The perfect day.

What the hell was I thinking?

My idea of the perfect vacation day would go something like this: Wake up in a Tuscan villa with a mild, Brunello di Montalcino hangover. Go for a wake-up swim, then bike through fields of poppies to the local village for cappuccino. Stock up on wine, salami, cheese, and bread before biking to the villa. Wave back at handsome old Italian men who think I am beautiful, because they are 90 and think anything that moves is beautiful. Play tennis with Antonio on the sun-soaked clay court. (Hey, it's my dream holiday.) Swim and read by the pool all afternoon. Play tennis with Benito, then knock back some icy cold Prosecco with Campari in the shady olive grove. Take a nap with Ricardo before the cook/housekeeper, Agnese rings the dinner bell. Dine under the Tuscan stars. Scampi. Pesto. Anchovies. Take a hot, lavender-scented bath. Go to bed early and alone – tired, sunburned, and very, very happy.

But, oh no. Instead of the above, I am dragging the reluctant Little Bastard to South America where we will camp and schlep up some godforsaken Peruvian hillside – likely with a pack of belligerent Germans, altitude sickness, and diarrhea from eating beans and rice off a filthy tin plate. The goal: to instill in my child a sense of wonder and adventure, and to reach Machu Picchu without having a stroke, or a massive hissy fit because my sherpa dropped the birthday wine.

Again, what was I thinking?

Machu Picchu. An abandoned city. Where did everyone go? Why did they leave? Likely because it's a shithole with no jobs, plumbing, wi-fi, or oxygen.

Maritime Travel have a sweet tour of Italy leaving mid May – around the same time I'll be loading up my backback with antidiarrheal and blister pads for my indoctrination into middle age. Italy's Best is 14 carefree, air-conditioned days traveling to some of the most breathtaking Italian landscapes: the Amalfi coast, the Lake Maggiore, Venice, and, sigh, Tuscany. Screw RRSP's. You should go.

Turn off that bloody Xbox. Make your bed. Stop picking at that. Don't roll your eyes at me. Wipe your feet. Hurry up! Get in the car. Cut your toenails. Because I have no money, that's why. Do your homework. Sit up straight. Excuse me?! Stop eating like an pig. Hurry up.

For a brief moment, I'd like to replace that with: Holy fuck, is that my personal donkey? I'm not eating that. What do you mean there's no toilet. There was no mention of snakes in the brochure. How much further? Go on without me. I thought it was you, but my armpits really smell. How do you say "asshole" in German? It's way too quiet here. Feel my stubble. I really should have hired a personal trainer. Eduardo, pour me some wine, por favor. You play the zampona beautifully. What kind of bird is that? Smell this flower. What a beautiful view. This sleeping bag smells like cat pee. Jack... honey... look at the stars.

Oh. That's what I was thinking.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

If I can afford to go, you can afford to go. Make 12 months of equal payments, interest free – exclusive at Maritime Travel. Click here to get going: www.maritimetravel.ca

You know who you are.

March. And about bloody time I say.

February in Havenot was a hormonally imbalanced housewife. Hot. Cold. Snow. Rain. Binge. Purge. February was an evacuation to Hawaiian islands, with me left holding the neighborhood shovel. February was a wet basement, 28 days of missed education, 8 new pounds, and 56 trips to a variety of rinks in worse shape than I am. February took the lives of two people I really enjoyed sharing the planet with – on Valentines Day – just to rub in the absolute finite shittiness of it all.

And then came the email.

I get quite a bit of email from wacky, wonderful people who have happened across this blog. Most emails are positive and supportive and sent as a way of saying, "Hey thanks, it's nice to know that I am not alone... I too have a fat ass, ungrateful teenagers, and reach for a wine bottle before heading to parent teacher meetings!" Emails from strangers routinely brighten my day in a weird, cyber sort of neighbourly way.

I won't go on at great length about the person who wrote the February email, because they aren't worth any more of my precious time. My brief exchanges with this February person were cordial, and a response to their kind banter about this blog. It seems I had a new fan, struggling with the usual life shit, career, dreams, etc – all the while living in Halifax (although originally from "away").

I was wrong.

Let's just say, while this blog is intended to amuse, support small businesses, piss people off, and bolster attendance at dreary events intended to inspire and create awareness of something bigger than we are – in February, this blog was used as a vehicle for evil. Well, evil may be pushing it, but thanks to the power of the internet, a whack job with serious emotional issues stumbled upon this blog and subsequently ripped off one of the businesses I support.

Gracious as the owner of the business is, she chose not to press charges, or embarrass this nasty person at their place of employment. The classy small business owner chose to be positive, and move forward despite being insulted and wronged by a soul-less person (with shifty eyes and a fat ass I am told). I cannot help but feel horrible, angry, and somewhat responsible.

I am also not nearly as gracious. I can hold a grudge almost as well as I retain water. People I care about were treated like crap because of information gathered from this blog. Someone I admire and respect is out-of-pocket because some miserable, fucked up, lonely person happened upon these silly rants.

But this is March. A new month of hope – and hopefully better weather, although if this morning's slick-ass sidewalks are any indication, March has come in like a bitchy, rabid lioness.

March is also home to March Forth, a pancake, mimosas, and sausage breakfast celebration of the 100th Anniversary of International Womens' Day, hosted by Havenot's very own Dragon slayer, Barb Stegemann. I am told there will be no pancakes, sausages or mimosas at March Forth, but there will be kick-ass speakers and high-heeled trailblazers swilling coffee and inspiring us all to stop whining and BE the damn Gandhi-esque change – if for no other reason than we are women, and we create life and have breasts like beer taps, and can outsmart 97% of the men on the planet whilst battling inadequate daycare and lower wages and hot flashes and cramps so bad it feels like shitting a rocking chair. Throw on your good sweats and feel the energy from Molly Duignan, producer of CBC’s Dragons' Den, Senator Yonah Martin of British Columbia, and Lee Malleau, smart cookie and CEO of Vancouver Economic Development.

March is swallows returning to Capistrano. March is dog shit resurfacing as daffodil fertilizer. March is heading to Flaunt for a tune-up. March is Irishmen all pissed up for a reason. March is a new Pine Cone Hill duvet cover from Thornbloom. March is playoffs. March is Premium Dog Food month at Tailwagrrrs. March is baseball's Grapefruit League and knicker-clad men scratching their youthful balls. March is good karma, if there is such a thing. March starts my countdown to a trek up Machu Picchu. March is 31 days of not February. March is happy, goddammit.

Because I know where you live.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The March Forth fun starts, d'uh, March 4, at 8 a.m. at the Halifax Club, 1682 Hollis Street. Keynote speeches from Duignan and gang are slated for 9 to 10:30 a.m. Tickets are $25 and available by clicking here, or on the empowered woman to the right.

Betty White is the new black.

Let's get one thing straight. Just because I poke fun at the recent cross burnings and the subsequent glorification and sympathetic arm thrown by the local media to the inbred brethren who fanned the flames – doesn't mean my grandpappy was a carded member of the KKK. Fact is, my ancestry might point more toward Bratwurst McMuffins, and life-size posters of Eva Braun on my great, great, great Uncle's Heinrich's bedroom wall. But that doesn't make me a Nazi.

I happen to live in a region of Canada where people from Ontario are regarded as strangers from a strange land, and unless your great, great, great Aunt (pronounced "Ont") Fiona swam up on shore after surviving a sobering swim from the Outer Hebrides – then you are, and will always be, from "away".

I like being from "away". It makes me different.

Anyway, where was I?... I made fun of the Herald, defended my honour... oh!...

So I bought these black (no racial slur intended) fleece pants on sale at a local sporting goods store. Fleece is my new fabric of choice given the amount of time I spend walking or standing around in sub-zero conditions. Fleece says, "I am outdoorsy. I like to be warm while crawling around neighbourhoods at night with my gas can."

My fleece pants make my ass look like overstuffed sofa cushions, but I love them. I love them so much that yesterday, I pulled them out of the dirty laundry pile that was waiting for the white load of sheets already in progress.

Walking in my fleece pants is a constant reminder that my Sumo-esque thighs rub together with gusto these days, and I hope I don't get bald patches on my pants, between my legs where the fuzzy pile could potentially wear off. And don't get me wrong, some of my best friends are bald Sumos.

Enough already.

Yesterday at the bank, I was stuck behind really old people who roll really old pennies, and pay every fucking household bill at the teller. I love old people. I just think they should be let out only on rare, special occasions. Anyway, yesterday at the bank, I took special notice of one octogenarian Snowbird – the one cashing in her sizable pension to get US dollar bills while blathering on about her great grandkids. (Aside: Do people talk so long to tellers because they are called "TELLERS" and people think they need to TELL them stuff. Because please don't feel the need to TELL them anything – especially when there's a volatile woman in fleece pants and a parka huffing and puffing behind you.) I noticed that the ol' doll, who had moved on to discussing Cubans jacking cars and jacking up the crime rate in the Sunshine State, was wearing a pastel coloured velour tracksuit that looked an awful lot like my fleece pants – and no one was citing her for racial injustice. In fact, it was all I could do, not to go up and stroke her brittle legs to feel if her geriatric velour was indeed my fleece, and say, "hurry it up, you warm, misunderstood old bigot."

I didn't have to. It was depressing, yet clear: Betty White's cousin's velour was my fleece. My fleece was her velour.

Tonight on CBC's Dragons' Den you'll see someone who is making a difference in this world without offending anyone except the occasional poppy-importing drug lord. Nova Scotia's very own nattily-dressed Barb Stegeman is empowering seniors and Sumos and the people of Afghanistan, one aromatic spray at a time. She's doing it – because it's the right thing to do – and because she can. Barb's book, The 7 Virtues of a Philosopher' Queen evolved into The 7 Virtues™ Fragrance Line, made from rose petals and orange blossom crops from around the world. To quote Barb, "Every time we purchase organic scented oils harvested from legal crops from countries, we are doing our small part in being the change."

I am going through the change. She is being the change.

You can purchase Barb's original The 7 Virtues Afghanistan Orange Blossom Eau de Parfum, and her new The 7 Virtues Noble Rose of Afghanistan at Mills in Halifax, and at select Bay stores across Canada.

You can also purchase sexy Juicy Couture velour track suits at Envy in Havenot. The colourful and comfy tracksuits have "Juicy" written across the bum. Personally, I don't need a headline to announce that my ass is indeed, juicy.

And without "Juicy" on the bum, you're just an old cynical old bag from "away" watching Dragons' Den on a chilly, February evening in Havenot – thankful for Barb and fleece and freedom and the freedom of speech that comes with senility.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Dear Halifax Regional School Board.

Dear esteemed elected members of the Halifax Regional School Board,

I understand your office must be in Tuscon, Arizona or maybe Perth, Australia because it's a beautiful sunny day here, and yet, my Little Bastard is still lying on the sofa like a week-old bagel.

He should, by all rights be at school, starting the second semester that was supposed to begin Tuesday because Monday was another Board-appointed holiday, but then last Thursday was a snow day even though there was only a slight rain falling – barely enough to make your hair all frizzy. Maybe being from such a dry climate you think frizzy hair is a valid reason to call an emergency drizzle day. I don't know. So then the Thursday exams were moved to Friday, and Friday exams were moved to Monday, whereby the much-needed Monday Board holiday was moved to Tuesday.

Are you with me?

So, I just called your office to say, "what the fuck" and apparently you are all golfing and won't be in until around ten, which makes me wonder why the Little Bastard shouldn't be able to roll into school, say, around 10!? Let's make it 10:15 just to be on the safe side. There is a higher risk of melanoma walking the 3 or 4 blocks to school on such a sunny day, and they'll need to seek sidewalk shade. Although, being from the Arizona branch of the HRSB, you likely slice off suspicious, irregular brown spots in the lunch room as a matter of routine.

When you get in from golf, give me a shout. I'm sending the Little Bastard over with his buddies and their toenails and their X-Boxes so they can fart on your office furniture all day. A word of precaution: they get awful hungry every 50 minutes, so have plenty of frozen mini pizzas and Pogos and chocolate milk and chips on hand. Since they cannot read, you'll have to operate the microwave for them. And, since they cannot communicate, expect all requests to come via text messaging. The good news is: they don't require plates, or utensils, or even napkins – preferring to eat with their filthy hands, wiping their mouths on the snot-encrusted sofa cushions.

Heck, back when I was a kid, we used to walk drunk through 15 miles of snowy, inbred drug lord country, wildly shooting at dairy cows because we were hallucinating – yet we never missed a single day of school. Even when the Olympics were on, and the Crazy Canucks skied like hell – almost like they were stoned, or being chased or something – there we were, dutifully slumped at our desks. God love ya for having the the insight to move Monday to Tuesday, calling off Wednesday and Thursday, and the power to shift March ahead of February, allowing the entire school system to fall slack jawed because little Billy made the Canada Games Ringette team.

Only Thornbloom, throwing a massive White Sale the day after a little Canadian dust-up, shows such a gift for impeccable scheduling.

Please call me when you get in, after you have a coffee of course, and catch up with your emails, and talk about the latest episode of The Bachelor.

After lunch then, unless someone in your office opens a bottle of white-out and you declare a state of emergency.

Sincerely,

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Thornbloom's annual White Sale is on at Spring Garden Place. Get 'em while they're hot!

I cut my own bangs.

Coyote ugly.

With temperatures hovering below brass monkey, and a reported coyote sighting in the park where I perform my morning ritual – today was less about fashion and more about dressing for survival in the urban wilderness.

By the time I was done rifling through the mitten bin in search of warm layers, I looked like a lesbian broomball champion from Parry Sound. The wardrobe pièce de résistance being a pair of black and red nylon hockey warmup pants leftover from PeeWee.

Pulling them on over my leggings, it didn't take long to figure out why they were designed for a hipless 12-year old boy. The thin, white nylon stripe that ran down the side, clung to my fleshy thighs in an exaggerated zig-zag, causing the embroidered Number #31 to pop out like a neon sign. Forcing the elastic waist up and over my hips made me crack a sweat for the first time since August. I don't recall them being this snug on any of the boys.

Having succeeded in finally getting them on, I realized the sheer pressure of nylon on flesh had flattened my ass straight down to the back of my knees, making it nearly impossible to bend over. When I attempted to lace up my shoes, I heard a slight tearing noise as seams broke free, waving frayed bits of expatriate nylon.

By the time I headed to the car – sneakers untied – not even a half-starved rabid coyote with a boner would have given me a second glance. My thighs were rubbing together making a high-pitched swishing noise that would scare away the Taliban.

"Please tell me you aren't wearing those." Pleaded the Little Bastard looking at his discarded pants.

"Don't fuck with me." I said sweetly. "You're late, and I'm sweating like an overdressed pig in a blanket."

Besides the rapidly accelerating annoyance of having to drive his tardy ass to likely fail his math exam, I couldn't find my whistle.

On Saturday night, I purchased a Fox 40 whistle and a bottle of wine. The whistle was intended to scare away a coyote, should I happen upon one – and the wine was for making me so hungover I wouldn't care. On Sunday morning, I walked through the park, aware of the new and ever-present danger, clutching my whistle like Sue Sylvester on Glee. Chances are, if I saw a coyote, I would shit my pants and freeze, just after gesturing for him to take the big stupid dog – sparing myself and the poodle. Nevertheless, the $4.95 whistle gave me a teensy-tiny sense of security.

A mere two days later – the whistle, along with my dignity – had all but disappeared, as I waddled through the park in my musical hockey snow pants.

Leggings are my trousers of choice lately, mainly because (my jeans are too tight) you can throw a sleeping bag over them and call it an outfit. For those who haven't noticed, Havenot's #1 leggings pusher has relocated to Spring Garden Place. Sock it to Ya has been a fixture on Spring Garden Road for decades, tucking out-of-control tummies into control-top pantyhose for as long as I can remember.

Bombshell owner, Rachel Budovitch says the bigger space will allow her to carry more lines, in addition to the much-loved Hue, Spanx and Calvin Klein. Sock it to Ya's new location is next to All Dressed Up on the lower-ish level – so pop in and tuck your fanny into something fantastic.

Me, I'm hoping the mercury rises along with my self-esteem, so I can leap though the park like a carefree cougar in Spanx – unencumbered by worry, or a weighty winter wardrobe.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Sock it to Ya is in the old Madrigal location. For hours or directions call 429-7625.

Come and knock on my door.

Suzanne Somers. Chrissy? Are you in there? I hear your "Sexy Forever" book tour message, and it seems like a reasonable and passionate hypothesis as we saddlebag into middle age: Tote fewer toxins, balanced hormones and all that. So why the ridiculous blowfish lips and Polyfilla face?

What gives Mrs. Hamel?

I confess to keeping the television on during the day. The noise is a link to the outside world, and unless I change the channel, the world is usually TSN Sports Center over and over until the Little Bastard comes home. Yesterday though, was a Suzanne Somers talk show marathon, and last week, on Oprah's channel, I caught a glimpse of Jane Fonda.

It's 1978, minus the leg warmers.

Unlike Suzanne Somers, the 74-year old Fonda appears to be aging rather gracefully. The happy grandmother could still crack open a beer with her ass, but missing are the fucked-up lips and wind tunnel visage, so popular with well-heeled women approaching that, "Oh my Jesus, I look like shit" stage of their lives.

The stage I'm at right now.

Suzanne rattled off symptoms of being hormonally imbalanced and overloaded with toxins: bloating, aching joints, dry everything, feeling like you need a box of chocolates and a nap midday. I sat there, nodding like a Parkinson's victim as she rhymed them off. The one symptom that cracked me up, was the thyroid-related absence of hair on the outside of your eyebrows. In Suzanne's case, it's because that part of her face is now tucked behind her ear. I rushed to the bathroom and checked out my brows, noting it had been a while since I'd had them shaped into something resembling two – so I figure my thyroid's okay.

Are there toxins in Cheesies?

I don't think Jack Tripper's old roommate taught me anything I didn't already know. Eat more organic whole foods, (spend a fortune on bad plastic surgery) cut out the booze, and exercise regularly – and you too can be 60+ something and wearing a leather dress. Suzanne never once mentioned inner beauty or happiness, perhaps because the poor bitch couldn't form a smile if she tried. And she is waving the controversial hormone replacement flag, loud and proud. While her messages seem a bit mixed, almost Chrissy-like, one simple point she did stress, was that most women get fewer than 5 hours of sleep per night. Our sagging souls require at least 8 for the wine to wear off, or for the insulin and hormones to do whatever it is they're supposed to do. I need closer to 10 hours, which is why my two tickets to Neptune Theatre are still sitting on my desk.

Blithe Spirit is a bubbly blonde. A beloved Noël Coward romp that makes one crave a gin and tonic. I was actually excited about stepping out for a little culture – that is, until 5 o'clock rolled around and I began hallucinating about slipping out of my leather dress, and in to my bathtub. The play was first produced in 1941, making it just slightly older than Suzanne Somers, and equally as timeless. It's basically a British Three's Company with comical ghosts. The only thing missing is the knock on the door – enter Mrs. Roper in her muumuu, looking for peri-menopausal love.

I Googled Chrissy and Jack's roommate "Janet" to see how Father Time had treated the perky brunette. Joyce DeWitt last made headlines in 2009, when she was arrested for drunk driving on a Saturday afternoon in sunny California. At 60, Joyce looked a little rough in her police mug shot, but then again, she appeared to have an expression, and lips capable of slurping from a martini glass, which is more than we can say for the Mistress of Thigh.

Joyce also had eyebrows. Full, and arched slightly – the way one does when pretending to be sober, and 22.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Blithe Spirit is running until February 13th at Neptune Theatre in downtown Halifax. Click here for tickets.

A bone of contentment.

My eyes went straight to his package. And he wasn't a Fed Ex guy.

Anything following a crackerjack opening sentence like that had better be good. I wish I could say that the situation ended in satin sheets, but it was nothing like that. The next time anyone sees me horizontal and naked, I'll be lying under white cotton with a tag on my toe. And, truth is – given a choice between sex and the sausage rolls at Pete's Frootique, let's say I'd be picking poppy seeds and pastry out of my teeth, content as a pig-in-a-shit-blanket.

The aforementioned package, belonged to an athletic young surfer wearing a wet suit, in a beautiful photograph sent by a client.

"I can see his wiener." I told the client.

"No way... shit, gotta get an iphone, didn't see that on Blackberry." Was her response.

I imagine by now, the photograph is the screen saver on my client's computer, and as to whether we use the photograph or not, has yet to be determined. It's a nice wiener. Likely nicer had it not been dipped in the icy Atlantic moments before. But there it remains, a conversation between two women, well past the years when the surfer boy may have pointed his long board our way.

People say once the Little Bastard has moved away, and I have my so-called life back, that my cougar instincts will shove my maternal instincts aside and I'll be out looking for Mr. Goodbar. I somehow doubt that, but I am willing to be proven wrong. Having spent last week alone, the only thing I truly desired (besides RRSPs) was what I already have – minus the freezer full of chicken nuggets, and the skid marks on the towels.

A friend recently commented on Facebook how she misses her kids, "driving them to hockey, music, dance, miss their loud voices, miss their belly laugh, even miss their messy rooms!" I offered to loan her mine, but only in semi-jest. I like where I am right now, as boring as that seems.

If and when the Little Bastard leaves the nest, I plan to burn all the furniture, the rugs, the balled up hockey socks, the stacks of Sports Illustrated – and I'll ignite it all with the shitty towels – if they haven't already self-combusted. My hot flashes of late could start a bonfire worthy of a really big weenie roast, but that's all part and parcel of being 40-something-ish (and holding).

In the meantime, I have 3 trips to a variety of rinks this weekend, piles of laundry, and thankfully a few more years before I started investing in the geriatric, bunion-friendly version of "fuck me" pumps. I also plan on attending Maritime Travel's Vacation Superstore because travel is my aphrodisiac, and I plan on filling out every goddamned trip-winning ballot at the WTCC. Who knows... I just may get lucky.

With middle age comes the confidence of knowing if you had the wiener, you'd know what to do with it. And the self-contentedness of settling for the sausage roll.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Happy new year, day three.

I've been under the weather.

Nothing serious. Just a never-ending flow of phlegm and feverish self-pity, washed down with a delicious rum-laced hot cider and Nyquil combo, with a side of androgynous gingerbread people. Not the energetic start to 2011 I'd been gearing up for.

As a result, I've been horizontal – watching a great deal of television: HGTV marathons, Junior Hockey, Senior Hockey, 13-episodes of Haven sprinkled with Anne of Green Gables (the war years, where Anne was all wrinkled and annoying, and not even close to being a kindred fucking spirit). I continued my Film Appreciation Class for Ignorant Teenagers with a viewing of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. And thanks to a neighbour, I devoured the boxed set of Californication like a bulimic at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

For fear of resorting to another lame metaphor, I am happy (and a slight bit disturbed) to announce that David Duchovny's Californication character, Hank Moody, is my new muse. My Beatrice. My saviour – warts and all.

I have a good feeling about regurgitation in 2011.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

A nice finish, with hints of blackberry, and wait, is that urine?

"Hey, brother can you spare a dime" takes on a whole new meaning, after reading the headlines in this morning's National Post: Make booze cheap for homeless, costly for everyone else: study.

My first question after, what the fuck?, was naturally, who funded this study? – my guess being a bunch of clever homeless guys, or the government.

According to the new University of Victoria study, people in this small and vulnerable group are more apt to turn to non-beverage (debatable according to another study) sources, such as rubbing alcohol, Beaujolais Nouveau, and antifreeze, if real alcohol is too expensive. Having recently purchased a small can of BillyRock wine (Merlot) to pair with my pizza slice (meat lovers), I can attest to the difficulty one faces when that bottle of 2006 Stags' Leap Cabernet Sauvignon Estate Napa Valley is simply out of reach, even when standing in my shopping cart.

The study also concludes that liquor should be "given free to homeless drunks to manage their consumption". To which I ask, why should the homeless drunks have all the fun? Effective immediately, well, this afternoon, okay, at lunch – I am personally funding a study that looks at single, self-employed moms and unlimited consumption management when handed pitcher after pitcher of Jose Cuervo Gold margaritas. Maybe Darrell Dexter and the NDP will fund my study because they certainly aren't throwing enough toward the issue of serious homelessness right here in the Ocean's Playground, where homeless individuals are stacked like Dolly Parton's relatives under the teeter-totter, right next to the million-dollar backyard rink some moron thought was a good idea to construct in a shit hole, where some winters you can golf in February, just after the blizzard clean up.

Right now, St. Matthew's Church on Barrington Street are in urgent need of blankets, warm clothes and Chivas Regal for their Out of the Cold Shelter. The shelter opened in November and will remain open until April 30th. Since December 4th, they have been at capacity every single night. Now that the mercury has dropped, clean out your closets (careful, your Cousin Tim is in there). Warm boots, socks, long johns and PJ pants in men's sizes are especially running low. For a full list of what items they need, please go to Out of the Cold.

Of course, I was kidding about the Chivas Regal. Drop that off at my house and I'll credit you in my research study.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Donations can be made online (click above) or mailed to Saint Matthew's United Church, 1479 Barrington Street. Please make cheques payable to "Saint Matthew's United Church" with a note that it is for the Shelter Fund. Charitable receipts provided.

For more info contact: halifaxwintershelter@gmail.com or call (902) 225.0770

If you are holiday shopping for some hard-to-buy-for alcoholic with anger issues, consider a gift to the shelter in their name.

"_____________________".

My "Eats, Shoots and Leaves" daily flip calendar is stuck on April 11. What the hell happened to August and bits of October? (And what happened to Linda Hamilton, she was looking a little rough in the made-for-TV movie, where she went from happy housewife-to living in her car, that I watched last night because I could relate, and because I was too tired to look for the flicker.) Please note: The "flicker" is not a euphemism for the "g-spot" if is there is such a thing. Please note: I am using those annoying quotation mark "hand signals" or "air quotes" that annoying people use because they think you are too stupid or too blind to notice they are trying to make an annoying point.

So, where was I? Oh, I should point out that I started this on Monday, and since it is now Friday, I can ask: where the hell did Monday go, that is, after the power eventually came back on? I know that I worked, and I wandered in a questioning stupor through the shops, and I got hung up on by one prick of a "customer service" guy at Graf skates, and I hung up on the 411 operator because he could not find the Hudson Bay Company, The fucking Bay, HBC, or just BAY under any listing in the Yellow Pages. I even screamed, "LOOK UNDER BEAVER PELTS, ASSHOLE" just before I hung up and went to Biscuit General Store.

Spare time, and a lack thereof, is the topic of the day, because while I was listening to the wind whip shingles off my house last night (Sunday night) shortly after the dog puked up bits of, I'm thinking a dead chipmunk, all over the floor and just after he wanted out for the 3rd time, I was thinking about my parents and what they did with all their spare time. I know my dad waxed his cars every Saturday, and worked "overtime" in Manhattan a great deal, although "work" was perhaps an unhappy childhood repressed euphemism for "philandering" and avoiding going home to two kids and a wife who was once va- va- va-voom sexy, but was reduced to an under-appreciated suburban housewife in a very real, Mad Men society.

I know my mom smoked a great deal, and sewed, and played bridge, and belonged to a gourmet cooking club, and the poor thing ironed "Don Draper's" shirts while he was likely downing his 3rd scotch during "lunch" with his "secretary". So I'm thinking they never had much spare time either, as I don't recall looking up and seeing them cheering wildly at any of my baseball games.

I do recall my mom dancing to my dad's Hitler-esque need for meticulous housekeeping and order – because shortly after he left us, her housekeeping skills went to hell in a laundry basket – which I guess was her way of saying "fuck you".

So here it is 19 (now 15) days before the birth of the original Little Bastard and I haven't baked, wrapped, mailed, or hung anything – although I did manage to avoid electrocution and plump up my already inflated Nova Scotia Power bill by adorning the outside of my "fixer upper" with good old-fashioned energy-sucking Xmas lights, in the pissing December rain. Screw the environment – those LED lights detach my retinas and suck the Christ right out of Christmas.

Which brings me straight to my Santa list and Amy Sedaris' new book: Simple Times: Crafting for Poor People – a sequel of sorts to her book, I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence, a splendid coffee table tome with helpful hints for hosts, including steps on removing pesky vomit stains. Amy's latest book includes the chapter, Ten Commandments of Crafting – Number IX being: Remember to honor thy crafting and pastimes for they are a great way to get your mind off all the damage thy parents did.

Amy Sedaris, if you haven't had the pleasure, is the brother of the hysterically twisted author and NPR radio celebrity, David Sedaris (Naked, Holidays on Ice, etc) who somehow manged to sneak in and out of Havenot on a book tour recently – likely while I was sucking Zamboni fumes in search of an escape. Amy's television show, Strangers with Candy parodied, well, just about everything, and made me wish I grew up in the perfectly wonderful and dysfunctional Sedaris household.

Sniffing craft glue while intoxicated is an integral component to crafting, according to Sedaris, who claims, "Ugly people are crafting, pretty people are having sex." Chapters include: The Joy of Poverty: how being poor forces you into being creative and resourceful; oh, and Handicraftable: Crafting tips for the elderly, the weak and the mentally ill.

So, if you're stuck for something to give the ugly crafter on your list, or your "secretary", or me, pick up a copy of Amy's book, preferably at a local, independently-owned book store, like The Bookmark on Spring Garden Road. Who doesn't need to learn how to make crab-claw roach clips while sipping a gimlet? I can't wait to read her crafting tips for the bipolar. Those should come in especially handy in the boozy lull between Boxing Day and New Years.

Failing that, slide into Touch of Gold in Spring Garden Place and pick up something really bloody awesome. Like a classic pearl necklace (no, not that kind) or pearl earrings surrounded by diamonds. Or a Rolex that screams, "fuck you, my watch cost more than your car!". My dad always tried to sugar coat his infidelities by loading up my mom with jewelry. While it didn't work, it likely distracted her long enough to whip up something she learned at gourmet cooking club, like a shrimp and curry quiche sprinkled with Marlboro Lights and tears.

So, as we drift into the malls, and line ups, and debt associated with this joyous season, remember the Westin Nova Scotia make a complete turkey dinner for pickup (and $215+), while Street Connections mobile soup kitchen deliver meals to over 1200 people in HRM – and boy, could they ever use a "hand" which is a euphemism for "send a cheque, you selfish prick" because our Mayor is doing diddly squat.

The point is, according to myself and Amy Sedaris, "inebriation" (euphemism for "Christmas") will lead to many more "crafting accidents" (incidents involving family you cannot stand, but must tolerate in the spirit of Christmas) than sobriety will, but the upside is – these accidents will seem much more amusing.

And how would we ever get through the fucking holidays without a little "humour" (air quote for "egg nog, so spiked with rum, it curdles").

Ho, "ho," ho.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Meltdown with matching pants.

The recent debacle over Havenot's proposed contention centre leaves us once again looking like a pack of blind and naked hillbillies in a shit storm.

I thought of this, as I jockeyed for position, for 23 minutes, in my pajamas and rain coat, in the freezing drizzle, waiting for the Little Bastard to emerge from a community based recreation centre that clearly gave no thought whatsoever to weather, traffic flow, or the concept of drop off and pick up.

By the time the Little Bastard sauntered out to the truck, I was frothing at the mouth. As the passenger door opened, I heard, "We're driving *Bruce home." (*Name has been changed to protect the innocent.)

Please note he said, "We're driving *Bruce home," not, "Hi Mom, sorry I'm late, Wow! that housecoat really accentuates the gray in your hair, is it okay if we drive *Bruce home?"

My head spun around and I said, "No! We are not driving anybody anywhere!" I went on. "*Bruce has two perfectly capable and sober parents with a minivan, and I already feel like a brainwashed fucking chauffeur listening to John Tesh and the windshield wipers going back and forth for over 23 minutes. Get in the goddamn car!!"

Just then, the back door opened and I heard *Bruce say, "Thanks for driving me home."

Bruce wasn't getting off that easy. I asked him if his Dad's cell phone was still working, and suggested maybe his parents could possibly call me when he needed a ride home, if for no other reason than to make me feel less of a worthless chump, placed on Earth to shuttle smelly teenagers from venue to venue, because I had nothing better to do. Nowhere else to be. No plans.

"Like my new track suit?" the Little Bastard said to break up the ice now forming on my moustache. "They couldn't get blue pants crested until Christmas, so the pants are black."

That's when I really lost it. "You mean, I just paid $120 dollars, that I don't have right now, for a hideous tracksuit, that you do not need.... and the pants don't even match!"

"It's really nice" he said, "It has our logo on it."

There are at least 15 hideous jackets and numerous nylon pants at our house with a variety of team logos on them. Many were awarded as trophies. Many, he had to have because the entire team had them, and as a stupid parent, you don't want your kid to be the only loser wearing last year's coat. So you buckle and break, and fork out another $120 bucks – never letting go of the reality that you have been wearing the same hideous, coffee-stained hillbilly rink coat for as many years as you can remember.

So, there I was, in the greasy darkness, having an invite-only pity party, driving like a maniac over the bridge and out of my way to drop off *Bruce. When we arrived at his house, it was all warmly lit with a minivan all snug in the driveway. There was likely a Rockwell roast in the self-cleaning oven, and a family curled up in front of the TV. I barely stopped long enough for him to grab his bag out of the back. I wanted out of there. Here. Anywhere.

I wanted out.

Bedtime rituals were a sombre event that night. I took my pity party to bed, mad at myself for being an emotional whack job; for being so bloody broke at this stage in my life; and for losing it in front of a kid who just needed a lift home. I was pissed off at spending $120 bucks, before Christmas, on a tracksuit that I needed more than he did. I'd look good walking the dogs in the filthy monsoons of March, sporting a $120 dollar tracksuit. I lay there thinking, I've never had a $120 dollar tracksuit. I've never even had a track suit. And to be perfectly honest, I've never wanted a stupid tracksuit. I just wanted someone to shelter me from the rain, tuck me in, or pick me up from just about anything – even a fall from grace.

The Adsum House Mystery Art Auction is happening tonight at the always playful house of Fred on Agricola. The concept is rather fun, and all proceeds go to support programs at Adsum House for Women and Children. Women and children who don't have jackshit, let alone a warm bed and a $120 tracksuit. The art, all valued at $100, will be auctioned off from 6 to 8:30pm this evening. The mystery? Everyone is in the dark as to who created each piece – the artist is revealed only after purchase.

With dawn came hints of blue, in a vomit coloured sky. As I dragged my morning frumpiness past the new tracksuit lying on the sofa, I saw something I hadn't noticed in the darkness of night. There – below the team logo he worked so hard to be a part of – was a band of black in the navy blue tracksuit.

In the light of a new day, there was hope, and heat, and coffee, and a happy boy. My life was good. And the pants did match.

Maybe I could squeeze my ass into his old pair.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Tickets $25 available from Adsum House by calling 423-5049.

Brett Favre is a pussy.

Note: Contents of this blog recently offended a gentleman so proceed with caution.

Here we are, just past the 'glass is half empty' mark in November. I saw a house lit up like a Bethlehem whore last week, and my Movember moustache has reached the stage where I could easily apply to be a mall Santa. Only 38 more sleeps 'til Christmas.

Where am I going with this? Oh. I received an email the other day from a fellow blogger, although "fellow" seems like the wrong word, but let's go with it since it's 5am and I am out of coffee filters and toilet paper – the latter being a bit of an issue after consuming a grandiose tub of 7-bean salad from the Lebanese market on Agricola Street yesterday. Which is to say, the market is located on Agricola, I did not consume the delicious-but-deadly bean bomb on Agricola. I waited until I got home.

Nowweretalkingwithjodi.blogspot.com emailed me, to ask if she could put a link to this blog on her blog, which was awfully nice, so I figured I should maybe check her out, just in case she was some crazy, cat-killing, menopausal soccer mom with a foul mouth and nothing nice to say. Suffice it to say, Noweretalkingwithjodi had me at "hello" as I launched into her article about walking while performing Kegel exercises. Noweretalkingwithjodi has apparently trademarked something she called The Kegel Pole-ka™ and before I lose any gentlemen here, the Kegel is an exercise women are supposed to perform, to prevent our beavers from turning into porridge and hitting the linoleum.

Or so I thought.

The Kegel, as it turns out, is something else we have to share with men. Designed by Dr. Arnold (you guessed it) Kegel – the exercise was designed to strengthen the pubococcygeus muscle which stretches from the pubic bone to the tail bone forming a "hammock-like floor" that supports the organs of the pelvis and contributes to the function of the sphincter.

Sphincter. Damn. I should have gone with the 5-bean salad. Is the sun up yet? I hate that word sphincter. Is there a Dr. Sphincter?

And raise your hand if you find it difficult to get in, or crawl out of a hammock. On the rare occasion that I have hammocked, once I finally get in, spilling my drink in the process, all I can think about are the marks the scratchy ropes are making on my fatty thighs currently poking though the hammock holes – and how the hell am I going to get out? So a hammock-like floor near my asshole seems like a road I don't want to go down this morning. But, being Movember and since we're supposed to be providing jock support and awareness of male cancers, and being the good sport that I am – I tried Noweretalkingwithjodi's trademarked Kegel Pole-ka™ in the park, but since there are no telephone poles in the park I tried hoisting up my beav between birch trees, but soon lost interest and figured if my beaver hit the linoleum no one would notice or care anyway.

But isn't it nice that women can sit down and blog about intimate things like beavers, where, if men sat down and poured out their guts there would be endless blogs about why Brett Favre is a pussy, and how they wouldn't need a little blue pill if she didn't make them drive a little silver minivan, and the 20-year old who smiled at you at the gym (because you reminded her of her dad, silly). That kind of thing.

If women ruled the world there would be more wine bars like Obladee on Barrington Street. Whine (not a typo) bars should be located everywhere there's a overzealous crossing guard and a playground. Perhaps women would feel less need to sit down in the dark and pound out tales of woe and woebegone beavers, if we could sit down every afternoon and shoot the shit watching Oprah while enjoying a Cabernet Sauvignon from an expensive glass that didn't have Winnie-the-Pooh on the side – before returning home to wade through piles of laundry and homework, while sweating like a pig with a moustache.

38 more sleeps until Christmas, and no more sleeps before I am officially on vacation. Well, not a lying on a beach in a hammock-type vacation. Not exactly a vacation at all. I am going to glorious downtown Moncton for a hockey tournament – but anywhere that's not here, and has toilet paper and a mini bar – is a vacation.

That's all I'm sayin'.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Obladee Wine Bar is at 1600 Barrington Street in the old Frozen Ocean location.

Turning back the clocks to a disco beat.

Well, the floodgates were certainly cranked open this weekend, as Havenot and surrounds were pounded with everything from a slight mist to a full-out deluge.

And I'm not talking about the weather.

I was a basket case from Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon, when Night Fever by the Bee Gees came on the car radio and finally nudged me over the watery edge. Thank God there was a lineup in McDonald's or the Little Bastard would have witnessed an outpouring of emotion the likes of which haven't been seen since Erin's boyfriend, G.W. Haines was killed on The Waltons.

Night fever, night feeeeeeeevaaaaaa. We know how to show it.

What had me in that particular rubber room moment, was time. It's going way too fast. That song came out 33 fucking years ago.

This weekend's sad reality that time was whizzing by, first hit me when I arrived at the rink early on Saturday morning. The Little Bastard was coaching little goalies as part of Hockey Nova Scotia's Development Weekend. I sat in the stands and watched as my 6'3" baby offered words of encouragement to five and six year-old players who barely reached his knees. Wasn't it only yesterday that he skated out on his ankles, beginning a journey that would take us both on a path I wasn't prepared to go down? Come to think of it, I was crying then, too.

Ten years have flown by like a disco beat.

Over the weekend, I dropped him off, and picked him up – from Halifax to Fairview to Bedford's shiny new fourplex. I arrived early so I could watch him and the little kids, mindful of the tears streaming down my face, fearful I would look like a lunatic, or at least more of a lunatic than I normally do. To think, I silently prayed this whole hockey thing would go away so we could be free spirits and travel and ski on sunny winter days. To think, I used to grumble and bitch and moan (and still do) about the cost and the time and the whacked-out parents, and the endless fundraising. (Anyone want to buy tickets on a chance to see Sidney Crosby vs Montreal?)

To think, this sport I fought so vehemently against had actually shaped my little boy into a brave, kind young man. There he was – coaching – something I guess he picked up naturally after ten years of being coached by gentle, fun, selfless, incredible men who gave their precious time to my fatherless kid.

Well, I sat in the stands, or stood behind the glass and cried all fucking weekend. I was so happy. I was happy to think I'd get another precious hour Saturday night. I was happy it was rain and not snow. I was happy the Thornbloom gals opened a new shop-ette in Spring Garden Place called SHE is ME selling cozy hats and gloves and accessories, suitable for the fanciest of rinks.

Sure, I spent the weekend driving, or waiting in the car, or sitting in the rink blubbering – but I was happy. There's no other word for it – although maybe the dead Bee Gee said it better:

Here I am prayin' for this moment to last.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

SHE is ME is located in the old Moneysworth & Best shoemaker's location in Spring Garden Place.

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.