I just typed impotence, which is a limp dick reference, so half a point) and I think we should all go because it's for thyroid cancer and well, I cannot tell you how much that disease pisses me off because I am forced to drink wine alone most nights because of thyroid cancer, and way more important is that 3 sweet boys have no mom to tuck them in at night because of thyroid cancer – so, on September 19th, the QE2 Interdisciplinary Thyroid Oncology Clinic party animals are throwing a Wine Tasting and Silent Auction to raise funds for clinical tools, and we are going goddammit.

The wine tasting part is covered, but these dedicated folks, who never talk about blow jobs, are looking for quality items for their silent auction. Now, I've been to enough hockey auctions and other types of silent auctions to know that one man's "quality" item is another man's piece of crap they couldn't unload at a yard sale – so let's help Chris Nolan and make him feel taller by donating some really good shit that people can get drunk and bid on and raise some money.

If you would like to participate, email Chris at cnolan@zeiss.com. Stuff like cars and precious jewels and golf clubs and flowers and trips south will be accepted, so no problem if you need items picked up. Think outside the box and donate things like face lifts and teeth whitening and golf lessons and blow jobs and one hour of free therapy or theatre tickets or your cottage for a long weekend in February. No decent items will be refused.

Thyroid cancer is sadly on the rise which truly sucks, and while there's an awesome vulgar lead- in here, I'll leave it at that. Life is funny and precious, and while cliché, can turn on a dime. Today's beets could be tomorrow's asshole cancer, so please donate something, live for the moment, stop and smell the roses, hug your child and all that shit, because it's so important.

Blow job.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Planet Organic at 6487 Quinpool Road has great, fresh daily salads and healthy lunch items and they don't cost a fortune. Just remember you ate them.

For tickets to the wine tasting or if you are interested in donating to the silent auction email Chris at cnolan@zeiss.com. If have any immediate questions or want to make a sizable corporate donation you could also contact Anne Hiltz at Anne.Hiltz@cdha.nshealth.ca or by phone at (902) 473-5630. Thank you.

Making matters worse, I kept picking up the phone to see if he'd been hurt and left a message. Or something.

Bill, you naughty, insouciant boy. What a phony windbag you turned out to be – taunting us with your manly virility, then showing up midday all limp-dicked and hungover from a night of belly shots and lap dances on Martha's Vineyard.

You had the shell-shocked inhabitants of Havenot scrambling for days, stocking up on cheap rum, smokes, sour cream and onion chips, two-four's of Keith's, and countless batteries for flashlights, vibrators, and alarm clocks – the latter, despite anyone having a job worth waking up for.

After Juan – now there was a real man – town folks learned a valuable lesson. No one scoffs at the intensity of a Latino with a boner after that swarthy beast swooped down in the middle of the night in '03. Juan touched down long enough to impregnate women, uproot trees, and bend telephone poles like toothpicks – elevating the birth rate for the first time since the cod fishery went to shit. There was nothing to do but barbecue, drink, and screw for ten days, while Nova Scotia Power figured out what wire went on what pole.

Maybe it's your name: Bill. Wild Bill, sure. Bill Clinton – absolutely. But I bet very few women lie awake at night touching themselves, whispering the name Bill, unless of course it's Mrs. Gates, in which case there's so much money tucked under the mattress she's bound to fall asleep with a toothy, satisfied, philanthropic grin on her face. Here's a tip, Bill: Maybe the next time the alphabet rolls around you should change your name to Wet Willy, or Big Bill. Or, lose the false bravado once and for all and come out of the damn closet.

I, for one, hadn't stocked up on anything as of ten o'clock yesterday, having been disappointed by men like you, so many times. Eventually succumbing to intense media pressure, I figured I should at least pick up a few magazines and black licorice, and maybe some tabouleh from Tarek's Cafe – but even the Lebanese soup pusher had battened down the hatches and stayed home. There was a long line of bitchy, nervous wrecks stocking up on diapers and Diazepam and Tampax at Shopper's Drug Mart, so I took my chances and headed to the Hydrostone. If nothing else, maybe I could buy a tasteful greeting card to let someone know I was okay and had survived the big hurricane of August '09.

I should have known. The French aren't afraid of anything except for maybe Nazis and shaving under their armpits, so Julien's Bakery was wide open – windows all steamy with melted butter and anticipation – and doing a brisk business. Factoring in the good possibility of electrical failure, since history has proven Nova Scotia Power fails to function even after someone gets a blow job down on Gottingen Street, I decided to stock up on a few essentials after all.

I got one lemon tart, one lemon loaf, and one lemon square – to ward off scurvy. I chose one chocolate croissant, one cheese croissant and one ham-and-cheese croissant – for protein and dessert. I pointed at a pink, Pavlova-type meringue thing but decided it might go all weird in the humidity, so instead picked up a sandwich, a morning glory muffin, a loaf of Good Hearth bread and two dog biscuits – for the dogs – although they were fresh and might be tasty if dipped in some Cheese Whiz. Julien's sells local canned stuff like pickles and jam, so I tossed in a a few of those, just in case things got really ugly. Besides, Jack's been away, so I'd pretty much been living on microwave popcorn and boxed wine after cleaning out our larder of anything remotely edible.

I left Julien's and headed back through empty streets, settling in on the sofa to watch the Bill Show. I waited. And waited. CBC radio had even taken over studio time from that moronic weekend morning show that makes me want to pack my bags every Saturday and Sunday – giving airtime to a Hurricane Bill special just so we'd know when Bernard D'Entremont's fishing boat catches a breeze down in the wife beating er, gaulage sa femme capital of the world: Yarmouth.

But nothing.

By noon, when I faced facts and the cold reality that I'd been stood up and Bill was a big fucking no-show, lacking the courtesy to even drop by and blow up my skirt – I had eaten one lemon tart, one lemon loaf, one lemon square, one chocolate croissant, one cheese croissant and one ham-and-cheese croissant (for protein). I had dipped one dog biscuit in bread-and-butter pickles and the other in homemade raspberry jam, but tossed them to the hounds when I remembered I still had a tuna sandwich and a muffin sitting in the bag on the counter. I had so much tea and coffee to wash it all down I gave myself a urinary tract infection and ran out of toilet paper.

By two-thirty I was pacing the floor wishing I had some tree limbs to pick up, or some ready-to-roll mojitos, or, that my kid was home so I at least would have someone to play with, when I realized the women's tennis was on and I could relax and listen to the squeals from Hurricane Maria instead of the deafening silence as Bill headed up the coast to piss all over Cape Breton.

How was your weekend?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Tarek's Lebanese Café is at 3045 Robie Street (in the mini mall). Julien's is in the Hydrostone and at the Saturday Farmer's Market, the Friday VG Farmer's Market and in Chester, because the French aren't afraid of hard work either.

Ah, the sweet soporific afterglow of sin, and how I ended up face down on the sidewalk.

The taxi driver was so sweet. As we pulled away he said kindly, "Is your friend going to be okay?" to which I replied with a snort, "Ya, she'll be fine, she's just full".

We left cousin Sarah lying on a couch in the backyard of the Brady Bunch house she transformed into a shingled, Cape Cod masterpiece. (Soon to be on the market if you want a dream home near SMU). Why there was a couch conveniently located in her backyard is incidental. What's important is how she came to be lying on it.

Of the seven so-called deadly sins, gluttony has to be my absolute favourite, with lust and wrath both deadlocked in a two-way tie for second. I had been invited to experience the The Urban Grill, which for those of you who get out less often than Sarah and me, is little sister to the restaurant CUT, down by the Brewery Market. I had a terrible feeling going in, that this night was not going to be a night of virtues, and I couldn't wait.

Having never been to CUT, all I knew was The Urban Grill was downtown, below CUT, and had food and booze. I'm in. I called Sarah, because no one needed a night out more than her, and besides, we have fun together. Putting the finishing touches on a year-long renovation meant Sarah would likely be wearing dirty pajamas to the restaurant, and I had on a $13 dress from Joe Fresh (Superstore). But, Sarah managed to find a clean t-shirt and pants, so we were not only hungry and out of our respective cages, we were half-assed respectable.

Or, at least that's how we started out.

Upon entering The Urban Grill, I almost lost my breath from the beauty of it all. I won't drone on, because you have to see for yourself the marriage of soft fabric, Italian lighting, stone walls and coral accents (not peach as Sarah pointed out). It was stunning and feminine without scaring away the casually dressed or most manly of men. And besides, there's an exposed cooler with slabs of meat hanging nearby, so how dainty could it be. Suddenly I was very hungry.

As I am wont to do when faced with an evening out, I starve myself all day to make room for sin. In this case, we settled into a velvety booth and immediately started to salivate. Sarah had been researching the menu all day and before our lovely waitress Laura could say,"Would you..." we had ordered our first two appetizers: Mini Kobe Sliders and Home Made Sausages. This was after all, a grill, not a salad bar.

I think they must call them Sliders because they slide down your throat so beautifully, without coaxing or hair pulling. Arranged artistically, the Sliders were like mini, buttery beef bombs on a bun, and better than sex. Had they arrived in a brown sack, they still would have tasted divine. The sausage appetizer was soon to follow and was so large, I blushed. The juicy links were accompanied by drizzles of yummy sauces to swirl the meat in. I was like a pig in shit. We barely needed that bottle of Prosecco laced with Campari to wash it all down. And we were just out of the gate.

Next, and I almost have to loosen my pants when I say this, we moved on to ...wait for it... Lobster fucking Poutine.

If there was ever a more decadent delight than the Lobster Poutine at The Urban Grill, someone please let me know. The Grill's Poutine was based on the standard recipe, only imagine hand-cut fries, rich au jus gravy, and lobster topped with hollandaise. Oh, and of course, halloumi cheese, whatever the hell that is, but it melted beautifully, so who cares. This was a heart attack looking for a place to happen, but you would die with a big grin on your face.

A quick note for all you weight-watching, PETA freak, vegans out there: The Grill, or Half Cut as I call it now, has an interesting chopped salad on the menu, and I recall some healthy beet combo and a goat cheese thing, and we did share a wonderful Caesar salad with a chipolte-laced dressing – but it was all meat free, so let's move on shall we. Wait! There may even be a veggie burger but what kind of sick, sick individual would sink so low.

Much like a last shot of tequila, in hindsight, I should have stopped at the poutine. I was beyond stuffed, swiftly moving toward comatose. But, being the sport that I am, I forged on – managing to scarf back a BBQ burger with a big honkin' fried onion ring on top (and a side of pickles as a veggie). Naturally, by now, we had moved from Prosecco to red wine to complement our carnivore extravaganza because, well, just because. We were on a Bacchanalian roll with no end in sight.

This is where things get a bit blurry, but I recall dessert being a layered chocolate bar type affair wrapped in a thin sheet of phyllo so, as Laura explained, you didn't get chocolate on your fingers. Like that mattered, when we had steak juices and gravy dripping down our chins, on to Sarah's last clean t-shirt and my disposable $13 dollar dress.

And then it happened. At the very bottom of the menu, just above the words "Go home": Adult-only milkshakes laced with more booze than necessary at that point in the evening. I had already moved on to Port, being the sensible lush that I am, but Sarah was clearly in the mood for love – Chocolate Love – a liquor-doused milkshake that arrived in an enormous, tin milkshake cup. She moved in and out of consciousness as she sipped the creamy nail in her coffin. It was so much fun to watch.

Moderation is a virtue which was definitely not the theme of this night. Sarah describes our evening out as being like a banquet scene from Caligula. The way I see it, with no hope at all of getting lucky, what's the point in pretending to enjoy eating like an anorexic bird, or a plus-sized woman, or a small gorilla.

After hailing a cab and dropping off Sarah, Mr. Booze and I only had $15 bucks left. Wanting to pay the fare and tip the cab driver, I asked to be a let out a few blocks from home. Stepping out of the cab, I came face-to-face with why flight attendants warn you to be careful when opening the overhead bins, as contents may have shifted during the flight.

I took a few steps, then immediately lurched forward, launching myself face first on to the sidewalk – stained, $13 dollar dress akimbo – and laughing like an idiot. It seems during the cab ride all of my delicious contents had shifted to the front of my stomach causing a momentum that propelled me ahead and then down – face-to-face with Mr. Concrete and the gates of Hell.

Good thing Jack was away or I may have woken him up just to tell him how full and happy I was, at which point he might have noticed the blood on my knees and elbows, so never mind.

If gluttony is indeed a mortal sin, then Hell must be the heavenly Urban Grill. I can't wait to go back for more, that is, if we're allowed back in.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Urban Grill is at the corner of Lower Water and Salter Street. It's the perfect place for lunch, dinner, romance or gluttony. You should go. For reservations call 429.5120. To see what we ate (everything) the menu is online at www.cutsteakhouse.ca.

Happy trails.

I really must stop writing about last week's Equinox adventure because apparently I am supposed to let go of the past and think of the future – even though that recent chunk of past was way more fun than where it appears this potholed-riddled road is taking me now. And besides, by now GM may have figured out that I pick my nose while driving and found the speeding ticket in the glove box.

Before I let go of the privileged past, with its cruising around moneyed Muskoka in a once-pristine 2010 Equinox – can I just mention how excruciatingly painful it is to play 18 holes of golf, even in paradise.

18 mandatory holes – while the soft part of my recent adventure – took decades, not counting the only fun time spent frolicking in the cool, shady bushes looking for rich men's balls and a poison ivy-free place to empty my bladder of Schmirnoff Ice. That drink cart girl is really aggressive.

Adding insult to my annoyance that I could be sitting on the dock reading the paper, sipping coffee laced with liqueur, was that I was golfing with keeners. Maybe you know the type: sober, anal-retentive control freaks in corrective shoes, brandishing iron sticks that cost more than an hour of therapy, which is where they should really be investing their money. The only entertainment was ignoring all of their helpful (annoying as fuck) hints and whacking the shit out of the ball like Happy Gilmore – especially when my dirty, no-name ball went farther and straighter than either of their precious Callaways at 5 bucks a pop.

Oh, and god forbid you should whisper or guffaw while they are taking their endless practice swings. Ask me not to talk or laugh at any given moment and I am suddenly faced with uncontrollable fits of insuppressible howls. Golf is just so damn ridiculous – worse than church for the insanity of it all. A lush playground for escaped belly laughs.

Having said that, and being the thoughtful person that I am, I've gathered a few time-saving golf tips to get you off of the links and back on the road:

First of all, the practice swing. Big waste of time. Step up to the plate and swing goddammit. This isn't a dress rehearsal. Man up and dive in.

Putting. Big waste of time. If your ball lands anywhere in the same postal code as the hole – pick it up and move on. There are a million more holes just like that one, and there's some asshole named Dr. Dickwad and his party of four chomping at the bit to get their round over with, so they can suck back G&T's on the dock of their 2.5 million dollar "cottage".

Oh, and my favourite waste of time – keeping score. Unless you're Tiger Woods, leave the little pencil back in the clubhouse with the $400 bucks you just slapped down to be more bored than Bin Laden in a cable-free cave.

I couldn't wait to get off the stinking hot golf course and back on our air-conditioned road trip. Since they don't take kindly to anyone wading in the water hazards, Jack and I stopped for a swim in the lake, leaving us short on time to get the Equinox back to Toronto on schedule. Let's just say we hauled ass.

I fear little when driving these days because I have recently accepted the fact that I am old, merely by possessing a CAA membership. Prior to my eye-opening dalliance with the new and improved CAA, my only experience with the old bastion of roadside assistance was the TripTik my mother used to order before we headed out on a dreaded family road trip. Back then, children were forced to sit in the station wagon's backseat, with the flatulent family poodle and without seat belts, Ritalin, or DVD players – while parents, who hated one another, chain smoked furiously in the front seat. Inevitably, an argument would break out about which exit to take, forcing my mother to butt-out and unravel her TripTik with the magic marker line wending it's way across the folded pages, eventually leading us to our destination, and a motel pool I could finally release my Dr. Pepper into.

Today, hip CAA members can practically buy crack at a discount just by flashing their plastic CAA card. Motel rooms, vacations, pizzas, Pete's Frootique, White Point, Disney, eyeglasses, hell, even hookers accept CAA. In fact, I have life insurance purchased through CAA, so if I croak shortly after getting hit in the head by a golf ball, drinks are on me.

I'll leave you now with a little quote from Happy Gilmore: "Golf requires goofy pants and a fat ass. You should talk to my neighbor, the accountant. Probably a great golfer... huge ass."

And a little quote from my son and wingman, Jack, " Mom, what does O.P.P. stand for?"

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Test drive an Equinox at your local Chevy dealer.

To find out more about the new and improved CAA check out their website at: www.caa.ca

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