What to wear to a drive by shooting.

Would someone roll back the fucking clocks already. I just spent 15 minutes looking for dog shit in the rainy darkness of November.

Oh, sorry... Movember. Yes, it's that time of the month when men across Havenot and around the globe, are showing off unsightly facial hair in support of prostate cancer, or, because the poor, simple souls love the attention, or, have recently had the joy of bending over like Ned Beatty in front of a rubber-gloved Dr. Gus Grant.

The lads at Golf Central are participating, as is Jordi Morgan the new and downright listenable (new word) host of Maritime Morning on Talk 95.7. Hell, I'm growing a mo, just because I can.

I can also boast that I have plans for Friday night. Let me repeat that: I have plans for Friday night. No rink. No going to bed, crying into a box of Triscuits. This broad is stepping out. Fortunately, I took time from my hectic life of-late, to rotate my summer wardrobe into my fall wardrobe – so my good long sweats are all clean and pressed and ready for an evening at the Parkside Pub in Dartmouth. (You may have heard of the Parkside Pub, as there was a drive-by shooting there recently.) I can't wait. It's the Little Bastard's Major Midget hockey auction and, as anyone who's had the pleasure of attending one of these highbrow affairs can attest to – hockey auctions involve an abundance of boxed wine, fried pepperoni, strained conversation over the volunteer auctioneer's squealing microphone, and plenty of arm waddle flapping in the breeze when you accidentally bid on yet another corporate golf shirt someone kindly donated whilst ordering another box of Chateau Despair Blanc.

Anyone give me 10? 10? 8? 8? Do I hear 5? 2? Fuck.

My hair is good though, because I paid my hairdresser a visit the other day. Brenda Dillman. I can never remember her married name. I do remember losing a bet to Brenda once. I bet her there wasn't one nice man (who was good in bed) left on Earth, who wasn't gay, an alcoholic, divorced, a gay divorced alcoholic, or in love with his mother/sister/boss/cousin/Brett Favre. She won. She got married to whatshisname. Mike. Mitch. Mark.

Brenda Kennedy. That's it! Brenda Kennedy. The mind is a beautiful thing.

Brenda has left Spirit Spa to join Kim Grant in her lovely new salon, Flaunt, on Windsor Street. Kim Grant is, and I'm no lesbian (yet), the most beautiful woman in Havenot. Brenda Whatshername is no slouch either, plus Brenda's so fun, you almost get over the humiliation of staring at yourself in the mirror with wet hair and a moustache.

So off I go! Good sweats, good hair, bullet-proof bra, downy upper lip, and a hard on for some boxed wine.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Flaunt Salon is located at 2166 Windsor Street. Call 425.0020.

The Parkside Pub is at 14 Highfield Park Drive in Dartmouth. Come bid on some really great stuff in support of the Dartmouth Ice Dawgs (Subways). I gathered up goodies from Golf Central, Thornbloom, Empire Theatres, White Point, Core Essentials Gym ... it'll be fun. Really, it will.

Cross walks.

Thump. Thump.

If you've never had the pleasure of running over a cat, you won't appreciate the satisfying rapid fire double thump as rubber makes contact with kitty litter-encrusted fur – not once but twice.

Thump. Thump.

The Little Bastard and I ran over the neighbour's pussy last week – and while he claims I accelerated – I confess to showing signs of weakness by toeing over to the brake at the very last second.

I don't know what got into me.

Nevertheless, the cat survived, as we both turned and watched it scurry away – hanging on to its entrails, and eight of its nine lives.

Same holds true for the emaciated runner who dashed into the crosswalk last week. (It was a good week.) While I did not hit him – or his balls flopping around in flimsy, too-short shorts – it was truly tempting. The bag of sinew and bones and Red Bull neither slowed his gait, nor jogged in place until it was safe to cross. When said runner saw that I had no intention of slamming on the brakes, he ran behind my car and subsequently flipped me the bird. Had the Little Bastard not already been late for hockey I would have gone around the block and hunted the indignant asshole down. Apparently he was absent in Kindergarten the day they taught: Stop. Look. And fucking Listen.

Thump. Thump.

However, I will slow down, if ever I see the Street Connection bus. Lucky me, I live in a neighborhood where children and students are over fed, and full of hope, and Budweiser, and opportunities. Not so much in neighbourhoods frequented by Street Connection's Mobile Soup Kitchen. Established in 1992, the Bus feeds thousands of needy children and adults across HRM. HRM! Funny to think some people don't eat by choice – so their thighs won't slap together when they're running – while others don't eat because choices have been made for them.

If you have anything left to give after covering your own asses, please consider a donation to Street Connections. Christmas sucks when you have nothing and an empty tummy – so let's flip hunger the bird. Your donation ensures that every child will also receive a gift bag – and a little hope – along with their turkey and pie. Mail cheques to: Street Connection 2 Fox Hollow, Tantallon, NS, B3Z 1E5 – or I'll swing by and pick it up. (Just don't leave your cat outside.)

Thump. Thump.

That's not me running over cats or needy children or Bible thumping, although the Street Connection Mobile Soup Kitchen is fueled by faith.

Thump. Thump.

That's my heart.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

For more information: Click here: Street Connection.

(If you'd like to make a donation, please call Sandra Pattison at 826.1100 so she can plan for food and gift purchases.)

Closure.

I've been trying to break up with this blog but I can't.

Both needy and co-dependent, our relationship has flat lined since the economy rebounded – resulting in more work than I can deal with, and not enough lucid hours in the day. (If you recall, we started courting when I was knee-deep in angst, and the bank was threatening to pull the rip cord on my life support.)

Then I spent the entire summer in a rink parking lot – and since this blog is internet based – I couldn't even bitch and moan between donut bites and swigs of canned Chardonnay.

But last week, something happened.

Last week, someone told me I'd lost my edge. My fucking edge. Who am I without my edge? Just another mommy blogger trying to help small businesses while boring people to death with tips on how to fish a cigarette butt out of pancake batter.

So here ya go.

And I am not sure what I am more upset about: the fact that Colonel Russell Williams gets to rot out the rest of his meaningless life in protective, tax-paid security – or, because that sick fuck looks better in a one-piece bathing suit than I do?

I say, as a mother: put the Colonel in lace panties and throw him in to the King Pen cafeteria on meatloaf night.

Because there aren't enough hours in the day to tell your kids you love them, over and over and over again.

It's not you, it's me. And I'm not going anywhere.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Surely they meant profound.

I've been trapped in the hockey/life/work equivalent of a Chilean mine.

Back soon, just catching my fucking breath.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Swipe this.

"Swipe towards me." she said with disdain.

I looked at the debit machine.

"How can I swipe it toward you, when you're standing right in front of me?" I asked. "The swiper thing goes up and down."

She looked up from investigating her chipped, black nail polish and repeated, "Swipe towards me."

I was in a place I hated more than church, on the brink of forking out $55 bucks for what would amount to one shitty, spice-free beige meal even the dogs wouldn't eat. I had no eco-friendly bags in a bag-free zone, no time, and no patience for this ignorant fucking teenager with so many facial piercings she looked like she'd survived the Challenger explosion.

"I can't swipe it toward you." I repeated, not willing to be out-bitched by this slip of a greasy-haired Avril Lavigne wannabe. "It's physically impossible. You are standing right in front of me."

Blank stare. Sigh. Clearly it was time for a little life lesson before Monday no-hockey home cooked meal night.

I began, "Listen, either move the fuck over to the left, in which case the stripe would indeed be facing toward you – or be more explicit." I advised. "Try being a little more creative with your insolence and disgust for authority, lemon gin hangovers and minimum wage". I continued. "Try, 'stripe goes back toward where we stock the Depends'." I suggested. "Or, how about 'stripe goes down and to the left, kind of like your sagging breasts, you miserable old bag'."

Blank stare. Clearly she was no Shamwow, willing to soak up my tips on how to survive in a cruel and graceless world.

Tired of messing with the checked-out girl, I swiped, then threw my groceries into the cart. I then threw them into the backseat of the truck, then into the frying pan, then on to a plate. Finally, I placed the brown and beige pile of slop lovingly in front of the Little Bastard, who looked at it with the same disdain as Avril back at the Superstore.

"Don't say one bloody word!" I said to him, as he looked at the gray strips of rainbow flecked beef, nestled on a bed of stiff rice. "It's a stir fry."

I sat down, took a bite, and made a declaration. Or a proclamation. Whatever.

I announced that this would be my third, and my final, Monday no-hockey home cooked meal night.

All I could hear was a murmur, through a mouthful of chewy horse meat, "Oh, thank God." I believe he said.

For $55 bucks we could have had 18 hot dogs at the Dawg Father, two delicious meals in a booth at the Greek Village on Quinpool, or takeout – twice – from The Armview. For $55 bucks I could stock up on frozen entrées from Jane's on the Common or the Italian Market. For $55 bucks I could have bought two bottles of wine, opened a bag of Cheesies and called Swiss Chalet. No mess, no fuss, no teenage 'tude, and everybody's happy.

Whipping up a home cooked meal after working all day – just to prove a motherly point – means I have to buy everything right down to the pan. Even that little chubbette Rachel Ray couldn't throw together a meal with ketchup, Five Alive, a jar of stuffed olives, and a muffin tin.

Fuck it. If the little bastard wants a home cooked meal he can marry a moron, learn how to cook, or go live with the neighbours.

It's October, and I'm hanging up my spatula. Just in time for Thanksgiving.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Valley of the Dolls meets Stephen King

Here's my "Pitch the Publisher" idea for this weekend's Word on the Street:

"Set in Maine, a once vibrant and downright saucy, middle-aged woman drops her little bastard off in the high school parking lot and has an epiphany that she's middle-aged and will never be able to afford to retire until about 25 fucking years after she's dead, so she mopes around all day in soiled L.L. Bean outlet store sweatpants wondering if she'll ever have coit... hey... wait...

That's my life.

Except for the Maine part. I made that up.

Never mind.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Word on the Street schedule.

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.