Is it just me or does the American woman bear a striking resemblance to Michael Jackson.

White milk. Black licorice. Playboy. Chocolate milk. Time.

If Atlantic News sold wine, tampons and dog food, I would never have to shop anywhere else. I was there to pick up my copy of Playboy with Marge Simpson on the cover. Encased in a plastic sheath, I couldn't wait to get home and rip open the bag like a Harlequin Romance stud would tear through the bodice of the buxom heiress escaped from the castle's dungeon.

'Not sure why I bought Time, but it triggered a flashback. I remembered my mother saying she used to buy Time and read it cover-to-cover before attending business cocktail functions in New York with my Father. I guess being a full-time, bridge-playing suburban housewife and mother didn't give her the confidence to hold her own in a room full of working stiffs. Cramming in Time gave her "something intelligent to talk about".

How ironic that this particular issue of Time was more of an exposé than Marge's disappointing bare-all as Miss November. In a nutshell, we may never know if Marge has a blue beaver because she kept it between her and Homer – but if Time's special report is indeed correct – women much like Marge and my mother were a lot happier before. Before women got what they think they wanted.

Fuuuuuuuuuck. Have I not always said that being a housewife back in the 50's and 60's looked way more fun than trying to talk the underpaid daycare teacher into taking your obviously sick kid for the day because you are so paranoid about missing another second of work at the shitty job you hate. June Cleaver never cracked a sweat. It wasn't until that annoyingly perky Mary Tyler Moore tossed her fucking hat into the ring, that women everywhere decided maybe having a career would be "fun".

So, save the $5.95, because after cramming Time cover-to-cover, so I could sound half-assed intelligent today, here's what I have to say:

Probiotic yogurt makes your poop all fluffy like marshmallows. That new Cougar Town show with Courtney Cox is actually kind of funny. Now that women and men are equal, it's not fun anymore. The only truly happy people are lesbians and divorce lawyers and real estate agents, because every family needs two homes. Skinny jeans suck. Women need more wine, less stress, and a man to rescue them from the dungeon, have great sex, then fuck off after leaving a nice diamond tennis bracelet on the night stand.

But hey, good news: The Legal Information Society of Nova Scotia is bringing a "first ever for North America" Divorce Fair to town, January 15-16th, 2010. No shit. A two-day Divorce Fair at The Lord Nelson Hotel. The fair will apparently be a marriage of all the professionals that someone in the middle of, or thinking about, toying with, leaving the bitch/bastard, should/could be in contact with." Like lawyers. Bulk wine merchants. Hair colouring or replacement professionals. Weight loss clinics. Child psychologists. Sports car salesmen. Real Estate agents. Private Detectives. Plastic surgeons. Therapists. Pilate's instructors. Yoga instructors. Really, really, fucking big-screen TV salesmen. Really, really ugly La-Zy Boy salesmen. Oh, and there will be a Best Friend Booth with someone there to say, "Fuck, finally. I never liked her/him because they treated you like shit and hit on your cousin at your wedding."

Should be fun. The keynote speaker on both days will be Justice Harvey Brownstone. Harvey's written a real page turner titled, “Tug of War: A Judge’s Verdict on Separation, Custody Battle and Bitter Realities of Family Court”. Sounds like a good pick for Book Club.

I was thinking of getting a booth, but they've taken all the fun out of it with segregation. The first day is for men and the second day – a Saturday – is for women. I can hear it now: "Why does that son of a bitch get to go first? What am I going to do with three kids – on a Saturday – when they have hockey, dance, karate, therapy, basketball – and he's going skiing with the boys, and I was hoping to get away to see my mother and...".

Probiotic yogurt makes your poop all fluffy like marshmallows. Wine is nice. Love is all around, no need to waste it. You can have a town, why don't you take it. You're gonna make it after all.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For more information on the Divorce Fair go to www.legalinfo.org. Funny thing is I went to the site and it was blank. Totally blank. Maybe they are arguing over content.

Shades of that scene from The Exorcist where her head spins around.

Dog shit is really hard to distinguish from fallen leaves in the dark.

And maybe that woman isn't just running, I thought as I was standing out front scratching my ass, looking for the newspaper and the dog shit. (Multi-tasking.) Maybe she is running away.

These are my morning thoughts so far. How does one spin a yarn from that, pray tell. Plus, my rudimentary coffee system works well, unless the cone thing topples off of the cup, like it just did, spraying hot, expensive Italian coffee grounds I can no longer afford, all over my hideous "temporary" laminate countertops that have been in place for five years.

And, it's not even 6am.

Here we fuckin' go. The sun isn't even up and another great day is on the horizon. Pull up a chair – wait – just toss all that laundry on the floor and sit down will ya. Welcome to my pity party. First, raise your hand if you did anything for yourself yesterday? Anybody go the spa, or yoga? Anyone have any real problems, like cancer, or sick kids? If so, fuck off, you are dis-invited to my pity party.

Let me start by asking, why are there so many goddamned wheelchair parking spaces? Those people have wheels – why do they need to be so goddamned close to the goddamned door when they have goddamned wheels? Every parking lot I spun into yesterday was full, except for the dozen or so empty, blue wheelchair spaces and the occasional white pram space for expectant mothers. (I use those pregnant parking spaces all the time by the way, and I defy anyone to challenge how many months I may be along.)

Yesterday, after driving in circles around the parking lot for what seemed like hours but at such a high speed was likely seconds, I finally pulled into a blue wheelchair space and jumped out, poised like a Ninja to challenge any motherfucker who dared tell me I couldn't park there. I would have brandished my car keys like a sword had I not just locked them in the car. "Come on asshole... I dare ya" I'd say frothing at the mouth, "I'm sweating like a perimenopausal pig in sweatpants from driving around backtracking from Sackville to Buttville - revisiting the skate store, the pet store, the grocery store, the furnace oil store, the gas station, the dry cleaner, then the bank – looking for my bank card I realised I had lost when I attempted to deposit my paltry "Baby Bonus" cheque. So, back away slowly and no one gets hurt!"

Baby Bonus. That's what my mother used to call the Child Tax Credit. I won't even bother telling you what my mother used to buy with our monthly Baby Bonus because it was illegal, and the mere thought of it would turn this pity party into a self-pity mosh pit.

Where was I?

Oh, frothing at the mouth in the Value Village parking lot. I always feel like I need a shower after I've been in those "used anything" stores full of dead skin cells and poverty, even though you can get some great stuff in there and I was on the hunt for some decent curtains for Dave. Dave is Jack's #1 fan. Dave is a challenged senior citizen who has just been evicted from the house he has lived in for over 60 years by his nephew who inherited Dave's family home, and who, instead of keeping Dave "in the manner to which he is accustomed" kicked Dave to the curb. I was looking for curtains to try and make Dave's new shithole of an filthy apartment look a little more like home.

Jack knows I want a nursing home with a view of the water and a mini bar. A tennis court would be nice, and a pool I could pee in while doing aquacize. But after seeing how Dave has been treated by his loving family, I'd settle for a warm bed with plastic sheets and a roof over my head. And a minibar.

My brother announced last week that he is looking forward to taking an early retirement in 2012. I figure I'll be working 26 years after I am splayed out in my coffin with my middle finger flipped into an eternal bird, compliments of rigor mortis and the undertaker.

The bright side is, the sun is coming up, and unless someone Ponzied your life savings which would suck more than not having any, some people can actually retire and golf until the grim reaper comes a caddying. That's because Diane MacDonald works like a dog for Dejardins Financial Security. Dejardins may have the worst television commercials on record, but Diane designs and sells awesome retirement savings plans to businesses for their employees. Things I have none of, like: Pensions, RRSP, DPSP, TFSA and Non-Registered Savings. Anyway, there are people out there who can retire, thanks to Diane and work-based retirement programs and wise financial planning.

My financial planning goes like this: Okay, I have $3586 worth of credit left on my credit card, and I may croak tomorrow and who needs granite countertops, so let's go to Italy!

Which brings this pathetic ramble to a purpose and that purpose is getting out of whatever shithole you're in, and escaping to Tuscany. Maritime Travel have handpicked villas in Tuscany where you can park yourself and say, "When in Rome!" and guzzle Chianti all day. I want THAT job. Handpicking Tuscan villas. Like La Tenuta di Corsano, the 17-Century Tuscan farmhouse, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves, just 12 km from Siena where you can sip local wines by the pool from $157 bucks per day. Which is about how much I spent on gas yesterday driving around like a middle-aged maniac hopped up on cooking sherry.

Someday, Jack will look down at me flipping him the bird from my coffin and say, "Mom, you scarred me for life, but we hiked the Cinque Terre and drank Prosecco by the canal in Venice and backpacked through Tuscany, and you may have left me nothing but a stack of bills and some big girl incontinence underpants – but it was a wild ride."

Yesterday, my miserable wild ride ended as it normally does; in a rink, surrounded by really nice people, laughing, yes, laughing – and not even the crazy-eyed type of hysterical laughing – just plain, happy laughing, watching my healthy boy get a shutout in his team's season home opener.

Fuck, in hindsight, life is good. Let's pity party!

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Click on the Italy photo over to the right and check out Maritime Travel's Italian villas for rent. Or go to www.maritimetravel.ca.

Get your hard working employees some retirement benefits by calling Diane at 902.466.2505 or emailing: diane.macdonald@dfs.ca. www.dfs.ca

Get some really fine Italian coffee at The Italian Market on Young Ave. New owners, more about them later.

Ms. November.

Three kids and a blue beaver (speculation) and you've still got the kahunas to park yourself on the cover of Playboy. I say, good for you Marge, I can't even bear to look at myself in a foggy hotel room mirror.

Targeted at a younger audience, with hopes to pull up limp magazine sales and a second-quarter, $9-million dollar loss, Playboy is placing the burden of hope on the shoulders of Springfield's most sainted housewife. Such pressure for Marge. Isn't it bad enough the poor bitch has Homer flopping around on her night after night?

Gracing the cover of Playboy magazine is the ultimate flipping off to the feminist movement. Or is it? Quoted recently, Gloria Steinem's advice to young women was, "to do whatever they fucking well please". This from the quintessential bra burner who once worked as a Playboy Bunny, then exposed Hef's operation in the 1985 made-for-TV movie, A Bunny's Tale, starring a pre-Krispy Kreme Kirstie Alley. Good to know, even in her 70's, Glo hasn't softened her stance or her delivery.

My grandfather kept stacks of Playboy magazines in his sliding bookshelf/headboard combo. When we would visit from the States, I spent hours sipping Bovril, flipping through glossy pages staring at the beautiful women with staples in their belly buttons. I never read any of the articles, but I loved the jokes I understood, and I always read the centerfold bios. I don't recall any shame – for myself or Miss July – and while painfully heterosexual, I remain in awe of the unabashed displays of well-trimmed "self-confidence".

Some will of course argue that posing for such a publication is degrading to women – but is it any more degrading than Hugh Hefner walking around in his pyjamas, looking like an old fool in his mansion full of dumb blondes with brunette pubic hairs. And exactly how dumb are they? I bet their bank accounts are a few cup sizes bigger than mine.

This week I received an email and a nice compliment from Brain, Child (note the comma) - a publication in the States. The woman who contacted me expressed an interest in my writing, stating I would 'fit in perfectly' with their audience, as theirs was "The Magazine for Thinking Mothers". It says so right there on the magazine cover. She went on to say, "Our writers explore the transformations that motherhood brings." I had to ask, "transformations?" Like from career woman with nice underwear - to a babbling, puke-encrusted zombie who hasn't slept through the night since shitting out a ten-pound rocking chair? Those kinds of transformations? I have said it before and I'll say it again: afterbirth is actually a portion of your brain – the lobe that prior to childbirth, would have prevented you from saying things like, "Did you go poopies?" and "Don't roll your fucking eyes at me because I was a teenager once too you know and it wasn't pretty, so back off, asshole".

I think I am better suited for a magazine aimed at people who don't have time to think. Or, the magazine for mothers who prefer not to think, because if they really sat down and thought about things, they'd head that minivan full of snot-nosed, unappreciative little bastards for the nearest cliff.

I stopped by Atlantic News on the weekend. I love everything about this newsstand. The owners are great, the staff are helpful, and their black licorice is the freshest in town. I could spend hours grazing through the rows of beautiful magazines, and it makes me sad to think I may never have a flat stomach again, (Self magazine) or know 75 Crazy Hot Sex Moves (Cosmo) or fulfill my dream of working for a big publication like Esquire, or even O. When Condé Nast announced Gourmet magazine would be closing its cover after nearly 60 years, I realized – not only does my career timing suck – but there may come a time when buying a stack of magazines and curling up with a glass of wine, will be as far fetched as ever looking good upside down again.

The November issue of Playboy is available on newsstands everywhere. Well, everywhere except for here and maybe Iran – but the good folks at Atlantic News are holding a copy for me when it finally arrives. I also didn't see a copy of Brain, Child but maybe all the thinking mothers snatched them up.

I figure Marge Simpson's debut as Playmate of the Month would be a good issue to leave lying around, just in case Jack wants to "read the articles" or see what a real woman looks like – blue beaver and all.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Atlantic News is located at the corner of Queen & Morris, 5560 Morris Street in Halifax. If they don't have what you're looking for, they'll do their damnedest to get it in. www.atlanticnews.ns.ca

The origin of the specimens.

"What do you mean how many drinks do I have in a week? You're holding half a cup of my urine – you tell me."

Had I known renewing my life insurance was going to be such a pain in the ass, I would have joined the Army. Apparently, now that I have a few gray hairs popping out in random places, joining our military is easier than leaving my child a small winfall, lest I throw myself under a bus.

But wait. According to the traveling nurse who dropped by, life insurance doesn't kick in if I throw myself under a bus, so my kid's stuck with me. In fact, one of the 1,468 stupid questions was: "Have you ever committed suicide?" Yes, dickwad, just after I found out I had an enlarged prostate, but I'm back. It's a miracle.

And so I ask, "Define drinks". It's been a bad week for drinks. My stepmother was in town and it was like an Irish wake everyday around here. Plus, we tucked into the spicy Caesars at White Point and we had lobster the night before the nurse came-a-callin'. My veins were a mixture of melted butter, Pinot Grigio, and vodka. Lord knows what would surface in my urine. Likely an olive. I was fucked.

So I continued, "Define glass". Are we talkin' the Winnie the Pooh juice glass I take to the bathtub, or the large, stemmed fishbowl that holds half a bottle of the House Red – because if that's the case – I only have two glasses a day. Unless of course it's been a bad day, in which case the box is up on the counter and I'm sucking plonk out of the spout.

I first bought life insurance the day after Swissair made a fatal pit-stop near Peggy's Cove. A nervous flyer, no amount of alcohol or drugs can calm my nerves, so instead, I take it out on the stewardess, er, flight attendant. I figure they hate me as much as I hate flying, so I spend my time messing with their perfectly-coiffed heads. It takes my mind off death, and I love it when they go all pinchy faced when I say things like, "So, I guess that whole Secretarial College thing didn't work out". The minute we touched down on that first post-disaster flight, I raced for an insurance office and stocked up on Term Life. At least if I went down in a spiraling Airbus clutching the throat of the bitter sky pig who ignored my request for a hot towel and a piccolo of champagne, Jack could throw a party.

But that was then. Now that I am in my 40's and apparently on death row, the list of medical conditions that send a red flare to head office include the trendy ones like cancer and heart disease. But cramps, homesickness, commitmentphobia, actually anything that ends with "phobia", fear of clowns, menopause, allergies, perimenopause, obesity, and fear of beating to death old people who decide to use all their thin Centennial dimes to pay for the jug of Metamucil in the grocery store line up, – are all considered a black mark on your chart. Add illegal drug use, all of the "phrenias", hatred of small children, French people, cheap people, and I may as well leave my teeth under the hospital pillow with a note that says, "That'll teach you for weighing ten pounds and ripping me a new one. Get an education. Love Mommy."

So, I sit and wait to hear if I have coverage. The good news is – now that I am considered old – I am also a CAA member. The two really have nothing in common, but I always assumed CAA was for gin-soaked old people going nowhere in their Buick because cataracts had them holding their TripTik upside down. Today, I have a CAA Membership that gives me discounts on travel, shoes, dining, automotive needs, Pete's Frootique, even insurance. Member Savings vary from province-to-province, state-to-state, and you don't even need that big CAA sticker on your bumper that says, "MY OTHER CAR IS A HEARSE."

With any luck, the good folks at the insurance company will look beyond my lab results, weight-to-height ratio and family history of just plain crazy, and consider only the good die young – and that this particular card-carrying asshole could be around for a very, very long time.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For insurance, cheaper shoes, a discount on Cow's Ice Cream, and more, check out: www.caa.ca.

For stewardess or nurses costumes try Boutilier's Costume Rentals, 211 Windmill Road in Dartmouth. 902.464.3536. www.costumesrus.net

The missionary's position.

What else is a girl to do, in the wee hours just before dawn, in a motel room somewhere between Thanksgiving and the post-stuffing, pre-Christmas detoxification.

I spoke to God.

Actually, his name was David, and according to the infomercial I could have a free conversation with God compliments of a real, live missionary from the Mormon Church (the good folks who brought us the Osmonds). So I thought, what the hell, no one else seemed to be awake and besides, I had questions. For instance, "Marie Osmond – she seems depressed – can't you help her?" Donny seems fine. And, "Why can't I shake these last 40 pounds of baby weight?".

David, my missionary, was online alot faster than other so-called Help Desks I've contacted lately, and his English was an improvement over Mrigankasekhar's – the kind, Punjab gentleman who attempted to get my printer up and running from a hut over in New Delhi – with whom I lost my patience after having to repeat every word s-l-o-w-l-y like I was talking to my great-grandmother just after a stroke left her balling up Kleenex in the funeral parlour waiting line.

Packing the knowledge that men will say just about anything to make you stop talking, or simply to avoid the truth, I started my conversation with God by asking, "Who do you have for the Superbowl?"

Much to my surprise, seconds later, a simple "Steelers and Vikings" came flashing back, followed by a "You?".

Since I really know nothing about football and didn't want God to think I was just another dumb blonde morning person, I woke up Jack, who was until that very moment sound asleep in the next bed.

"Jack... wake up!", I said with a sense of whispered urgency so as not to disturb my stepmother in the adjoining room, "I'm talking to God, and he wants to know who I have for the Superbowl".

Well, you can imagine how that went over. The little asshole just mumbled something about calling Children's Services and rolled over, so I was on my own. Just me, and God, and an empty mini bar.

So I replied to God, "49ers. Like life, it's a long shot".

God then tried to steer me over to his team by asking if I had any "church" related questions, so I asked, "What's with the air quality in all of the churches I've been in. All that incense and those moldy Bibles can't be good for anyone and maybe it's the mold and second-hand smoke making all the priests crazy for kiddie porn and slutty, wayward sheep." I followed with a quick, "Kind of makes me think there is no God and it's all a big, fat showy farce".

David, the voice of God, replied with a swift and mildly defensive, "There is a God. People make bad choices."

To which I said, "No shit, like that time I almost threw up a $50 sirloin in the back seat of a New York cab. That last shot of Sambuca was a huge mistake".

David – proving he really was a man – seemed to lose interest in me after that, so when I finally asked him, "And, why do they call it the Missionary position?", God dropped me like a filthy habit.

Christ, even Mrigankasekhar stayed on the line and I got really pissy with him.

Having someone to answer questions is vital in this messed-up world. The good news is, effective immediately the Tourism and Hospitality sector will have a direct line to answers with the launch of Doug Fawthrop's new venture Turizm Inc. Fawthrop, the often outspoken advocate for Nova Scotia Tourism and long-time Manager of White Point Beach Resort will be the person on the end of the line, when public and private sectors need help with marketing and branding, property development and other challenges facing tourism today.

Having worked closely with Doug for almost 14 years, I can attest to the fact, while he may not have the patience of God, he has a similar wisdom, and I will have him on my speed dial for all eternity.

As for my brief dalliance with missionaries – while he may have felt some relief, I was left a little unsatisfied, lying in a motel room waiting for the sun to come up, wishing I had asked, "Why, oh why, does my fucking golf drive always hook to the left?"

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Doug Fawthrop, Turizm Inc. can be contacted by email at: doug@turizminc.com or by calling: 902.402.1441.

Pubic outcry.

My mother knit me a Cowichan sweater once, and as much as I loved it, I knew it wasn't a real Cowichan sweater because unless I am adopted – which would explain a great deal – my mother isn't a Cowichan Indian, or native person, or whatever the hell we are supposed to call them. First Nations, I think is the current, politically correct term. She wasn't a First Nation. She was forth or fifth nation Irish/Scottish, so basically I had a hand-knit knock off.

First Nations is a nice way of saying 'fucked over' by the little French guy with the funny hat. 'First' means diddly when staring down the barrel of a musket, clutching your beaver pelt for dear life. The rest is all too familiar history, although not-so ancient past, with the latest 2010 Olympic costume fiasco brought to you by the good American folks at Hudson Bay Co.

It's come out in the wash that our Cowichan Indian First Nation aboriginal folks – the Coco Chanel behind the original hand-knit sweater – actually agreed to knit their little asses off to produce enough authentic sweaters for HBC's Olympic clothing line. But, the Cowichan knitters didn't get the job. As a result, HBC's pro-Canadiana Olympic sweater has been exposed as a big, fat manufactured rip-off, and the Cowichan tribe of knitters are rightfully pissed. Mad pissed, not drunk pissed, although who could blame them if they hit the photocopier after watching their original handiwork bastardized for all to see.

Speaking of Olympic rip offs, I suppose now with the 2016 Olympics being handed to a greased palm down in Rio De Janeiro, we'll see a sharp rise in the occurrence of fake Brazilian waxes. I hate to think what a knock-off Brazilian wax job would be – maybe only half your asshole hairs being yanked out by an unlicensed masochist in a back alley.

I had a bikini wax. Once. Nearly only half a bikini wax because after that first patch of my short and curlies were yanked out, I decided beauty was way too painful and perhaps the occasional Nair treatment or shaving would be the way to go. As fortune would have it, I am a natural blonde and my shingles match my porch, so this hasn't been a huge issue for me waltzing around at the rink in my thong. But, for some dark-haired women, I understand the ol' beaver pelt could be traded in for a multi-striped Hudson Bay point blanket, every few weeks or so.

I contacted Spirit Spa in Halifax to inquire about Brazilian waxing. The Spa assured me the Brazilian was very popular, even in Havenot, and for $55 bucks you could have a "Full Monty or a landing strip". In fact, they kindly offered me a complimentary Brazilian, which had me wincing and contracting my sphincter muscles just thinking about it. I'll stick with my occasional weed whacker routine because I avoid unnecessary pain down there, and the reality is, no one's been looking to land their plane – not even a drunken pilot – on my landing strip, for a very long time.

Tonight is actually BYOB Night at Spirit Spa, which doesn't mean Bring Your Own Beaver, silly, it means Bring Your Own Blow Dryer, for a fun, winey, cheesey night of styling and hair fluffing workshops and girl stuff. I won't be going, but call to reserve a spot because it's a popular event, especially on a rainy night.

If you'd like to experience an authentic Brazilian wax job, Maritime Travel has a dandy guided 16-day tour of South America that begins with 5 days in Rio, so you'll have plenty of time to transform your beaver from looking like Fidel Castro to a thong-worthy masterpiece. Plus, you'll get to see Rio before the Olympic committee move all of their First Nations people off of the streets and into a lovely compound in the mountains so as not to embarrass the world with their "authenticity".

As for Hudson Bay Company, they are about as Canadian as George Bush now, so I say let's boycott the scalping bastards. Or, better yet – save all your pubic hair clippings and mail 'em to to HBC Head Office so they can stop faking it and produce authentic, Canadian Olympic sweaters spun from 100% pure Canadian beaver.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Spirit Spa is at 5150 Salter Street in Halifax. To book BYOB night email: nicole@spiritspa.ca or call 431.8100. BYOB is from 7 til 9.

Book your South American waxing adventure at www.maritimetravel.ca or call 1.800.593.3334.

Mail your unwanted pubes to HBC at: Box 223, Station "A" Scarborough, Ontario M1K5C1

Dating. Or, when Juicy Fruit doesn't necessarily mean gum.

The beautiful thing about life is, I just couldn't make some of this shit up. A Roman Catholic Bishop with kiddie porn. Elmer Fudd designs Canada's 2010 Olympic gear. NATO forces outsmarted by a man in a dress, hiding in a cave. Celine Dion. Life is simply laced with ridiculously fabulous fodder for the twisted mind.

Take for instance last week, when I caught up with a girlfriend who is recently single, and without exaggeration, one of the most flawlessly beautiful creatures on Earth. I'd honestly hate her if she wasn't so fucking fun.

Recently separated, and starting to venture out on a few coffee dates, or easy-escape type encounters, my friend told me about a recent date she'd been on. Her experience made me realize, that if things like this actually happen to a goddess, then what hope is there for me.

Chivalry may have been pissed away by the feminist movement, but common decency should prevail – at least until he gets you into loaded and into the sack, right? I ask, because not long into my friend's second date with a handsome, educated, successful, no-baggage type of guy – the gentleman proceeded to fart like my grandmother on Bingo night. (She was easily excitable). Her date farted out loud. He farted with glee. He farted with gusto. Uninhibited and repetitive breakage of wind came out of this man's otherwise, nice ass. What's so fabulous about this story is he started to name his farts: The first was Cheesy. Followed by Pop Tart. Bullfrog. Squeaky. And my personal favourite, M-16.

The sad part about all of this was, while my friend was horrified beyond belief, I found it quite funny. Almost, well... charming. They were outdoors, it was a beautiful day, and I probably would have been rolling around on the ground laughing – begging for a third, quite possibly a fourth date. Hey, why wait 'til you're married to find out the asshole actually has one.

But what do I know. I haven't been on a date in so long the Bishop of Nova Scotia's looking good to me. My advice to her was Surgically Clean Air. Yes, girlfriend, don't let a good man go for sake of a little foul air. An air purifier from Surgically Clean Air will not only clean up his act, it'll conquer things like mold, volatile organic compounds (VOC's), Sick Building Syndrome, even the probiotic yogurt and Buffalo wing/pitcher combo from Friday night.

Truth is, 30% of all doctor and hospital visits are respiratory related. (The other 70% are seeking a quick prescription for "mood elevators".) Once slated for dentist offices and funeral homes, quality air purifiers are popping up like water coolers in professional settings and living rooms. Lord knows I could use one back where my Silent But Deadly child hangs out.

Air purifiers from Surgically Clean Air come in a variety of sizes depending on your man, and they combine six stages of air sterilization and purification. There are four "capture" stages for particulate matter and two "kill" stages for volatile organic compounds, bacteria and viral infectious agents.

Capture and kill. Isn't that what dating's all about, Wet One?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Get your own purified air. Email info@surgicallycleanair.com. For more information visit: www.surgicallycleanair.com or by calling 1.877.440.7770.

Try not to think of the plight of the people. And smile goddammit.

Curious as to why my Uncle George was the doodle of the day on Google's home page, I clicked to learn it is in fact, Gandhi's 140th birthday and nothing whatsoever to do with my Uncle George. I confess to being a tad disappointed, but it's Friday and maybe there will be cake, or enlightenment loot bags before the day is over.

To celebrate Gandhi's big day, some playground pal of Mahatma's is launching a massive four-volume (and I am accused of being verbose) tell-all biography on the life of a public figure the article described as "the little brown man".

Little brown man?

Now, despite walking around in Depends all day, "little brown man" seems to be a rather underwhelming description of the birthday boy. I personally would prefer to be remembered for all the great things I have done, or as the woman who shot George W. Bush, instead of the "big beige woman". Maybe these things kinds of things just rolled off Gandhi's malnourished, little brown back.

While no Bishop of Nova Scotia's Roman Catholic church, in stature, pomp and 'a real rapport with kids' – Gandhi did a fair bit for non-violence, and is hailed in some circles as the "spokesman of conscience of all mankind", whatever that means. And, not one to toot his own horn, few people know Gandhi actually started the whole organic cotton movement. If he were alive and not spouting his usual, "best wishes only" routine, I'd run down to Thornbloom and pick him up a few organic cotton towels that, in a pinch, could double as a pair of slacks for the little brown man.

Furthermore, while I am sure Gandhi's biography will be a real page turner, it's not likely to be on my bedside table covered with crusty, dried rings of E & J Gallo Red. A whopping, four-volumes high, I'd be reaching up in the air for my nightly glass of vino, so I'll just carry on admiring Gandhi for his striking resemblance to my Uncle George and his apparent high level of self-esteem. How else could a lawyer of all people, walk around in a diaper, posing humbly for photographers, despite not being overly photogenic if it weren't for self esteem, or really, really good, recent tantric sex.

I say this as I prepare to have my photo taken today for the first time since my license expired. I can honestly say I'd rather have a colonoscopy than strike a pose in front an instrument that does not lie. Having a garden hose shoved up my ass would be less painful than facing the grim reality that I have indeed seen better days, and even in better days I was about as photogenic as Gandhi's diaper. In fact, when a request came from Marketing magazine to send in a "head shot" this week, I asked if it had to be my head.

Since there's apparently no way of avoiding it, I called on a real professional: James Ingram at Jive Photographic. I figure, anyone who can make ex-Liberal leader Danny Graham look movie-star voteable is clearly the man for the job. I have less than an hour to drop one double chin, and 40-odd years of hard livin'. James has makeup artist, Amanda O'Leary lined up and I hope to hell she's packing a Gandhi-sized miracle because I've made the cut in Marketing magazine's Great Canadian Creative Faceoff. Standing amongst industry giants who "do lunch" and wear cool glasses and have professional haircuts and get out of the house more than once a year – I do not want to look like, well, myself. Even my old self.

I want to look like Mahatma Gandhi must have felt. Flat stomach, tanned, and totally at peace with who he was in this world. Failing that, could I please, please, at least not look like a cross between Burl Ives and Shelly Winters.

Happy Birthday, Uncle George. You don't look a day over 139.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Jive Photographic is at www.jivephotgraphic.com or by calling 423.9284

Sticks and rather oddly shaped, often cool to the touch stones.

Impaired by wordiness.

Apparently that's me. Verbose. I have been accused by a total stranger of being verbose, and what's worse is, I read it on Facebook which makes it even worser (and yes, I know that's not a word, but go ahead call me illiterate too).

Being called verbose on Facebook is worse than saying it to my face, because I hate fucking Facebook for so many reasons I won't go into for fear of being verbose, and because in real life you can just turn the other cheek and say, "Ya, well, you can kiss my lily white, with flecks of pink, oversized ass" and walk away. So, from this moment forward, I am going to get straight to the point and call a spade a spade, instead of a pretty Corsican spade I bought while escaping heartache by guzzling Fiano d'Avellino off the coast of Amalfi when I was much thinner and hadn't built up this resentment against fucking cats and French people and corks that break off half way, especially on Tuesdays because there is nothing, absolutely fucking nothing on television on Tuesdays except the Biggest Loser, which apparently has already been decided and it's verbose ol' me.

Actually, maybe, possibly, if I cut out all the adverbs and all the times I say fuck, or dickwad, or asshole, I could really shorten up my word count, but what fun would that be? What would life be without such fabulous words that describe most drivers, and figure skaters, and people who give their kids hyphenated last names who eventually get all fucked up after the divorce, and delinquent dads, and Shania Twain, and Conservatives and NDP's too, for that matter. Maybe if I removed all adjectives or comments about how useless light mayonnaise is, and who the hell voted for Stephen Harper, and how I love Barack Obama and melted cheese and anchovies, then I could shorten things up a bit.

How be I just stop this nonsense all together and take my energy into the basement where I can build a bomb and make homemade wine in one of those big glass thingies from Wine Kitz in Clayton Park which would save money but would likely end up exploding anyway and turn into a Cabernet Sauvignon bomb because I'd add more sugar to try and get the alcohol content up and BOOM! there would be a bomb-type wine explosion and I would lose my eyesight from shards of glass then I'd have to type blindly and that, for sure would cut back on my verbosity because my typing sucks or maybe it wouldn't because I'd just type LOUDER. But I'd at least gain fame and possibly fortune if I sold my story to some bad tabloid or the Herald or something and I could go down in history as the Wineabomber or something cool like that and way better than dying in a pool of my own filth wearing sweatpants, known only as the bitter, verbose, hockey mom who lived in the house with the awesome geraniums.

She was verbose, but she grew lovely geraniums, it would say in the paper.

I know, I'll just change my style. I'll be nice and write about women's issues and quote Rumi – the fucking ridiculous poet my friend who is going through a mid-life, emotional, subsequent weight-loss program crisis keeps quoting – who writes shit like:

“The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.”

There. That's my nice Rumi quote of the day. That's Rumi pictured above. How happy does that poor depressed, cross dressing bastard look? Huh? How about that concise bullshit he writes? I say, if my lover is already inside me, then that explains this extra 60 pounds I've been carrying around since, well, puberty so get the hell out loverboy and take me for a romantic dinner.

631 words so far. 634.

Maybe I'll switch to haiku. Here it goes:

I met this guy once

He said he'd call but he didn't

Maybe he lost his fucking fingers.

I know, that's one too many words in that last line but I just couldn't help myself.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Wine Kitz is located at 287 Lacewood Drive in Clayton Park by Home Depot.

The fertile valley of the shadow of death. Or, catching a buzz at harvest time.

The security cameras captured it all: A frumpy, suspicious-looking woman, glancing around before violently rubbing her crotch against the arm of an EKTORP sofa. Another angle caught the woman sliding up and down repeatedly against a PRONOMEN countertop, like a drugged bear on a circus tent pole. She was using the spiky end of a GRUNKA spaghetti server to scratch her armpits while simultaneously rubbing her ass with a set of dishwasher-safe GNARP salad tongs. At this point, the woman's child was encouraged – with wild gesturing and what appeared to be foul language – to get his Swedish KÖTTBULAR meatballs to go, whereupon the pair ran out of the store.

That was an account of the last time I was stung by a bee and had my subsequent, first-ever allergic reaction. Thinking nothing after the little bastard bit me, my son Jack and I went about our day, proceeding to IKEA to grab a few things for our new apartment in Toronto. Mere minutes after entering the store, every gland in my body was on fire and well, let's just say, I am likely on IKEA's 10 Most Wanted list for bizarre and erratic shopping behaviour.

Never having experienced an allergic reaction to anything other than commitment, or organized religion, my biggest fear on that particular day was losing control of my bowels and having to scoop the mess into in a yet-to-be-paid-for FLÄCKIG mixing bowl with matching colander.

I survived, but I've put together my last set of BILLY bookcases.

To a randy, desperate, middle-aged bee, my thighs must look like sweet, giant honeycombs because this weekend it happened again. Violated. Shortly after I was stung, I pulled up my shorts and said to Jack, "Look at the back of my leg... how swollen it is."

Which one?

"What do you mean which one?"

Which leg?, he answered.

"The really fucking puffy, swollen, blotchy one!"

They both look puffy and swollen to me, he replied.

Kids are such assholes. My leg was inflamed and on fire, but as long as I had life insurance and we weren't in a public place, he really didn't care. Nor did I, because having gone down this road once before, I knew a stiff Benadryl cocktail on the rocks would make it all go away.

Symbols of immortality and resurrection, honey bees have been around long before the first IKEA open its doors. In fact, primeval humans gathered and ate the honey and honeycombs of wild bees (no Splenda) as far back as 7000 B.C. No wonder Napoleon emblazoned everything from his flags to his boxers with the brazen honey bee. Maybe walking around liberating France didn't make him feel manly enough, and he was hoping a sting in the right place would make him, albeit temporarily, a bigger man for his beloved Josephine – rotten teeth and all. Who knows, and who really cares.

Next week, my step mother is rolling into town for the 'golf and white wine consumption tour of the Maritimes'. Little does she know she'll spend most of her time freezing her ass off in a rink, but in between ice times, I plan on taking her to some of my favourite places.

Being harvest time and all, we'll pass on the scent-free masses at the Halifax Farmer's Market and head straight to the dealer – the Annapolis Valley – where the obligatory first stop will be refreshments at Grand Pré Vineyards. The tasting bar at Grand Pré is as close to Napa as you're going to find in this godforsaken corner of the world, and besides, it's on the way.

The way, is straight into Wolfville for a celebratory lunch at Tempest before heading up to look at the mud, er, the world's freakiest tides. I will need to stop at Cosman and Whidden's Honey Farm. This busy couple have been have been cranking out organic honey in Wolfville since 1979, and despite my recent encounters with errant bees, I want to stock up.

Oh, there is so much to do in the Valley. Hell, there's even a new pub in downtown Port Williams. The Port hail themselves as a "Gastropub", and we'll likely be thirsty after all that honey shopping. Actually, maybe an overnight at the new Beech Hill Bed & Breakfast in Port Williams is a wise idea, what with drinking and driving still being a crime and all.

I'll be sure to pack a little Benadryl, just in case an inbred (it is the Valley) worker bee spots my sweet, honeycomb thighs and moves in for a little Barry White lovin'. Maybe I'll get a sting on the lips so I can see what I'd look like with Hollywood-style collagen injections.

The pub will have straws if I have difficulty operating my new kisser. If I'm lucky, SODA bendy straws from the IKEA up in Montreal.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

So much to see and do in the valley. For more information:

www.beechhillbandb.com

www.tempest.ca

www.grandprewines.ns.ca

www.theportpub.com

www.novascotiahoney.com

www.benadryl.com

So, I'm guessing a nightcap and a foot massage are out of the question.

Christ, you'd think I asked for her kidney with the kind of reaction I got. All I wanted was a decent pillow – one that didn't make those annoying crinkling noises like it was full of styrofoam packing chips – and maybe to dim the lights just a wee bit.

It was late, and I was trying to get comfy for the first time since Labour Day. Fucking nurses. You'd think in a children's emergency ward they'd at least have a little bedside manner.

Between Machiavellian hockey tryouts and back to school, I've had just about enough of September. Bring on October with its miniature chocolate bars and dime-size bags of chips I'll have to replenish twenty-five times before the annoying little bastards arrive at my doorstep begging for treats and forgetting to say thank you.

And what is September without a trip to my favourite late night establishment – the emergency room. God love Obama for being so sexy and smokey sultry that even the words "universal health care" make your hips start gyrating like pre-death Patrick Swayze. Ours may not be the most perfect country in the world but at least when my kid is sick I know he'll get good care, even if it means a crappy pillow and a 6-hour wait.

While I was lying there waiting for Jack's x-ray, all I could think about was an email I had received earlier in the day. My friend said she was at the Algonquin Hotel, to which I replied, "which one?" (you lucky bitch). Either the St. Andrews-by-the-Sea or New York City Algonquin would have suited me just fine. Sipping a $12 dollar glass of bubbly in the room where Dorothy Parker used to cavort was lost on Jack, but I was in heaven way back then, and it was certainly a far cry from where I was at that very moment, trying to get comfy on a plastic sheet while my kid nursed his broken knuckle in the nearby chair.

Which also reminded me that I have an invitation to go get horizontal in a Jacuzzi at the elegant little Inn on the Lake in Fall River. I have been passing by the Inn for decades, always assuming it was a hateful bed & breakfast type place, which I avoid because farting in someones doily covered guest room while the proprietor listens with their ear to the door isn't my idea of accommodation. Boy, was I wrong. The Inn on the Lake is a class-act mini-heaven, perfect for an affair with Barack Obama or just about anyone with a pulse. The Inn's rooms are newly refurbished and elegantly appointed which is flowery marketing lingo for fucking awesome. Imagine fireplaces, and in-room Jacuzzis, and of course, my all time favourite pleasure – room service.

If I will be able to drag myself out my room, the Inn on the Lake dining room has the comfort quotient and lighting that just begs for a night of indulgence before toddling back upstairs. But wait. There's a cozy English style pub that could possibly lure me in for a nightcap before pouring myself into the Egyptian cotton. If only I could ditch the kid and the dogs for a night.

Thankfully, the hand is healing, and the teams have been chosen. Some children are happy, some crying themselves to sleep at night. But such is life. Hockey tryouts only prepare the little darlings for a cruel world that is dictated by men and will crush you at every turn. Weeks of heartache and bullshit to accomplish what a few hockey Moms could have done over a box of wine in a matter of hours.

Hey, maybe if I leave late and get home early, I can grab cousin Sarah for a night of decadence and debauchery before anyone even notices we are gone. I could fall into a Courvoisier-induced coma, on feathery, goose down – dreaming of the man who makes universal health care sound like post-coital pillow talk.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Inn on the Lake is a short drive from Halifax. Perfect for a romantic encounter or escape from the rink with some gal pals. Check it out online at www.innonthelake.com or call 1.800. 463.6465.

Trust me Ma'am, I'm alot taller when I'm standin' on my wallet.

"Jackson Hole".

"What about it?" was my response.

"We're going." she said.

My beautiful, single girlfriend called to say she'd been watching Patty Stanger, aka, The Millionaire Matchmaker. According to Patty – rich, single men are like maggots in Jackson Hole, Wyoming – which is funny, because I was there once and all I got was a speeding ticket and a wicked case of the shits from a chimichanga and a pitcher of margaritas.

Wyoming seemed a little far for a Sunday adventure and besides, Jack had a broken finger and hockey tryouts, and I had no money. Plus, my cousin Stephen once told me I'd have better luck with men if I kept my mouth shut, so until I have a debilitating stroke with subsequent speech loss, I may as well give up.

My friend hasn't totally given up, and out of sheer boredom has been cruising the cyber bars, using dial-up internet. I figure if she were truly desperate she'd at least upgrade to high speed. On Sunday, she told me to log on to one of those online dating websites so I could take a look at someone who – in her opinion – didn't look like a total loser. Not looking like a total loser is a positive step in the right direction these days. The only problem was, I too had to register in order to window shop on Lonely Street.

The good news is, registering is easy. First, I had to think of an alluring handle. I chose "Hockeyhag" because "Hockeymom" was taken and "Puffy, Desperate ol' Slut" seemed a little over the top. Next, I had to fill out a rather lengthy questionnaire, which was kind of fun because I was brutally honest knowing it was just for a lark on a Sunday morning before Coronation Street, and I had my girlfriend on the end of the line. I certainly wasn't venturing into a cyber cougar bar without a wing man.

After I strongly agreed, or strongly disagreed (I rarely answered "somewhat") to a zillion questions, I came to the final, most important question. My answer would be displayed on my Hockeyhag profile for all to see. Since I had no intention of uploading a photo – even a good photo that looked nothing like me – I paid special attention to this crucial final question: Describe what you would like to do on your perfect first date. Without hesitation, I typed in "get rip roarin' drunk", and hit the register button.

I was officially "out there".

Within seconds, I got feedback from the questionnaire summarizing my dating personality. This was the information they use to hone in on my potential perfect matches. I hate to say it, but their profiling was kind of bang on. Granted, it was bang on in the "you are so fucked up" way, but bang on is bang on. It went like this:

Self-Control
As someone who exerts little control over your actions, you may find that you commit social blunders that might offend other people and get yourself in trouble. Nonetheless, you may still experience many short-lived pleasures and never be thought of as boring.

Little control over my actions!? Social blunders!? These guys were good... and at least I wasn't boring.

How does your personality affect your love life?
When it comes to romantic relationships, your openness might make it difficult for you to tolerate people that cannot appreciate diversity as much as you. Therefore, you may be happiest in serious relationships with people that share your open-mindedness.

Okay, so what the results were saying was basically what I already knew: I am a crazy, unlovable pain-in-the-ass with a foul mouth, who will only be happy when I find another crazy, unlovable pain-in-the-ass with a foul mouth.

What I wasn't expecting was – no shit – in a little over a minute, I had a hit. I was as honest and as disgusting as possible and someone out there thought I was a potential mate. Someone out there thought Hockeyhag was actually desirable! In fact, my Mr. Right said I was "his kind of girl". I panicked and immediately started deleting my profile, wiping Hockehag off the face of the Earth. My brief flirtation with online dating was over before I even had my cyber sports bra ripped off in a moment of pure, cyber passion.

My friend, who had stayed on the phone through all this, then asked me the million dollar matchmaker question. "But Schultz, don't you ever wish you had someone to, you know, hang out with once Jack is off on his own?"

"No." was my answer. "I have you".

It's true. As much as it would be nice to have someone pay my bills, and it would be nice to get slammed against the headboard once more before I croak, I have some pretty fun girlfriends. And, since most women outlive men, I figure unless I can find some wealthy octogenarian with a foul mouth, a wicked forehand, and a terminal cough, then I am going it alone. Happily.

Plus, if I were truly desperate, er, interested in finding my soul mate, I could also fork over $997 for a six-month membership at Executive Nova Scotia Dating. They have a two-year option for the really hopeless, and these guys claim to offer professional matchmaking, or "life-changing journeys for busy, successful, wonderful people who do not want to waste time searching for people who are not right." (Or, humourless, self-absorbed weenies with small dicks and big wallets).

As for life-altering journeys to Jackson Hole, Ultimate Ski Vacations offer packaged ski holidays to Marlboro Man country. It may take us a few changeovers, but airports are thick with businessmen in nice suits, and I am apparently desirable, so let's call Maritime Travel and go.

As for Hockeyhag, last I heard she was sitting in a cold rink, crying into her Tim's cup wishing she could make eye contact with the fucking adorable, but oh, so unattainable Zamboni guy.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For local matchmaking call check out www.executivenovascotiadating.com or call 1.800.655.0361

Check out Ultimate Ski Vacations Jackson Hole packages online at www.ultimateskivacations.ca and get Maritime Travel to book it by calling 1.800.593.3334. And take me, please.

On weekends, she gets into the Paarl sherry and calls that cheating bastard, Babar.

Nothing ruins a wild night with your legs in the air like a nurse. A weary, labour and delivery nurse asking if you'd like to sift through the warm afterbirth – like it was a big bowl of Bits 'n' Bites or something.

There was no mention of this absurd hazing ritual in those first two chapters of "What to Expect When You're Expecting" – those two chapters I read just before I freaked out and went on a nine month folic acid trip of denial. Was I supposed to pick out the good stuff, like the cheese nips and peanuts before passing it back, all full of stale Shreddies and placenta.

When the nurse kindly suggested that some mothers take the afterbirth home and plant it in the garden, I realized I was not only totally out of my league, I was screwed for life. I hated kids, and gardening, and having just delivered a child with the biggest head I've seen since Charlie Brown, I wasn't in the mood for much, other than maybe a chilly glass of champagne, a bubble bath, a decent pillow and some shut eye.

Thirteen years later, I haven't slept through the night since my 10-pound money pit hit the delivery table clutching my heart strings in his chubby little fist. 'Serves me right. I had passed on babysitting, prenatal classes and delivery room tours. Grossly ill-prepared for impending motherhood, I did however manage to step over what I now know was my mucus plug, long enough to grab a bottle of champagne on my way out the door. I was already multi-tasking and my water hadn't even broken yet.

In hindsight, I maybe should have probed through the afterbirth a wee bit. Wiser now, I am convinced, in addition to a portion of my brain and my free spirit, the afterbirth actually contains the keys to your cage. By not poking through the sloppy mess, you are essentially fucked for life.

I thought about all of this, while gridlocked in traffic last week. How my wings are clipped, and how breastfeeding – while painful as hell – meant fewer trips to the grocery store for food you wouldn't normally eat in a million years. Like Pogos. And maybe there's a pre-election buzz in the air, but every street in this city has some underpaid moron waving a construction stop sign, back and forth, preventing anyone from going anywhere but insane. Add hungover freshmen and an influx of geriatric cruise ship passengers – and you've got a constipated traffic flow, the likes of which I haven't seen my post-partum speed bump of a hemorrhoid.

Stuck ironically at the corner of Young Ave., I was frothing at the mouth, turning the steering wheel left, then right, trying to get a better look at whatever it was standing in the way of my destination, when much to my surprise I heard the radio newscaster talking about me. Me, on the CBC! I caught the words, "emotionally distraught.... often banging her head against walls... terrible psychological problems when unable to roam freely... stands stationary much of the time, or rocks back and forth in distress." Holy shit, I was on the radio! How did they know? They went on to say that even William Shatner had sent in a letter demanding I be released into the wild, so I could live out my days in peace. I was overjoyed and started honking my horn and flipping boxes of Kraft dinner out the window like it was a post-war ticker tape parade.

Midway between my freedom cry of a woo followed by a hoo, I realized they weren't talking about me. They were talking about Lucy, the resident elephant at the Edmonton Zoo. Like me, Lucy is not coping well in captivity, some arguing Lucy's isolated existence is tantamount to torture.

Apparently, aside from banging her head against the arena wall, Lucy's been drinking, and has packed on a few hundred pounds. She hasn't been for a pedicure in so long, her toenails look like Howard Hughes' did, just before he pulled the rip cord. And, she hasn't had sex since Curious George became bi-curious George. Even her closest friends say she's not the witty, vivacious elephant she used to be. She's just another elephant in the room.

Well, move over Captain Kirk, I know exactly what Lucy needs and it's not a booty call from Babar. Lucy needs a plane ticket. Something to look forward to. Those of us who were born to be wild need a travel itinerary at all times just to survive the day-to-day dreariness of captivity. My freedom flight of the month would be Maritime Travel's Botswana Untouched Mobile Safari. 14 days of 4x4-ing through Botswana's National Parks and hangin' with the wild ones: giraffes, zebras, elephants, and my personal favourite, the wildebeest. The price isn't bad considering the ground you cover – from Johannesburg to Victoria Falls – and it's way cheaper than therapy.

Sure, Lucy's having a tough time right now, but she'll be okay. It's hard carrying a baby for 22-months only to watch him grow up and pull away from the herd. Someone ought to write a book called "What to Expect When the Little Bastards Reach Puberty".

Besides, I hear the watering holes in Botswana are wild. Even a middle-aged warthog with baggage can get laid.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Book your ticket out of captivity by calling Maritime Travel at 1.800.593.3334 or find an agent online at www.maritimetravel.ca.

Waving the white flag after Labour Day. And hey, where did you get that cute wooly bugger.

If by Labour Day they mean spending the entire day working your way through the snack cupboard watching stunningly beautiful Russians (or butt ugly Russians, as it appears there are no middle-of-the-road Russians) playing tennis – then I laboured. I laboured hard.

By the time Monday night rolled around, I was fighting the dog for the last bite of kibble, the US Open was half over, and I still hadn't rotated my wardrobe. My crisp, pastel linen blouses, flirty sundresses and slim, white capris were still in the summer section of my lavender-scented closet. Lazy ol' me hadn't taken the day to transition my cashmeres and tweeds out of the cedar-lined closet and into my fall/winter walk-in closet.

Fuckin, as if.

My fall wardrobe transition consists of a few deep knee bends and some kegel exercisies trying to see how badly my one pair of Levi's had shrunk while lying in the bottom drawer all summer. I blame the humidity. Spending the summer in elastic waist shorts and stretchy tennis skirts makes for a rude awakening the morning after Labour Day.

So, I have decided to surrender the sweatpants and spruce up my fall wardrobe, by first doing a little research into what's hip and trendy for the fall of '09. Naturally, I bought Vogue. It's so reassuring to know that the September issue of Vogue magazine weighs more than some of their models.

The good news is: saddle bags are finally in. I was so excited to read this I almost peed my pants, but then I realized they were talking about giant leather purses and not thighs, so my excitement was short lived.

I am also overjoyed to announce that candlestick, or matchstick jeans, are the latest in denim. Candlestick. Matchstick. I cannot wait to try a pair on. I can picture myself sweating on the floor of the Gap change room, trying to wedge my ass into a pair of pants designed to fit a six-foot putting iron with bulimia nervosa, while some size 0 wearing a headset stands outside asking if I, like, need anything. "Yes, Tiffany, I need a fucking life and a smaller ass. Could you run and fetch me some!".

If looking like a stick isn't your thing, the "boyfriend" jean is very hot. I don't know about you, but I am going out to find the biggest, fattest boyfriend I can get my hands on just so I can borrow his jeans, then dump his fat ass.

Next there's the short sleeved cardigan. So practical for a Canadian winter spent huddled over the exhaust fan out behind the rink built in 1967, hoping to Christ I can catch a buzz from the Zamboni fumes leaking out into the arctic air. I will be so thankful to be wearing a white cotton blouse with cuffs under my short sleeved cardigan.

Red is also in. Not good, unless you are Mrs. Claus or weigh 96 pounds soaking wet in a pair of dipstick jeans.

Leopard print is very in. Oh goody. Ever since someone made a mooing sound when I walked by – Jeff Taylor I think it was – I have avoided wearing anything that made me look like livestock or an endangered species. That reminds me. Leather pants are in.

Oh, I could go on forever, but I have some shopping to do. I am looking for chain bedazzled booties. Sequins for day. One shoulder dresses (also great for the rink). Oversized earrings. Anything with shoulder pads. Oh, and thigh-high boots. I know exactly where I am going for those: Fishing Fever on Agricola. I was there last week replacing Jack's fly fishing vest and I spotted the yummiest pair of hip waders. Why go thigh high when I can make my own trend and go all the way to the top. Soon everyone will want a pair, and unlike fucking broomstick jeans, hip waders are one-size-fits-all. Hip waders are also available in two trendy colour ways: camouflage and khaki. Hip waders fit perfectly over your jammies and come in especially handy if you are mildy, or even wildly, incontinent. Plus, hip waders are great for shoplifting, or if you forgot your hippie dippie recyclable canvas grocery bags – just think of the shit you can cram down the front, and back, of those things.

And, listen up. I can barley hang a shower curtain, let alone hold my arm above my head whipping it back and forth in an attempt at fly fishing, but have you ever been to Fishing Fever? This cute, little boutique is not only jammed with all sorts of stuff you could potentially pass off as trendy feathered earrings, they also have animal print, or is it camo, never mind, coats and vests. And I read in Vogue that neon pink is in, so neon orange can't be far behind. Plus, when I was there last week I saw several hot looking real men, including the owner. Men who fish, and kill things. Let me tell ya, there's something extremely sexy about a man who can not only catch and clean fish, but can also kill something meaty for dinner. In fact, when I returned home the phone rang and I saw Fishing Fever on call display and for a second I got all hopeful and sweaty, thinking, hey, maybe they liked me and they're calling to see if I wanted to hang on to their rods, or catch some trout down by a cabin in the woods. But, alas, my debit card transaction didn't go through, because I was distracted or had a sudden case of fishing fever, or something.

Oh well. I'll just have to go back and maybe shop for a little vest to go with my new hip waders, because after all, I am the trendsetter to watch this fall of '09.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Fishing Fever is at 2858 Agricola Street in Halifax. They have a basic website www.fishingfever.ca but it's really worth your while to go check out all the rods and poles and guy stuff. Wear something flirty, like a nice, neon one-shoulder dress with oversized earrings or something.

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.