I slept with Tiger Woods.

No point in being all hush hush about it now. Tiger took me in the rough, right off of the 15th hole. I have the grass stains on my panty hose to prove it. Mind you, it was over before I could yell "fore", but he was an animal, and a gentleman. Yes, he deflowered me right there in the woods. Sweet Teddy. He caddied for Daddy. I remember it like it was yesterday.

But never mind, it's Christmas, and I have to buy myself a little something for under the tree. The little bastard gets upset thinking Santa stiffs me year after year. I slept with him once, Santa. It was egg nog induced – not worth making the naughty list for. Oh, the way he used to yell, ho, ho, ho right before he came down the chimney.

I've been thinking I'd buy myself a sewing machine ever since I saw that Sarah Richardson and her sidekick Tommy, whipping up Christmas stockings on HGTV. I went to third base with Tommy before he came out of his mother's closet wearing her best dress and pearls. I recall his skin being a tad clammy.

I used to sew a lot as a young girl. Crafty I was. I made cowboy shirts right after I slept with Willie Nelson, and I was getting all excited about sewing until the little bastard said, "Mom, what exactly would you sew, besides name bars on my hockey jerseys?" and I responded, "sans-a belt slacks and a matching vest for you, you unappreciative little prick". Or maybe a nice flannel nightie for me – one that will get all twisted, as I toss and turn thinking about the night I bedded down with Ben Cartwright, or was it Hoss? Nighties can be so irritating, and I'll wake up naked except for the moist noose of flannel tucked under my breasts.

So I am asking Santa for a sewing machine and a smoke detector, because the little bastard says I put the oven on higher to make things cook faster, and as a result I burn everything – but that's what Gordon Ramsey taught me just after we made love in Tuscany. Crank it, bitch, I believe he said. Oh, such a fabulously foul mouth, maybe I'll ask for a new Gordon Ramsey pot from Thornbloom, since I burned the fuck out of my only decent pot making hot cider and rum last week. Flames were licking the ceiling before I realized the blue smoke wasn't coming from the ashtray. It'll be like a souvenir of our lovemaking, and much better than the herpes I picked up from Julia Child.

If you're heading downtown to see that adorable boy at the Port of Wines, the one who used to drink Armagnac out of my belly button, Mills Brothers have a lingerie department that makes me blush just thinking about it. Besides, with that Darrell Dexter denying seniors heating assistance – I never should have slept with him – I am drawn to Mill's Bedhead pyjamas in cozy flannel. There's a saucy leopard print that would suit me just fine. And they have silky, sexy Bedhead pyjamas, just like the pair Picasso ripped off me right before I posed for Nude Descending Staircase. Or was that Marcel Duchamp?

Oh the mind is a wonderful thing, and Christmas brings back so many special memories for me like when my great grandmother Edna used to say, "Jimmy, go fetch me my purse so I can give you a little something" and it was usually an Avon-scented handkerchief, wet with the residue of geranium pink lipstick and snot.

It's hard to believe some mornings I wake up and think, where am I?, and I have absolutely nothing to write about, but then I think, it's the thought that counts, Teddy.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Mills on Spring Garden Road have a lingerie section that will make you blush (or get you out of the dog house). www.millsbrothers.com

Thornbloom in Spring Garden Place have cookware that will make you warm all over.

Angry doodles and hairy asses. So, how was your Monday.

Imagine my thrill at being handed a small, paper number one (#01) by the medical receptionist, only to walk around the corner all smug to find they were on number fucking four.

I quickly learned there are perks to uncontrollable coughing fits because no one wants to sit anywhere near you – which was fine – because I was in a sea of unattractive strangers wearing hospital gowns. Plural. With the exception of the man wearing a hospital gown. Singular. Thank you for that. The image of your fat, hairy, zit-covered ass ass is now burned into my retinas for eternity.

So that was my Monday spent "in the system". I then drove the boys to Cole Harbour for hockey, and finally stopped to let the dogs take a crap in the park, only to have some big, stupid, uncontrollable Doodle named Ellie, take down my 10-pound Dottie – not once, but twice. There I was, chasing after my dog – coughing, peeing, coughing – thinking I wish I owned a gun so I could plaster Ellie all over the ball diamond, and thinking last year at this time I was on my way to Cuba for a week of tennis, sun, salad, and hopefully traveller's diarrhea – and how life can turn on a dime.

One day you are a standard poodle – already one of God's most despicable creatures – and the next thing you know you are being violated by an inbred golden retriever. Your offspring will then go on to suburban neighbourhoods across North America where, for $800 bucks, they will live in a crate until the dog walker comes and releases them for $25 bucks an hour, so they can attack or dry hump anything within a 2km radius.

I finally arrived home last night, rinsed the blood off of my dog's paw, then called for backup. I had no sooner hung up the phone when my neighbour arrived like a beloved St. Bernard in the snowy alps, carrying a handle of amber rum and a box of Neo Citran packets. It was like an assisted suicide. Just what the doctor ordered.

What the doctor really should have ordered was a ticket out of here. Maritime Travel have a deal to Mexico ($758 plus tax) where I could likely pick up a gun, so I could come home with a tan and blow Eliie's inbred brains out. The flight leaves Sunday, December 13th for the 4.5 star Occidental Grand Xcaret in the Mayan Riviera. If you haven't been to the Mayan Riviera, trust me, they have margarita machines and what else do you really need to know.

Nothing like a trip to the hospital though, as a reminder that things could always be worse. I could have been dry humped all night by the man with the hairy ass.

Or worse. I could have woken up to find my golden retriever and my poodle had puppies.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

PS. Just for the record it was NOT Cindy Wheeler's dog Ellie that needs a kick in the hairy ass.
Check out the Hot Deals button at www.maritimetravel.ca.

Kim Cole & Lynn MacKinnon of Bark Busters will come to your home and train that fucking Doodle. www.barkbusters.ca

Bats in the Atticus

Oh dear. Day 7 of swine flu and I'm so sick of coughing, I switched from cherry cough syrup to Grape flavoured wine syrup and now I am going to bed to pull a Karen Carpenter, or was it Karen Ann Quinlan, whatever, I'll die happy because we just watched To Kill A Mockingbird – again – and I am going to bed, I think I already said that, where I will pretend I am Scout sitting on Atticus's lap.

Why not pretend there are no big, nasty, big-box stores, and shop at some amazing galleries, markets, and small independent boutiques this Christmas. Victoria Bell will be custom-stamping Suetables silver baubles tomorrow at FID, from 3 until 5 (reeks of cocktail hour) and Studio 21 has some great artwork and never mind, it'll all be even better in the morning. Don't you just love Christmas syrup.

Oh, Atticus, say, "you're licked before you begin" again.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Here, kitty.

Yesterday, a man called to see how I was feeling.

Doesn't that start off really nicely?

I barely had "shitty" out of my mouth when he said, "Oh, too bad, I was kind of hoping you'd drive my kid to hockey."

No shit.

As I watch this ridiculous Tiger Woods scandal unfold, I bet two things: Tiger's popularity will rise among men. And more women will take up golf, just so they can swing like a super model.

Bottom line is, the male species cannot be domesticated. Sure, you can teach a cat to shit in a lavender-scented litter box, but the second Mr. Fluffy is outside, he's pissing all over the rhododendron, mutilating songbirds, and fucking the neighbour's tabby.

I hear the tabby is a real slut.

All I'm saying is wild things are wild things. Placing a bell the size of a Kobe diamond on a cat will only announce that the cat is coming. He's dangerous, he's wearing a shiny bell. He's successful. Someone owns him. Nice bell. 'Wonder if he's been neutered. Who cares. He's wearing a shiny bell. Look at the size of his paws. Puuurrrrrrrfect.

Gentlemen, I love you. You should all live together in a big cave with a big screen TV, but I do love you. But even if you can afford to peel off millions in an attempt to heal wounds, it's too late. The wounds are there. Think before you accidentally place your penis in a cocktail waitress. Or before you say things like, "Oh, too bad, I was kind of hoping you'd drive my kid to hockey." Try this instead: "Could I perhaps help you in any way that won't benefit me?"

I know, Sweetheart, evolution is hard, isn't it. It takes practice. Here, let me get you a beer and the remote.

Duly Noted on Quinpool Road have a great selection of cards. Funny cards. Note cards. Sentimental cards. Blank cards too, just in case you want to write your own greeting like: "Sorry I fucked the cocktail waitress" or "Sorry I spoke to you like you were stupid, even though you make more money than me" or "I love you, will you do that thing you did to me on our wedding night?" or "I hope you are feeling better soon, because I really need you to do something for me".

There's that word again. Me. Add an "n" and sometimes you'll get a asshole-in-one.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Duly Noted is at 6224 Quinpool Road and 1459 Brenton Steet in Halifax.

Bluer than, well, that's between me and Harvey.

Harvey Parks died last week at 80. No big news compared to the Tigeress keeping her head down and swinging, but it set off a wave of nostalgia that echoed from where I sit, back to a 13-year old girl skiing up to the chairlift to be greeted by a devilish grin, a wink, and a "No school again today huh, you ugly lil' bitch."

Harvey Parks had the bluest eyes, the foulest mouth and the biggest heart of anyone I have ever met. A lift attendant at the ski hill where I grew up too fast – Harvey was a seasonal fixture in my youth. I could quite possibly owe my colourful vocabulary and eloquent delivery entirely to Harvey, and his terms of endearment.

It was from Harvey I learned that rye is best served warm in a dirty, styrofoam cup; that appearances are just that; to protect the things you love; to be yourself and speak your mind; and a really cold, windy day was best described as "blowin' like a whore at a Legion convention."

The last time I was home, I paid a visit to Harvey and his long-suffering wife, Iona. A chain smoker, I had to chuckle when I saw the miserable old prick hooked up to an oxygen machine in his living room. Permanently tanned from summer farming and winters spent loading uptight city asses on to the Minute Mile chairlift, Harvey's face was criss-crossed with hard work – and come to think of it, he looked a bit like a cross between Alfred E. Newman and Paul Newman – but it was those blue, blue eyes of his that will twinkle for all eternity. That morning, he greeted me and my cousin with a hearty, "Would ya look at what the sonofabitch of a cat dragged in" and gave me a warm hug that bordered ever so slightly on a grope, but it wouldn't be Harvey if he didn't try.

In that small town where I grew up under the watchful eye of men like Harvey, I can almost hear the 8-track playing Elvis's Blue, Blue, Blue Christmas over and over through tinny outdoor speakers perched above the Osborne's Electric sign. Makes me want to grab my best friend Simone, a six pack of Lonesome Charlie and go back roading, just thinking about it.

I've been thinking about blue Christmases since I was in Sobeys last week. A woman behind me starting loading bottles of Van Dyck's Blueberry Juice onto the checkout belt. She had cases of the stuff in her cart and at $10 bucks a 500ml bottle I figured she was either addicted, or crazy, or both, so I said with a Harvery-esque wink, "Soooo... a little vodka and blueberry back at the ol' assisted living facility?" The uptight ol' bitch avoided eye contact and said she was a supporter of shopping locally and was giving Nova Scotian blueberry juice as gifts.

Fair enough. I am all for antioxidants and shopping locally, no need to get all pissy about it. Toss in a sexy martini glass and some cocktail napkins from Thornbloom and you've got a blue Christmas worth singing about. In fact, once I get rid of this fucking swine flu, I'm heading downtown for a little holiday shopping myself. I guarantee there won't be Elvis Christmas Carols piped in on Spring Garden Road, but Onyx makes a wicked Blueberry vodka martini with sake, blueberry tea reduction and passion fruit. Twilight they call it.

A couple of those and my green eyes will be twinkling all Harvey Parks blue, blue, blue – just in time for Christmas. Cheers! Harvey, ya lovely ol' bastard.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Onyx is at 5680 Spring Garden Road in Halifax.

Van Dyk's Blueberry Juice is available at Sobeys and health food stores across Canada, or by contacting Randy MacDonald at 902-542-4405, or randymacdonald@vandykblueberries.ca.
www.vandykblueberries.ca

I was kind of hoping for the pre-Christmas colon cleansing strain of H1N1.

Being sick when you're a self-employed, single mother sucks. There's no lying in bed with a stack of new magazines and the flicker, flipping from Ellen to The View to W, barking orders for fresh flowers and hot Neo Citran with a splash of rye.

There's no one to bark at, and even when the little bastard gets home, I could be lying in a pool of blood and stool samples on the kitchen floor and he'd ask me to fetch him some chocolate milk and Fudgee-O's.

Life goes on pretty much as it always does, only I pee my pants when I cough, so I'm sucking back cough suppressant like Tonto on a Friday night, which is making for some award-winning creative heading out to clients.

And this was going to be the start of my Christmas crafts season, beginning with DIY instructions on how to fashion festive wreaths out of cigarette butts, spray paint, wire coat hangers and maxi pads with wings – but that will have to wait.

I did manage to get my annual narcissus (Paper Whites) bulbs planted before the piggy plague descended. Halifax Seed sell the big fat bulbs that even I can't screw up. If you plant them, like, now, they should be perfect by Christmas Eve. I love the idea of forcing things at Christmas – like compassion, love, and spring flowers.

Here's hoping the gut-wrenching diarrhea and vomiting commences soon, because I have the swine part of this swine flu down pat, and as a result, the only thing beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here is me, and I'm Mrs. Claus.

Ho. Ho. Fucking Ho.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Halifax Seed is at 5860 Kane Street in Halifax. www.halifaxseed.ca

Little bastard's team wins Esso Cup gold.

48 funeral sandwiches. 19 bowls of chili. 97 coffees. 6 ounces (+) of Baileys in preparation for penalty shot. 34 assorted squares from visiting Cape Breton grandmas. More Baileys. 5 awesome coaches. 5 days lost. One gold medal. Several teammates with trophies. Several teammates with injuries playing on regardless. One great goal with 7 seconds left. More Baileys, thanks Diane. And one happy little bastard sporting award for "Goaltender of the Esso Cup tournament".

Practice tonight at 5. Back to work.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

One hot Hooter Mom.

This morning's rush-hour fire at Hooters had absolutely nothing to do with the friction and subsequent sparks created by my thighs rubbing together while wearing my flesh-toned Hooters nylons.

No one was hurt in the blaze, although our dinner plans for this evening are currently up in smoke.

Here's hoping for a speedy re-opening, and better timing. If you have no idea what the hell I am talking about, keep reading.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

And now, a word from our sponsor.

I have to go "work the door" at the rink this morning, which is kind of like "working the room" minus heat, cocktails, networking potential, intelligent snippets of conversation, and the possibility of getting laid, or hired.

Before I go, can I confess to letting out a bit of a snort when I heard a Canadian woman was handed a three-year sentence this week for fatally stabbing her husband. That's the same time an Australian woman received this month for killing her old boyfriend's dog.

At least those women will get food, likely some free skill training, and a warm bed. And sure, that bed may have some big butch named Carla lying in it, but after two, unpaid, three-hour shifts working the rink door today, I'll be looking for a room with a little padded wallpaper.

At least tonight's dinner is looked after. We're going to Hooters – proud sponsor of my son's hockey jerseys. The girls at Hooters won't be wearing as many layers as I will today, but boy can they work a room. Teetering with size 12.5 feet on the edge of puberty, Jack can't see beyond the menu or the 38" flat screens fixed on TSN, but I notice my lessons on making eye contact are falling a bit short.

Hooters bills itself as "delightfully tacky yet unrefined" but I give them thumbs up for good food in a fun, family atmosphere. While the name may suggest cleavage and jugs of beer, what you actually get is a perky, young student working her way through school. I like the Buffalo shrimp, Cobb salad, deep-fried dill pickles, and the fact that they stepped up to pitch in with hockey expenses.

I'd better go. It'll take me an hour to squeeze into my tank top and orange short shorts uniform. This Hooter Mom is workin' the door.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Hooters is located in at 120 Main Street in Dartmouth.

Self, I said. We're screwed.

My text message to Cousin Sarah was pithy. It said: I need you to be my bitch. For cash.

I pounded it out on my iPhone just before succumbing to banal late night television and a nightcap. I drifted off thinking how much work I had to do, and that Jay Leno is so not funny, it's not even fucking funny. People with sleep disorders should watch Jay Leno, except they'd fall asleep all pissed off because he makes so much money and the man couldn't deliver a pizza.

Anyway, unlike the teenagers that surround me, texting is not something I do well. Maybe my fingertips are fat, but I cannot text while walking, eating, shitting, driving, or while carrying out a conversation – even if that conversation is with myself and goes something like this; "You are so fucked. I know. No, really, you need to ask for help. I know, but I hate asking for help. And you look all puffy, ease off the Goldfish crackers, you're not four. Fuck off. And quit pulling at your sweater, you're fat, it didn't shrink. Kiss my ass."

So my text message to Cousin Sarah probably looked more like this: I'd you me batch, forsaken.

But here's the beauty. Like dogs sniffing strange ass in the park, or deciphering a drunken toddler's whiny jibberish, Cousin Sarah will understand my message, and she will help. She will help, because she knows I never ask for help, because I hate needy people. And Sarah delivers. Not like when you ask your kid to do something, like make a bed, or put away clothes, and you end up doing it again anyway, because they don't do it right, and hey, wait a minute, I am a fucking control freak. I am not.

There isn't a personal shopping/concierge service in Havenot, or I'd be advertising it here ––––––––––––––– so I am starting one, effective today. It's called Control Freaks Concierge or maybe Yo Bitch I haven't decided yet, so if you need anything done, call me, and I'll text Sarah. For $50 bucks, no wait, $100 bucks an hour we can be your bitches and be in all the places you need to be but can't. And we have good taste. Except in men, so if you need a man, you're screwed. And except for this week, because my best bitch is already busy.

Which brings me to my favouritest line ever, delivered by the VP of a major bank, shortly after a disastrous first meeting with a Board she was about to co-chair. She said without emotion, staring straight ahead as the elevator doors closed, "I get paid to work with assholes. I don't volunteer to work with assholes."

So this week, don't expect to hear from me (unless you're a ref) because Canada's Most Creative person :) will be selling 50/50 tickets and flipping pancakes, because when you sign your kid up for hockey and pay thousands of dollars so your kid can play and be happy, there's some really fine print somewhere on the sheet with the shoots LEFT or RIGHT boxes that says; all hockey parents must volunteer 158 hours per week, oh, except for the dad who is recently single and announced that he cannot possibly volunteer because he is a single parent now. Oh boy, I can't wait to bump into him at the next hockey black-tie cocktail function. I'd send him a text message that says "You usless dipsht lamp dik tull", but he likely wouldn't get it.

Cousin Sarah would. She really would.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

ps. I know favouritest isn't a word. Fuck off.

Putting the "Christ, are you kidding me?" back in Christmas.

Crank up the Family Guy Christmas CD. According to one of those, Daddy's getting a blow job downtown because Mommy's obsessed with nutritious snacks-websites – 'tis the season for politically correct toys.

Yep, so long G.I. Joe. Take your six-pack abs and missing penis and move in with Barbie. Awareness is the new BattleBot.

Take for instance, Playmobil's Airport Security play set – it looks like a real blast and encourages anti-terrorism and race sensitivity. It also comes with a teensy, tiny, little box cutter.

Or, if you want to teach your child a real lesson, let it be about bullying when he shows up on the playground making low-carb emission sounds, pushing an eco-friendly Recycling Truck from Green Toys. According to mommyisfrigid.com, "It's a truck, it's a lesson in recycling, it's an example to us all." It's a kick in the 'nads from the child who got Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2 for XBox in his stocking, is what it is. You may as well hand your kid a blue bag and let him suffocate to avoid the humiliation of being beaten to ratshit while separating mini garbage during recess.

And I don't know about you, but I'd miss being all hungover Christmas morning, undoing those endless wires covered with the blood of 5-year old Chinese children making 15 cents an hour, twisting and twisting, so your toxic plastic, Twin Tower Exploding Transformer with Semi-Automatic Rapidfire won't break in transit from Hong Kong to Havenot. Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without child labour.

Let's not forget Gwen – Mattel's latest American Girl doll. Don't let that blonde hair and white eyelet dress fool you – Gwen Thompson has a dirty little secret. American Girl's latest bestseller is homeless and living in the backseat of her car. I couldn't make shit like this up. According to Gwen's "story", Daddy skipped out, Mommy lost her job in a recession hit, and the bank booted them out of their dollhouse. For $95 USD you can teach your daughter that men suck, women are useless without men, single moms are deadbeats – and no one cares – so long as you have shiny hair.

Fuck, give me a break. If Christmas was supposed to be politically correct, Santa's workshop wouldn't be stocked with underpaid midgets wearing tights, cranking out toys like Pole Dancer Dolly, complete with edible g-string (okay, I made up that g-string part) or Barbie's friend, Happy Family unwed slut Pregnant Midge. Oh, and my favourite, Power Wheels Cadillac Escalade by Fisher-Price. For $349.99, it teaches your child, if you're going to do a drive-by shooting, you may as well be guzzling gas. The vehicle comes in black, naturally, with tinted glass, and is recommended for ages 36 months to 5 years. (36 months, for those who don't speak Mommy, is approximately 3, or when they start saying "why" over and over until you have to whip out the Nyquil to shut them up.)

Face it. Christmas is a pathetic excuse to eat and drink too much; make your annual boozed up trip to midnight mass for agnostics; and spend money you simply cannot afford. I fuckin' love it. Why ruin it with political correctness.

If you're really stuck on what to give the little bastards, Sweet Jane's on Doyle Street has edible gifts, hysterically funny and politically incorrect gifts, plus, great retro tin toys. Who cares if the kids don't like them – they'll rekindle all sorts of flashbacks from your childhood, like the Christmas morning Daddy set Chatty Cathy's hair on fire with his Marlboro Lights.

He said the little bitch just wouldn't shut up.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Sweet Janes is on Doyle Street, just down from the Port of Wines. www.sweetjanes.com.

Like white on Rice.

Last night's torch lighting in Havenot was a rip roarin' success, and apparently had nothing whatsoever to do with Condoleezza Rice's decision to RSVP: "No way in hell, uh uh, ain't comin" to next month's cleverly named, A Conversation with Condoleezza Rice event, scheduled for December 10th.

Event organizers claim it was their decision – not Ms. Rice's – and had nothing to do with last night's Twitter message from the government-operated Come to Life propaganda website proclaiming in 140 characters or less: HRM– You're so fucking white!

Way to roll out the welcome mat, Halifax Regional Municipality – twin city of Backofthebus, Mississippi. Even Sidney Crosby looked narrow minded in his white hat.

Damn, and I was so looking forward to forking out $139 to $899 just for the opportunity to stand up in question period and ask, "Hey, Condo... George Bush? What the fuck were you thinkin', girlfriend?" The man had a jockey on the White House lawn.

Nevermind. Lucky for us there are a few tickets remaining for tomorrow night's thought-provoking performance by Buddy Wasisname and The Other Fellers at Dal's Rebecca Cohn Theatre. Plus, I am pissing myself in anticipation of all the jumping up and down, because the Amethyst Scottish Dancers will be flipping their kilts on November 29th. And wait, there's reason to go on living, because Tommy Hunter will be on the Dalhousie stage January 17th, which is a fucking miracle because I think Tommy is actually dead.

For those of you with painfully boring lives, who feel it is necessary to entertain your little bastards 'round-the-clock lest they miss one Montessori moment before piano lessons, Franklin the clearly gay Turtle will be here with his gal pal, Beaver on March 13th. Beaver is a person of colour, just so you know in advance.

So much worth coming to life for here in Havenot. Who needs to sit through an evening with a vibrant, Stanford-educated woman, with a past worth talking about, when we can all chuckle along with Buddy Wasisname, tapping our Clark's crepe soles to hits like: Peein' in the Snow, Cryin' my Arse Off, and Flies in the Beer.

It's a good thing Elton John got in and out of here, before Come to Lifers could twat, er, Tweet: HRM– you're so colonial and middle-class heterosexual it isn't even funny!

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For tickets to exciting Rebecca Cohn events go to: www.artscentre.dal.ca.

For tickets to see Art Garfunkel at the Metro Centre, I hear Art will be handing them out at the door.

Stephen Harper says, "Let 'em eat pussy."

The last of autumn's red, yellow, and orange have fallen to the ground in a heap. Time to rake the Lays, Doritos and Cheetos Halloween treat bags off of my bedroom floor and start thinking about the "C" word.

Why wait for the Americans to polish off their airport and artery clogging Thanksgiving festivities to kick off the gluttonous, greedy glory that is Christmas. I'm kicking it off today.

What better timing, with the latest statistics showing Food Bank shopping is skyrocketing across Canada, making me feel like I really must get off my fat ass and do something aside from cracking open the "lite" egg nog and lacing it with a fifth of rum.

But first, let me get all maudlin for a moment when I say we lost one box when we moved to Toronto (and back) last year. Sadly, that one box contained our Christmas stockings and our much-loved, carved Santa (holding the holy mackerel) who sat on the mantle year after year. Fuck. The lovely man who carved the Santa as a gift has died and well, fuck again. Jack was due on Christmas Day and thank Jesus that selfish, son of a single mother didn't want to share his big birthday, because my little miracle popped out 5 days early, pushing 10 pounds and wearing skates, or at least that's what it felt like – but not before I had a local woman hand knit a stocking that said "BABY". Jack loved that stocking because it was huge. I loved it because, well, I am a sentimental old bitch who can't knit.

So, while I am entitled to be a tad bitter about Christmas right off the bat, because I loved those material possessions that signified a tradition in our little family – this year I am not going to let that stand in the way, because despite taking a bad recession hit, we really don't need anything. Okay, Jack needs new upper hockey gear, a new trapper apparently, his borrowed skates are falling apart – and I could use a new bra – but other than that, and compared to alot of others, we are doing okay. I have to watch my gag reflexes when I say, "we have our health and each other".

I never thought I would write a sentence like that. Fuck! Maybe it's because I've been up since 4am working on the Esso Cup booklet for Jack's hockey team as a volunteer. Sigh, my moment of glory as Canada's Most Creative person is all but a faded memory. That, and my once perky breasts seems to be touching the waist tie on this housecoat.

Anyway, a few years ago, when I had cash that actually flowed, Jack and I adopted a family from the Metro Food Bank. I asked for, and was given a single Mom and her child. I was handed a wish list that was so short and selfless, I went totally overboard in response. The Mom asked for; a toothbrush, pyjamas and a toy police car for her four-year old boy – likely because the little one saw Daddy whisked off in the backseat of a real one with sirens flashing. For herself, she asked nothing. Not one thing. By the time we were done, I think I spent over $500 dollars filling a box with toys, food and new clothes for both the Mother and child. The money didn't matter. It was the most fun shopping we did that year. Even Jack, normally a greedy little prick at Christmas, got into the spirit of giving.

So that's my cheery Christmas kick-off. Don't worry, this lapse into altruistic do-gooding won't last long. By the time the Packers and the Lions signal the official start of "shopping for things you cannot afford, for people you don't even like-season", I'll be back to spewing bile, all cranked up on the peppermint schnapps I bought as a little treat to slide in my Adopt-A-Family's gift box.

As for this recent Food Bank crisis, I say Mr. Ebenezer Harper, our own little Marie Antoinette, should stop worrying about his limp majority, shut up, man up, and cough up a fur ball in the form of canned goods and cash. Bad enough his beloved cats eat better than some Canadians. I may call him collect at home, right now while my claws are out.

Merry "C" word.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

To participate in Adopt-a-Family, please call the Metro Food Bank at 902.457.1900 ext.234. If you are lucky enough not to live in Havenot, most major cities and towns have similar programs.

Widows and whiners and wheezy toddlers. Christ, my head hurts.

Waking up without one's pyjamas on is usually a good thing, except I was alone, and I had gone out to dinner wearing my pyjamas, and went to bed wearing the clothes I had on, which happened to be pyjamas. Are ya with me so far? How I lost them in the course of the night is a mystery, but maybe I've got some explaining to do.

Cousin Sarah and I. Wait. How come sentences that start with "Cousin Sarah and I" usually wind up with one of us being arrested, or worse, projectile vomiting all over the phone after drinking and dialing the jerk that dumped me for the puffy débutante with the trust fund.

Last night was set aside to plow through the November Stinks entries. I arrived at Sarah's house in my pyjamas because I was tired and my pants are too tight and I was hoping to scarf back some chow and get the hell out of there so I could be in bed by 8.

But oh no. Fate found me pyjama clad at a surprise victory party in my honour – which was really nice, but I am a go big or go home kind of girl which meant waking up naked covered with lemon icing and thirsty as all get out. Realizing it was Monday and I had a child, I woke the little bastard up, but he just moaned something about being too post-hockey tournament tired to go to school, so I thought, screw it, chugged a Diet Coke, and went back to bed.

Jammie day.

So, while better late then never, Cousin Sarah and I have just now sifted through the many entries in the November Stinks contest, and let me say some of you have filthy mouths and sick minds and are just awesome. Choosing just two winners was really tough because it seems asthma and breathing problems are rampant here in Havenot, maybe since you're all descended from the same inbred coal miner from New Fucking Waterford, Cape Breton.

I must say, the funniest November Stinks email came from a man of all things, and to quote a line from his entry: "I've got full-on swine flu, and have been sweating like Father Lahie on a school bus." So, nice try Trent Laing. You get an honourable mention, but no cigar.

The winner of the night at White Point goes to Kim McNeil because she made me and Cousin Sarah cry, so damn you Kim for having a dead husband who died in the month of November – a husband you actually loved – which truly sucks. If you didn't love him and he died, you wouldn't be heading down to wipe your ass on White Point towels.

The winner of the Surgically Clean Air air purifier goes to Marcie Young, because Marcie has twin girls which is freakishly bad enough (think puberty) but to make things worse, the twins were preemies, both have asthma, and her husband works out of town a lot, yadda yadda. Through it all, Marcie still seems to have a sense of humour, so she gets a heavy duty air purifier to make life stink a little less for her, and her girls.

And I am a winner too, thanks to the nice folks who voted, and to Marketing Magazine and their key sponsor American Express, but I feel like a loser today because I woke up naked and alone and covered with icing and fuck, I love icing. How did I miss my mouth with a fork full of icing?

I must be slipping, because Lord knows my mouth is seldom shut.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Casual Friday the 13th.

This morning, I dropped the Barbie-sized hotel body lotion bottle and it sprayed all over the carpet and the bedskirt, and it was creamy white and it looked like I was having waaaaaay more fun than I actually was last night, and I didn't want the nice cleaning lady to think I was a slut, so I cleaned it all up, then went stalking businessmen in suits in Toronto's financial district, only it felt like I was at a Liberal convention in Havenot because there were no men in suits, only men in khakis and Wallabees, and it dawned on me that it was casual fucking Friday the 13th and I thought, this day sucks.

Then I won. I won Marketing's Creative Faceoff! No, really. It must have been a mercy win because my fellow finalists were all lovely, talented, young, smart people... did I say young?

And my speech, well, it was, I forget. But I'd like to thank you for voting.

Am I slurring?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

I'll leave a trail of chips so I can find my way home.

There are two things I learned very quickly upon arriving in Havenot:

One should spit, and not swallow, the white stuff on the top of a donair. And, don't fuck with Remembrance Day.

As a result, I am pounding out a hasty note to let you know that ruffles are in. And I'm not talking the chips with r-r-r-ridges. I know this because I've spent the last few days running around trying on clothes that made me look like Babar's post-Celeste rebound alcoholic second wife.

You see, much like Peter and Joey in the 1970 classic, Goin' Down the Road, I am headin' to the centre of the universe to seek fame, fortune, and a free night at the Royal York, as a finalist in Marketing's Creative Face-off. While one critic hailed Goin' as "amusing but pathetic", I'd settle for a little amusement, a little room service, and the occasional trip to the pool via the mini bar. Pathetic perhaps – but just the satisfaction of wiping my ass on someone else's towels will seem like a luxury.

The brunch is on Friday, when they will finally announce the big winner. I am told there will be Mimosas, and I'll try not to embarrass myself as a representative of the maritimes, even though I am still considered from "away", even after 20 years and giving birth to my uncle's second cousin's stepbrother, who went to StFX and pronounces the letter H like "HAITCH".

I will not be wearing trendy ruffles, but may wind up with a few potato chips nestled in my bosom, should I take to drowning my creative sorrows in the hotel lobby bar, alone and bitter with disappointment. You see, even after catching a glimpse of myself bending over in a full- length mirror and the subsequent meltdown that had me slumped on the floor of the change room – I did manage to secure a ruffle-free frock for the ball – so that pressure is off. Hopefully I won't throw up, or spill my Mimosas, so I can return said frock for full store credit on Monday.

But wait! You can still vote for me. In fact, I'd love it if you would. Plus, there's still time to make a pledge for Danny Graham's piss poor excuse for a lip wax. And you have until noon on Friday (Toronto time) to send in your entry for the November Stinks contest. Remember – you could win Surgically Clean Air, or a night of wiping your ass on White Point towels – just for letting it all out.

Tomorrow though, is different. Tomorrow, I will keep my foul mouth shut for two minutes (didn't it used to be one minute?) and think of the brave men and women whose sacrifices changed history – and of those who continue to sacrifice in this current crazy war against crazy people, so very far from home. After all these years, I am still in awe of the military presence here. It all kind of makes my dwelling on ruffles and wrinkles and rolls seem awfully trite.

Peace. Love. Mini Bar.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Vote for me one last time at http://www.creativefaceoff.ca/gallery/

Make a pledge to Danny over on the right by clicking on Movember.

Send your November Stinks rant by email to: novemberstinks@yahoo.ca

Shop for really cute things that would look great on someone other than me at Biscuit General Store on Argyle Street in Halifax. www.biscuitgeneralstore.com

Dictators for prostate cancer.

Taking one for the team, seems to be Danny Graham's modus operandi, but seriously, I could 'Grow a Mo' faster than this poor, cherubic bastard.

Movember is all about Changing the Face of Men's Health and who better to step up for assholes across Canada, than our very own class-act, Liberal bra-burning, boy next door.

Nova Scotia's beloved baby face may not have won all of your votes, but he wormed his way into the hearts of many a lonely senior, up and down the craggy coast. This month, Danny will be sprouting some peach fuzz and setting his nose hairs free – all in support of prostate cancer.

A "Mo Bro" starts Movember – or, November – with a face as smooth as a baby's ass and (in some cases) grows a nice, thick manly moustache all month long – all the while begging for votes, er, support from friends and family in the form of patronage, er, donations.

So come on people! This can't be easy for the do-gooder legal beagle who, at most, shaves quarterly when he files his HST. Plant a big, fat kiss on his other cheek by whipping out your big, fat non-partisan cheque book.

The prostate is about the size of a large walnut and needs routine probing, or it can be deadly – kind of like our current leader's brain. All it takes is one Liberal to step up, whip out his caucus, and make a difference in all of our lives.

This one's got my pat the ass.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Show your support for Danny by clicking on the Movember man on the right. For more information go to http://ca.movember.com/

So you think you can dance. Well, Billy and Susie, you can't.

Quick. I have to write this down before I forget my dream. Moments ago I woke up with a song in my head: "Take a Letter Maria... dadadada... Address it to my wife". That one-hit wonder was the music for my dance in the Tango competition, but I was having a hard time finding the spot on the *CASSETTE tape where the song began. (*If you have to ask what a cassette tape is, fuck off).

Of course, I went to an online dream interpretation site and apparently to dream of dancing signifies: freedom from any constraints and restrictions. (No bra yet this morning.) Your life is balanced and in harmony. (!??) Dancing also represents frivolity, happiness, gracefulness, sensuality and sexual desires.

Gracefulness. Sensuality. So we know that dream interpretation site sucks. And hey, wait... did I have a partner? I was dancing with someone. But who? Please make it be Colin Firth. Or a man.

Naturally, I went to the Halifax Dance site just to see if a gal wanted to learn how to Tango if that was even possible in this godforsaken part of the world. Apparently you can learn how to Belly Dance (Monday 12 - 1) Intermediate Flamenco (Thursday 1-2) Pilates (is that a dance? Tuesday 6-7) and Salsa Into the Fire, which sounds dangerous (Thursday 8-9). But no Tango.

I may sign up for Movement for People with Mobility Issues (Wednesday 12-1). That's perhaps more up my alley, and you could do it on a full stomach.

I could never watch Sesame Street on a full stomach and I noticed those little stuffed freaks just made it to 40. Jack hated Sesame Street thank God. Maybe it was because I always sat there next to him, biting the heads off his animal crackers making fun of Maria and Bob and all the other gender confused, likely Catholic, pedophiles on that show. Even Oscar the Grouch pissed me off. Cookie Monster? Challenged. And Big Bird. Don't get me started on that annoying waste of a chicken nugget – I don't even have my bra on yet. Miss Piggy was the only funny one and I think she's in Rehab.

And pity the poor puppeteer. No wonder Jim Henson checked out early. Imagine spending your entire career with your hand shoved up someone's ass, while they get all the glory and the expense account. Hey wait, that's advertising.

More coffee and further journalistic research has found www.argentinetangohalifax.com. I clicked on Free Lessons and got a cheesey video. No wonder their last posted dance class was May 2008. I guess Tango didn't go over so well in this land of Celtic jumping up and down 'til you puke or your kilt flies up.

I'm going back to bed. Maybe I'll dream of my mystery dance partner or horizontal folk dancing, or doing a choke hold on the Snuffaluffagus, or an episode of Sesame Street where Bert and Ernie (and Bob) finally come out of the fucking closet after 40 years.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Hey send me those novemberstinks@yahoo.ca. I'm getting more emails about how hard it is to express yourself, yadda yadda. It's called alcohol people. Same juice that gets you up on the dance floor. Someone has to win Surgically Clean Air, and it could be you.

Learn how to Hip Hop at http://www.halifaxdanceassoc.ns.ca/

Aloha. That's Hawaiian for "Welcome to Ballbuster".

Aloha! Aloha?

H1N1 boy caught my eye then bolted for cover.

Aloha!

I know it was likely her first day on the job, and life hadn't beaten her down yet, but "Aloha?!"

It was pissing November rain and gray as shit outside. We ran out to grab flu boy a video, because apparently he was going to survive H1N1, but could possibly die from boredom, that is, if I didn't get to him first.

He walked into the video store with strict instructions not to cough up a loogie or even look sick, lest they call the health department. Just grab your stupid movie and let's go. But, no such luck. As soon as we pushed the turnstile, the perky salesperson spun her head around, and greeted us with a cheery "Aloha!". It stopped me in my tracks. The poor thing was grinning like an idiot whacked out on Red Bull and her little brother's Ritalin. No one is that happy making minimum wage. In November. In Havenot.

Jack took one look at me and bolted. I saw him snickering in the XBox section. He had one eye on those big shoplifting mirrors that make you look all bloated and suspicious. Or at least I think it's the mirrors. Is it? Is it the mirrors or do I look like that?! Anyway, he was watching – waiting to see what I would do.

My mouth was all twitchy trying to keep my lips together, and my eyebrows were in a crazy arch that may never come down – I said,"Aloha?", then burst into hysterical, uncontrollable, crazy person laughter.

What the fuck. I am so far from ever being in Hawaii again it's not even funny, yet the Polynesian greeting hit me like a sucker punch line. I almost peed my pants right there in the popcorn aisle. It was all I could do to get out of there with the new GI Joe, and To Kill and Mockingbird.

Who am I kidding, he'll never finish the book.

That's what she was. A mockingbird. That fountain of youthful exuberance was mocking me with her cheery "Aloha!". I don't care what Atticus said – and as hot as Gregory Peck was – I wanted to kill the mockingbird. Actually, I wanted to run out of the store, throw my bathing suit in a bag and head for the airport before I sucked the life out of her chirpy, positive outlook with one hysterical glance. Honolulu here I come. I'd pick up a mu'u mu'u when I got there.

I am clearly losing it.

To think they are still trying to ban To Kill a Mockingbird in some high schools. It's okay to go to school with a tattoo exposed on your lower back that says "Ride this bitch" – but civil rights? Forget it.

I just dropped a frozen chicken nugget on the basement floor, wiped it on my shirt and threw it in the oven. Motherhood is all empowering.

I give up. November still stinks no matter how many of you have written in to say that life is beautiful, and I mustn't be so bitter, blah blah. Piss off. But, it seems there are a few of you out there who get it. Oh ya. I am not alone it seems. So keep sending your novemberstinks@yahoo.ca rants in, because you could win expensive, pollutant-free fresh air from www.surgicallycleanair.com, or a night at White Point – and have some fun doing it. Let it all out. Or, make it up, if your life's so bloody perfect.

Or go to Hawaii. Maritime Travel have a sweet package to the Sheraton Kauai that'll have you knee deep in paradise before my videos are due back.

Oh shit.

I just went to take the nuggets out of the oven and noticed they were still sitting on top of the stove, frozen solid, covered with cement dust and dog hair. Fuck.

Aloha.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Oh, that just stinks.

Birds were singing, the dog was puking, my head was pounding, and I had a foggy recollection of dancing – which would explain the bruises. Fuck. It must be November.

I had all the classic symptoms of wine flu, and Jack now has what I assume is swine flu, so he's stuck to the couch like an ingrown hair. He's a terrible liar and it's hard to fake a phlegm loogie flying across the room, so my guess is – he's sick.

While I've managed to dodge the over-hyped swine bullet, I am a full-blown pig – having eaten all of the comfort food I lovingly prepared (purchased) in an attempt to get the little bastard to eat.

Life just fucking stinks. Jack's Halloween loot bag lacked substance, my house is a "before" picture, my fat jeans are too tight, and I just got a little horny peeling the cellophane off of an English cucumber. It's been that long.

The good news is, I made the final 5 in Marketing's Creative Faceoff! The bad news is, some drunken cricket players must have made the rules, because apparently everyone has to vote again, making this the most boring democratic process since the Bush Gore Florida fiasco. I hate asking for help, unless of course my hair's stuck in your zipper.

So I'm giving shit away. Good shit. I'm calling it my November Stinks Contest and it's on right now until Friday the 13th of November. That's right, it's time to pay back everyone who voted once, twice, and now three times – with prizes and a chance to vent! The good folks at Surgically Clean Air have donated an amazing first prize (okay I slept with them once a long time ago but I must have been good). One lucky person could win a super dooper air purifying machine guaranteed to suck the foulness out of the black cloud that's hovering over November. Worth a shitload of money, the Respirade 200T is state-of the art and works on a 6-phase system designed to improve your quality of life by removing harmful toxins and pollutants from the air you breathe. Note: Improve quality of life. No typo. I figure with hockey bags and allergies and H1N1, this could make someone's life stink a whole lot less.

Second prize also guarantees to improve quality of life by getting you the hell out of town and tucked in for a night at White Point Beach Resort. It includes breakfast for two, just in case you pick up some total stranger at the Lodge after your fourth martini.

All you have to do is send in an email to novemberstinks@yahoo.ca and in 100 words or less (oh hell, write as much as you want) tell me why your life sucks and why November stinks and just let it all out. Bitch. Moan. Whine. Have a hissy fit. This is your chance for a literary colonic. Let the shit fly ladies and gentlemen. Get it off of your sagging chest.

The winners will be chosen by me, Cousin Sarah, and a box of wine. Now don't all go getting cancer or anything just to win the prize because that would just be stupid and may not even guarantee an automatic win. Plus I need you to vote. Again. http://www.creativefaceoff.ca/gallery/

November really stinks. Let's rip the cellophane off and have a little fun with it.

halifaxbroad@gmail

Check out the Respirade 200T at http://respiraide.com/productline/productline_200T.html. Or go to www.surgicallycleanair.com for more information. Or click on the black box to the right.

Check out your night away from home at www.whitepoint.com

Enter as often as you like at novemberstinks@yahoo.ca. Contest ends at noon on November 13th. Winner will be announced on November 16th. White Point Gift certificate is valid until Dec 15th, 2009. Respirade 200T will be delivered to your home or office. Don't worry, your stink won't be published unless you want it to be.

Talking heads and single malt treats.

There are no skeletons in my closet, unless you count the size 6 Anne Klein skirt I refuse to surrender, oh, and the 6'3" man wearing baby doll pajamas clutching a scotch glass.

Come on out Dad, it's your day.

Halloween is my Dad's birthday. He would have been 76 today. His absence in our lives, is in part why I loathe this last day of October. That, and greedy little bastards hopped up on Smarties, who lack the common sense and decency to say 'thank you' after they've wormed their grubby little H1N1 snot-encrusted fists through my candy bowl.

I hate masks. I hate doorbells. I hate the pile of last night's mini Oh Henry! wrappers next to my bed. I also hate knowing, that if I turn off the lights and watch TV in the dark, that some little peckerhead with pimples will egg my house. And, I hate that my Dad isn't around to embarrass the hell out of my child, like he did to me.

When I was a kid, Halloween night found most children scouting out which houses had the best loot, or which streets to avoid because some miserable, menopausal old bitch has her lights turned off. I was busy keeping an eye out for my Dad and the accompanying cry of "Oh! Here comes Mr. Schultz again!", whereupon I would duck behind a bush or head off on my broom in the other direction.

Like most Dads placed on a wobbly pedestal – mine was larger than life. On Halloween, he was larger than life and he was wearing pastel-coloured, see-through baby doll pajamas that barely fit my mother. Every year, my dad wandered like a plus-size toddler from house to house with an empty scotch glass, that wasn't empty for long. With every "ding dong" he would disappear into a neighbour's living room to get his glass – and his merriment – topped up. Then, off he'd go to the next house. And the next. And the next.

What's worse, ours was a circular subdivision, and one could not avoid passing Fonzi, Mork, Daisy Duke or the cross-dressing XXL birthday boy, over and over again. I thought those nights would never end.

One November 1st, I recall waking up to singing. The streetlights were flickering off and my dad was weaving up the street in baby dolls ,singing Nat King Cole's "The Party's Over".

The party's over
It's time to call it a day
Now you must wake up, all dreams must end
Take off your makeup, the party's over
It's all over, my friend

I'd give anything to hear that song again.

The party may be over for some larger than life, local television celebrities as well. I may never have the opportunity to dress up us as Cindy Day, that overly-medicated weather girl with the bulgy eyes and suspiciously crazy wardrobe. There's a pissing match going on right now between local television programmers and big Cable companies. According to the lovely, Renée Fournier at CTV, "the satellite and cable companies take our signal and pay us nothing in return. Most consumers believe they are paying for our service because it’s packaged in basic cable, but in truth, nothing comes back to us. We’re asking to negotiate a fair value for that service, and we’re asking the distributors to pay for it out of the massive profits they already make on our back."

Sounds fair enough. Reneé's bored and armed for a fight now that all the letters from gentlemen across the Maritimes pleading CTV to bring back Nancy Regan, merely trickle in. If you care enough to keep Steve Murphy, Tom Murphy, all the Murphy's, and that annoying pain in the ass, puffy-eyed Paul Withers coming into your living room night after night, then hop on the online bandwagon quick and give the CRTC the 'what fer'. Speak out at www.localtvmatters.ca and keep Cindy Day's eyes from popping out all over the unemployment line.

On second thought, Jack's not getting any younger. Things in life get taken away before we even realize how much we love them. This could be my last chance to honour thy father and humiliate my child on Halloween. Where's my scotch glass?

This party's not over until this fat lady sings.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

There is only one way to be heard and make a difference. Egg a house, or submit YOUR comments directly to the CRTC before November 2, 2009. It's as simple as Cindy Day, and you can do it right now at http://localtvmatters.ca/.

In lieu of a gift, please accept this apology.

Happy 50th Birthday to my much, much older brother. See how he has to stoop over to kiss me. He must be at least 15 or 16 in that picture. He's a midget, er, a little person. Never grew... it's the damnedest thing.

I think shortly after that photo was taken, I kicked him in the nuts and smashed his Lincoln Logs to smithereens.

Growing up in the shadow of "the dear wee man" was a nightmare. For him. He was the sweet one. The compassionate one. The one who would sit for hours holding the liver spotted hands of elderly relatives, while I rifled through their purses looking for smokes or a crumpled 2$ bill. I'd inevitably ruin everything, with an emergency trip to the hospital after falling from a tree, or getting smacked in the head with a baseball – stealing his thunder once again.

My big brother left home as quickly as he could – never looking back – lest I was chasing behind the bus on my Honda 50 armed with a handful of kitty litter as a weapon of mass destruction. I was the fucking bain of his existence.

Our lives eventually went in opposite directions. While I traveled the world, partied, changed jobs, schools, boyfriends and my mind – my brother worked in the IT department of the Bank. He walked into the world of computers long before anyone played PONG or knew what a Commodore 64 was. This new world, with a language of its own, fit him like a glove. He has the RRSP's and Bank stock to prove it.

To say my brother and I never got along was an understatement. I grew up convinced one of us had to be adopted, and he merely hoped it were true. Then, one day in 1995, everything changed.

I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. All was forgiven.

My brother loves my child unconditionally. He put Jack though private school. He saves every report card and school photo. He follows Jack's hockey schedule and wants updates after every single game. Last summer, I watched my brother in the stands at a Toronto tournament. It was torture for him. He said he felt every shot and almost had a heart attack watching Jack in the net. He loves my child that much. Who would have thought, me having an illegitimate child, would make my brother the happiest guy on Earth. Had I known that was all it would take, I would have cranked out a nephew at 16.

So Paul Martin, dear wee man. Sorry I wrecked your stuff, and your life. I'm a little short of cash, otherwise I'd be there to throw up birthday cake all over the backseat of your spotless Mercedes.

And, I don't know if I ever told you this, but I am really proud of you. (Don't worry, you don't have to say it back.)

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Finally. Someone gets me.

Dear Halifax Broad,
This is Shiela from www.substance-abuse-counselor.com.

We stumbled on your blog while searching for substance abuse related information. I understand that your website is related to this topic. As a kind note, we have featured your site and we would be grateful if you could add the following details to your blog's main page.
Looking forward for your confirmation.
Thanks
Shiela
Substance-Abuse Counselor

Dear Shiela,

Thank you so much for your thoughtful email. You've made my day. It is such an honour to be recognized by a prestigious institution such as yours. Not since NASA called to ask if they could shoot my liver into space, have I been so humbled. I knocked back a fifth of vodka in my orange juice this morning just to celebrate – and plan to raise a glass, or two, after I drive the little soul-sucker to school. What a memorable day – hopefully I'll remember most of it. Ha ha. A little substance abuse humour for ya. Pretty good for first thing in the morning.

Shiela, I noted you "stumbled" across my blog so I figure you must like to toss back a few at your desk. Atta girl. We should really get together. Drinking, er, working alone can be such a drag. No benefits aside from taking the phone off the hook and catching a few winks after Oprah. I just jump up when the kids get home, and pretend I was folding the pile of laundry on the bed.

Again, thanks for the recognition. I work hard spreading the word about substances and the consequential abuse, and it's nice to know someone appreciates what I do. You can bet the little asshole searching for toe jam on my sofa wouldn't notice if I were slumped over my keyboard in a pool of my own filth, unless he needed food, money, or a ride to hockey.

Ungrateful. Like I was put on this Earth to walking around picking up shit-stained boxer shorts and socks that smell like road kill. Yesterday, I even made the little bastard Hamburger Helper which was a real test for my gag reflexes. It reminded me of why I never drink anything that ends in "colada", if you know what I mean, Shiela.

But of course you do.

What can I say Shirley. Your email has made my day. Did I tell you about the time I drove over my kid's foot. I didn't even know it happened until later when the school called to say he'd been standing outside and it was getting dark. Of course, I asked if he was limping to get out of mowing the lawn. Goddamned feet are so big, he's lucky I ran out of Bailey's and coffee.

I'd better go, Sandra. The sun is up and I just realized I left the dog and some groceries in the car last night. I hope the wine didn't freeze. I wondered what all that barking was about. No problem falling asleep though, if you know what I mean.

It's never ending. Today, I have to whip over to Jane's on the Common before Regis & Kelly. Jane's Next Door sell ready-to-eat meals you can scrape into Corning Ware and toss off as home cooking. Last week, I bought a Chicken Pot Pie with Sweet Potato Crust that was so delicious, and really soaked up the Donini. Jack picked out the big chicken chunks and made some pretty effective gagging noises when I tried to force sweet potato down his throat – but he loved the warm tea biscuits.

Jane's Next Door is open from 8 'til 8 which is really handy because you can just pull up, run in and leave the car idling out front. I just can't seem to get warm these days. My doctor says maybe it's my medication, but I think these new eco-friendly stainless steel travel mugs just make the drinks too damn cold. Is that possible, Sharon? I refuse to start drinking that filthy Tim's coffee like all the other hockey moms. 'Next thing you know I'll be sportin' a perm and a snowmobile jacket.

Talk soon. Maybe I'll give you a jingle after Judge Judy. God I love her. She puts the "I" in Bitch. I bet she'd be fun at Book Club. Book Club, snort. We both know Book Club is short for "mommy's little excuse to get the fuck out of the house."

Oh, look at the time.

Your new friend,

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

(That was a real honest to god email I got this morning.)

Jane's Next Door is at 2398 Robie Street, Halifax. Join her mailing list at:

www.janesonthecommon.com/nextdoor/

Keep voting people. http://www.creativefaceoff.ca/gallery/

Meltdown in aisle eleven.

There's a game I've been playing in the darkness before dawn. Nothing weird – I am fully clothed. The game is kind of like horseshoes only it involves a bag of dog shit and the neighbour's renovation bin.

After walking the dogs, I stand at the end of the driveway – bag of warm shit in one hand – and face my target, a good pitcher's mound away. I toss the shit, underhand, into the black air. Loft is good, unless it's frightfully windy. The object is simple: If the bag of shit lands in the bin, it's going to be a good day. If it misses, landing with a plop on the driveway, my day will suck.

The good news is, this morning I hit the bin. But, if the poor bastard making minimum wage in the Huntin' and Fishin' department of Canadian Tire is on stress leave today, I take full responsibility. You see, I missed the bin on Friday.

It is no secret. I hate shopping more than George Bush. And Big Box store shopping is like George Bush when he smirks. My 7-minute window of tolerance was put to the test last Friday when the school closed its doors for PD day and I found myself in Canadian Tire.

I am trying to make this short and sweet because I am even boring myself. The boys wanted to paintball but they needed supplies. Since I "do not work" in the eyes of those who actually change out of their pyjamas to go drink the company Koolaid – I was naturally the chosen one. The driver. The picker upper.

When it comes to paintball, we normally head over to Banshee Paintball – a Nirvana of violence for teenage boys. Imagine weapons and fireworks and t-shirts that say things like "My Balls. Your Face." Add the staff of helpful men, all who refuse to grow up and love talking about paintball guns and airsoft guns and blowing things up – and you've got a reason other than Oxycontin for heading to Dartmouth.

But we were in a hurry.

The Recreational Killin' department at Crappy Tire is at the very back of the store. When we arrived, there was a Canada Post employee already waiting, but he wasn't in a hurry to deliver the sack of bills destined for my mailslot. There wasn't a Canadian Tire employee in sight, nor had I passed one in Seasonal, Electrical, Automotive or Paint. According to the postal worker, he'd been there for a while. Clearly, the act of "going postal" was a misnomer. That was going to be my job.

So, we waited. While the boys checked out fishin' stuff, I watched a child refuse to leave the hockey aisle, even after his mother asked him nicely about 15 times. I was just about to go beat the little fucker with a lacrosse stick, when I decided to take my frustrations out elsewhere.

I picked up the phone next to the cash register and started pushing buttons. The boys saw what I was doing and backed away. I didn't have my glasses on, but I was hoping to hit the loud speaker button that blasted messages throughout the store. Being a bad day, all I got was a "Hello".

I started with a "Could we get some fucking help down in redneck country."

"Isn't that you?", she said.

"No, this isn't whatever underpaid lacky is supposed to be here! This is ME! An unsatisfied customer currently having a hot flash in the fucking deer hunter section of this poorly-lit fucking cesspool of a inconvenience store!"

"I'll get someone down there right away" she said, hanging up.

"Right away" seemed like a breech birth. Enter the sweaty, minimum-wage underachiever who told us he had been trained to fill the C02 canisters but had forgotten how. He also lacked the authority, and the keys, to open the glass ammunition cage where the paintballs resided, so he'd have to call for backup – only his backup was on a smoke break.

By this time, I was only inhaling and was beginning to twitch. The boys were trying on bright orange hunting gear, trying not to notice I was seconds away from smashing through the glass cages with a toilet seat so I could grab a a hunting knife and hold the postal worker hostage – when the backup Canadian Tire associate returned – lungs full of nicotine, but at least retaining his knowledge of C02. Meanwhile, the other poor bastard, who didn't know his ass from a camping stove, stood perfectly still, trying to avoid eye contact.

By the time we were ready to go I was nearly fetal, with Jack rubbing my back saying, "It's okay Mom, calm down, we can go now." I had donned an inner straitjacket and surrendered to the almost 45-minutes of my life wasted in bowels of Canadian Tire. 45-minutes I will never get back. We could have driven to Banshee and back. The boys could have been romping through the woods. I could be at my desk staring at the computer going deeper and deeper into debt. Instead, I succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome and nearly asked for a job application. Why the hell not? I too could stand there, slack jawed for 8 hours – do absolutely nothing – and get paid.

When minimum wage boy announced he had to escort us to the check-out, I was like a twice-lobotomized Republican. He explained the escort procedure was protocol with ammunition, and just before we left, he asked if there would be anything else.

"Yes", I said, calmly. "Could you please hand me one of those rifles – loaded – so I can blow my fucking brains from here to Household Goods."

"Uh, he said, his eyes darting from Plumbing to Footwear. "Sorry Ma'am. I don't have keys to that cabinet."

(Ma'am. That's short for crazy, miserable old bitch.)

We finally headed for what I presumed would be one cashier with 14 people waiting. The boys were chatty and excited about their day. I trudged along like a medicated girl Osmond. My spirit was broken. Next stop would be Tabi for elastic-waist pants and matching holiday-theme vest.

Passing by Sporting Goods, I glanced over to see the mother of the boy who had refused to leave. She was sucking her thumb, rocking back and forth on the linoleum between street hockey pads and the glass cabinet of darts – to which there is no key, or no one to open it, should she decide to mutilate her wrists with a sharp object. I went over, placed a baseball mitt under her head, and walked away.

But that was last week. This morning, the shit hit the bin.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Banshee Paintball is upstairs at 122 Portland Street in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia.

Call 902.469.BALL or check out www.bansheepaintball.com.