And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

The nicest part of being a morning person is, I can usually get a fair amount of work done before some asshole rattles my cage. Ads get sent. E-mails get answered. Copy gets written in peace.

Once the little bastard has routinely flooded the bathroom floor and left for school – and while others arrive at their desks – I head to the park for an hour of calm. And, unless some peckerhead is "socializing" their otherwise caged and overbred Doodle, the park is generally a happy place.

Yesterday, heading home with my happy firmly in place, I found myself stuck behind a 1982 Skylark doing 7 in a 50. I could make out the top of a bald head poking above the steering wheel so I immediately pulled out to pass, leaving my happy wallowing in the dust. My Toyota accelerates uncontrollably all the time, but before I could swing alongside the Skylark, a liver-spotted, arthritic old hand flew out the window, whereupon the miserable old fucker proceeded to flip me the bird.

I chortled at his spunky defiance, but respectful of my elders, I proceeded to roll down my window, stick my arm up in the air and return his kind gesture. As I sped off, quickly reaching 70 in a 50 I kept waving my bird back at him, just to give him something to bitch about back at the Home.

Expressing myself has never been a problem. It has created problems at every juncture in my life, but keeping things bottled up is never the issue on my crazy couch. I seldom answer the phone, and avoid most social engagements, so, day-to-day interactions go fairly smoothly unless I encounter stupid. Rude. Or my favourite combo: stupid and rude.

My contact with the outside world is generally through tennis, hockey, or work and work-related emails. Lately though, I have noticed a higher frequency of these: ☺. And if for some reason that didn't show up, it's a smiley face icon. An emoticon. I am not sure why annoying little smiley faces are popping up more often, but I hate smiley face icons almost as much as I hate ASAP. I had a client once who ended every email with ASAP, which loosely translated means: I am a selfish person and I fucked up, and because I have left everything to the last minute I now expect you to drop everything and prioritize my work so I can look good because my time is more valuable than yours.

The last P in ASAP does not stand for please, so every time I received an email that ended in ASAP, I made it my lowest possible priority, as soon as I possibly could. I also fired their ass as soon as I possibly could.

Which beings me back to ☺.

A ☺ buried in an email makes me want to drown puppies. I don't mind the occasional :) from a friend, because :) is clever, but a ☺ lodged in the middle of a work email just pisses me off. What kind of person takes the time to put a fucking ☺ in the middle of a sentence?

So I did something about it.

I created a set of emoticons, much like the geriatric flipping of the bird. They are my own secret communication enhancers, but I will share a few with you today, because I am still in my happy place. Here it goes.

.l. means "fuck you". It is a period, a lower case L, followed by another period, and resembles a nicely flipped middle finger, don't you think?

–0–? means "suck this why doncha". Used sparingly, a dash, followed by a zero, then another dash, topped off with a question mark – speaks volumes.

0l0 means "kiss my big fat ass". It is a zero, followed by a lower case L, followed by another zero. I love how it it resembles a butt crack, and it brightens my day just tacking one on to the end of an email.

Oh, I could go on all day but I have to express myself in other ways so I can get paid. Besides, the Peter Gzowski Golf Tournament for Literacy is happening June 23 at Granite Springs Golf Club. What better place to let your emoticons fly than on the golf course, especially during a golf tournament where literacy is so strongly encouraged. I can hardly wait to tee off and show them how literate I really am.

And I am. I really ☺ fucking am.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

To register and express your support for Peter and literacy go to www.ns.iteracy.ca or click on Peter's face to the right.

The perfect face for radio.

I love Ruth Hubley.

Last week, when headlines around the globe trumpeted Tiger's attempt at crawling out of the gutter – our CBC "supper" time news was following the latest in a string of random coyote attacks.

Which brings me to Ruth Hubley – a woman brave enough to answer the door when CBC came a knockin' with an armload of stupid questions – looking to fill the 90 or so minutes before Coronation Street. Or as they call it: News at 5, 5:30 and 6 pm.

Not only did Ruth boldly swing open her aluminum front door and speak her mind about the coyotes (kill the bastards), she did so without a lick of makeup and a head full of foam curlers. I'm guessing it was Bingo night and Ruth said "to hell with it". Or she was expecting CBC radio. Either way, here's to you Ruth Hubley – I wish I had your self-esteem. I'd rather face a horny coyote hanging on to his nine iron, than stare down a angry camera that does not lie.

You can bet your ass I'll be in full makeup when I stare down the microphone at CBC Toronto in the sudden future. Armed with a pen – and hopefully a bit of wit – I'll face my opponents in the Eastern semi-finals of Canada Writes. Making an ass of myself on radio wasn't my plan as I rattled off a few snippets of prose and hit "send" repeatedly, one evening a few weeks back. I'm a slut for free stuff, but I should have read the fine print. All I saw was "win a new MacBook" and my fingers started stroking the keyboard. It seems writing is the sober equivalent of the drink and dials. Had I known I had to perform like a fat stripper on a pole, I would have kept my laptop shut.

My plan is to temporarily blow my new UWeight health kick, by draining the CBC coffers and the hotel mini bar, the evening before. That way, I'll be as sharp, and as confident as Ruth Hubley when they crank open the airwaves – LIVE – the morning after.

As for the coyotes, they've checked into rehab, claiming a sex addiction for their irrational, beast-like behaviour.

And Ruth Hubley – I hear she looked smokin' at Bingo.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Read all about Canada Writes at http://www.cbc.ca/books/canadawrites/

Rotten to the core.

Inch out. Inch out. Inch out. That's a bloody Toyota, aren't they supposed to accelerate uncontrollably? ... Inch out!

I was late, and stuck behind a driver who refused to initiate a turn by inching into the intersection. I was about to get out of my car, when I caught a glimpse of his face in the rear view mirror. Asian. That does it, I'll be here all day! I leaned on the horn so heavily the fucking steering wheel almost blew off.

Racial stereotyping. Guilty as charged. Asians cannot drive.

So, you cannot imagine how delighted I was to receive an invitation to experience a kettlebell class at Core Essentials in Dartmouth. Since I had no clue what a kettlebell was, I was delighted to hear kettlebells were weights, popular with the Red Army. Russians. Vodka swilling commies with no fashion sense. Count me in.

Now, thanks to Jackie Chan, I was miles from a head space that was "open to experiencing new things" and besides, anything with the word "core" in it was already intimidating. Thank Christ I had enough sense to take a friend I could toss to the lions.

Core is the new word for the area of the body located somewhere above your ass and below your boobs – although on many women, these two regions collide. Stomach, I believe the area was called before carbs became illegal. I confess, walking up the stairs to Core Essentials felt a bit unnerving. Like I was heading into an sobering intervention. Mine.

Before I rattle on, let me just describe to you my normal gym routine: Choosing a time I believe will be less crowded – and man free – I shower and shave, then apply eyeliner, mascara, and a touch of perfume. Upon arrival at the gym, I normally kill a bit of time in the change room, because I am already changed. Who wants to get naked in front of a bunch of sweaty, fit or fat strangers wresting their way out of a damp sports bra? I eventually head into the gym and over to the water fountain, where I bend over slowly to stretch out my lower back. Then I flip through a few of those free, healthy living magazines to warm up my lower arms. Next, I hop on the Stairmaster and immediately sink to the ground despite stepping as fast as I can while pushing buttons like a Vegas slot machine. I start laughing uncontrollably, pee my sweats and head back to the change room. Drying off my crotch with the hair dryer feels oddly soothing, so I linger a little. By this time my quads have tightened so I re-stretch over at the water fountain. Limber, I wander over to the weight machines with designated muscle target areas. I find the inner and outer thigh machine and get comfy. I get one leg in over to the left but the other foot thingie is a yard or so over to the right, so by the time I get my other leg where it's supposed to be I end up in a birthing position unable to move. Asking for help at the gym is not an option. Who really needs a 20-year old wearing Lulu fucking lemon speaking to you like you are a post-stroke patient in occupational therapy? Instead, I untangle myself from the thigh master and make a mental note to send hate mail to Suzanne Somers. I catch a glimpse of Oprah's bloated face on all 6 televisions, so I feel inspired. I head over to the treadmill and straddle the conveyor belt until I have it heading downhill at a brisk pace. I hop on and and attempt to strike up a conversation with the woman jogging next door. She is wearing a headset and appears to be in "the zone", so doesn't respond when I mention that despite being anorexic, she is packin' a fair amount of cellulite in the back of her mini van. I soon tire of reading the captions on Oprah, so I pull the heart attack rip cord and jump off before Lulu fucking lemon runs over with the difibulator. By then, I'd worked up a bit of an appetite and was bored as hell, so I pretend to take my pulse, grab a towel and head to the locker room. I throw the towel in the locker, toss a few clean ones into my bag, and get the hell out of there. A satisfying 20-minute workout.

Unlike most gyms, Core Essentials isn't packed with sweaty men born before 1963, looking at girls born after 1987. Mid-mornings are for personal training, so the coast was clear. The loft space is compact, with tons of natural light and a bakery around the corner. We were greeted by Laurissa Manning – a woman so fit you could bounce quarters off of her stomach, er, her core. Despite this, I liked her immediately.

After a quick chat, in which I told her I had tennis elbow and hated working out almost as much as I hated deadbeat dads and French people – we did some warming up on newfangled rowing machines that use water as resistance and made me want to pee. No nonsense, Laurissa then moved over to Russian army headquarters, picked up a kettlebell and started tossing it around like it was a hot bun from the oven.

The Long island Iced Tea of weights – kettlebells look innocent enough – until you pick one up. Before my mind could wander, Laurissa had us simultaneously squatting and swinging the 20-pound kettlebell back between our legs and up in the air like we were Maria fucking Sharapova.

What is it with Russians? They are either butt ugly (Ovechkin) or absolutely gorgeous (Anna Kornonthecobova). There are no in-between Russians. And there was no time to ponder this before we headed over to the sadomachochist department, where I proceeded to get tangled up in the ropes, and decided that Pilates and kinky sex weren't my thing. I really wanted to hop on the Real Ryder spinning bikes upstairs, but we were out of time. Besides, my legs were already wobbling out of control and I had to somehow get down the stairs.

The beauty of Core Essentials is Laurissa, her no-commitment policy, and an amazing website. You can go on there and sign up for a variety of spinning, kettlebell, and rowing classes and, if you sign in with a fake name like Nadia Comaneci they'll never know when you don't show up. They also have one-on-one training, boot camps, sport-specific training, a hot guy named Craig Guthrie, and sadomachochist Saturday nights.

We left there all high on endorphins, straight into the line-up at Two if by Sea bakery. If you haven't been there, the hip bakery is yet another reason for giving the shithole that is Dartmouth another chance. The tattooed youngsters that run the place certainly know how to crank out a fetching array of forbiddens. Sticking to my UWeight regime, I cooled down over a non-fat soya latte and salivated watching the skinny bitch at the next table pick at her almond crossiant like it was about to explode.

I almost snatched the croissant off her plate as I was leaving, but my arms were too tired from all that honking and rowing, and I think she was Swedish. Swedish people are naturally blonde, stupid, and likely suicidal from lack of sunlight.

Or maybe that's Norwegian. Never mind.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Core Essentials is at 50 Queen Street in Dartmouth. There's plenty of parking and reasons to go. Call Laurissa at 407.3338 or check out their website at www.coressentials.ca.

Two if by Sea is at 66 Ochterloney Street. www.twoifbyseabakeshop.com.

Holy week.

I just spent two days on the phone with Rogers wireless, which went something like this: Listen Genius, call me Ma'am one more time... click.

So I'm wound up like a fucking hormonal top.

But I had a thought, and since it is holy week I wanted to share it.

Why don't Catholic priests take the pointy hats off of their heads and place them over their dicks?

That's all I am saying.

Stand by, because after this week, I am about to blow.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Goodnight, John Boy.

This blog is a petulant child. The last piece of cake. The phone that won't ring, even though it promised.

If my workload is any indicator, then the recession appears to be over – or at least, releasing the strangle hold it's had on my life since November '07. As a result, I find I have less time on my hands. Walks in the park are down to one a day. I have broken up with self pity and my online Scrabble partner. And this needy, whiny blog has taken a backseat to deadlines and opportunities.

This weekend was no exception. The little bastard was in Newfoundland wrapping up his eight or so years in "minor" hockey, and I barely had time to miss him, his toenail clippings, or his crusty boxers dropped hither and yon. I worked while he played. And while his phone calls were few and far between, his games were streamed live over the Internet. I felt his every move, every glove save, every triumph, and every disappointment. Much like the Waltons huddling around the radio – my computer became a link to the world.

Like this blog.

Just when it felt like I was totally alone – I discovered I wasn't. In fact, I was less alone than ever before. This blog gave me a voice that echoed and bounced back as someone else. I made new friends. I found old friends. I grew my business. I pissed some people off. I helped others. I used motherfucker in a sentence. Alot. I vented and roared. I shrunk my ass. I fell in love with writing again.

I'm not ready to let it go.

While 95% of blogs get abandoned, my recent detachment is not from lack of interest. I miss it. It pulls on my pant leg, wanting to be picked up when I am trying to work. But there's never enough time! Much like, after 14 years of being someone's one and only – I am having to get comfortable with my child's inevitable and natural detachment. Settling for an "I love you" in a hasty text from afar. Time has taken the little bastard from needing me constantly, to knowing I will always be there when he does.

Like this blog.

So as we flow from from minor hockey to major hockey, and from the red to the black – I ask for more time. To appreciate what I have – and to turn on this tempestuous, premenstrual, perimenopausal radio, and broadcast live from my crappy world to yours. Even if that means pouring out my guts, and my heart – once or twice a week – instead of every bloody day.

Goodnight, Mary fuckin' Ellen.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

What you talkin' about? And other questions on a foggy morning.

Why was Gary Coleman at the Health Care bill signing party in Washington?

Why did Obama use 22 pens once he finally got around to signing the damn thing?

Why, all of a sudden, does Caroline Kennedy look exactly like Uncle Teddy? I'm thinking a bad St. Paddy's Day.

Why do women marry bad boys, then expect them to be faithful and drive mini vans – when their bad boy nature was what attracted them in the first place?

Why do I always forget I've eaten beets, then think I am dying the next day?

Why does Julien's bakery put that fucking irresistible, butter, chocolate, and rum-laced leftover mish mash of a Diplomat cake right at eye level? So rude.

How come an all-inclusive week in Cuba is cheaper than flying home to Toronto this weekend?

Why doesn't Tiger shut up and golf?

Why doesn't Ann Coulter just shut up?

The answer to these and other questions, like: Will I make the next cut on CBC's Canada Writes, even though I lean more toward dark than silly – and thank God it's radio because I didn't know I had to actually do stuff to win – will be answered once I get the Little Bastard on the plane to Newfoundland.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Margaree Valley of the Dolls

Never ask for directions in Cape Breton.

"You see that road there, right."

Right? As in turn right? There was a final high-rising intonation. Was that a question?

"Take that road... right, and go all the way 'til you sees the laundromat on your left, right. Then you heads west, and you keep goin' 'til you sees the sign the says the road to the pier, right. And if you sees the sign for to go to New Wadderferd, turn around, right, cuz you've gone too far."

According to the guide book, I was in the Oxycontin capital of the world, but I couldn't buy any, anywhere. What's worse was I kept going right, followed by another right until I ended up right back where I started – in the Tim Horton's parking lot, in my pyjamas, killing time until the sun came up because I was told by the little bastard not to "clomp around" so early in the morning.

So how was your March Break? Cuba, Panama, Aspen. Piss off the lot of ya. I spent five days in an ashtray of a rink parking lot lodged somewhere between the Sydney Tar Pits and the asshole of the Earth. Thank Christ it was sunny, and the little bastard's team won the Provincials, or I would have been really cranky.

And just try maintaining a healthy lifestyle on a road trip. In rural Nova Scotia. In early spring, when the scurvy is killing them off faster than the 26'er of dark rum they had with their Beep for breakfast. I asked one clerk for an apple and she looked at me like I was on fucking fire.

"No, but we got some oat cakes."

I confess to falling off the UWeight wagon rather abruptly one evening at our hotel, thanks to a fellow hockey mom, some leftover pizza and a bottle of Bleasdale Mulberry Tree Cabernet Sauvignon. But I scrambled back on, and we left Sydney with a carload of medals and happy boys – heading toward Baddeck and the other Cape Breton – the drop-dead gorgeous natural wonder that takes your breath away. Stopping to stare at the Cabot Trail clinging to the coast, I had forgotten how small one can feel surrounded by such overpowering natural beauty. You certainly don't feel that in the liquor store line-up on a Sydney Saturday night.

Pulling into the Inverary Resort in Baddeck was like going home. Years ago, I'd spent a few months in a farmhouse near Wreck Cove and my weekly trips to Baddeck were a touchstone to the outside world. Back then, I'd stock up on wine, magazines and fresh oatmeal bread from the Highwheeler Café. In March, Baddeck was pretty much a ghost town, but for the welcoming lights of the Inverary. While the boys took a swim, I strolled past the black clapboard cottages, down to the lake. I imagined coming back in the summer to play tennis and guzzle gin & tonics by the "inland sea". The Bras d' Or lakes are saltwater, but lack the multitude of creepy things this Georgian Bay swimmer can live without. If it wasn't March I would have followed the dogs in for a swim. As the light faded over the lake, I realized if industrial Cape Breton was was the evil stepsister, this part of the island was Cinderella.

The next day, I suggested a hike to Uisge Ban Falls – which is apparently Gaelic for "no fucking way". The boys were tired after all that hockey, and at 14, hiking with someone's mother sounded about as appealing as church. I also suggested we come back to the Inverary in the summer to fly fish, golf, and cycle bits of the Cabot Trail – the flat bits preferably. To that I got a resounding "ya".

Alas, the March Break is grinding to a halt. Neighbours are trickling in with annoying suntans, and enviable jet lag. I may not have a fresh stamp in my passport, but I had a relaxing, poverty-stricken good time, surrounded by genuinely nice people. And besides – Oxycontin, or no Oxycontin – watching your happy, healthy kid win – at anything – beats an all-inclusive ticket to a tropical paradise any day.

Right?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The Inverary Resort is located in Baddeck. They have great golf packages and make a wicked bowl of oatmeal. www.capebretonresorts.com.

Where there's smoke, there's ire.

My neighbours have five kids. Or maybe six. I saw someone shoveling snow in a diaper, so maybe they cranked out another one over the winter.

This past weekend, when the Havenot sky cracked open to reveal a blue, blue sky – my fertile neighbours loaded up their offspring with Captain Crunch and aired them out in the sunshine. Like headless, hyperactive, free-range chickens they ran through the neighbourhood and into my yard, swarming my house like maggots on a dead dog. It was cute for a nanosecond – then I morphed into my grandmother – practically running for a pack of Rothmans so I could burn the little peckerheads as they dashed by.

If I wanted a pack of snot-faced kids with no social graces slamming my gate and kicking the stucco off of my front doorstep I would have had sex five or six more times. When it comes to children, my motto is: quality over quantity.

My father's mantra was, "children are to be seen and not heard", so it comes as no surprise that my tolerance for children leans more toward the witch in Hansel and Gretel than Mary Poppins. Even my own child grates on my nerves.

Take for instance this past weekend, when necessity – a toe sticking out the end of a running shoe – found us facing a wall of Usain Bolt-worthy running shoes that were, after a slack-jawed moment of inaudible grunts – rejected from afar. The lack of enthusiasm was puberty raring its pimpled head. So, I did what any sane, mother-of-the-year would do. I snapped. We left the store, and without warning, I dropped the little bastard at the entrance to the nearest mall, threw him my bank card, and told him not to come home until he's 22, or has a haircut and a new pair if running shoes. Preferably a pair that lace themselves.

I also told him to walk home because I need to hear full sentences – not inaudible grunts – and "this was my life too!", and I think I added "you selfish little prick!" – just before I squealed out of the parking lot in a cloud of blue smoke – burning rubber and listening to CBC, which took away some of the impact. I should have been listening to Golden Earring or In a Gadda Da Vida for the sizable patch I left on the pavement.

And now I probably need new tires.

I spent the time alone, checking my monthly calendar, worrying I may never see him again, and wondering if my actions were a bit harsh. What if he got abducted – although at 6 feet with size-12 shoes, a lingering hockey smell, and an exposed toe – that's unlikely.

What if he got swarmed by the Hare Krishna's? That would solve the haircut dilemma – but he looks horrible in orange, and has stereotypical white-man rhythm, so would suck in their band. His turn on the symbols would be out of sync, and the Hare Krishna's would get all mad and return him to the mall – shoeless and bald, with egg yolk all over his forehead.

What if the last words he heard out of my mouth were drowned out by the squeal of the tires and Stuart McLean's, Vinyl Café.

So I waited. Anxiously. If and when he arrived home, we'd celebrate with a trip to Q Smokehouse and Southern BBQ on Argyle Street. We'd talk about things like respect, and hockey, and respect for salespeople – then he'd eat smoked wings, pork ribs and fries, while I'd sit there all slack jawed, grunting inaudibly about baked beans and cole slaw and my shit luck at having another delicious smokehouse open up, just when I am deep in tofu hell.

I even considered going to look for him – but I hate the mall, and with my luck he'd be standing in front of the shoe display, all stunned and pubescent, unable to make a decision because I wasn't there, hovering, saying things like "What about these? These are cute."

The good news is, he arrived home with new running shoes and a decent haircut. Maybe it was my, "this is my life too!" comment – but he seemed nicer, and spoke in full sentences for the remainder of the weekend.

As for the neighbour's kids, I'm considering an electric fence – or burning a life-size Barney in their front yard – or handing out informative colouring books with titles like: "Mommy Needs Her Tubes Tied" and "ADHD is Short for Fucking Rude" and "Your Parents Think You're Adorable. But You're Not".

Ah, the sweet, sweet smell of bitterness in the springtime.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Q Smokehouse and Southern BBQ is at 1580 Argyle St., Halifax. 407-4006

What goes around comes around. Or is it, what comes around goes around.

The President and CEO of Enwave Energy Corporation is an asshole.

Used to be, statements like that would fester inside me – eventually coming to the surface like a 100-proof boil on my ass.

But not anymore.

One year ago, yesterday – out of sheer boredom and frustration – I started this blog. Deep in a recession that had my own business gasping for breath, I was bored and depressed and frustrated. After 8 years of work arriving at my doorstep, I had nothing. My clients were suffering – many in a position where they could no longer afford the exorbitant cost of traditional print advertising. Working from home meant my wardrobe and waistline had gone to shit, and my network of colleagues had gone the way of the glossy, full-page spread. I had no business cards and no web presence. I was screwed.

Truth is, I was also bitter and heartbroken at finding myself back in Havenot, after negotiating what I believed to be a tidy escape. Moving my family and my career, back home to Toronto was simple, but for one little detail: hockey. And hockey, in our house = happiness.

Having been uprooted as a pre-teenager, I was painfully aware of the dangers when not done correctly. Finding the little bastard – as he is now lovingly known – a happy spot on a competitive hockey team was my #1 priority. Everything else would fall into place.

As it turns out, after a few hiccups, Jack tried out for, and was offered a goalie position on the Toronto Marlies. We flew up for their annual Christmas tournament and together with my brother, we sat and watched his future team battle the competition. The Marlies coach was kind, and showered my kid with Marlies paraphernalia – hats, bags, self-esteem etc. With everything perfect in his little world, I could now start making positive steps with my own.

And then came the call.

I have heard stories about crazy hockey parents – strangling coaches is one extreme – and I have personally witnessed a hockey dad high-fiveing his child when a teammate erred. What I wasn't expecting upon arrival home, was a call from the Marlie's coach. He had bad news, out of his control – Jack was no longer a Marlie. What happened while we were happily making plans, set off a ripple of circumstances that haunts me to this day.

Come over here and sit by me, while I get this out of my system.

Our excitement about moving to Toronto was crushed when the other goalie's father – who happens to be the President and CEO of Enwave Energy Corporation – threatened to pull his kid off of the team mid-season, if the coach brought on another good goalie. Sharing was not an option for his 13-year old child. This father had an incredibly bad toupée, and a form of power that went above and beyond the game, or the coach: Money. This man not only threatened to remove his son from the team – he was taking with him the money that bought the child the position in the first place.

Needless to say, my reaction was reflex at its finest; Tell the dad to fuck off and go. Sadly, it doesn't work like that in the Greater Toronto Hockey League. I told the coach I didn't want my kid playing for a team that would tolerate that kind of asshole behaviour anyway. I told him I thought he (the coach) was a better man. Then I hung up and slipped into a depression that lasted until one year ago yesterday.

A great deal has happened since I pounded out that very first blog.

I learned why I kept journal after journal as a child – I love to write.

I learned that you are never too old, or too stupid to try new things. Like Twittering. Facebook. Roller coasters. Forgiveness. Horseback riding. Or Bubble tea.

I learned that most people are kind and generous and supportive. Without faithful readers, I would have been cut from the first round of Marketing's Most Creative competition. Instead, I won.

I learned that James Ingram is an amazing photographer, but you've got to love your self first.

I learned that Sock it to Ya! on Spring Garden is the first store in Canada to carry the Spanx bathing suit line, and that in a Spanx one-piece, fat has nowhere to go but up.

I learned that I was protein light and red wine heavy. And I needed help from U Weight.

I learned that letting it all out and speaking from the heart (and the bowels) made me feel better.

And I learned that I am not alone, even though it still feels like it some days.

Finally, I learned that money can buy seat on a hockey bench, and a kick-ass, fat-sucking bathing suit – but money cannot buy happiness. The Toronto Bantam AAA Marlies lost in the semi-finals this week. Screw forgiveness. That news made my bitter, Germanic, shadenfraude self, feel like a million bucks.

Most important – so stay the fuck with me – I learned that helping others feels good, and makes what I do seem somehow... worthwhile. Thank you for supporting the many small businesses I support on this blog.

Happy Anniversary Halifax Broad. Where the hell do we go from here?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Sock it to Ya! is at 5495 Spring Garden Road or 429-SOCK.

Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't give a rat's ass.

The inscription reads:

Jack,

Merry first Christmas from your first doctor.

Dr. Mike

The book: The Cat in the Hat. The reason: the young Dr. Mike had just spent 26 hours with his face between my legs awaiting the arrival of what he called, " the biggest baby he ever delivered!!"

The biggest baby he ever delivered entered the world 5 days early – read between the lines here, no time for bikini wax – and straight into the arms of the most ill-prepared mother since the so-called virgin.

What I did manage to do before I spat out the little bastard was: put up a small Christmas tree, and waddle into Baby Gap to purchase a striped cotton hat and matching onesie – hence "the hat". The hat was placed on the little bastard just after they wiped the goo off of his enormously pointed head.

The Cat in the Hat. Get it. Stay with me. Thus beginning our library of the dumbest fucking literature since the Old Testament – children's books.

There were very few children's books I could get through without slamming them shut and making up a story of my own. Take for instance, Love You for Fucking Ever, by Robert Munsch. Does a child really need to fall asleep with visions of himself cradling a gin and piss-soaked old woman in a see-through nightie?

Together, we read Richard Scarry's acid-induced Busytown classic, Cars and Trucks and Things that Go, over and over and over. My attempts to skip pages were outsmarted by little bastard's chubby hand slapping down and flipping back the page to where the pig family are driving the pickle car. Had I given birth to a complete moron?

And then there's Dr. Seuss. I hated Dr. Seuss more than Sesame Street and Barney combined. The incessant rhyming, the creepy characters that would show up when Sally and her brother were home alone because mommy was turning tricks on Mulberry Street.

Woozles (Canada's Oldest Children's Bookstore) on Birmingham Street have all the boring kiddie classics, plus the occasional ripper, like Walter the Farting Dog. They also have a medicated, er, dedicated and helpful staff who – suppressing the childhood incident involving Uncle Boozie and his Goodnight Moons tuck-in – pretend to like the stuff.

Dr. Seuss, a.k.a. Theodor Geisel would have been 106 today. Geisel's mother, a bakery worker, was 6 feet tall, 200 pounds and of German descent. Geisel probably peed the bed listening to her foreshadowing tales of bread ovens and gingerbread men. But, Happy Birthday anyway.

Oddly enough, The Cat in the Hat was written because Dr. Seuss thought the much-loved, Dick and Jane Have ADHD primers were insanely boring. My theory is, his books were the ultimate revenge. Yes they were. Yes they were. According to Geisel's widow, Dr. Seuss didn't even like kids, claiming, "He was slightly afraid of the little bastards."

Okay, so I embellished her quote a bit, but it makes for a better story.

If you do not like it.

Not one little bit.

I don't care a little.

In fact, I don't give a shit.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

www.woozles.com

Smells like February.

My hands stink of money.

The fact that I can smell anything through my clogged nose is incredible, and I just now horked up something that resembled Susan Boyle. I am sick. Of winter.

Copper – pressed into a penny and passed from hand to filthy hand – smells like homelessness and old ladies' Kleenex and bile. I hate pennies more than Melanie from Rogers Wireless, and I just spent precious moments segregating gangrenous pennies from the real coins in our loose change bowl. Now, even after scrubbing my hands with the lemon soap purchased with my last Euros in Positano – they still reek of poverty and dirty hair and public transit and vomit. With just a hint of Amalfi lemons.

Used to be, pennies would purge themselves annually, into the cardboard Unicef boxes hanging around the necks of socially-conscious trick or treaters, – but after 50 years and millions of dollars, those lazy bastards at Unicef decided having their hands smell like urine and head cheese all the time wasn't worth it. They cited "safety issues" because whacked-out parents voiced concerns about sending their little darlings door-to-door with cash. Sending them door-to-door begging for candy from pedophiles and people who voted for Stephen Harper was fine – but don't dangle a cardboard box around their necks. Pennies are jailbait for Conservatives and old men who jangle loose change in their pockets as a cover up for rubbing their saggy balls.

So, I am stuck with a Ziploc bag of smelly pennies and a bowl of shiny dimes, nickels and the occasional Loonie. I should roll the pennies and cart them to the bank, but then I'd never get the smell out. I could go out to the railway tracks and lay them down one by one, then wait for a train to come by. I'd get that childhood thrill from wondering if the pennies will derail the train – but VIA's already doing that without my help – and the thrill from placing a warm, freshly flattened penny in the palm of my hand, hardly seems worth going outside.

I could donate the pennies, but the bell-ringing Salvation Army Santas are in Florida in February, along with every other RRSP hoarder over the age of 55.

I could give them to Dalhousie's Molly Appeal fund for medical research. I hear that's how miserly ol' Molly Moore got rid of her stinky pennies year after year – and look what that started.

I could place them in a pillowcase and raise it above my head, swinging it around like Bruce Lee the next time someone with 16 items steps into the 1-10 item aisle in the grocery store.

Or, I could plop them on the travel agent's desk at Maritime Travel and let her deal with them. I say her because travel agents tend to be hers from my experience. And, while I am on the subject, how many people have to lose their hard-earned pennies booking through fly-by-night businesses like Go Travel before they wise up and shop locally for Christ's sake. Spend a few more pennies and book through someone who isn't going to go tits up before your 1968 Boeing takes off for Margueritaville. Maritime Travel have a great deal for $989 (taxes in) leaving March 8th for Puerto Plata and the 4-star Victoria Golf and Beach Resort. Maritime Travel will not only be there before you go and when you get home – they'll be on the end of the line 24/7 for when a hooker named Yonaidys takes off with your passport, your new Nikes and your pride.

This being the last day of February – a month that brought us one day of sunshine and 17 days of fucked-up television – I am going to usher in March by confessing that I have 500 pennies riding on Team USA for hockey gold. Go ahead, call me the Pete Rose of hockey moms, but with any luck some sucker of a 14-year old kid is going to win a Ziploc baggie of coins that smell worse than the little bastard's boxers on wing night.

Go Sid.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Go south. www.maritimetravel.com

To give your pennies to the Molly Appeal and medical research go to www.mollyappeal.ca

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.