Stubborn. Stain. Removal.

The little bastard came to me with a laundry complaint this morning, and I think he knew, just as the words came spilling out of his mouth, what a grave fucking error he was making.

He was holding up a hoodie and was just about to suggest another round of Spray 'n' Wash – when I blew.

It started with "If you think I was put on Earth to..." and ended with, "you can kiss my big fat ass."

Needless to say, it's been a bit busy around here, or maybe you haven't noticed, but hmmm... looks like September 2nd was the last time I sat down to vent and waste precious time. Since then, it's been a watery casserole of back-to-school, hockey, looking for pants that don't make me look like Jed Clampett, and cranking out last-minute ad campaigns for people who suddenly realized the heat wave was over.

Since September 2nd, the highlight of my life was giving myself a pedicure in my car, in the dark, in the New Glasgow rink parking lot. By pedicure, I mean scraping at my heels with a mill bastard from Canadian Tire. Actually it was a Dr. Scholls foot thingie, but mill bastard just sounded so much better. (For those who don't know what a mill bastard is, it is no relation to the little bastard and there's a picture of one over to the right.) Considering the shape of my feet, a mill bastard likely would have done a better job, but for some reason I had a Dr. Scholl thingie in my glove box – who doesn't – so I just went with that.

Since September 2nd, I have ignored some hilarious letters to my yet-to-be-launched advice column. I have also been 'call screening' someone from Toronto who wants to interview me, but I sounded so totally certifiable in my last interview I just keep ignoring her calls hoping she'll go away. I also turned down two (not one, but two) invitations to the film festival because I didn't have anything to wear, or the little bastard had hockey, or I hated movie musicals and crowds – so much for my autumn goal to run over the neighbour's cat and "get a life". Here it is halfway through September and I haven't accomplished anything other than a whack of work and some dead skin removal.

Since September 2nd, the annual Frame-it Custom Framing sale has been on and I've been too damn busy to do anything about it. So go frame something you cherish before September 30th.

Since well before September 2nd, women have been collecting bras for the annual Bras Across the Bridge breast cancer fundraiser. C100 FM are hosting the event and claim to have over 8000 bras so far. If you happen to be driving across the MacDonald bridge on Sunday and see one that's better than the one I have on at the moment, grab it for me. Anything without little escaped spirals of elastic will do.

Since September 2nd, my boy lost his stomach contents repeatedly one night, and it had absolutely nothing to do with alcohol or my cooking. And another sweet boy lost his Dad. A 47-year old single father of two. That kind of put everything into perspective for me, and I realized I have a truly wonderful life.

It's just a stain. With any luck it has a story to tell.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Back to cool.

It was the kid standing in my backyard chugging a Coke and eating a bag of gummies at 9 o'clock, who finally did me in last night.

"Go away" I said, before he could get any closer.

"Can Jack go..." he began.

"No," I interrupted sweetly, "Fuck off, summer's over."

"But someone's picking us up here..." he said, risking his life... "We're going swimming." he continued.

"I don't care where you are going. It's a school night. The little bastard's had all summer to swim, and now summer is over – so scoot, run along, go to bed." I said, sweating like a pig in pajamas.

"Can I just stand here until my ride picks me up?" he said, chugging back more Coke.

"No!" I screamed sweetly, "Fuck off! It's September! You – and dozens of others like you – have to get your sweaty asses off of my sofa and get a haircut, drink some milk, clip your homeless-looking toenails, read a book, clean your ears, find your parents, and get your individual shits together because I've HAD IT!" I took a deep breath of hot air. "Other mothers get to dress up and go to work and sit in air-conditioned offices and take paid summer vacations and stuff.... but oh no, not me. I get to sit in my frumpy elastic-waist shorts, and try to work, while dozens of puberty-blinded zit machines with no shirts on, scream at wrestlers and shoot each other on XBox, ten feet away from where I am trying to make a living... so, go bloody-well home." I said politely.

But I wasn't finished. And he wasn't moving.

"Do I have to send a text message to get through to you?" I said, perspiration flying off my dewy upper lip. "Go place empty chocolate milk containers in someone elses fridge. Don't flush your own toilet. Drop Twinkies behind the snot-encrusted furniture in your own home. Lose your own beach towels, swimming trunks, ice cream money... because we are OUT. In fact, we're out of chips, ten dollar bills, toilet paper, wine, Gatorade, KD and gas, because I've driven your sweat-covered asses to the mall, the movies, the lake, the rink, the gym, the Golden Arches, the emergency room, and the driving range. It may not feel like summer's over, but it is SO OVER – so get the hell out of here or Hurricane Earl will seem like a bad blow job compared to what's in store if you don't back up and get out of my yard." I went on, pointing. "Inside that filthy oven of a house, you won't find one school supply – not even a new backpack, and my kid will be going to school with a coffee filter and a golf pencil, but you know what? I don't care! Summer's over, and parents around the globe will have Schmirnoff in their orange juice in the morning – rejoicing because it's OVER! It's finally fucking over!"

"So, is it ok if I use your bathroom?" he said.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Thornbloom's annual furniture SALE is on! Toss your summer-worn sofa on the curb and get a new one.

Three dog night.

My philosophy has always been: go big or stay home – which may, or may not explain why I woke up spooning a golden retriever in a pup tent in my backyard.

Pup tent... get it? I need fries with gravy and a Diet Coke please.

The clock had all but run out on my deadline to blow $100 bucks in downtown Havenot while living to tell the tale – so I conned my neighbour into coming along for the Monday night ride. I normally would have asked my friend Larry to be my wingman but short of winding up in prison, downtowning it with Larry often ends in a tumble down pizza corner hill and/or standing on a chair singing along to a country and western song chugging whiskey out of a paper cup. In hindsight, Larry would have been safer than taking my neighbour along, as what was intended as a civilized culinary evening turned in to, well, did I mention I woke up in a tent?

First let me explain how I came to possess a Downtown Halifax Business Commission Visa card. The Coles Notes version is: some idiot at Extreme Communications, I'll blame Anthony Taafe*, decided it would be a good idea to hand $100 Visa card to 30 bloggers and set them loose on the downtown core – with hopes that the resulting social marketing frenzy would be a lift for the sagging bosom of downtown Havenot.

Could someone run and get me a milkshake and a Diet Coke?

I had several plans for blowing my wad, none of which came into fruition. Instead of a tub of wrinkle cream from Spirit Spa or taking a hungry hooker for a healthy lunch, I opted to leverage my $100 the worst way I knew how. Casino Nova Scotia. My plan was to win big, then spend big.

Having only forayed into the bowels of the Casino once – with Larry and a pair of Dionne Warwick tickets – I was horrified to see that we had apparently stumbled into that air-conditioned hell on Seniors night. It was also Tabi slacks night, toupee night, and cheap white wine night. Because my head hurts I'll just say, we were up $35 bucks on the slots at one point, but left there with a bit of a glow on and $40 bucks in the hole, because the Downtown Visa card wasn't accepted at the Casino. Just welfare cheques and old-age security.

The Halifax waterfront was hopping and hotter than shit. We passed on several restaurants that looked too busy and made it through the congregation of over-aged bikers who hang out by the ferry terminal. Heading uphill wasn't an appealing option so we hugged the coast and wound up at Bish of all places. I know, a little out of my comfort zone (wardrobe and budget wise) but what the hell, it wasn't my money.

Excuse me, could someone please go get me some egg rolls and a Diet Coke?

As it turns out, it was my money because after we plowed through the world's most expensive and delicious mussels, frites and wine we discovered the Visa card, once again, was a limp dick. The evening was slowly becoming hazy and expensive – but we were on a mission. Before plopping down at the neighbouring Il Mano (Italian for handjob) for a pizza to soak up the wine, I handed the so-far useless Visa to the waiter (who by the way gave French waiters a run for the money on the rudeness scale) to see if it would finally perform. It did. Too well. Champagne flowed and Havenot's best pizza followed, and before we knew it, we were heading home in a cab, covered with stupid grins and tiramisu – over-spent and over-served.

Oh! At one point I thought the man at the next table was winking at me, but he was falling asleep. But it's a start.

Okay, I am wrapping this up because my Big Day Downtown is nowhere near as exciting as the guy with the sex toys and the cocktails at nordinaryrollercoaster.com and besides, I am tired and really fucking thirsty. To make a long boring story short – we arrived home to a house that was so hot it was like Backdraft 2. I walked through the screen door sending it crashing to the floor and I had a combination of the whirlies and hot flashes and needed to lie down, but my bedroom was like an crematorium. It was around that moment that I had a brilliant idea – I'd get the little bastard to pitch the tent in the backyard.

It took a while because it was dark and he wasn't overjoyed to be setting up a tent for his mother, at midnight, but perhaps sensing I wasn't in the mood for bargaining – he got it all organized and I crawled in, and the two dogs crawled in, and within seconds I was in a Big Downtown Day food and alcohol-induced coma, under the starry sky in my backyard.

Would a Baconator and a Diet Coke be too much to ask?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

*Anthony Taafe isn't really an idiot, quite the opposite in fact.

Morning breath.

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Dear Abby...

I've had buckets of feedback from yesterday's pathetic recount of my weekend pity party, but let's get one thing straight: No, I am not having "man" troubles, unless you're talking about my increased quota of facial hair.

No man = no man troubles.

My heart is also fine. In fact, the flurry of emails and comforting responses drove home the realization that we are all basically the same – swimming with or against the tide, all the while dealing with similar bullshit – like sagging body parts, raising happy kids who don't fuck up, struggling with relationships and assholes, questioning our existence – all the while balancing the cheque book, staying alive and keeping out of prison.

So I have an idea.

I am going to write an advice column. Well, not a real column in the Dear Abby sense of a syndicated column where I'd actually get paid – but an advice column all the same.

Although, answers to life's difficult and often ridiculous questions could be brief because, "Have a glass of wine and tell them to go fuck themselves" is a pretty standard and acceptable response to any situation, don't you think?

Dear Halifax Broad,

I think my husband is cheating on me, but I am afraid to confront him.

Signed,

What to do in New Waterford

My answer would be:

Dear What to do in New Waterford:

Men are pigs. Smash his big screen TV with his favourite golf club. If he doesn't get as angry as you think he normally would, he's a cheating bastard.

Then have a glass of wine and tell him to go fuck himself.

Signed,

Dear Halifax Broad

This is going to be fun. So send in your questions about love, dating, upholstery, how to get cum stains out of a tennis skirt, unsightly nose veins, that red spot on your ass, how to make crack out of baby Aspirin, who gives the best lip wax in Havenot, etc. In return, I'll be as honest and forthright as humanly fucking possible.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Range of emotions.

What a fabulous weekend.

I had a massage, flew to the Hamptons for brunch, and had a tumultuous affair with my pool boy.

Actually, no. Truth is, I watched the late summer sun sink into the Golden Arches, just beyond the rink parking lot – twice. Saturday, I curled up on top of the laundry on top of my bed and cried because the tennis was rained out, or maybe because I stood by and supported my son as he made a decision he'll likely regret. Sunday, I witnessed a pathetic pissing match resulting in innocent casualties of a senseless war. And I spent $35 bucks on a plastic cone so my dog wouldn't chew his fucking tail off. Oh, and to round off the weekend, my faith in mankind was totally crushed. (I ate a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream to compensate for that last one.)

Bemoaning my fate at spending another loveless, soul-sucking year in sweatpants, in Havenot, I commented on how lucky my neighbour was to have a handsome, doting husband; a perfect house; carefree days; and a cleaning lady – to which the little bastard said, "Oh, boo hoo."

He was right of course – my weekend pity party was pathetic, and for some reason alcohol-free. I was desperately in need of anger management, and an attitude adjustment. Lacking the necessary funds to hop on a plane and go eat, pray, love – I hopped in my truck and headed to the nearest driving range where I could whack the shit out of a bucket of balls instead of lodging my new Nancy Lopez 9-iron up someone's ass.

Just being at a place called Goodwood, manhandling a potential weapon, made everything a little rosier. I sidled up to my little island of astro turf and sought solace – methodically knocking ball after ball either into therapeutic oblivion, or 4 feet from the tee.

I lofted one into the rhubarb for the broken soul I fought to protect, and lost. I smashed the shit out of a range ball that spewed charm and total bullshit. I swung, and missed, for the heartbroken and the lonely – only to re-focus and swing again – this time driving it exactly where I wanted it to go.

I forced my head down and my spirits up.

Golf is the perfect metaphor for life. You suck one minute, you shine the next – only, in golf – no one gets hurt, there's no one to blame but yourself, and if you're lucky, a drink cart girl will come along and offer up a nice, cold beverage you can knock back in peace, before picking up your ball and soldiering on.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Goodwood Family Golf Centre is located on Prospect Bay Road about 5 minutes from the rotary. The haddock from the fish & chip wagon in their parking lot is better than sex or revenge.

Oh, what a feeling.

The conversation went something like this:

TOYOTA: Toyota service, how can I help you?

ME: I received a recall notice on my Tacoma, so I'd like to deal with that.

TOYOTA: Certainly Ma'am, when would you like to come in?

ME: Well... never... but since it's a recall, and I don't want my car to careen uncontrollably into another Toyota, then I guess I have no choice. When do you have a loaner vehicle available?

TOYOTA: I'm sorry Ma'am, we don't have loaner vehicles, but you are welcome to hop on our convenient courtesy shuttle that comes by every 15 minutes.

ME: Gosh, that's such a fabulous option. I have a sinus infection that feels like a brain tumor, so I'd love nothing more than to pile into a minivan with 7 other pissed off Toyota owners and wait my turn to get dropped off like a challenged senior citizen in an Access-a-Bus. I don't think so. What are my other options? How about cab chits?

TOYOTA: Well, that depends.

ME: Depends on what?! How many innocent people I have the potential to kill on my way to Toyota to have my recall repaired. Three deaths = one cab chit?

TOYOTA: No ma'am, where we have the convenient courtesy shuttle we no longer need cab chits. So will you be waiting for your vehicle or will you be dropping it off?

ME: Well, what's the difference? If I sit and wait, will it get done faster than if I drop it off and catch the convenient courtesy shuttle, then crawl back on my hands and knees to pick it up?

TOYOTA: It'll take about an hour.

ME: Which would be approximately the length of time to get picked up and dropped off – then if I am lucky and time it perfectly – picked up again by your convenient courtesy shuttle.

TOYOTA: Yes, ma'am.

ME: Well, while it's in there for a recall, you may want to look at the front passenger side window. It has a mind of it's own.

TOYOTA: (Typing) That's the front passenger window... it does what?

ME: It does nothing. It doesn't go up or down sometimes.

TOYOTA: How often?

ME: Well, once would be enough don't you think, but actually it happens all the time.

TOYOTA: Like how often?

ME: Like about as often as that fucking convenient courtesy shuttle swings by to pick up the pissed off and inconvenienced.

TOYOTA: (Typing) So front passenger window gets stuck every 15 minutes?

ME: Good enough, hey, while I am in there, the radio also has a mind of its own. It goes off and on at will.

TOYOTA: How often?

ME: Fuck. I don't know. Again, I would think once was enough, but would it get me a cab chit if I said it happened quite frequently and not necessarily in harmony with the car window, although that would be some feat of Japanese engineering, wouldn't it? I'm no mechanic but I'd say there's a bit of an electrical short somewhere.

TOYOTA: (Typing) Okay Ma'am, we'll take a look at the radio, now, how many kilometres are on the vehicle?

ME: I don't know... I'm guessing 29,000-ish, give or take a 1000.

TOYOTA: Oh dear.

ME: Oh dear, what?

TOYOTA: Oh dear, you are way overdue for your oil change, you really should have been in around 26,000. It is very important to have routine...

ME: (interrupting) Are you lecturing me? Because if I wanted a fucking lecture I would have called my Aunt Dorothy.

TOYOTA: I didn't intend it to sound like a lecture Ma'am.

ME: Well, it did sound like a lecture, and considering you are TOY-fucking-OTA not to mention I had to sit through Pokemon: The Movie and the whole WWII thing, I would say you are hardly in any position to be pointing a finger at me for being negligent. In fact you should send Akio Toyoda over to kiss my fat ass and personally pick up my devalued, recalled bucket of shit – then deliver it back with a complimentary spit, polish and rim job good enough for Anne of fucking Green Gables.

TOYOTA: So (typing) 29,000.

ME: I heard that.

TOYOTA: Heard what, Ma'am?

ME: That little disapproving tsk-tsk noise you just made, and don't call me Ma'am. If you must know, the little sticker in the window says September or 26,000 kilometres so technically I am early, because I chose September.

TOYOTA: Ma'am it's not September OR 26,000 it's whatever comes first.

ME: Are you arguing with me, because if I wanted to argue with someone, I'd wake my kid up and ask him to empty the dishwasher.

TOYOTA: No Ma'am. So, would Tuesday the 17th at ten work? And will you be dropping off or waiting?

ME: That depends. Do you have a karaoke machine and a sushi bar?

TOYOTA: No Ma'am, we have a complimentary coffee shop.

ME: Complimentary, as in it'll tell me my ass looks great in these sweat pants, or complimentary, as in free?

TOYOTA: Complimentary, as in some items are free of charge.

ME: Some. Is that like, only some Toyotas accelerate uncontrollably? What about the karaoke machine?

TOYOTA: I am sorry Ma'am, no karaoke, but there is a television and convenient work stations.

ME: Oh boy. In that case, I'll bring the little bastard and his friends, so they can have breakfast, lunch and dinner while I am waiting. Did I mention he has Tourettes and all his friends have ADHD? He also juggles. They'll knock back a few dozen powder donuts and hot chocolates, then sit in the shiny new showroom cars and fart while making electrical engine explosion noises and get white donut stuff and boy sweat all over the interiors. So yes, we'll wait.

TOYOTA: Ma'am, I'll talk to the Manager and see about a cab chit.

ME: どうもありがとう

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Wade in the water (and fetch me my golf ball, Toby).

Violating a sofa cushion was the closest my dog had been to romance – but he had a perpetual boner the moment we crossed the Canso Causeway into Cape Breton.

Perhaps the combination of natural beauty and inbreeding suited his erstwhile celibate nature – either that – or he is a descendant of the virile coyotes currently playing havoc with folk singers and campers from Broad Cove (no relation) to Meat Cove.

Whatever it is, or was, I confess to feeling a bit lovestruck myself, having spent a few days in the strong arms of the Highlands. I can think of nothing else besides the breathtaking water hazards and "Killiecrankie" – the aptly named 7th hole of the Highland Links – the legendary, randy Scot that devoured a dozen or so of my precious balls, and had me bending over in the bushes with every stroke.

I also lie awake at night thinking about the view from our cottage at Glenghorm Beach Resort, the friendly people, and the seafood chowder – rich with scallops and lobster – that reinforced the notion that size really does matter. It was the biggest and the best I've ever had.

Three days in Cape Breton wasn't enough, but it was long enough to reinforce my anger toward the dickheads who run this province – the elected oafs who overlook the commodity that is lying here unspoiled, underfunded, and under appreciated. Tourism. How anyone can walk on to the most spectacular golf course, mid-summer without a tee time, is a pleasure, and a pity. The attractions and accommodations of this postcard-pretty province should be overflowing with tourists horny for an experience they'll carry with them like happy herpes.

Instead, the icing on the shitcake: Nova Scotia has been crowned Canada's Mississippi of the North. Our neighbour, P.E.I. gets Regis and Kelly, and we get the sequel to "Uncle Tom's Cabin". Maybe that was the plan – take away the lifelines – the Maine ferry, direct European flights – and bring back the Underground fucking Railway.

Way to go, Canada's Ocean Playground.

Nevertheless, I remain a dog with a bone about getting back up to the Highlands. The deals are amazing from Dundee to Ingonish, and I even test drove a set of Nancy Lopez clubs at Golf Central in Bayer's Lake. (The golf courses of Cape Breton make you want to be a better woman.) Now, I lie awake at night, touching myself, thinking about Nancy Lopez's fat ass bending over to pick up a ball on #11, Bonnie Burn.

My dog, he lies next to my bed, dreaming coyote dreams and licking where his balls used to be.

Maybe he should run for Premier.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

And next Saturday, we'll be getting in touch with our inner Yamahas.

What the hell?

Stuck in gridlock caused by one of this summer's numerous unavoidable and pathetic Bandaid solutions for a crumbling infrastructure, I couldn't help but read the sign posted outside the local synagogue. It said: "Reconnect with your minivan."

First of all, I don't know any Jews who drive minivans, and secondly, how does one fallout with their minivan? And let's just say you and the minivan aren't seeing things eye-to-eye, does that really require a rabbi to intervene and patch things up? What the fuck? Maybe little Moishe puked up his matzoh in the backseat one too many times and the Dodge Caravan simply refused to fire up – I dunno. Jews are a funny lot – all those weird holidays and mealtime rituals. Fish, no fish, fish with scales and a glass of milk. Oy. Maybe someone rubbed their minivan the wrong way and it set off a hailstorm of grabbing the unleavened bread and rushing to the Mercedes dealer. Again, I dunno.

Upon second glance I realized the sign said "Reconnect with your minyan" to which I thought, what the hell is a minyan?

This was going to be a long day.

A minyan, I now know, is some sort of gathering of ten boys old enough (13) to know better. Sounds like my TV room on a rainy day. I don't get why anyone would want to reconnect with a group of 13-year old boys, unless maybe you are a Catholic priest, in which case the sign was in the wrong location. Besides, the definition I was reading started leaning a little too much toward the Wailing Wall so I left it at that.

In a similar fashion, I recently misconstrued several emails from a person claiming to be Ivy Ho. The emails were lying unopened in my spam filter, as I figured Ivy was, well, a ho, and having no need for a ho at this time, I left her lying there with the widow from Nairobi who wanted me to send her my bank account information because I had recently won the lottery. I really should send the widow my bank account information because she'd get a real kick out of the fact that it currently has a balance of $1.71.

As it turns out, Ivy Ho is a real person who, god help her, works for the Downtown Halifax Business Commission, a group of do-gooders dedicated to breathing some life back into our post-menopausal downtown core, now that everything has dried up and moved to Bayer's Lake.

Poor Ivy was just trying to invite me to Big Day Downtown, a cheeky little event designed to get local Havenot writers reconnecting with the area of downtown normally frequented by business people in bad suits, alcoholics, cougars, alcoholic cougars, and cruise ship refugees. Apparently Ivy hasn't read my blog, as the deal is, we get $100 bucks to blow on slot machines, or crack, or mussels, or art, or whatever the hell we feel like doing with $100 bucks in the asshole, er, heartbeat of our beautiful city. In turn, we have to write nice things about how wonderful it is to live in a city where you can bob for turds in the harbour after a heavy rainfall.

I can't wait.

So, I now have $100 bucks to blow downtown, and considering the current state of my bank account my first reaction was to head down to Nova Scotia Power and throw it all on my power bill – but what fun would that be? – and besides Ivy Ho may get all pissy and start sending me more emails.

Instead, I am going to reconnect with my downturn and vomit all over pizza corner. Or, get a tattoo. Or a ho.

Oy, the probabilities are fendless.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Play through, goddammit.

It's official.

I am an embarrassment to my child, I have nose hairs, a poodle, a CAA Membership, 5 rose bushes, and now... wait for it... golf shoes.

I am old.

It's okay. I never thought I'd get here considering the life I've lead, so I am comfortable in this sagging skin. In fact, I rather like it.

Take the golf for instance. All these years I've been sweating my ass off chasing tennis balls, and has a drink cart ever pulled up once? And, what other so-called sport allows you to drive a clown car from physical movement to physical movement?

Plus, where else can you say "stiff shaft" without giggling or getting your hair messed up?

Golf clothes also seem to suit to my endomorphic frame, and have certainly come a long way from the old lesbian combat gear of Sandra Post days – although I still have to suppress my horror when I look at the price tag that accompanies anything with the word "golf" on it. Maybe they figure most golfers are so fucking old they can't see the price tag anyway.

Nevermind.

Golf Central in Bayer's Lake is a local, independently-owned mecca for duffers and dreamers that has just about everything you need, or don't need, for a round of golf. Golf Central has been serving local golfers since 1985 and these gals and guys really know their stuff – so don't be totally sucked in by the shiny big-box competition across the septic pond.

The little bastard and I are off on a mini golf adventure today. Fact is, I started golfing so I could get him golfing. We both love it, although he swears less and makes contact with the ball far more often than I do. But I laugh more.

Dundee Golf Resort have such a great deal happening right now I had to call back and ask if the price was per person. It wasn't. $79 bucks gets you a room, a round of golf and a bloody clown car to get you from one patch of tall grass to the other. Christ, even I can afford to take my kid on a summer adventure with deals like that.

So off we go. Highland Links. Dundee. Bell Bay. Inbreeding has certainly worked wonders for the golf industry in Cape Breton.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Golf Central is at 201 Chain Lake Drive in Bayers Lake. 902.450-4653.

To make reservations at one of Cape Breton's charming resorts go to:

Cape Breton Resorts.

Lost and found. Then lost again.

Dear, sweet Stephanie,

I am writing to let you know how thrilled I am that you have been reunited with your Blackberry. Finding it on the street gave me the opportunity to teach my child a valuable life lesson.

That's right Stephanie – may I call you Steph? I feel so close to you right now. Thanks to you, Steph, my child now understands that the world is indeed a cruel place full of ungrateful morons such as yourself – and that doing the right thing is sadly, sometimes, a big fucking waste of time and energy.

How can I ever repay you for teaching him, at the tender age of 14, that spontaneous acts of kindness toward strangers can get lost, when wasted on tactless people such as yourself and the delightfully clueless asshole you sent to retrieve your precious handheld device.

Why, just imagine the temptation, at 14, to be selfish and keep the coveted lost item valued at $549. The little bastard, as he is affectionately known, showed me how easy it was to replace his SIM card with yours and voila! a free upgrade to a fancy new phone. I had to remind him how wrong that would be and the shiny new Blackberry would have bad karma (if you believe in such things) and worse – some sweet soul such as yourself would be greatly inconvenienced and lose valuable information – perhaps contact with your closeted lesbian lover, or the orphaned child with the harelip you sponsor in Guatemala.

I also had to remind him how violated we felt when our iPhone was stolen by the juvenile delinquent down the road, and how replacing such expensive items can cause financial hardship and ill feelings toward said juvenile delinquent and the satanic pocket molesters at Rogers.

When I jokingly mentioned to the deliriously stupid young man you sent to fetch the Blackberry, how tempting it was to keep the found item, his response was "You should have." Apparently, we were told, where you work, Blackberrys are handed out as freely as condoms at a gay pride parade. Furthermore, imagine my delight to hear you work at a government-funded institution and my tax money is spent so freely, keeping up to date with the latest electronics you so carelessly drop on the sidewalk. I was giddy with happiness at your good fortune and had to drive to the NSLC for a pint of gin to drop in my tonic.

Steph, I think your parents wanted a boy and you were supposed to be Stephen, but let it go because it's a beautiful day and you have your Blackberry back, without so much as even a "thank you" – which, by the way, is a common courtesy taught to most children before they can pick their nose and eat it. And a small reward was out of the question, so it's a good thing you didn't offer up even a cheap bottle of wine because that would have been unnecessarily thoughtful, and we wouldn't have accepted it anyway. We were just doing what was right. So Steph, perhaps today while you are watching the clock with your Blackberry vibrating underneath you, all the while surfing the net at the taxpayer's expense, you should think outside the cubicle by checking out Matt Whitman's website: www.mattwhitman.com.

Matt, unlike yourself, has devoted his life to doing what's right. His methods may be a tad more Bible thumpy than my own, but the concept of helping others get ahead in this shallow litterbox of a world is the same. Matt invented the business model, Reverse Networking – the concept being the promotion of others rather than one's-self. Imagine how selfless that is, Steph! In Matt's words, "If I say I am the best whatever, you discount it because I am saying it. If someone else says something nice about me it is much more authentic….” Whitman continues, “The key is not just “who you know” anymore, it is who you know that is saying good things about you!”

And boy-oh-boy, could I ever say some terrific things about you today (note the sarcasm, Steph, you ignorant, ungrateful twat) but I won't, because it's Friday and my faith in humanity is alive and kicking, despite taking one up the ass when I bent over to pick up your Blackberry.

Yours truly,

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

That's right pack your bags. I've swallowed my last cumulus.

I am now stalking the weatherman because he's a lying bastard. This is how boring my life is.

I'll get back to being my normal (!) self soon.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Emotional weather report.

Yes. And I'll be back in an hour for some pie, and maybe a honey dip, and hey, is that chocolate ice cream cake?

The following conversation went something like this (and remember, you can't make shit like this up):

Me: Could I have a medium coffee double cream, please.

Timmy: Medium coffee double cream. Did you want a hash brown with that?

Me: A hash brownie?

Timmy: No, ma'am. Would you like a hash brown with that?

Me: Hash brown? Who the fuck wants a hash brown with their coffee at 12:30 in the afternoon? A hash brownie makes more sense.

Timmy: So, that's no to the hash brown.

Me: Yes.

Timmy: That'll be $2.14 drive through please.

Me: Wait a minute, how can it be $2.14 for a medium coffee?

Timmy: You also ordered a hash brown, ma'am.

Me: No, I did not. I said yes in response to your question regarding the hash brown.

Timmy: So, no hash brown?

Me: Yes.

Timmy: Yes, to a hash brown, ma'am?

Me: No. No to the hash brown, but on second thought, I'll have the hash brownie – that is, if you have any left – and don't call me ma'am.

Timmy: So that's a medium coffee, double cream and a hash brown. $2.14. Drive through please.

Me: (Driving away empty handed, but with a Sunday tale to tell) Expletive, followed by another expletive.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Do yourself a favour and head to the drive through at Steve O'Reno's Cappuccino 2854 Robie Street (Piercey's parking lot).

Taking a kick stand.

The little bastard suggested I invest in air conditioning, shortly after he suggested I drive him, and 5 of his sweaty friends, either to Chocolate Lake or an air-conditioned movie theatre.

I suggested circumcision followed by a month or two at Camp Kadimah.

It's fucking hot in Havenot, and while I am not complaining, I do have skin folding over and greeting other skin – creating moisture pockets and the potential for mould spore harvesting. And, unless I were to hang myself upside down, this appears to be unavoidable.

What's worse is the Atlantic Jazz Festival has begun, and this steamy city is full of culture-seeking morons sitting around sweating into their imported beer, nodding their heads like Parkinson's victims, searching for a regular beat that isn't there – and hasn't been there since Dizzy Gillespie died.

Modern jazz makes about as much sense as Mayor Kelly putting the kibosh on bicycle paths.

Now, instead of peace and quiet and a special lane for the NDP voters and students who fly around on push bikes wearing gauzy skirts, sipping fair-trade lattés, with no consideration or knowledge of proper cycling signals and rules of the road – we are stuck wondering if the hungover Philosophy major on the ten-speed is making a left-hand turn or airing out his armpits because he ran out of Tom's Apricot deodorant.

Don't get me wrong – before both of our mountain bikes were stolen, we were enthusiasts, for lack of a better word. But as crazy as the little bastard is making me, there's no way I'd let him ride a bike to Chocolate Lake – even for a swim on a stinking hot day. How bloody sad is that Mayor poop in the harbour Kelly? And, I love seeing optimistic bike stores like Halifax Cycle Gallery popping up – but commuting by bike in this back-pedaling backwater is a death warrant signed by city counsel.

Plus, how many times have you wanted to turn right on a red, but found yourself stuck behind an indignant, iPod-deafened cyclist parked in the middle of the lane. God forbid you should honk (and if heard, get the finger), or nudge them gently into the intersection with your bumper, so you could go about your merry way. Cyclists in Havenot are like smokers looking for a place to fill their lungs – then getting all pissy when they get the stink eye from passers by. I'm not talking about the skilled, lycra-clad riders who wisely head out of the city and hit the open road. I am talking about the asshole with the big blue milk carton bungee-corded to the back of his CCM, circa 1972. Get the fuck off the road and take the bus.

My suggestion to the rest of you – keep cool, and safe pedaling.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Halifax Cycle Gallery is at 6299 Quinpool Road, just down from the Athens Restaurant. www.halifaxcycles.com

Read the NS Government cycling rules of the road by clicking on the cycling women over on the right.

Give our silly wabbit Mayor the what fer, at kellyp@halifax.ca.

Customer feedback.

Shaving grace.

There is a cyclical nature to life that is comforting, yet simultaneously makes me want to stick my foot out and trip things up.

Another Williams Wimbledon. The return of the elusive South End sleep watcher. Another mortgage payment squeaking by.

Perhaps I am more aware of the enormous hamster wheel from writing this blog, as I make note (poke fun) at the same (boring) events rolling by day after (fucking) day.

Driving to Fredericton and back yesterday gave me ample time to think about life – a dangerous train to hop on at the best of times. Toss in a wicked rosé hangover, compliments of my neighbours and the freedom that comes with having one's child safely tucked away one province over – and the results are the philosophical equivalent of a Tori Spelling movie – with ponderings such as, "Why in the name of Christ would anyone live here?" and "How far to Buttfuck, NB and the next McDonalds so I can soak up some of the pink poison with a Sausage and Egg McMuffin?".

Deep.

I thought about how recently, I was in line at the post office when I noted the youngish man in front of me had a dollop of shaving foam on the downy lobe of his ear. Freshly shaven, and, well, a man, I had a sudden urge wipe the foam off with my fingertip – an intimate gesture when not being performed by a matronly stranger in elastic waist shorts. I also had a sudden urge to spin him around and fling him to the floor, but maybe it's the heat, or the cyclical nature of my love life – as in, not having one, year after bloody year. Nevertheless, three days later, I am still thinking about the lobe, and the dollop, and the ritual of intimate gestures lost somewhere on the side of the road.

Money Sense magazine did a close shave on several charities across Canada recently, posting their astonishing results in the July issue. Pick one up at Atlantic News and note, despite Steve Murphy's clean-shaven cherubic mug as host of the dreary, annual IWK/Grace Telethon, our local Children's Hospital Foundation earned an impressive, overall A+. The little bastard is a regular at the IWK Emerge and it's nice to know he's the only one sucking the life out of the system with every x-ray and cherry popsicle.

While you're at it, pick up the latest Halifax magazine. When I mentioned to the little bastard that my picture was in it, he said, "please tell me you weren't wearing those hiking shoes." Well, I am. Local writer Skana Gee (her parents were hippies) did her best in piecing together my bug-on-the-windshield life, and photographer Mike Dembeck didn't have a lot to work with, as I showed up fresh from the park and told him I didn't want my face on anything but my passport. As a result, you get a nice shot of my back fat and Havenot's enormous biological clock.

For 14 bucks, gentlemen (and menopausal women) can get the full face monty at Veinot's Celebrity Barber Shop in Dartmouth. On Thursdays and Saturdays, Lydia will pamper you with a classic hot towel, straight razor shave that will leave your face baby-ass smooth, and vulnerable to a stranger's touch.

That's Thursdays and Saturdays. Thursdays and Saturdays.

Comforting, isn't it.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Call Veinot's at 463.5412 and book a hot shave with Lydia. They're located at 77 Prince Albert Road in Dartmouth.

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.