Did I say that out loud?

The blow came from behind.

Nevermind that the man wielding the tome of mass destruction saw every high school assembly as an opportunity to don his wife's pantyhose and morph into his alter ego "Miss Southhouse" – he was bloody strong by cross-dressing, Bible thumper standards. And apparently, he'd been pushed to the limit.

On that day, Mr. McEachern, my grade nine English teacher, raised a hardcover textbook over his head and brought it crashing down on my dome of adolescent insolence and revelry. The blow, while shocking me into a moment of silence, resulted in the kind of laughter one cannot suppress. His tempestuous act of discipline backfired so badly, I went from wise cracking to rolling in the aisles between the desks, laughing so hard I almost peed my Lee overalls.

Which is why, I find it ironic, after a lifetime of being told to kindly shut the fuck up, that people are suddenly interested in what I have to say.

In recent weeks, I have been interviewed, called upon for so-called wisdom, and asked to speak in front of a bunch of women with way more smarts than I'll ever have. Winning an award for blurting things out suddenly qualifies me as an expert. If only Mr. McEachern could see me now – eloquent and soft spoken – a mere shadow of the former troublemaker with verbal diarrhea.

Actually, that last bit is total bullshit. I am forever the young woman who was once told, I'd have better luck with the guys if I kept my mouth shut. Happy. Sad. Mad. Glad. My emotions are so close to the surface I couldn't suppress them with duct tape and a shovel.

I remember hearing the expression "inside voice" when the little bastard was in daycare. Together, we learned that using one's inside voice meant lowering the volume and being respectful of others. I always thought one's inside voice was the heckler inside your head – the one prompting you to blurt things out. Like a Tourette's sufferer on tequila. My inside voice is the devil, and he wants to come out and play. I figured the daycare teacher telling my kid to use his inside voice was just asking for trouble. He'd be flat headed and unconscious before circle time.

Having said that, there have been occasions of late where – sensing I was on the brink of hysteria – the little bastard put up his hand and said, "Mom, don't say anything. Please." He is the new little voice inside my head – the annoying one that makes me zip it up and walk away, suppressing a chortle and a rollicking retort. His teenaged censorship of my freedom of speech is beginning to piss me off. He is kind, and wants to fit in. I want to rock the lifeboat.

A question popped up in a recent interview that made reference to my penchant for political incorrectness. Actually, it was more of an observation than a question. "You are politically incorrect". To which I replied, "Thank you, yes, yes I am. I love poking fun at things perceived as untouchable. And those who take themselves too seriously. What some hold as sacred I find quite ridiculous really. Like God. God's left himself wide open. Life is funny. Sad, tragic, unfair, heartbreaking, and very fucking funny."

Society forces us to make small talk, strap down our floppy bosoms, and behave in a politically correct manner. We also live in a colonial, conservative part of the world. But oh, what a boring world it would be if we all passed on an opportunity to lighten things up, or celebrate an Olympic victory with champagne and cigars. At this stage in life, the only thing that will shut me up will be a debilitating stroke, or a mouthful of food.

Kitchen Door Catering Co. is a kick ass catering company relying on word-of-mouth in a town where Junior League hors d'oeuvres often fall out of the freezer at M&M. Patty Howard is a Wolfgang Puck/Spago-trained chef with a flair for organic, class-act entertaining. Think mini Nova Scotia Lamb Burgers with Goat Cheese & Red Onion Marmalade. Roasted Eggplant Caviar on Parmesan Crostini. Lobster Bisque Shots with Parmesan Crisps. Or, Wild Mushroom Palmiers with Goat Cheese. Fucking fantastic I say, with a mouth full of Texas-style Six Hour Smoked Baby Back Ribs with Caramelized BBQ Dipping Sauce. 'Beats the hell out of pigs in a politically correct blanket.

As for Mr. McEachern, he likely retired and locked away Miss Southouse forever. Too bad really – she was far more interesting, and way more of a man than he ever was.

Dickhead.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Kitchen Door Catering is located in Havenot. Check out the sample menus on their website at www.kitchendoor.ca or call 476.6729.

Exercise caution while driving, parenting, or operating heavy machinery.

One would think with all the U Weight broccoli and vitamins flowing through my veins, that a cold and flu bug would find somewhere else to land. Like Buffalo. Or Amy Winehouse.

I'd phone in sick but my boss is a temperamental bitch with a Nazi work ethic, so staying in bed surrounded by fresh flowers, a stack of magazines, and Scotch-laced Neo Citran is not an option.

Besides, with sobbing ice dancers and curlers pre-empting captivating-to-the-feverish daytime television – even Sue Thoman FBEye, the Can-con, federally-funded, feel good to the point of nausea show that was cancelled six seasons ago, except the lead actress didn't hear she was no longer supposed to show up for work– will take a backseat to lesbian bobsleigh. Just because Marlee Matlin can act doesn't mean any ol' blind guy can run for Governor. How's that for a Nyquil-induced, run-on couple of politically-incorrect sentences.

The old me would have zipped down to Pete's Frootique by now, for a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and some wasabi with a side of sushi – but I'm watching my salt/sugar intake. Instead, I'll catch the travel bug, and dream of brand master Pete's escorted tour of Siracusa, Sicily. The Flavours of Sicily with Nottingham's melon squeezer Pete Luckett, will be 8 boozy nights holed up in the medieval hamlet of Ortigia, Italy. Follow Pete as he fondles every tomato from Zaffarina to Catania – tippling all the way. This tour is limited to 14 lucky foodies and leaves November 10th – a great time to say "toodle loo" to a gray, and student-loan-fueled, vomit-encrusted Havenot. Check out Maritime Travel's Escorted tours for the scrumptious details.

I have to go. The little bastard is late for school, glazed over on the couch watching TSN, claiming he can't figure out what pants to wear. I just croaked out, "You only have one fucking pair, how tricky can it be!?"

There will be a self-pity party at my house in approximately one hour. BYOB.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Book Italy and have something to look forward to: www.maritimetravel.com or click on Pete to the right.

The answer is time. And an absence of back fat.

It was standing room only for Terry O'Reilly's speaking engagement in Havenot last night. I dragged the little bastard off of the sofa to spend and hour and a half in a library, surrounded by CBC types with nose hairs and sensible, crepe-soled footwear from 1972. I believe the evening – a jolly marketing and branding ballyhoo – was sponsored by Clark's Wallabees. Or Coronation Street.

O'Reilly rolled into town on the apron strings of one mother of a snowstorm, so I was surprised and disappointed to see such an amazing turnout. I selfishly wanted him, and his genius, all to myself so I could beg for a job and roll words like Baldwin Street Chinese buns and "when I worked at Publicis in San Francisco" off of my tongue, like one does when infatuated and clamouring to make a connection.

The post-talk lineup for book purchase and signing was lengthy and very L.L. Bean outlet, so as much as I wanted a copy of The Age of Persuasion, How Marketing Ate Our Culture, I opted for an early exit, much to the delight of the little bastard. As it turned out, we stood in line anyway, behind some dipshit with a Ph.D driving a K-Car that couldn't make it up the 3º slope out of the library parking lot – despite the efforts of his wife pushing and sweating all over her cat-emblazoned Tabi sweater – because his Canadian Tire all-season radials ran out of tread during the last season of Magnum P.I.

I was just about to send the little bastard out to help, when the K-car hit a dry patch and off they went to their sidesplit in Upper Stewiacke for a mug of Postum and some intellectual banter before bed. Pushing a K-car would have been better than listening to me wax on about how much I used to love sound studios and directing voice talent and writing scripts and having nice clothes and a life that didn't include wearing my pyjamas under my sweat pants like I am right now, because upon arrival home last night the motor on our furnace went the way of the Ford Pinto.

Sparks, accompanied by dangerous smelling blue smoke had me throwing extra blankets on our beds, and wishing I lived in an urban high rise, or knew of a manly electrician I could sleep with to get a deal on a furnace that wasn't like ours – the first model that didn't require shoveling coal to get the mercury above freezing your balls off.

The little bastard sensed the evening had fallen off of the rails from my first glimpse of a well-tailored Toronto blazer to the sparks and ensuing fishwife monologue emerging from the basement – so he wisely retreated to the sanctity of his bed – and I flopped on the sofa with the mail and a mug of Postum because I am one fucking nose hair away from subscribing to WGBH Boston.

And that's when I saw it.

Glossy, and packed with youthful advertising, 20-year old stomachs, and pull-out flaps for men's cologne that would have the scent-free fanatics of Havenot gasping for breath – was the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. Wedged between the Nova Scotia Power bill and my Baby Bonus cheque from Stephen Harper – both #10 envelopes larger than the bikini bottom staring at me in a room quickly dropping to below frigid bitch – the 2010 issue of Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue sat there like the last slice of pizza in a room full of Weight Watchers.

I resisted temptation for a nano second then snatched up the magazine and flipped from Brooklyn Decker rolling in the surf – to gold medalist Lindsay Vonn rolling in the snow – marveling at how much younger and more beautiful these women get every year. With ice cold hands I went from bikini to bikini thinking about the unusual tan lines I get attempting to read in the sun. Horizontal white stripes across a burnt belly, and sometimes a strip of pale under my chin if I don't set the book down and lie back for a moment or two.

I thought of the great deal Maritime Travel have to the 5-star Grand Sirenis Riviera Maya in Mexico leaving March 17th, and how lucky Brooklyn Decker was to be married to Andy Roddick and really, what does she have that I don't have?

I glanced at the vodka, auto, electronics, and beer ads wedged between the bikini models and their target audience of men aged 14 to Larry King. I smelled the cologne samples and thought of the XXL golf shirt laced with sweat and Ralph Lauren Sport that lived under my pillow for nearly three years.

I took one last whiff of Armani's Acqua Di Gio and closed the magazine. Pulling up the covers under the little bastard's chin, I took a long drink of his smell – a combination of hockey helmet, Old Spice Red Zone, chocolate milk, Crest, and love – then headed to my bed.

Scent, according to O'Reilly, triggers a response in humans that savvy marketers have been banking on for decades. The smell of my baby's hair trumps the smell of regular paycheques, success, freshly dry-cleaned power clothes, and Future Bakery pastries at an all-night brainstorming session – every time.

I wonder what a new furnace smells like.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Bookmark Book Sellers at 5686 Spring Garden Road have Terry O'Reilly's book. If you're lucky, you may even get a signed copy.

To book your place in the warm sun, click on the beach photo to the right or call Maritime Travel at 1-800-593-3334.

Not so fat Tuesday.

My Mardi Gras memories are fuzzy at best. While other five-year olds were happily vomiting on the teacup ride at Disneyland, I was spinning on a barstool at Pat O'Brien's – home of the original Hurricane – and the most sought after souvenir cocktail glass in New Orleans.

Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday signals the beginning of rigourous purging for the pious – or Lent – as it's known in some circles. After a big load of pancakes, hypocrites around the globe endure 40 days without a variety of vices, such as; dark rum, chocolate, buggery, Bingo, beastiality and so on. And, with the exception of Sundays, Friday nights, and the occasional Wednesday, those crazy alms givers stick to it like Christ on a cross.

Fat Tuesday marks the sixth week of my own agnostic, self-imposed giving up of all things sinful and delicious. Six weeks of protein shakes, salmon, vegetables and U Weight miracle vitamins. Six weeks without wine, popcorn, chocolate, bread, butter, buggery, vodka, cake, salt, fun, chicken wings, hangovers, cookies, crack, and coffee.

Today, a lesbian in the park stopped to tell me how great I looked. Okay, so she wasn't a lesbian but I haven't given up my snide and cynical bitter twist on reality. I also haven't had anyone tell me I looked great since I was five and spinning on a New Orleans barstool in a dress.

Six weeks is the difference between feeling like a lump of shit and pulling on an old pair of Levi's – so I'm going for six more. What the hell. I'll join the pious for this grueling stretch until Easter, when Jesus rises from the dead and sees his shadow – whereby, we get six more weeks of fucking winter.

And hot cross buns.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

30 minutes later, I was hungry for more.

Frigid by nature, the female porcupine is in the mood for love 8 to 12 hours – annually. This narrow window for courtship is likely due to low self-esteem, or the male porcupine's penchant for spraying the female with a stream of urine, just prior to rocking her world.

I thought about porcupine sex the other day, while lying on my back under a heat lamp with a dozen or so acupuncture quills poking out of my arm. Afraid to move for fear of fucking up my Qi – which is Chinese for energy flow and pronounced chee as in Cheesies – I was enthralled by the weirdness of it all, and the poster of the naked man covered with the TripTik of meridians and points.

During my initial consolation with Vivien Yuan, I asked if acupuncture was like Santa Claus, in that you have to believe to receive, and perhaps it works better when you're not dealing with a cynical old bitch such as myself. Vivien said reassuringly, that acupuncture treats the whole person – which was Chinese for, "you crazy".

Escorted into a warm, hospital-clean room, I volunteered to remove my shirt, but not before warning her about my really ugly sports bra that I've been meaning to toss out for ages. I went on to say I was wearing new Hello Kitty! underpants, which is a Japanese character, but likely manufactured in Korea by her 5-year-old relatives. I just threw that out there to make conversation because petite, quiet, smart people make me nervous as hell.

Vivien, whose real name I had discovered was Wei, asked if needles bothered me, and I told her I had a ten pound baby with an enormous head, so she could likely shove a shrimp fork up my ass and I wouldn't flinch, so no, I'm good with needles. Actually, Wei, it's long black hairs in the bathtub that bother me, so just stay out of my bathroom and we'll be fine.

Acupuncture was recommended to me by my physiotherapist after diagnosing lateral epicondylitis – which sounds way cooler than tennis elbow. Truth is, I likely developed lateral epicondylitis from pounding on this cookie crumb-filled keyboard, self-gratification, or hoisting a bucket-size wine glass steadily for 30 years – but let's blame my manly forehand.

I knew exactly where to go for acupuncture because the little bastard and I have been marveling at their sign for years. I STOP PAIN Acupuncture and Chinese Herb Centre. Bloody brilliant marketing I say – if only all businesses were so forthright. Imagine signs like: I SUE YOUR ASS or I MAKE POOR PEOPLE FAT. The list is endless.

I STOP PAIN is operated by Registered Acupuncturists, Tom Tian and Vivien (Wei) Yuan. The couple arrived from China via a saturated acupuncture market in Vancouver. Havenot, it seems, is just beginning to reach out to the 8000-year-old healing philosophy – but what do you expect from a place that still has door-to-door milk delivery.

Acupuncture is proven effective for treating headaches, gas, hip pain, bed wetting, PMS, skin problems, sinus problems and a host of other ailments, hangups, addictions and diseases. I'm up for anything that doesn't involve a prescription pad, stirrups, or a 45-minute wait in a room littered with decade-old magazines, seniors taking their last breath, and children with undiagnosed ADHD.

My treatment took an hour, and at times, caused pain – contrary to the sign. All I know is I left I STOP PAIN feeling more relaxed than I'd been in 8000 years. Maybe my cheesies were aligning, or maybe it was just nice to step out of my dreary comfort zone and be stroked by a total stranger. If Vivien gave pedicures my visit would have had a really happy ending.

The male porcupine has a ribbed penis which almost makes up for his pre-coital golden shower. As for the female, when you're a loveless, reclusive creature prone to shooting off harmful barbs as a defense mechanism, you take what you get.

Real pricks.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

I STOP PAIN is located at the corner of Young Ave and Robie Street. Their website won't win any design awards, but it's very informative. www.istoppain.ca. For an appointment call: 444.3111.

Slipcovering the soul.

The contents of a website rattled me so severely yesterday, I took to my bed. Images so horrific, my spirit melted, and I succumbed to the mid-winter blues.

I am of course, talking about the Sears ready-made slipcover website. A conglomeration of the ugliest fucking, soul-sucking textures, colours, and fabrics known to humankind – all with a common thread of Addams Family-esque elasticized pleating – the likes of which one only experiences prior to the undertaker lowering the lid on Aunt Barb's box.

I was so depressed that something as insignificant as a slipcover display would depress me, I turned to my pillows, and Oprah – the kiss of death for productivity in a home office environment.

Oprah, as it happened, was interviewing nuns. The slipcovered women of a polygamous God.

The common thread among nuns – evident after watching the show – was happiness. Happiness, and really unruly eyebrows. For these women – heartache, money worries, and looking-for-love-in-all-the-wrong-places, took a back seat to chastity, poverty, and obedience. (I would be a shoe-in for nundom if not for the obedience bit.) Happiness, it seems, is rampant among the dwindling number of nuns in captivity today.

So desperate are nuns to beef up their flock, a few have resorted to the most godless career calling since the Republican party: advertising. The Sisters of St. Joseph of Sault Ste. Marie have hired marketing guru Terry O'Reilly, of radio's Age of Persuasion fame, to bump up recruiting. The campaign, with a reported budget of $24,000, rolled out last week, featuring radio spots, and ads on the Sistine Chapel of public transit: buses. Smart cookie that Terry is, advertisements are posted on bus ceilings, with the headline: "If you're looking for answers, you're looking in the right direction."

I sat next to a happy nun once, on a crowded bus in Rome. I recall asking her many of the same questions Oprah asked. Stupid questions, like: Sex... Overrated, or better with God? And the really big question: Why?

I also recall – while engaged in conversation with my nun – a young, Italian man began grinding his crotch on my knee. I repositioned myself discreetly, before realizing that his salami on my exposed knee was no accident – and the wife of God sitting to my immediate left had no bearing on his advances, whatsoever. Nothing, it seems, is sacred to an Italian dog with a boner. Had I been looking for answers on that particular bus ride, I likely would have looked up, simply to avoid making eye contact with Romeo's instrument of passion.

Oprah and the Dominican Sisters of Mary, Mother of the Eucharist saved me from my veil of depression, and my thoughts quickly turned to my own nasty habits and the amourous young man on the Roman bus. Would my rheumy knee, fleshy and scarred, attract his devotions some twenty years later?

Maybe I'll find out.

Maritime Travel have a Italian adventure designed for those with a "taste for life". The Taste of Tuscany escorted tour pulls out of Havenot for arrival in Florence on May 7th – just before winter sets in again, freezing the pussy off dreary Canadian willows. For 8 days and 8 nights, you'll wake up hungover, with purple teeth, in a beautiful Tuscan villa in the heart of wine country. You'll endure FIVE cooking classes with local chefs, countless official and unofficial wine tastings, plus local market visits, and side trips to Florence and Siena – where, with any luck, some swarthy Latin lover will find your dimpled knee worthy of his affections.

This food and wine-lover’s adventure is graciously hosted by chef and bon vivant, Jeff Ferguson – also known as “Giopetto” after a few swigs of Brunello di Montalcino. Having gone it alone, and also with the little bastard several times, traveling with a male escort in Italy would be a refreshing change. After a few Campari's, Italian men are like pit pulls on a geriatric poodle.

Thank God.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For details on the Taste of Tuscany Tour call Maritime Travel at 1.800.593.3334, or click on the ad to the right.

To join the nunnery, go to: www.csjssm.ca.

Confucius say.

It was either Confucius, or some old basketball guy who said, "Sports do not build character, they reveal it". Let me add to that by saying, "How you walk past four boys selling fundraising raffle tickets, also reveals character". I have never wanted to shout "asshole" so many times in my life.

Since I am attributing wisdom to others – it has also been said, that a true test of a man's character is how he treats restaurant wait staff, and how he treats his mother. Once I stopped playing with Cleve's NFL paraphernalia and took off the Green Bay Packer's cheesehead hat, the little bastard wasn't as embarrassed to have me along supervising their fundraising efforts. And, I only let an audible "asshole" slip out once. Or maybe twice.

If you've never worked in the service industry, then it's safe to say, you likely under-tip and have, on occasion, called a waiter, simply "Waiter". If you've never had to raise thousands of dollars for minor sports because MLA's are buying $800 dollar coffee makers and $8000 generators, then you've also likely said "no" or walked past, eyes down, when approached by a child in a jersey, politely begging for money to keep him off crack and out of juvey.

Service-with-a-smile is an art, in a world littered with rude, impatient people not unlike myself. While there's nothing worse than a chit chatty bank teller, it is refreshing when someone making minimum wage manages to crack a smile and make eye contact when handing you the $6 latte they likely horked in out back. Or, similarly, when a busy shopper takes a moment to ask the boys about their season and hand over a $5 bill.

This week, with Chinese New Year fast approaching, I set out on a mission to avoid the mid-afternoon cookie cravings and experience something new: Bubble Tea. I have been driving by Bubble Tea shops with my head down, feigning disinterest, and completely ignorant of what bubble tea was – so, throwing caution to the wind – I decided to support a local business by finding out.

My arrival at the Bubble Tea Shop on Inglis Street appeared to startle the young man working behind the bar. I told him I was a Bubble Tea virgin and needed guidance, whereupon he claimed to have the best Bubble Tea in Halifax – made with "real sweet potatoes". He also said his name was George, and when I commented that George was a popular Chinese name, he said he was from Toronto. That explains it, but I was still a little confused about the sweet potatoes. I told him all I really knew was I wanted hot tea, because it was 30º below. George handed me a menu, which, even with my glasses was confusing and half Chinese, so I handed it back and asked for his most popular, hot Bubble Tea.

"Taro", he exclaimed, and went about his business mixing purple powder with white powder – at one point stepping behind a curtained doorway, likely to hork in my Bubble Tea or check on his little sister doing god knows what back there – only to emerge with a large cup of ice cubes.

So, why ice cubes in hot tea? I asked, naively.

That's when George snapped. He slammed the cup and contents into the sink and said "You ask for most popular, I make!". To which I calmly said, "I believe I asked for most popular HOT tea, Pokemon, and don't fuck with me because I am premenstrual, perimenopausal, and beginning to overheat in this hideous rink coat."

George once again set about his task, and I avoided the Chinese elephant in the room by making small talk, like, "Gee, George, seems Bubble Tea is quite popular these days... has it been around a while?". George then said, and I can't make shit like this up, "Have you ever heard of Toronto, or San Francisco, or New York?!"

"Heard of." This guy was beginning to piss me off.

Stooping to his level, I mentioned I had actually heard of and lived in Toronto, San Francisco, and New York but no, I had never experienced Bubble Tea.

"Bubble Tea everywhere in San Francisco! You no see?"

It was at that precise moment, when I noticed the bowl. The last time I saw a stainless steel bowl that large it was full of my warm afterbirth. The contents of George's bowl, didn't look much better, so when he turned and scooped up a ladle full, I couldn't help but risk my life by asking, "George, um, what was that you just scooped into my tea?"

"Sweet potato!", he cried.

George then slammed on a lid and shoved an enormous liposuction hose in my beverage. My uninsulated cup of Bubble Tea was very hot, and very purple, and scared the shit out of me. The bottom two inches had, what appeared to be fish eggs, snot balls, or puppy eyeballs, pressed against the plastic. There was no way I was wrapping my lips around the neon straw and sucking those fucking things up, so I removed the lid and took a cautious sip.

While not totally offensive, my Bubble Tea tasted like hot, liquid, Thrills gum.

If you've never experienced Thrills gum, with "... it still tastes like soap!" written right on the packaging – Sweet Jane's sells it. The purple-coated chewing gum does taste a bit like soap – but I like it. It's disturbing – like Family Guy – but I like it.

My Bubble Tea was also disturbing – but I liked it. I took a $5 dollar bill out of my wallet and asked George how much I owed him. He said, "I see you don't have more change, so $5 dollars will be fine."

That's when I snapped. "Listen, 章子怡章子, how much do I owe you, if for nothing else, the pleasure of your company?

"$5.50!", he smiled and handed me a tip jar.

I tossed in my fifty cents and headed to the car. I had mittens on, avoiding a McDonald's super-sized lawsuit from scalded hands. And, I wasn't quite sure what had just gone down back there in the Bubble Tea Shop but – a risk taker – I sucked up a puppy's eyeball to complete the experience.

Let's just say, I haven't had anything exit my body that fast since I blew a maraschino cherry out my nose following a Rusty Nail overdose in 1982.

For five dollars (and 50 cents) you can get a cold shoulder and a hot cup of Thrills gum. Or, you can lick a stamp and purchase a raffle ticket in support of the Halifax Hawks Bantam AAA hockey team.

Either way, it's character revealing.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

To experience fully all that is Bubble Tea, head to San Francisco or, the Bubble Tea Shop at 5385 Inglis Street (At Victoria Road) in South End Halifax.

To purchase a raffle ticket, mail cash or cheque to Jack Flinn, 1589 Preston Street, Halifax B3H3T9. $5 for one, or 3 tickets for $10. You could win a Maritime Travel gift card, an HP Pavillion laptop from Datarite, a Lawton's gift basket, or some guy's smelly NHL jersey. Make cheques payable to Halifax Hawks Bantam AAA. In return, Jack will send you a lovely thank you note, a ticket stub, and a receipt if requested. The draw is March 8th.

Misery loves company.

There was a man with an accent and size 15 feet in my attic yesterday. The fact that he is presently not still up there is a fucking miracle.

Much like the random coarse hairs and memory loss that have coincided with every cashier or waiter calling me M'am – willpower appears to have surfaced like a boil on my ass.

Mae West's ability to resist everything but temptation is something I can relate to. My life has been one calamity after another, largely due to my inability to say the words: No. Enough. Or – I'd better not. Instead, my mantra has always been: Life is short. What the hell. What have we got to lose. One more. No one's looking. Come on... it'll be fun. Run!

Whether I was jumping off cliffs in Maui or surfing down the highway on the top of a VW bus, consequences – along with common sense – were seldom top of mind.

But I lived.

Sadly, consequences – like cellulite – creep up, until one day you look back and catch a glimpse of your dimpled, Kathy Bates past in the mirror. The fallout from credit card abuse. The backlash from eating and drinking like Henry the 8th. The heartache from putting up barriers. The misery of tennis elbow from going at it with gusto and a bent right arm. (Take "going at it" however you wish.)

But back to willpower. The attic is miraculously man free. I am on Day 26 of U Weight despite salacious invitations for Lemon Drop martini gatherings, bottomless Valentine's chocolate from Uncommon Grounds, Pinky's hand-cut rink fries, or this weekend's, Warm Winter's Glow Headache and Ice Wine Fair at Blomidon Estates.

What's worse are the attacks from the homefront. Siren calls from devilish neighbours for "just one small glass of wine". Just one... you've got to live... aren't you thirsty?

And now, I must also resist temptation to head over the bridge, where I could gorge myself on warm, buttery, prosciutto and cheese crossiants at Two If By Sea Bakery and Café in Dartmouth. Two If By Sea Café embraces indulgence. Those inconsiderate pricks say so, right on their adorable, puppy-in-the-window cute website – which is as close as I am going to get to those fat flingers, until I can once again pull on the Levi's from my archive. But go ahead, fill your face with the croissant of the day and Zane's Machiato Special. You are eating and drinking for two.

Hey, if I can resist locking the size 15's up in the attic, I can do anything.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Visit Two If By Sea Café in person at 66 Ochterloney Street in Dartmouth, or order online at www.twoifbyseabakeshop.com.

Visit Blomidon's winemaker Simon Rafuse as he takes you from vine to wine for this year’s Icewine harvest. Feb 5 to 7th and 12-14th from 10 am to 5 pm in Canning. Complimentary admission. For more info call 1-877-582-7565 or check out www.blomidonwine.com

February is look better upside down month.

As if feelings of inadequacy weren't already at an all-time high. Raise your arm waddle if Pink's performance on last night's Grammy Awards left you feeling somewhat awestruck, for lack of a better word.

Bewildered. Marveled. Envious. Amused.

What word could possibly do justice to a petite woman in a bedazzled, flesh-toned unitard and 7-inch heels, who morphed into an airborne, Cirque du Soliel lawn sprinkler, all the while belting out "Glitter in the Air" without missing a beat. All I kept thinking, as she was spinning upside down in a sheet, clutching a microphone was – fuck, she must be great in bed.

February is Spunky Old Broads month, as declared by self-proclaimed S.O.B. and professional speaker, Dr. Gayle Carson. At 70-something Dr. Gayle claims "Despite 12 surgeries, the loss of my husband and son, breast cancer three times, and daily pain, I'm getting such a kick out life. Complaining won't make things any better so why bother?"

Christ, just when I was about to complain about tucking into the little bastard's Christmas money to pay the mortgage, I have to go read something like that.

Self-loathing is my specialty, but I am far from alone. I found myself flipping from the undecipherable rap portions of the Grammy's to my new best friend – W Network's How to Look Good Naked. Every episode rips the sweatpants off a self-loathing, 40-something woman who drinks herself to sleep every night – alone – with a bowl of popcorn and a couple of mangy dogs curled at her feet. The ever-so-gay host then proceeds to help her out of her frump slump with body-image-revealing mind games, and a trip to the hair salon – all culminating in a semi-naked photo shoot. What's interesting to me – although perhaps dull as shit to those who have stuck with me thus far – is I thought the women looked beautiful, even before the gay guy started fluffing their pillows.

With Valentine's Day fast approaching, I have to stop the self-loathing and self-pity for a moment to remind myself that February is also Heart and Stroke Month. And, since the odds of me having a stroke are far higher than ever receiving a fucking Valentine again, I have to get my priorities, my affairs, and my ass in order.

As I begin Week Four of my own personal U Weight journey toward not vomiting when I look in the mirror, I do so with reinforced determination. I'm not saying I'll ever be spunky, or look good naked or upside down – but goddamn it – I'm doing something other than complaining about it.

Think Pink.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

To give, or for more information, go to www.heartandstroke.ca

Quantity vs quality.

Warren Jeffs must be the happiest man alive. With a reported 50 or so wives, Valentine's Day must have been a bitch for the convicted polygamist and self-proclaimed prophet.

Having a direct line to God, or an obsession with butt-ugly, flannel-clad women with Conan O'Brien hair, likely wouldn't help most men on February 14th – the most disappointment laden day of the year. Failure to launch the romance rocket is rampant with those whose knuckles still scrape the ground when it comes to knowing what a woman really wants.

Let's pretend for a moment that Valentine's Day was like the Superbowl, which happens to land the Sunday BEFORE Valentine's Day. From what I understand, most men already have a Superbowl game plan – one that likely includes: Other men. High-fat snacks. Cold beverages. A large, unobstructed, wide-screen television with Surround Sound. Back slapping. High five-ing. Buffalo wings. No interruptions, except during half-time, unless someone wearing a Dallas Cowgirl's uniform is performing. Farting. Spillage. Camaraderie. Skin-tight football jerseys from high school or college and the subsequent exposed spare tires affectionately named Bubba, or "Hey Honey, do you want a piece of this after the game."

My guess is most men think about Valentine's Day, uh, never – or, on the 15th, while lying in the doghouse holding the remote – or, when their other half calls to remind them that it is Valentines's Day, and "did you call your Mother?", at which point you are already screwed because restaurants are overflowing with happy gay couples, or couples whose wives made the reservations while you were scratching your balls watching Peyton Manning blow Drew Brees back into the girl's locker room.

Polyandry, for those who haven't heard the term, is much like polygamy, except polyandry is when a woman has multiple husbands. Funny how this never happens.

The folks at Uncommon Grounds and Sugah! must have messed up the occasional Valentine's Day, because they have made it fumble free. Yesterday, they delivered perfectly packaged, quality chocolate to my door, with a note that said: "Everything in moderation". Those sick bastards. Imagine, being faithful to one U Weight diet when six, virgin chocolate bars packaged to look like a dozen, perfect red roses appear. Milk & White Chocolate dusted with Maple Sugar. Milk and Dark Chocolate infused with Nova Scotian Sea Salt. Dark Chocolate with Coffee. And Dark Chocolate with Cayenne. Fuck. Wrap them in Little House on the Prairie calico flannel and Warren Jeffs would bust out of the Utah State Penitentiary.

The countdown to Superbowl Sunday is on. Think of all those little flags being thrown in the air as a gentle reminder, gentlemen.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Uncommon Grounds are located at 1030 South Park Street, 1801 Hollis St. at Duke facing Upper Water, and the corner of Sackville & Argyle (The Marriot Residence). www.coffeesoldhere.com

The kindness of strangers.

"Who made you king of Shit Island?"

I just said this to my child, which should solidify my ranking as Mother of the Year. Or at least the month.

When the little bastard announced he was full, after being in bed for 9 hours, I snapped and made him drink an entire glass of chocolate milk laced with protein powder. Not since the creamed corn fiasco of 1999 have I seen such dramatic gag reflexes in action. For a second, I thought he was going to blow, which really would have pissed me off.

He's late for school, but at least he knows who's boss.

While it may not seem like it at times, I love my child more than life, and confess to getting all weepy (mid-cycle) when I heard the Forum hockey crowd gave Mike Danton a standing ovation last night. Good for you, Havenot. That's somebody's kid out there.

As a mother, and a hockey mother, I just want to hug this Danton guy. Hey, he's hot, so it's a bit pervy, but my motherly instincts meld with my cougar instincts and I want to, well, I was going to say lick him, but I meant, mother him.

My gut tells me Mike Danton chose the wrong person to watch his back. That's my new line, "watch your back", borrowed from Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side. I sat and wept through that movie last week, (without popcorn, which is really why I was crying, thank you very much for this willpower, U Weight.) If you haven't seen The Blind Side, it's a true story about NFL offensive tackle Michael Oher – and it's a heart-warming, heartbreaker about the importance of watching out for others. Grab your little bastards and go.

I didn't have anyone to watch my back growing up, and it wasn't until yesterday, when I experienced the kindness of strangers that I realized sometimes it's a place, and not a person, watching out for you.

My little dog, Dottie has been spooked by all dogs since she was attacked a few weeks ago. Yesterday, a peaceful walk in Long Lake turned into a nightmare when a barking, approaching dog caused her to bolt. Usian Bolt. My ten-pound poodle mix bolted out of the Lost Lake woods, through the parking lot, across the Bay Road and into the Prospect Road intersection, where I arrived breathless and frantic only to be told she went "thataway!". Before I could even see her, she apparently headed toward the on and then off ramps of the Bicentennial highway, through heavy morning traffic all the way to deep into Bayer's Lake Industrial park. For those of you who don't speak Havenot, that's fucking scary.

Now, picture my fat ass running and/or driving after her like my Toyota's gas pedal was stuck. Who knew I could run that far, that fast, and in a state of hysteria that must have given a few commuters a good chuckle. The few that is, who didn't stop. Along Dottie's escape route, truck drivers, commuters, pickup trucks and small cars pulled over, jumped out of cars, risked their lives stopping traffic, gestured to where she was headed, chased through ditches and stayed with me until I eventually found her, deep on a cul-de-sac, frightened but alive.

I didn't know if I should hug her, or beat her to death.

The people watching my back yesterday were total strangers, and if I could hug them I would. Susan Andrews from Tantallon was the only name I got because she stayed with me until I had Dottie in my arms. Thank you again, Susan. The other kind people just got in their cars, waved or gave a thumbs up, and drove away before I could thank them properly.

Tomorrow, I am heading to the Victoria General Hospital's Farmer's Market, where I will load up on healthy crap I can ram down the little bastard's throat. I watch his back, and it looks like he's been at Auschwitz for a few years. Much like their successful summer market, the VG Winter Market will have local, organic produce, gluten-free products, Blossom Shop flowers, fresh-roasted coffee and everything you'll need to make your child gag before school.

Mike Danton likely didn't know most of the people cheering him on last night, but I hope he as felt loved and watched over as I did yesterday.

We've got your back, Mike. And what a lovely back it is.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Horticultural escort service. Or, I feel dirty.

A filthy rain has turned my Coronation Street back alley into a ice sheet worthy of Colleen Jones. This, combined with sheer boredom, finds my tongue playing with the remaining half of a molar and causes me to ponder how long it's been since I've seen a dentist, and jolly ol' England.

Notwithstanding the wicked "jet lag" I got from my fear-of-flying Ativan(s), knocked back with champagne(s) stolen from the first class trolley – my England is a merry place, and home to the little bastard's Uncle Stu. While my brother is the doting, fiscally-responsible Uncle – Stu is the charming, larger than life, will he ever grow up (I hope not) -Uncle. With Stu, we visited the Tower of London – where he chased a few Swedish au pairs from the Crown Jewels to the Royal Armouries – and from there, carried on to his favourite haberdashery, favourite wine shop, favourite pub, favourite smallest pub, largest pub, The Bridesmaid's Arms, The Butcher's Arms, The Punter's Arms and finally, the Masturbator's Arms.

Wimbledon, aside from the Pimm's, was the only respite we had from Uncle Stu's generous and libatious tour of his adopted country. Wimbledon – and window shopping on King's Road.

At the time, Uncle Stu lived in Chelsea – and for those who haven't been to that part of London – think Nanny's pushing prams that cost more than my first car. Think Designer Guild, Cath Kidston and Osborne & Little. Think of delicious little antique shops, paper shops, button shops, ribbon shops, curio shops, lamp shops, and a large mirror in a shop window that said, "Blimey, do all Canadian women dress like fucking, backpacking lesbians?" I have never felt so under-dressed and under-monied in my life – but I was drunk on the unique sights, textures, ideas, and unique "if only" possibilities that is King's Road shopping.

Maritime Travel has a bloody marvelous opportunity to pop a few Ativans and head over to London's Chelsea Flower Show, May 23 to 27th. And, if Chelsea shopping and mingling with horsey toothed Burberry addicts at the Royal Horticultural Society's most famous "feast for the imagination" isn't enough to get your brolley in a bag – Maritime Travel is sending along the effervescent flower guru, Neville MacKay as your guide. There's no way in hell Neville's as fun as Uncle Stu, but the man does light up a room.

And really, who gives a shit about the flowers. Just go, and be inspired by beautiful things everywhere you turn. Plus, escorted tours are great for several reasons: You don't have to think. And you don't have to worry or plan. Someone will be there to mop up your airplane drool. And, if you play your cards right, you may learn something – like never mix peonies with lilacs.

Or champagne with Ativan.

Cheerio!

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For more information on Maritime Travel's Escorted Chelsea Flower Show junket, click on the flowers to the right or call Maritime Travel at 1.800.593.3334. Space is limited. www.maritimetravel.ca

You say potato, I say vodka.

I had a lump removed yesterday.

It was blonde, about 5' 11" and operated a sock farm in the TV room.

Normally, a lump-free "away tournament" weekend would begin with a bottle of red and a bowl of popcorn – and end with me licking the icing out of a bag of Double Stuff Oreos. Last night, thanks to this U Weight régime, I played tennis, then made an artichoke, spinach and tofu frittata.

To fucking fu.

What is happening to me? Kid-free Friday nights are for cheesies, Cabernet Sauvignon, and long distance calls you regret the next day. Not frittatas! It pains me to even type that word. Chips and Dip flow from the fingertips with ease.

During my routine drop-in quickie counseling at U Weight this week, I once again marveled at what a cynic I was heading in to this "lifestyle" program. Here I am on Day 14 without salt, wine, bread, butter, wine, sweets, coffee, Cheez Whiz, and wine – and I haven't cheated, or felt hungry once. There's even flax oil in my fridge. I can drop a tofu log in my smoothie without gagging. Warm almond milk, without Kahlua, is my evening beverage of choice. And, I don't care what's in the horse-sized herbal supplements – the last time I felt this energized and determined to eliminate garbage from entering my pie hole, I was pregnant.

Tomorrow, I am going to check out the OptiMYz Health, Fitness & Lifestyle Show at the WTCC. Maybe I'll make eye contact with someone who understands that the real me is way more fun than the flax-swigging me, and that I am one intervention away from calling the whole thing off, ordering a pizza and pouring 100% proof in my papaya smoothie.

Gandhi said, "You must be the change you wish to see in the world". But he was a protein-deprived, anorexic old fucker in diapers. I just want to bend over in my ski pants without passing out.

Hey, I said I was lump free this weekend, not angst free.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For more information on the OptiMYz Health, Fitness & Lifestyle Show go to www.optimyz.ca. The U Weight gang will be at the show if you want to drink my sugar-free, fat-free Koolaid.

Fast times. Or, "See you next Wednesday, unless it's sunny, Mrs. Burke".

The last time I was in a high school cafeteria you can bet two things: I was likely stoned on my brother's homegrown. And, I was more than likely scarfing back a muffin before the first bell rang – or, just before I hitchhiked back home to ski.

My attendance at the little bastard's high school orientation this week brought forth a bile-laced backpack of emotions about my own brief, disastrous dalliance with high school. Let's just say I wasn't on Student Council.

A post-divorce twist of fate found my brother, my mother, and me, transplanted to our ski chalet in Canada – light years away from the middle-class suburban American enclave where I grew up. Before it all imploded, I was a relatively normal, straight-A student and athlete. I was even a fucking cheerleader. My father returned to the States to begin his new life – or as it felt at the time – his new life without me.

On a typical morning in our new life, shortly after missing the bus, fellow teenaged urban refugees would pile into our 1966 Mustang convertible and drive the 12 or so miles to school. It's amazing how much dope you can smoke in 12 miles. We'd fall into the school parking lot in a cloud of smoke, laughing like idiots, ready to face the day. Or not.

A few years ago, I ran into Doris Burke, my old homeroom teacher. She reminded me that I would often arrive for attendance, only to disappear before first class. Mrs. Burke died a few years ago, so it's a bit late for an apology – or an explanation. Besides, how do you explain lost?

The shift in education systems had me skipping a grade, immediately upon arrival in rural Georgian Bay, which is why I was only 15 when I was eventually dragged to the Principal's office, and kicked to the academic curb. I had a 92% average – with a major in Bucking Authority – but as my beloved English teacher Jack Morgan told the truancy committee, I just didn't belong there.

Years have blown by to find me sitting in my child's orientation this week, realizing I still don't feel as if I belong anywhere. And since when was Yoga a credit course?

Pass the bong.

Tonight, Dr. Gabor Maté will be speaking about Hold on to Your Kids: Why parents need to matter more than peers. This lecture will take place at the McNally Theatre Auditorium at St. Mary's University. I may fire up the hot knives and go.

While I eventually managed to get myself to university – and graduate – most of my adult life has been spent wondering how my parents could let a child fall through the cracks so violently. I still grapple with forgiveness. And I still feel robbed. I never got to throw up on my prom dress, or play Varsity anything. Captain of the Havoc team didn't make yearbook.

Suffice it to say the little bastard is paying my dues – or their dues. His world is packed with love, bedtimes, a rabid drug/alcohol sniffing dog, more love, and zero tolerance for the stereotypical, teenage asshole attitude – often at the expense of my own happiness. Isn't that what parenting is? I wouldn't know.

What I do know, is I would throw myself in front of a school bus before I would allow my child miss out on a normal, happy, high school experience. If there is such a thing.

I guess we'll find out.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For tickets to Hold on to Your Kids, call the Sacred Heart School of Halifax at 422-4459. $10 per person in advance or $15.00 at the door. This event is sponsored by A.C.I.S.

For more information on the good Doc go to: www.drgabormate.com.

Now that's special.

Now that I've located my eyeglasses, survived a successful week of herbal U Weight detox and read about the 16-year old kid in Dartmouth who had sex with the family cat, I'm feeling quite good about things in general.

At least my little bastard hasn't asked me to rescue one of Havenot's 90,000 feral pussies.

Even yesterday, while having lunch with a close friend and recent breast cancer survivor, I looked up to see a sock draped off a painting in the living room. My living room. The sad thing was – upon closer inspection – it was my sock. My lovely friend "from away" was already using a tea towel as a napkin, eating my U Weight Week 2 high-protein, low-fun diet food, and shoving the dog away from her plate – but compared to all the shit going on in the world, none of that really seemed to matter. My friend was alive and beautiful, and life is good.

But the Olympics are really starting to piss me off.

I already envision curling up in bed February 15th with the dog, the flicker, and a heart-shaped box of chocolates I picked up half price – only to have The Mentalist pre-empted by bobsledding. Or worse – curling. Call me a curmudgeon, but until that Canada vs Russia hockey final airs, I am tuning out. Besides, if I catch one glimpse of Stephen fucking Harper all beady eyed, wearing a ridiculous looking fur hat, fresh out of the closet in his slopeside Whistler condo, I'll vomit. And nobody wants that.

Give me the Special Olympics any day. No egos. No steroid use. No pomp. And everyone is a winner. Now that's worth watching.

The Annual Special Olympics Dinner is Wednesday, January 27th at Pier 21. Forget that it's a fantastic cause – go on the off chance that guest speaker, Olympic paddler Adam Van Koeverden might get all liquored up and take his shirt off.

The evening Auction and Dinner is the organization's largest fundraiser, with all of the monies raised going toward the athletes and their programs. The committee is looking for auction items, and a really special turnout. To purchase tickets, click on Adam's multiple 6-packs over to the right.

To donate cars, golf clubs, boats and things, email Chris Nolan at cnolan@zeiss.com.

(No cats – feral, adorable, or horny as hell, will be accepted.)

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Even my hindsight is blurry.

If anyone finds my glasses let me know. Until then, happy Monday.

Fyck.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Michaëlle can do Haiti. I'll slide over to Club Med Turks and Caicos.

The images pouring out of Haiti ice my agnostic cake, and cause me to ask, "What the fuck? Why pick on those people?

I want to help, but feel helpless. My chosen career path makes me feel rather useless at times. But I could lift concrete, dole out fresh water, soothe crying babies, and lift more concrete. I want to dig through the hellish rubble with high hopes, or no hope at all. I want to blow Harper's head off, for not cutting his all-inclusive holiday short – if for no other reason than to say, "Pack your bags MP's, we're going to Haiti".

Instead of helping, I am going to fashion a Haitian voodoo doll out of an old Buzz Lightyear and pretend it's Harper. Guess where the pins will go. Then, I am going to the park, hockey, and finally to Maritime Travel's Vacation Superstore. Not because I have two nickels to rub together because if I did, I'd go lift concrete – instead, I'll go to dream – of warm places, with white sandy beaches and sunshine.

Like Haiti.

Go to Hell, Harper. I hear they could use someone with your shoveling experience.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

To give a hand to Haiti, click on the Red Cross Link over yonder.

The Vacation Superstore is on today 10 until 5 at the WTCC. Click on logo for $2 off admission.

Our lady of the rinse and spit.

Why the mother of the precocious child of Satan was crawling toward me on all fours was was incidental. The fact that she was French made what was about to happen, all the more fabulous.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

The average person spends approximately an hour a day waiting, which translates to 2 0r 3 years over a lifetime. What woman hasn't guzzled a litre of Baby Duck – staring at the phone before succumbing to the drink and dials? And while I refuse to line up for anything other than a chairlift, like most parents, I spend in inordinate amount of time waiting for my child in a rink, a parking lot, or like the other day, at the dentist.

Normally, waiting has me muttering like Rainman, frothing at the mouth and wrenching my neck to see what's taking so goddamn long. I usually calculate how much I charge an hour then suggest someone pay me for my time wasted, that is, when I finally get to wherever or whatever it was I was waiting for. But not the other day.

The U Weight Dextox has removed all traces of caffeine from my system, and I am as calm as a lobotomized dairy cow. Albeit, a flatulent one. Just before the little bastard jumped out of the car to run to his appointment he said, "Mom, don't ever complain about my hockey gear again."

Yes, the influx of whole foods into my system has been a lively experience. Toot. Sweet. The cabbage, broccoli, even the kale salad I gagged down, have created a veritable wind section in a silent, but deadly orchestra. Fortunately, Planet Organic on Quinpool make daily, Gandhi-portioned veggie mixtures that are affordable, and actually taste good (avoid the kale) adding to my arsenal of mass destruction.

Which takes me back to the waiting room.

In haste, I had forgotten my iPhone – my lifeline to the office – so after a second of panic I reached for the stack of magazines. While most medical offices have germ-infested National Geographics from 1972, my dentist has current magazines, art books and a variety of newspapers. There I was, far from the madding crowd, on a cozy couch surrounded by tasteful paintings – all the while allowing my nuclear bomb-dropping asshole to roam like a free range chicken.

I was happily farting and reading about the stereotypical gay couple with taste, a pug dog, and a million bucks – who transformed a whorehouse in Parkdale into a chic haven – when the little French she-devil was released from her check up. While the mother parlez vous-ed nonchalantly at the counter, the little bitch practically ripped the door off of the hinges, knocked over the magazine rack, and was running around like a fucking maniac even the Supernanny would have executed.

The cashmere-clad mother, being the wise, latte sucking woman that she apparently was, decided she could go on parlez-vous-ing if she just handed her petit démon the superball that the ADHD poster child had picked out of the dentist's treasure chest. Great fucking idea. And hand me a fucking fusil de chasse while you're at it, Maman, so I can take the little freak down while you keep talkin'.

In a flash, the once pleasantly soporific waiting room turned into a pin ball machine, as the new superball glanced off every wall, lamp and frosted window. Giving much credit to the little maniac, she didn't even miss a beat when I gave her my best squinty-eyed glare – the one that sends most children running for social services. Even my farts couldn't keep her from invading my space. I was just about to nonchalantly raise my crossed leg and kick her in the castor when the ball rolled under the couch upon which I was sitting, setting off a methane cloud that signaled the end of the world. Salmon, I think. Peace at last.

But oh no. The little Ritalin junkie runs and starts tugging on Maman's cashmere. Before I could reach for an Airwick, Celine Dion's distant cousin comes whooshing over asking me if I'd seen a leeettle ball?. I shook my head and gave her my best French waiter look of disgust, but before I could blink, she dropped to her knees like prayer time at the Hajj and started heading my way. Her gray roots were aiming straight for a cloud of gas so powerful, Jack Bauer from 24 would have been knocked back.

So what did I do? With a smirk and a chuckle, I licked my finger, flipped a page of the February 2010 House and Home, gently rocked over to one butt cheek and dropped the pièce de résistance.

The chick pea bomb.

Another surrender for the French, another successful day of U Weight Detox.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Mrs. Lot speaks out.

There's nothing like a piping hot cup of cat piss to get you out of bed in the morning.

Day 3 of my Kick Ass U Detox began with an observation: herbal tea is for assholes.

I am cranky, yet determined, and hopped up on vitamins, quinoa, broccoli, salmon and sweet potatoes – the resulting methane a major threat to the ozone layer. I even had to skip the little bastard's basketball game for fear the ref would call a personal foul. On me.

Day 2 of U Weight detoxification felt like a nasty hangover – a wicked headache, lethargy, bitchiness and a longing for fries with gravy – but apparently that means it's working. The toxins are exiting the all-night bender that is my body – but I am already planning a BYOB toxin party in my head. I'm inviting: olives, anchovies, soy sauce, dill pickles, jerk sauce and margaritas. I may not sprinkle salt liberally on my food, but these few days have proved I like life on the salty side.

According to pulp fiction, a housewife known as "Lot's wife" disobeys bossy angels by looking back whilst blowing town – and subsequently gets turned into a pillar of salt. My new theory is that Sodom, or God, or some fat angel, was on the U Weight Detox suffering from serious sodium and caffeine withdrawal. And, Mrs. Lot was a cheeky slut who deserved a name.

Yesterday I almost got down on all fours and licked the sidewalk.

The nice thing about U Weight is the support. I have emailed them several times with questions like, "Kahlua and low-fat soy milk... good?" and "Can I smoke the herbal tea?". The U Weight counsellors are kind, patient, and nuts about proper nutrition and the resulting healthy lifestyle. They also can't wait to get their hands on my kid with his beige food addiction.

The absolute worst fucking thing about being in self-inflicted detox – besides the frequent trips to the bathroom and the grocery store – was passing a new Southern-style BBQ joint on Barrington Street. My timing sucks. Bonehead's Smokehouse is everything a woman wants: Smokey BBQ Ribs, Pulled Pork and Brisket Sandwiches, homemade Mac and Cheese, hand-cut fries, sweet potato chips, pit beans, potato salad, and chili. Those bastards at Bonehhead's practically flung their doors open and waved a pulled pork sandwich at me, just as I was leaving Sodom for Veggieville.

I may not have looked back, but this broad can't wait to pull pork.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Boneheads is at 1014 Barrington Street, near the curve at Inglis. Dine in, or call for pick up: 407-4100. Boneheads is open from 11am-10pm Sunday through Thursday, and 11am-11pm Friday and Saturday.

Kick start your fat ass FREE! by clicking on: http://www.uweightloss.com/free-detox-cleanse.aspx

The Last Supper.

Why was my tennis doubles partner following so closely behind me? One up-one back, or side to side is the rule – but she was all over me like Serena Williams on a line judge.

Then came the ultimate a-ha! moment. I was playing singles. The thing flopping around behind me was my ass.

Enough with blaming metabolism, Christmas, New Year's, swine flu comfort food, stress, winter, middle age, rink fries, no time, money, or energy. My betrayer is myself. My stressed-out 2009 has nothing to do with the fact that it is 2010. Time to stop shoving bread and wine down my pie hole like it was the Last fucking Supper.

Serendipity found me and my ass hanging over the drink cooler at The Courtyard begging for a post-game Diet-Pepsi and face to face with a poster for U Weight Loss, a nutrition guidance program. It was a sign.

I said to myself – Self, U are a pig. U must do something. So I did. I start U's cleansing Kick Start 7-day Detox tomorrow – even after my initial conversation with their highly motivating staff went something like this: Can you have wine on the detox? No. Coffee? No. Chips? No. Popcorn with or without butter? No. Bread? No. Vodka? No. McFlurrys? No. McAnything? No.

Fuck.

No bread. No wine. For seven days and nights starting tomorrow, which just happens to be a Sunday. But this is Saturday night, my last night of freedom before the little bastard returns and unsuspectingly walks into Detox Mama Hell. Tonight, I am heading out to Mezza with the skinny bitches – who eat and drink like Sumo wrestlers – and never gain a pound. Tonight, I will break bread with my betrayer: My self. I also plan to drink her fat ass under the table.

I may even order the lamb.

The cross I am about to bear is a heavy son of a bitch, so being the merciless heathen that I am, I am taking you with me. Prepare thyself for a living hell.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Come along on the U Weight Detox journey with me, starting with a free DETOX kit.

Go online: http://www.uweightloss.com/free-detox-cleanse.aspx or call U Weight at 902.4318746, tell them I sent you. The clinic is located in Clayton Park, nestled between Nubody's for Fat Chicks and Princess Nails. How convenient.

Mezza is on Quinpool Road and has kick-ass Lebanese food served in a decadent atmosphere.

www.mezzarestaurant.com

One lump or two.

Tulips on my desk. Skid mark-free towels. Tennis. A happy child.

Time has clearly beaten me down to reveal a simple person, or a simpleton, because it doesn't take much to make me happy. I was actually going to add "the sun on my face" to the above list, but true as that is – it sounded absolutely moronic and out of character.

Have my standards sagged so low that the sun on my face actually makes me happy? Am I John fucking Denver? And if so, why do I live in a shithole of a place that is cloudy 93.7 percent of the time?

This morning, after waving goodbye to the bus hauling the little bastard, it dawned on me – while he was off merrily stopping pucks with his team, I had four entire days to myself. By "myself" I mean the self that I was before I became Mommy. Or lately, Moooooom, with eyes that roll up so far into their sockets he looks like Chuckie.

But I hate that self. That self was selfish and had sex and a career and pelvic bones and nice clothes. I think I am actually afraid of that self because we have grown so far apart. I no longer recognize the bitch. Was she happy? What did she do all day? What would we talk about over Long Island iced tea?

So, for four days, my self and I can do anything we bloody well want – within of course the constrains of time, finances, the fact that I have no pants that currently fit, and two dogs who follow me around like I was Jim Jones. But what do we want?

I read about a book called The Happiness Project, so I Googled it and started reading the author's book blog. Gretchen Rubin is happy all right – she's got an investment banker husband and a book on the NY Times Bestseller's list. She's skinny, likely frigid despite kids – and is, in my opinion – boring as shit. Give me volatile and tempestuous over that sugary bestselling crap, any day. Happiness is overrated.

Since I have time, I ask: are most happy people boring, or just annoying? Or medicated? Are outwardly happy people really miserable pricks when no one is around? Is happiness just an act? Most of the happy, nice people I've met, for the most part, aren't very funny. And funny is right up there with ambitious, naughty, and big feet when I describe the perfect man. Which brings me to ask – would you rather be stuck on a deserted, all-inclusive island with a nice, happy person, or a dark, funny person?

Maritime Travel's Vacation Superstore is coming up, January 16th and 17th at the WTCC in Halifax. Billed as the "two hottest days of winter" you can pick up really great deals to relatively deserted islands dotted with Speedo-clad Germans cranked up on happiness – thanks to bottomless Piña Coladas and Vitamin D.

I admit to being outwardly miserable most of the time, so when happiness goes fleeting by, I grab it by the balls. And like most things you passionately grab by the balls – in the light of day – they're usually not all they're cracked up to be.

Kind of like being alone for four days.

Oh! Self! Look at the time... it's Happy Hour!

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Get two bucks off admission to the Vacation Superstore at http://www.maritimetravel.ca/contentpage.asp?PageID=869