Taking it to the street.

Golly.

The outpouring of concern (wishful thinking) as to whether I was dead or not, has been overwhelming. But, allow me to quote my dead Aunt Pearl when I say, "Where the fuck does the time go?"

Seems like only yesterday I was putting away the Lego crèche and plastic Santa, and now the dog's shitting bits of pink and purple tin foil. Apparently the Little Bastard is beyond scampering around the house in his jammies looking to fill his basket full of waxy chocolate bunny droppings.

Somewhere in that lost time frame – giving up Lent for Lent, St. Patrick's Day, a few key birthdays, the dregs of winter, any hope for a bikini body, and the occasional Saturday morning all rolled by without much hullabaloo. Then the flu, my god-daughter, hockey playoffs, and a 36-year friendship all came and went, leaving me feeling like the last soggy, beer-soaked cheesie in the snack bowl of life.

Which brings me to the incident.

Friday evening was settling in like a cold sore. Coronation Street was on, and I was straining to figure out what the hell they were saying, when the phone rang. I answered it – something I seldom do – but it was the ever-so-charming and entertaining Uncle Stu – 6 hours, and a few beverages ahead of me, over in jolly ol' England.

I was just getting comfy, ready to sip along with Stu and live vicariously through his tales of shooting pigeons, sailing foreign waters, and chasing peacocks (imaginary and otherwise) when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the chair to see what was the matter.

A thumping at the front door and a cacophony of youthful voices came and went in an instant. I hung up on Stu and ran outside, only to find my wooden Easter carrot lying on the sidewalk, and the ribbon that held it, swinging in the doorway. The wooden bunny that hung from the carrot was nowhere to be seen.

"It was a bunch of drunken first years," a gaggle of girls across the street told me. "They went that way," pointing toward Dalhousie.

I went back inside and thought, Fuck! That bunny was tacky as hell, but it had sentimental value. I was so sick of drunken students with Daddy's credit card, walking off with anything that wasn't bolted down.

Over the years, neighbourhood homeowners have lost flower planters, lawn chairs, shrubs, bikes, election signs, small children, Christmas decorations – only to find them discarded or smashed around the corner – or – as in the case of my life-size folk art deer, standing in the middle of a frat house with a knife in its head. But that's another story.

I stood there for a minute and thought, shit, I liked that bunny... oh well. Then I snapped. I was about to run out the door when I realized I was wearing slippers, leggings and a t-shirt barely long enough to cover my fat ass. Without hesitation, I pulled on a raincoat, sneakers, and dashed out the door.

Heading down my street and around the corner toward Dalhousie, it wasn't long before I spotted a crowd of drunken university students hovering near Coburg Street. They were milling about, sitting on lawns and noisemaking merrily, as drunk students tend to do when they're not iPod deaf and walking in front of cars.

Now, remember – Coronation Street was on, so good Corrie fans would know it was somewhere around 6:30pm – and still quite light out. Cars were whizzing by, and I was out of breath from sprinting the block and a half, but the adrenalin was pumping – either that, or I was having a heart attack.

That's when I spotted my bunny.

Across Coburg, an inebriated young woman was waving my bunny at passing cars. My Easter bunny was in the hands of a 20-something co-ed who had been guzzling Red Bull and vodka since breakfast.

Without thinking, I dashed across the street and snatched the bunny from her youthful hands. She looked at me and tried to focus. Before she could speak, I did what any sane, mature woman would do in similar circumstances.

I started to beat her with my bunny.

You. (whack) Stupid. (whack) Drunk. (whack) Little. (whack) Bitch. (whack)

I whacked her with the flat side of the bunny, so not to draw blood or an assault charge – but I whacked her good. Repeatedly. All I could think about was, Christ, I hope this doesn't end up on You Tube, and thank god I had the sense to cover up my dimpled, legging-clad ass.

One of the college girl's drinking buddies eventually ran over to rescue her – so I did what any sane, mature woman would do in similar circumstances – I gave her friend a couple of bunny whacks too.

Satisfied that my point had been made, I held tight to my bunny and headed for home – muttering about respect for property, and wishing I was that young and stupid again. As, I spun around, a rather large crowd of people waiting at the bus stop broke into a full cheer.

They were cheering for me.

"Serves her right!" one woman yelled.

I just nodded and waved the bunny – suddenly feeling more empowered than I have in years.

By then, the Little Bastard was heading down the street toward me, wondering what had caused his mother to dash out of the house like a hopped-up Ben Johnson. "What happened?" he said, sounding a tad concerned, "I heard a bunch of screaming."

"Nothing." I answered calmly, "I just got our bunny back."

I also got my mojo back.

To quote Bet Lynch from Coronation Street, "I've got tights older than you, love... don't fuck with me." (I added that last bit.) Right now, Maritime Travel has airfare to London, England - direct from Halifax, June 9-16 for $737 (including taxes & fees). Imagine how empowered you'll feel after a few pints and a meat pie.

The mirror does not lie – I am, what I am – and what I am, is someone who will fight to protect the things I love, at all costs. A boy. A lost soul.

A tacky, wooden bunny.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

I can't even think of a title.

It's not often I am rendered speechless, so mark your calendar with a big gold star, because it likely won't happen again.

Hopefully.

I don't even know where to begin.

See? Still voiceless, and it was my plucky, 93 year-old Aunt Ruby who had the stroke this week – not me.

I'll begin in a strip mall, I guess. Good things seldom begin begin a strip mall. But that's where it happened. Dumbstruck by a simple question in a suburban strip mall.

Silenced I was.

See, I am stalling. This hasn't been a good week. Okay I am just going to spit it out.

"So... Cindy," the perky girl said, "Are you retired?"

Everything fell silent, at least inside my head. The room was actually quite noisy, with blaring dance music and 30-second intervals of a voice yelling "change stations".

Retarded? I thought to myself. Did she just ask me if I was retarded?

I prayed she was inappropriate and said retarded. Please, make her have said retarded. Yes! I am retarded, I thought. I've always been retarded. I've been retarded for as long as I can remember. I'm here training for the Special Olympics. Clearly I must look retarded or she wouldn't have asked me. Pleeeeeease tell me you meant retarded. I have never wanted to be retarded so badly in my entire life.

"Are you retired?" I heard her ask again, in what seemed like slow motion.

I saw her youthful lips moving but I was deafened by the voices in my own head. I would have cut my arm off like that guy in 127 Hours just to get the fuck out of there.

I finally spoke. "Retired?" An inaudible whisper, after what seemed like hours.

"What kind of work did you do?" she continued, cheerily.

"Did?" I said in a whisper.

"Really?" I pleaded meekly.

Out of sheer desperation I found myself at Curves. Curves! The gym where women supposedly change their lives 30 minutes. Mine changed in less than 30 seconds flat.

There I was surrounded by women – so old and fat in some cases – that I felt like a starlet on the red carpet. Or at least I did. One simple question and suddenly I felt like I belonged there.

And I didn't like it.

The rest is just a blur. I went through the motions like I was shell shocked. The instructor introduced me to the weight resistance machines, and to some of the ladies bouncing up and down for 30 seconds in between each brittle-bone "workout". Everyone was so nice and supportive, but I couldn't move past the voice in my head that kept assuring me that I was indeed quite obviously retarded, and didn't look a day over 35. Retarded people have such a youthful glow about them – always jolly and eager to please. I am often mistaken for being politically incorrect and retarded. It happens all the time.

Will I go back?

I don't know.

That's a difficult question.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Curves has several locations in HRM. For a free week, and a fitness evaluation click here.

Jesus for Dummies.

Yesterday was a mish-mash of wonderful excuses for doing nothing at all.

First, it was sunny and hovering slightly above freezing. After suffering through a schizophrenic weather pattern of rain, ice and snow – anything remotely close to pleasant was worth basking in. Yesterday was also the 100th anniversary of International Women's Day, but until it's officially a paid day off for women, who really gives a shit. It was also Fat Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday, Pancake Day, or unleavened Tim Horton's Breakfast Sandwich day, as it's now known in our house.

I mashed them all together and declared it Fat Women's Tuesday, and proceeded to avoid my long list of things to do, quite merrily.

Yesterday, my pal Norman asked me what I was giving up for Lent. Silly goose. He knows perfectly well my attendance in church is spotty at best – mostly forced, and resulting in a great deal of time spent staring at the ceiling, sweating up my good clothes wondering if I'm about to be struck by lighting to organ accompaniment, and what kind of crustless sandwiches will be dished out afterward, and am I supposed to be standing up or sitting down, and thinking there just has to be better hymns with rhythm out there, and do they wash that filthy chalice, and what page are they on, and why did that weird couple with the ugly baby suddenly turn around and offer limp, damp handshakes – mumbling something about the force being with me, all the while avoiding eye contact, lest I be the Devil.

I don't have to give anything up for Lent, but if I had to give up something it would be shoveling.

According to the Bible, a bestseller likely because of all the hotels: Jesus (the hero) took off somewhere for 40 days and went without Sportscentre to prepare for the playoffs or something. I think this is when he grew that scraggly beard. Correct me if I am wrong, but didn't it also rain cats and dogs for 40 days and nights? Were those 40 days when Jesus was off a-Lenting, the same 40 days during which Noah was "told" to build an Ark and blow town? The plot is so hard to follow. And where does the Easter bunny come in? And if Jesus really rose from the grave like the book says, does that mean there's no heaven, and no Philly cheese angel? Because rising normally suggests a coming up from below. But hey, you know what they say – go to Heaven for the weather and Hell for the company.

(Note: My friend (and hero) *Kelly is a breast cancer conqueror, and a big-time believer and maybe the two go hand in hand, but my guess is I'll be hearing from her real soon.)

Maybe I'll give up coffee for Lent. Oops, too late.

Does the word relentless stem from Lent?

I know! I'll give up giving up. I tend to give up every winter. By give up, I mean "let myself go". It means succumbing to gray skies and brittle nails and middle age and a serious case of the "poor mes". By giving up giving up for Lent, I can still embrace Cadbury mini eggs and vodka and doing unto others. It's fucking perfect.

Come to think of it, I snuck in a quick giving up on Monday, just under the Lent wire. I gave up on ever having my flowing long locks of youth, or an elegant senior citizen chignon. I left my pubic-like gray curls happily on the floor of Flaunt Hair Salon. While I was there, I picked up some self-esteem and Kevin Murphy shampoo for "extremely tortured" hair. Oddly enough it's called Born.Again.Wash. Fitting for this period of religious highlights and damp weather.

With my sassy new church lady hair and 40 days of emotional sunshine, I can walk on frozen water, breathe fire, repent, repel, revel, regurgitate, rejoice – anything but give up, goddammit.

It's gonna be a miracle.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

*Check out Kelly's inspirational blog about kicking the shit out of breast cancer at: Gingerbreadguts. I think her page design would look better though, if Jesus' face appeared in the latte foam.

Flaunt Hair Salon is at 2166 Windsor Street. 902.425.0020.

The jet lag was a bitch, but well worth it!

It seems everyone is posting their fabulous winter vacation photos online (Costa Rica, Hawaii, Punta Cana, etc) so I wanted to share mine as well. Enjoy!

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

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.