Camp Keep Your Head Above Water.

My bank account just made a huge sucking sound as I committed the little bastard to another week of high-intensity summer camp.

Whatever happened to my life's plan? The plan that had me spending summers at leisure, up at my rustic-yet-charming Georgian Bay cottage – where I would play tennis and plow through novels, sipping gin and tonic, all the while praying some child didn't load up on Jim Beam and Dr. Pepper and subsequently smash the family boat – which would mean an unscheduled trip to town for stitches, more gin, and a new outboard motor. Meanwhile, my ever-so-successful husband would be in the city, screwing his secretary and making a small fortune, so I wouldn't have to work, think, or worry about anything fiscal.

What happened to that plan?

Instead, here I am, working my ass off just to keep up with all the activities necessary to keep the little bastard off of my sofa, crack cocaine and and the X-Box, until school starts in 65 days.

I don't recall my parents forking out the $500 or so, per week, to put me in golf camp, tennis camp, hockey camp, baseball camp or anything that ends in "camp" unless you count my self-enrollment in "Let's Roll a Doobie and Go Windsurfing Camp", or those two weeks I spent in "Teenage Alcoholic Training Camp" where the counselors taught you how to shotgun a beer, French kiss, and make Trashcan Punch while high on windowpane acid.

I have no memories of that camp, whatsoever.

God forbid you suggest the little bastard should get a fucking job. Bagging groceries, washing dishes or mowing lawns would interfere with golf camp, goalie camp, tennis camp, hockey camp, dryland training, wetland training and the $175 bucks I paid so he can run six kilometres down a gravel road once a week.

So off we go to Fredericton today, where I will fork out another mortgage payment so my little bundle of testosterone can spend six days being stimulated by something other than marijuana, fortified wine and texting on the sofa.

Ah, summer.

While he's away I think I'll enroll in Camp Menopause. I hear activities include lip waxing, bloat control-low-sodium BBQ-ing, mixing the perfect Cinzano and soda by flashlight, Introductory low-intensity shuffleboard, swimming with Depends, and coping with night sweats in a sleeping bag.

Sounds like a hoot.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Dalhousie University offers great, affordable summer camps for kids, like Shakespeare by the Sea Theatre Camp, soccer camp, hockey camps etc. www.athletics.dal.ca

The other royal visit.

Is a half a bottle of wine an acceptable teacher's gift?

Will the little bastard notice if I slip out and play tennis during his grad ceremony?

How can I check his breath for alcohol tonight if it's bouncing off mine?

Will anyone notice that I rented his suit for $39 bucks because they don't make a 37 extra-long?

Will my soon-to-be arriving house guests "from away" notice there's no food, and so much dog hair it looks like a fucking sheep shearing station?

Can I tell them I chose green grout for my bathroom tile?

If I tell them I'm auditioning for that show "Hoarders", is that technically a lie?

How will I explain Cousin Sarah sorting through her collectibles (garbage) in my back yard while eating a donair to combat her hangover?

What if they accidentally stick their face in a towel that got mixed up with the hockey laundry?

What if?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The woofer to my tweeter.

There is a gentleman who walks through the park with a boom box perched on his shoulder. He's about 75, give or take a decade, and favours loud fiddle music. 'Just plain, fucking crazy', I always figured – until I made eye contact with him one day – and he just looked happy.

Maybe it's me who's crazy.

This has been a hectic month of work deadlines and distractions. First there was the post-holiday slump, followed by the post-slump slump. Then, Cousin Sarah arrived with her merry traveling circus, reminding me of how much I hate children and chaos – and love Sarah for her ability to remain calm when the world around her is Disney meets Stephen King, set to a Miley Cyrus beat.

So we retreated to White Point.

The beauty of doing what I do, is I can do it just about anywhere. I just need the Internet, a little inspiration, and a relative amount of calm. Besides, the little bastard's class was on a school trip to Moncton, and having refused to fork out $450 dollars so he could go to the asshole of the Earth and overload on BBQ chips and testosterone – I figured a few days stuck golfing with me would teach him to pitch in and fund raise the next time.

What better place to escape reality than a cottage by the sea. A cottage with room service, housekeeping, a chef, and a kick ass wi-fi (www.on-line.net) that allows me to wander and work anywhere on the property – like the bar. Or the golf clubhouse. Or the beach. White Point is like hangin' with a fun, old friend who doesn't care what you wear, or comment when you have to unbutton your pants to polish off the kid's Flourless Chocolate cake. We golfed, swam, played tennis, walked on the beach, napped, guzzled wine, and finished one another's sentences. I never pull away from my friendly seaside sanitarium for the chronically perturbed, feeling anything but peaceful, rejuvenated, understood, and mildly hungover.

White Point put an end to my slump and prepared me for the week ahead: Grade nine exam hell, work deadlines, hopping back on the UWeight wagon, hockey schedules, walks in the park, the usual day-to-day drudgery I take for granted, and the end-of-the-week arrival of my very best friend.

The yin to my yang. The Ethel to my Lucy. The tonic to my vodka. The "no we can't " to my "what the hell" is arriving in Havenot.

Crank up the boom box.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Get the best wi-fi and 24/7 service from Chris Rizzuto at On-line Computers www.on-line.net.

Get outta town. Go to: www.whitepoint.com or call 1.800.565.5068.

Monday's child is fair of face (and needs a slap).

My newspaper is still on vacation stop because I am still on vacation stop.

Regardless, I open the front door and bend over so Monday can kick me in the ass – because that's what Monday does.

Monday is a playground bully. A broken heart. Soggy Cheerios.

Monday is a dickhead.

Monday is preheating the oven only to realize there's a pizza box still in there from Friday night.

Monday is reading the instructions folded up inside the Tampax box lying on the bathroom floor because there's nothing else to read and I can't take a crap without reading something. According to Procter & Gamble the key is: "to RELAX!. Worrying about it may make you tense, making insertion even harder."

Monday is realizing my eyesight has failed so badly I can barely read even the big type or make out the grade 8 sex-ed diagrams on the folded instructions, and after so many sexless years likely couldn't find the insertion point into my vagina with a flashlight and a John Deere, let alone a cardboard applicator.

Monday is my glasses falling off my face every time I bend over to get kicked in the ass.

Monday is a washing machine full of clean clothes that smell like wet bathing suits and death.

Monday is when everyone falls out of bed and into nice shoes, closing the door on the weekend and waltzing into an office to talk about how the weather sucks, and what an asshole little Jordie's soccer coach is, and Sex in the City 2, loved it, hated it, those girls are too old and too skinny to be having that much fun, oh I love Mr. Big. Blah, blah, blah what should we do for lunch today?

Monday is email after email asking me how the work that was due last week is coming along (it isn't) and how's my creativity (dwindling) and would I mind throwing together a quick logo for a good cause (no, fuck off).

Monday is looking ahead to all the things you can see and do in Havenot if you were so inclined – most of which involve eating rich food and talking to people – so I likely won't go, but hey, go ahead, it'll give you something to talk about on Mondays when I am considering going back to bed and rolling around in dog hair and night sweat, or pondering donating my vagina to science, because hey, I may as well – it's in great shape and barely has any miles on it. In fact, I should have put my vagina on the curb this past weekend as a part of the Curbside Giveaway Weekend that I knew nothing about because my paper is on a "piss off I am still on vacation" stop. Someone may as well use it.

For instance, you could dress up my gently-worn vagina and take it wine tasting in aid of Habitat for Huamnity, this coming Saturday, June 13th at Pipa – Halifax’s only Portuguese and Brazilian eatery – and apparently one of Canada’s Top 10 New Restaurants in 2009. When I think Portuguese I think sausage – the reason why, buried deep in my past – even though I have never been to Portugal. "Pipa" is Spanish slang for "having a good time" so how bad could it be? Besides, Habitat for Humanity build houses for people who really have a reason to hate Mondays, but likely don't, because they have HOPE and FAITH and can RELAX! while inserting a tampon. Their next build is in Vietnam and Lord knows those land mine dodging rice flingers have seen their share of crappy Mondays. Tickets are $40 and include a guided wine tasting tour through 8 different wines. Sounds like things could get sloppy and make for really interesting water cooler chit chat, so email: kschwenk@eastlink.ca and drink up for humanity's sake.

There's a bunch of other crap coming down the pipe in the weeks to come but I've got work to put off and procrastination to do – so stay tuned.

Happy Monday.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Pipa Restaurant is at 1685 Argyle Street in Halifax. 902.407.7472. Order the sausage.

For more information on the Vietnam H4H build click on the woman/man flinging rice to the right.

Top of the morning.

I've always liked it on top.

Top of the Peaks overlooking Georgian Bay. Top of the class, before life ran amok. Top of the cake – the corner bit where all the icing roses grow. And the top of the heap, metaphorically.

Suffice it to say, this morning I gleefully kicked the ass and closed the door on a year spent breathlessly searching for pennies on the bottom of a filthy community swimming pool.

Lesson have been learned. Botox injections are expensive, and only inhibit your ability to express sadness. Instead, I went for a complete inner overhaul, tossing out the things that were dragging me down below the surface. Things like "I can't", and Cheesies washed down with just about anything I could get my hands on. I fired a few clients, and let go of the guilt felt when I said, "No. No I can't".

I learned that putting yourself out there doesn't mean selling your soul.

I learned that money may not buy happiness, but not having any sucks.

I learned that waving a CAA card at a hotel check-in works wonders.

I learned that true friends don't try and change you, they just accept you for who you aren't.

I learned that having a birthday at this stage in the game, beats the fuck out of not having one.

This very weekend, I learned that the old bag who stole my parking spot at the grocery store may have won the battle, but a well-penned note placed on her windshield won the war. So tap your boney, frosted peach-polished finger on the K-car window all you want, you geriatric old bitch. No one can out-miserable me.

"Look," the birthday girl said, resurfacing and taking in a deep breath of sweet air, "a shiny new one!".

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Re-entry. Not to be confused with rear entry.

Astronauts say it takes approximately three days to adapt to weightlessness. I find, one flight attendant deft with a drink trolley and I can feel the weight slide off my weary shoulders before the in-flight movie cranks up.

Post-holiday re-entry is another matter all together.

There should be a quarantine room, or decompression area with drinks and calming music for people returning from holidays. A buffer zone between the lofty pleasure of carefree abandonment and the grim reality that awaits when the airport express plops your broke, travel-weary ass at the curb.

No maid service. No Dungeness crab Eggs Benedict. No Napa red on the bedside table.

I came home to rotten milk, foot-high dandelions, a stack of bills, not one cheque, anxious clients, and a filthy house that reeked of cat piss.

We don't have a cat.

What's worse, my truck bed was full of crap, having been used as the neighbourhood spring clean up recycling bin while parked in my driveway. One minute I was window shopping on Rodeo Drive, the next I'm waist deep at the local dump, pitching rotten picket fences and gout weed into the never never.

So why forsake feet on the ground (and RRSPs) to fly to the moon? Is lying on the back lawn staring at the stars not good enough? Why bend over and take the side effects of post-exploration re-entry when one can simply read about it in a book.

Because.

Because teaching your child that the world is neither flat, nor safe, nor sane, nor the same everywhere – is part of my job here on Earth. Because wonder is wonderful.

And because Donnie MacInnes, a local father of two, died suddenly while biking to work a few weeks ago. Donnie was 39. I didn't know him, but from all accounts he was one hell of a good guy. A family guy. A hockey coach. A man who loved his wife and his kids, and his life – even the really crappy days.

In true Havenot fashion, a dance and silent auction has been organized to help raise funds for Donnie's family. Kick up your heels to The Corvettes on Friday, June 11th from 8:30 until 11:30 at Gorsebrook Lounge, Saint Mary's University. The cost is ten bucks, with proceeds going to the Donnie MacInnes Memorial Fund. If you don't feel like dancing, because let's face it, some days you can barely get your feet out from under the covers – donations can be made to the Seamus and Molly MacInnes Education Fund at RBC Branch, 6390 Quinpool Road, Halifax (03303) or any other RBC branch for that matter.

Slamming back down to Earth after being away from my dreary ol' routine is a harsh reality – but placed in context – I really have nothing to whine about. We had a great time. So what if I had to mow the lawn, do a few loads of laundry, snarl at a few clients, take a trip to the dump, and crank up the dehumidifier a notch or two.

I bet you ten bucks Donnie MacInnes would give anything to be feeling the weight of the world on his wonderful shoulders.

Now where's that fucking flight attendant. I need a coffee.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For advance tickets, to give, or to donate an item to the silent auction email Kerri LaFond at lafondk@halifax.ca or call 902. 490.5816.

Batting a thousand.

It is with mixed emotions, and severe garlic breath, that I face my last day of this so-called vacation.

Traveling with someone you have little in common with, aside from DNA, is a challenge – but after ten days on the road with the little bastard I can honestly say, aside from my choice of restaurant last night, "The Stinking Rose", it's been pretty congenial.

So, the kid hates garlic – but I'm not all that keen on basketball, endless shopping, or dining at places called "In and Out Burger" or "Bubba Gumps". So we're even.

Give and take. With a slight emphasis on give.

True, I dragged his ass through the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art yesterday, but let him spend extra time drooling over the iPads in the Apple store. And I made him climb a mountain trail in Big Sur, and the steps at Telegraph Hill. Twice. But I endured another round of popcorn shrimp. Okay, so that wasn't really torture.

This was always meant to be his vacation, otherwise my fat ass would be lying on a beach sipping sangria in the Costa del Sol. But he hates sitting still for 5 seconds unless there's a ball, puck or wallet being tossed about. So here we are.

I have learned the secret to happy travels with teenagers is to avoid that dreaded boredom stage where they morph into psychopaths and start checking their text messages every 30 seconds. Keep them busy (and a nice bottle of Napa Valley Cabernet close at hand).

So you sacrifice sitting and staring at the scenery – but sitting and staring at your happy kid watching Kobe Bryant is worth it. But wait a minute, isn't that Dustin Hoffman?!... and David Spade... and Danny DeVito... and Jack fucking Nicholson!? All of a sudden I like basketball.

The little bastard has a choice to make soon. Go away to prep school, or stay at home. The choice is his. Either way he wins. Either way, I will hang on to these memories and this last full day of dancing to the beat of his moody teenage drum.

If I suddenly burst into tears at tonight's Giants game, it will have little to do with Willie Mays, the cost of tickets, resisting the garlic fries, foul $12 beer, or the fact that the Giants suck.

It'll be all about loving him. And the moment.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Rooting for the home team.

According to the dream interpreter dictionary – to dream of rooting for truffles, as I did last night, indicates: "someone will confess, or you will say something sincerely."

I think it has more to do with having spent a fair chunk of yesterday at the mall, rooting through stacks of shorts designed for an anorexic broom handle, in an attempt to find a pair that didn't make me look like I should be playing fucking bocce down in Boca Raton.

I need shorts that fit at the top, the porcine middle, and the bottom. A pair that: A. Doesn't have a swoosh. Or, B. An elastic waist and a label that says TABI. Or, C. A food stain.

I need "walking" shorts because the little bastard and I are going on a vacation. A real vacation. Our first real vacation since the recession grabbed me by the balls and squeezed. Although, this is not really my vacation – it's his – and the way it's stacking up, it's not really sounding like a vacation at all. The planning stages went something like this:

Me: What about backpacking in Spain?

LB: No.

Me: What about Spain, with a little walk on the wild side in Morrocco.

LB: No.

Me: What about Barcelona (throwing in a curve ball)... I've always wanted to see Gaudi's La Sagrada Família while under the influence of cheap Rioja, because clearly the man was intoxicated when he slapped that thing together.

LB: Blank stare, followed by: "Mom, my idea of a vacation would be going to LA and seeing a Lakers play-off game" as he headed out the door to school.

I'll show him, I thought, and I did what I love to do more than almost anything, and that's play Travel Agent. Within minutes I found a one-way trip to LA for $169 dollars, and without hesitation or further thought as to how we were going to pay for it, or how we were going to get home – I booked it.

My thought was this. The little bastard won't be wanting to hang around with me much longer, so this is his trip. Besides, I love people watching and what better place to watch people than in Los Angeles at a Dodgers game, followed by a Lakers game. If I take binoculars I may even see the top of Jack's head. Not my Jack. LA's Jack. Nicholson.

The next hurdle was getting my hands on the forementioned Lakers tickets – which according to all sources, would be harder than finding a Catholic priest on a school bus, or a pair of shorts that don't make my knees look like two loaves of balled up Wonder bread. This explains why I haven't been spewing my innermost thoughts on this blog, because I spent a good portion of this week on the phone with Ticketmaster, or on the Ticketmaster website listening to mall music and hitting the refresh button. Over and over and over.

No luck in the Wednesday American Express pre-sale. Unless I was willing to pay $320USD for one ticket.

Thursday, the tickets went on sale to the general public at 10am LA time. At 1:53 I started stalking Ticketmaster simultaneously by phone and online. Pig-headed perseverance paid off. By roughly 3:45 Atlantic time, I had landed not one – but two of the worst tickets for the LA Lakers vs some other team – for more money than I spent on my first car. I confess to being so excited I almost peed my pants. And I hate basketball.

I want to ride bikes on Santa Monica beach and hike up to the Hollywood sign. The little bastard wants to shop. It'll be perfect. What's even more perfect is Nadine Hartnett at Maritime Travel in Park Lane put my travel agent wannabe skills to shame by performing miracles – landing us a great deal on a 5-star hotel near the Staples Centre, pre-paid in Canadian funds for waaay less than I was finding online. Nadine also sold us travel medical insurance just in case I fall off my bike, or the bleachers after too many warm beers in Mannywood.

So, as my life goes, we are off in the opposite direction than I had originally intended, but I can always do an old lady bus trip through Spain later. This will be the little bastard's vacation – aside from that side-trip drive up the coastal road to San Francisco and the pit stop at a crappy motel around Big Sur, where I'll sit on a picnic table and sip California wine from a plastic cup and admire the heartstopping beauty of it all, while he complains about not getting cell service and the lack of outlet malls in the Redwood forests.

Yep, this is his vacation.

Sincerely,

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

www.maritimetravel.ca For clever hotel solutions try Nadine Hartnett at Park Lane Mariritme Travel (902) 429-7885. Email: nhartnett@maritimetravel.ca.

Glenda at CAA Travel was a bit of a wizard as well: ghunter@atlantic.caa.ca.

The pickle jar.

No wonder Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven.

Two kids with annoying British accents, prick of a husband, and a writing career that floundered and flopped like a dying goldfish.

At least she didn't resort to public announcements.

Or maybe, just maybe, the morning she decided to crank the gas, she got a call from the neighbour, wondering if she could pen a potentially Pulitzer-winning poster for a lost dog.

Sylvia probably muttered something like, "who am I, the town fucking crier?" before putting pen to paper and dutifully writing the words: missing. followed by, dog.

Or, maybe, just maybe, in the seconds before Sylvia got down on the linoleum and rested her blonde head on the grill, she agreed to write about a Flea Market happening that very same day over at the local schoolyard. LeMarchant schoolyard. From 4-6. In support of some underfunded school trip going somewhere with pissed-stained bunk beds and potential for a head lice outbreak.

Did they not know she was a published writer. An author?

Poor Sylvia. I think it was an accident. I think she was changing the light bulb in her oven and she just succumbed to the soul-crushing fatigue most mothers feel, some days.

Poor bitch.

She had actually planned to attend the flea market to sift through other people's baggage, costume jewelry, jars of jams and pickled cauliflower in mustard sauce, and re-gifted tokens of affliction. Sylvia loved flea markets. She was hoping to find a baked goods table, and maybe pick up some soft, white dinner rolls she could pass off as homemade. And some date squares to have with her tea.

Because her own oven light was on the blink.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Just in case you are scratching your head, saying what the fuck?, there's a Flea Market at LeMerchant school today from 4 until 6, rain or shine. The usual crap. For a wonderful cause.

And into the ire.

The frying pan narrowly missed the dog, napping outside in the early morning sun. "In the future, should you desire pancakes – go to fucking Smitty's."

With that, I scraped the remaining blueberry banana mixture into the garburator and tossed the little bastard a box of Cheerios.

The kitchen is closed.

I had one frying pan – well two – if you count the rusty, cast iron one, last used during the Gold Rush. The non-stick variety that crashed and burned this morning was no longer non-stick – in fact quite the opposite. It was the original T-Fal non-stick pan, which – when I inherited it – was already past its prime.

Add to this, my stove is apartment-size, despite sitting in a full-size hole waiting to be replaced, someday, by a full-size, stainless steel range and matching hood. My pint-size stove has two settings: hot, and really fucking hot. I blame my stove for why I burn everything, including toast. And bridges. My stove also has an automatic timer, which means it basically shuts off whenever it bloody well feels like it, as it did this morning, several times, mid pancake.

Living here is like Little House on the fucking Prairie, minus the constant sex with Charles.

At least I could feed the dog I nearly decapitated moments ago. It was then that I realized the can opener no longer opens anything – it just whirls around making little hair-like ribbons of aluminum that fall to the floor like tinsel amidst the disappointment of Christmas morning. Consequently, the can opener went out the back door where it landed with a soft "ping", bouncing off the frying pan before settling next to the fresh hole in the lawn, dug by the other dog, now waiting nervously for breakfast. I poured the remaining Cheerios into the dog bowls and went back to bed.

Bed, as it turned out, was now my laundry room with a mammoth pile of clean laundry lying where I wanted to be – so I opted instead for a hot shower. The shampoo bottle I use to prop the window open so the steam doesn't peel the wallpaper off, fell out the window and into the neighbour's yard which left me with just conditioner, or the little bastard's Old Spice Hair & Body wash that smells like insecticide and the armpits of teenage boys. I shaved my legs even though I ask myself every morning, why bother?, then pulled a pair of men's elastic-waist gym shorts and a Wrigley Field t-shirt out of the pile and headed to the computer.

There's gotta be more to life than this.

Cousin Sarah left for Toronto yesterday after several, stressful days of making a five-bedroom house fit into one large U-Haul and a Toyota Sequoia. Add to that; 2 dogs, 3 cats, 3 children, 3 ponies, a bunny, and a fish and I was just about out of mind. Cousin Sarah was fine. I was the crazy one.

It wasn't so much that Sarah was leaving, it was that she was leaving me behind. Me, who lives like a nomad, with scaled-down possessions that have nothing to do with the minimalist movement. Just movement. I want to be ready to go, when someone yells "go!". To this end, I quite often find myself standing near the cashier at a store, holding on to a lovely throw pillow or a functioning appliance, when I ask myself, "do I really need this?". The answer is usually, a resounding "no".

As a result, I may as well be cooking beans over a campfire in my backyard, wearing the little bastard's hand me downs, smelling like a 14-year old with a perpetual boner.

But I'm going to Italy again. Maybe. Soon. Who needs a frying pan and a can opener when they're holding on to the winning ticket for a trip to Italy? CAA have recently launched A Big Taste of Italy in Support of the Littlest Patients – a month-long fundraising campaign in support of the IWK Health Centre and Janeway Children’s Hospital foundations. All net proceeds from this campaign will go towards these two wonderful organizations that have stitched up my little bastard on several occasions. To purchase a ticket, head into your local CAA office or call 1-800-561-8807. Tickets are $10 and include an instant $10 coupon to East Side Mario's. Buda-bing. There's dinner taken care of.

I wonder if they make pancakes.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Arrivals and departures.

I met up with some old friends last night. Mr. Pretzel. Mr. Booze. And Mrs. Self-pity.

This was one of those weeks where nothing – absolutely fucking nothing – went the way it is supposed to when you only live once. I'm not sure what set if off, because it was a myriad of disasters and disappointments from start to finish. Perhaps it was Cousin Sarah's move back to Ontario, and my several trips to, and through, the Havenot airport – but at one point I asked myself, why?.

That's it. Just why?

'Funny then, that "wonder" was the number one Virtue sent in by so many lovely, funny, and fantastically fucked-up readers. (I am so not alone.) Was that because Wonder was Barb Stegemann's first listed Virtue and y'all are just lazy asses – or, is wonder something we all frantically search for to replace that ol' dickhead, doubt, who lounges on the sofa saying things like "No. Don't be silly. You? No, you can't."

So, there I was at Havenot Stanfield Underpants airport mid-shitty week, anxiously awaiting Sarah's arrival, when the woman twitching nervously next to me said something like, "Would you know where these folks were at?" in the thickest Newfoundland accent I have ever heard.

If you've never heard a Newfoundland accent, it is a wool blanket on a chilly day. A shot of whiskey in hot chocolate. And under most circumstances, it is funny as hell.

But not this week. This week, even a charming Newfie accent was twinged with fear and doubt.

"I can't find my daughter." she said. "She was s'posed to be here an hour ago from Edmonton. She could be here... lost."

I looked around and thought, Christ ya, there's gotta be 15 lobster fishermen and a cab driver here by the 3 baggage carousels. Easy to see how you could lose someone. But I mustered up some kindness and asked her if she'd checked the Arrivals board.

"Arrivals board? I've never done this before", she said wide eyed.

I was about to say "Did you just come down off Walton's fucking mountain, or what?" when I saw a look in her eyes. Here was naive wonder, colliding head on with serious fear and doubt.

I wandered over to the Information Desk where Angus MacMinimumwage expressed disinterest as I enquired about a flight from Edmonton. A flight that wasn't on the Arrivals board. He rolled his eyes and said the flight was late, arriving soon from Toronto and dismissed me like I was dog shit on his Wallabees. It took every fibre of my being not to reach over and grab him by the Nova Scotia tartan vest and beat him to death with the Doers and Dreamers guide.

I went back and explained to the woman, that her daughter should be coming through that door any time now. The door Cousin Sarah was walking though – all aglow with hope spiked with courage, wisdom, and a new Toronto haircut.

I am happy to say the Newfoundland mom was reunited with her daughter, and it's time to announce the winner of the 7 Virtues perfume and book giveaway. Everyone deserves to win, well, maybe except for the person who wrote in humility which, while technically a virtue, isn't one of Barb's virtues.

The winner is Shelly Webb.

Shelly chose Courage, and something in her email resonated with me. I think it was the part where she said, "Today’s virtue is definitely COURAGE; the courage just to get out of bed and do it all over again. It’s a funny world we live in when the most momentous part of the day is just finding a pair of pants that doesn’t cut off the circulation to your lower extremities."

We hear ya, Shelly.

Back in the company of my ol' buddies Mr. Pretzel, Mr. Booze and Mrs. Self-pity, I was sad to find them repetitive and boring. I've moved on. I'd gathered them together to whine about my crappy week but then I remembered something, and called it an early night.

I remembered that May 1st is the fourth anniversary of the death of a friend. Sheelagh Nolan could have been the poster girl for 7 Virtues. She had them all – beauty, courage, justice, wonder, truth, wisdom, and with the exception of the occasional Friday night – moderation.

Sheelagh also possessed grace, humour, forgiveness, wit, mischief, joy, kindness, selfless love – and a laugh that could brighten the darkest sky. Or the shittiest week.

May 1st is the day I wake up and thank my lucky fucking stars – for knowing her, and for being alive.

Oh... that's why.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Ashes to ashes.

I've slept with a few tomcats, a silver fox, a selfish stallion, my share of coyotes, and more pigs than I care to remember, but this weekend was a first.

I spent the night with a lifeless dog.

After going down swingin' through the trap door of Canada Writes, I hopped in a rental car and headed north. My rental turned out to be a Toyota, so I matted it – figuring I'd play the uncontrollable acceleration card, should I be pulled over by the OPP.

Canada Writes was a nerve-wracking blast and I had mixed feelings about leaving it behind. The contestants, producers, singers, Judges and GO-host Brent Banbury were all terrific. Fuck what everyone says about CBC – this was a smart, dedicated crew of people who appeared to love their jobs. I told everyone the show was airing next week so no one would listen to me making an ass of myself. Pity though, those who whereby missed Chloe's absolutely brilliant deli-meat rendition of Feist's, 1,2,3,4. As it turned out, "putting myself out there" as a friend called it – was actually fun – although having to censor my natural irreverence was like suppressing vomit. (Tune in to the final, May 7th, live from the "Peg".)

One of the nicest things about being back in Toronto, besides being surrounded by energetic people who get paycheques – is getting the hell out. Leaving the mosques and constipation of the city behind – heading north on Airport Road is a free spirit's dream. I noticed with a twinge of ire, that the townhome developments stretch almost up to Caledon now – identical rows of depressing housing meccas with names like Housewife's Leap and Laminate Ridge. It pisses me off to see lovely century farms being plowed over, making way for such thoughtless developments – but once you get beyond that, it's all good.

My past came back to haunt me north of Alliston, and I almost swerved over to pick up a six-pack of Lonesome Charlie, but then I remembered I was pushing 50, and going 130km for a reason.

I was going to meet my man.

An hour or so later, that first glimpse of Georgian Bay took my breath away, and I got all verklempt. Georgian Bay is the lover you never get over. The first crush. Just looking at the turquoise flecked with navy blue makes me all happy/sad and I want to dive right in. (Judge, Arlene Dickinson said my writing had a schizophrenic quality, but this isn't Dragon's Den, so screw her, I'm sticking with happy/sad. What does a beautiful, self-made millionaire know anyway?).

Pulling in to the the ski hill where I grew up, I finally caught a glimpse of my man. He was in the arms of another woman – in a cardboard box. My beloved dog Hooey's ashes. I left Georgian Bay soon after he died and I was finally back to get him. My plan was to take Hooey for his final hike and scatter his ashes in the field. The field on top of the escarpment I was about to climb. The field where I'd like to be scattered someday, to the tune of popping champagne corks and the occasional sniffle, snort, or "woo hoo, the miserable bitch is dead!".

But I couldn't do it. I just wasn't ready to let him go.

Hooey came into my life by accident. I was pregnant, alone, and dying for an ice cream cone. I stopped at the local mall, where a sign in the pet store window caught my eye: "Lab mix pups for sale". I looked at the half-dozen puppies bouncing around, then spotted a really fat fluffy one, sound asleep at the back. I'll take that one. For a hundred bucks, I got a bag of dog food and 13-years of selfless, unconditional love.

We hiked to my field, then I headed back to Toronto with Hooey as my wing man. The two of us flying down the highway, just like old times. Mindful of an early morning flight and my concern over getting him through airport security, we ordered room service and watched the hockey game, curled up in the hotel bed like comfortable, faithful old lovers. Just me and my box. Falling asleep, I noted he doesn't fart as much as he used to – but he's still "the one".

He'll always be the one.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Peaceful Acres is pet cemetary outside of Havenot somewhere. When it's time, call (902) 499-9289 or try http://www.atyp.com/peacefulacres/

Queen size me.

I was drowning in a sea of toned biceps, high heels, skinny jeans, and sexy, sleeveless tops. Dressed like a puffy, 12-year old lesbian in Levis, Converse sneakers and a t-shirt, I pinched a layer of fat on my arm. Fuck. It wasn't a nightmare.

Where's the bar?

A party for a friend found me surrounded by drop-dead gorgeous women, one of whom was turning 40 and looked about 19. I missed the burning effigy of a man on the front lawn, but I knew goin' in – this was a Pilates-powered, penis-free zone. With no hope of getting felt up, I even left on my sports bra.

Why was I here again?

Oh ya. Birthday. Tough year. Shed the mommy costume, leave the kiddies with a pizza, a dad, and Hockey Night in Canada. Dress up for no other reason other than to feel like you did before you traded in the Rabbit convertible for a minivan. Celebrate friendship and survival. Gather the girls and get pissed.

I really need to sex up my wardrobe.

Men gather with purpose; Wage war; Conduct business; Watch a pole dancer; Sports. Women will gather at the sound of a kettle or a cork – if for no other reason than to share a laugh, or a bitch about babies, cellulite, money, men, books, meals, work, parents, husbands, laundry, teachers, teenagers, lack of sleep, lack of respect, lack of elasticity, lack of love. Fueled by financial freedom and white wine, women have the potential to kick ass. Fueled by a nature to protect and a will to survive – women are a force like no other.

Are they going to cut that fucking cake, or what? I want to go home.

Barb Stegemann kicks serious ass. Author of 7 Virtues of a Philosopher Queen, A Woman's Guide to Living & Leading in an Illogical World, Stegemann is a woman on a mission, and God help anyone who stands in her way. Stegemann's philosophy is simple, and leaps from the pages of her book: It is never too late to become what you envision for yourself. And, it is important for us to do our bit to empower others. Us, as in women. Others, as in those who can't afford shit, let alone $300 skinny jeans.

I envisioned a slice of that vanilla Chai icing birthday cake to soak up the gallon of wine I consumed in the name of sisterhood of the Chardonnay. I'll empower myself to go back on my healthy lifestyle tomorrow, so just wrap up a piece of that Sweetiecake's cake "to go" and let me get the hell out of here before they burst into a drunken rendition of Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" while doing the downward facing dog in size 0 pants.

Stegemann's latest stroke of genius – Afghanistan Orange Blossom Eau de Parfum, was born out of the thesis of The 7 Virtues of a Philosopher Queen. While women still don't wear all of the pants in politics or CEO positions – women own the North American buying power. So, according to the Philosopher Queen, we must harness that power to bring about change. "The more perfume we sell, the more crops we buy from Afghanistan. The more licit crops we buy, the stronger the economy of Afghanistan becomes and the people are less reliant on the illicit poppy crops that fuel the illegal drug trade. It’s important for us to do our bit to empower."

Is she a fucking pistol in pumps, or what? Save the world by shopping and smelling good. Cut the damn cake because she takes it.

Thanks to Barb, I have a copy of The 7 Virtues of a Philosopher Queen and a beautiful (and rare) bottle of Afghanistan Orange Blossom Eau de Parfum to give away. All you have to do is go to www.the7virtues.com, then email me one of Barb's virtues. Moderation is one, but I blew that one at the penis-free party, so choose a different one, because my head still hurts.

Send your email to halifaxbroad@gmail.com, and you could win this beautifully-packaged bundle of fragrance and inspiration. I empower you. The winner will be announced next week.

The other winner will be an Afghan woman, who – with a little help – will find a way out of her nightmare, and something to laugh about someday.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

While you were sleeping.

My bowels kicked in just as the Rogers technical support girl came on the line this morning.

They, my bowels, had been on hold for quite some time and became irritable much like the rest of me, waiting for Rogers, like I am forced to do several times a week until my contract runs out, at which time I will take my iPhone and, well, I haven't decided whose ass to shove it up yet, but I'll keep you posted.

My iPhone is constipated, and keeps sending the same emails over and over, yet the email remains lodged in the lower intestine of my Outbox like a block of Wisconsin cheddar.

While I was on hold, I had a desperate online cry for coffee cream from a fellow early bird, which was extremely cruel because I would normally have cream (or Baileys) for my coffee, only I am holding steadfast to my UWeight health regime and drink tea with milk or, get this: soya – while I am on hold with Rogers – instead of an extra-spicy Caesar, or my 1/4 cup of cream in my freshly-ground Italian espresso.

Soya. What the fuck? No one wants to borrow soya at 6am.

While I was on hold, I opened the front door to fetch the morning newspaper and was greeted by, not one, but two, tree-fucking Yellow Pages books which I immediately tore the plastic off and tossed in the blue bin for recycling – making a note to call the geniuses at Yellow Pages once I was no longer on hold waiting for a sign of intelligent life at Rogers.

If I wanted a tome of uselessness, I would order one. Like a Sears catalog.

While I was on hold, I scraped the little bastard's boxers off of the bathroom floor and did a load of laundry. He went to a Hedley concert last night, and I have no idea who Hedley is but apparently Hedley was on Canadian Idol so I figured no one would show up because Ben Mulroney was indirectly involved – so the little bastard, if he had a lighter, would be safe flicking his Bic all alone in the dark. I gave him my spiel about drugs and alcohol at concerts and then I remembered he wasn't me, and likely wouldn't end up half naked and unconscious in a motel room somewhere outside of Butte, Montana.

While I was on hold, I walked the dogs around the block and noted that my neighbour had a fresh load of mulch and black earth from Kel-Ann Organics, so I could steal some and fill the enormous holes my little dog keeps digging in the backyard. It's kind of creepy to have a hole in my backyard and makes me think I am not ready to die yet, but I could quite possibly have a heart attack and shit my jammies waiting for Rogers.

While I was on hold I responded to the 40 or so emails informing me they had received the same email over and over like I was repeating myself after too many Chardonnays in a cougar bar last night. Which I wasn't. I was waiting for my child to come home, flicking back and forth between Jamie Oliver's attempt to cure America of fatness on his Food Revolution, and Sidney Crosby's many miracles on ice.

Tired of waiting, I was just about to hang up when another miracle happened. My tea with milk kicked in, just as the "on hold" music stopped and a chipper voice on the end of the line said, "Rogers technical support, how can I help you?"

I leaned forward, rested the iPhone on the bathroom floor next to the bowl, and hit "speaker".

Have a nice weekend.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Kel-Ann Organics deliver mulch, topsoil and recycled poop and Yellow Pages that turn into composted garden stuff. Check out www.kelann.com or call 835.7645.

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.