One of the many reasons why I love Murray Gallant.

Have a safe drive home Murray and Teresa. You made my long weekend fly by too fast.

Thanks for my new golfing buddy. I smile every time I see her, and she embarrassed the hell out of the Little Bastard and his friends.

Godspeed.

P.S. Murray, are you sure you haven't been spying on me at the golf course?

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Southern comfort.

We veered off the highway just south of Petite Riviere and headed down Memory Lane.

"Mom, please tell me this leads to Halifax." the Little Bastard moaned, having just endured two days of my exuberant golf swing and gleeful gallivanting at White Point. Indeed, we'd crammed a great deal into our short time at the beach: horseshoes, ping pong, tennis, golf, and a new game I call, "Learn to Drive" with rules like: If you spill Mommy's wine, you fail.

"I need a coffee." I replied, keeping my bleary eyes on the road – partly to avoid catching his – knowing they were likely rolling back up into his head.

"There's a Tim Horton's in Bridgewater." he pleaded, "We're almost there."

"I need a real coffee." I said, pointing out Petite Riviere Vineyards as a method of distraction that used to work when he was two, and stupid.

Truth is, I was in no hurry to get home. The South Shore of Nova Scotia in July almost makes up for the north side of backass in February – where I spend most of my time huddled up in a rink parking lot. And while I had just spent a portion of my mini-vacation, emailing Premier Dexter telling him to get off his fat ass and fix the link between Yarmouth and Maine – the upside of cutting off the marine umbilical cord to this world-class tourist region is that there's literally, 'room at the inn'. There's also a lack of USA license plates and the accompanying questions overheard in local establishments. Questions like, "Is Nova Scotia a part of Canada?" and my favourite: "Is there a Saks Fifth Avenue in Bridgewater?" All spoken with an innocently ignorant, south-of-the-border twang.

First-hand knowledge of these types of questions stem from my past, as owner of Wholly Mackerel, a folk art gallery in Mahone Bay. I remember the Main Street bumper-to-bumper with tourists waving their wallets like the American flag. Today, it pains me to see so many unique restaurants, inns, and boutiques – with fewer people here to appreciate them.

"Now where are we going?" the suddenly-pissy Little Bastard asked as I veered right again. "What's the Ovens? Can I at least drive?"

We had already done Risser's boardwalk, walked the dogs on Crescent Beach, topped up on coffee and muffins at the LaHave Bakery, and waited for the car ferry to take us across the LaHave River. He figured we were homeward bound.

"There's someone I really want to see." I replied. "I want her to see you, too".

Moments later we pulled in the driveway of an old Cape, and knocked on the door.

"It's open!" yelled a familiar voice I haven't heard in... well... far too long.

Mimi Findlay, award-winning interior designer and perhaps the most creative, loving, and delightfully irreverent person I have ever met, greeted us with a big smile and a warm, "Holy fuck!"

A woman after my own heart.

You see, many moons ago, when I owned Wholly Mackerel, Mimi owned Mimi's Ocean Grill, next door. I grin (and drool a bit) thinking about her fabulously popular restaurant, and the time and space that made up the South Shore chunk of my life.

My own lifeline to the South Shore was severed by work, and distance, and a bit of sadness. The Little Bastard had spent the first four summers of his life noshing on Julien's croissants, running buck naked on a Chester beach, while I worked my ass off. He was weaned on Mimi's comfort food – pan-fried haddock and homemade focaccia – often falling asleep in my arms to the tinkling lullaby of Mimi's finger playing with the ice cubes in her vodka, after a long and busy day.

Mimi is no longer Mimi of Ocean Grill fame, having shifted her focus solely to Rhubarb Home Design. The most talented, resourceful, whimsical designer I have ever met, is working her Mimi magic, transforming cottages, houses, and boring blueprints into unique, magazine-worthy homes with character. And, she's doing it with more personality and humour than you'll ever see on HGTV.

The good news is: South Shore businesses are adapting and thriving – marketing to a more regional crowd – and staying positive. White Point is as charming as ever, and while we had to wait two minutes for a tennis court – we had our pick of tee times, and the beautiful beach practically to ourselves. This – in July – on a coastline voted one of the best in the world by National Geographic's Traveler. Too bad our government makes it so fucking difficult for people "from away" to get here.

Metallica are performing in Havenot tonight, and I can hear the distant thump thump of whatever beat you call that. Thousands of rain-soaked, heavy metal fans, wandering down a foggy Memory Lane of their own.

Thump thump. Heartbeat. Speed bump.

Slow down. Enjoy the ride.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Book an affordable escape to White Point by clicking or calling: 1.800.565.5068

Book Mimi Findlay for your design project by calling: 902.766.0333 or emailing her at: rhubarbhomedesign@gmail.com.

Email Premier Dexter and tell him to get off his fat ass at: premier@gov.ns.ca

My earliest childhood recollection? Hmmm, hey, Doc, where'd you get that light fixture?

"You need therapy."

It's amazing how many times I hear this over the course of a day, but to be honest – if I could afford the luxury of therapy and the time it would take to lie down and whine about this and that, I would likely have fewer reasons for needing therapy. And besides, crazy people get more personal space in public places. No one ever wants to cuddle up next to the lunatic mumbling about Jesus, or Vietnam, or, is it really that hard to distinguish between sweet and sour and fucking barbecue sauce!?

Honestly. It's dipping sauce. If I have to turn around and wait in line again so some pimpled moron in a paper hat... well... never mind.

And retail therapy is just not for me. The notion of heading into a mall or a boutique to somehow ease the burden of life simply baffles me. No one ever opens fire on a tennis court, or in a backyard full of roses.

Having said that, I have been dreaming of purchasing a new bicycle. A few years ago, some little prick stole our mountain bikes, and after a year or two of suppressing my anger over said theft, I decided it was time to simply "let it go" and drag my old hybrid "Mom" bike out of retirement. A quick tune-up at Jack Nauss' quirky little Bicycle Shop on Agricola, and I was good to go. Of course, the same little prick who stole our mountain bikes, also took our helmets – so I picked up a jaunty, yellow flowered Bell helmet that the Little Bastard says makes me look like I should be riding the special bus.

Nothin' wrong with special.

Riding a bicycle in Havenot is a life threatening disease, what with the lack of bicycle lanes, and lunatic drivers like myself who have a total disregard for cyclists with no knowledge of the rules of the road. Riding a bicycle carrying a swinging plastic bag full of wine bottles is just plain crazy. (And they say crazy people don't know they are crazy.) I was just about to head out and put my Canadian Tire money toward a new carrier, when I remembered there was an old wicker basket down in Lake Basement.

There is a point to this, besides, this is therapeutic for me, so piss off and stay with me.

Indeed there was a trusty, dusty old basket, but it was lacking the two straps necessary for securing it to the handlebars. I needed something strong. Something that would hold at least 750 ml. I considered cutting up an old bra, but instead, I hopped on my bike and headed to the adorable cobbler at Quinpool Shoe Repair. He knew exactly what I was looking for, and tried to fashion one out of bits of leather and an old buckle. After a gallant attempt, he conceded that I was, once again, on my own, looking for support(s).

Heading up Quinpool, I signaled and swerved into one of the trendy new cycling shops. I have been admiring the two-wheeled pieces of art they flog to eco-freindly commuters with a death wish and a line of credit. Bikes in delicious ice cream colours with matching price tags hang in the window of their "gallery". I was no longer in the market for a new bike, but maybe they had an inexpensive buckle or two.

Sporting my shiny new helmet, they were quick to spot a potential customer and were all over me like a cougar on Chardonnay. When I explained what I was looking for, the girl waltzed over to the accessories wall and grabbed a shiny package containing fancy leather toe straps with adjustable brass hardware. She proceeded to rip open the package, and went about describing how she would cut the long straps of Corinthian leather and somehow make it work.

"Isn't that a bit of overkill?" I asked. "How much are those things?"

"Only ten bucks." She replied haughtily.

"Holy fucking commies Christly Vietnam." I muttered. I just need to tie a basket to a handlebar, not bungee jump off a goddamned bridge.

"Thanks." I said. "Maybe I can find something simpler, cheaper, and far less European at Canadian Tire."

"Fine!" she snapped, angrily shoving the pricey leather straps back into the packaging. "If you want to shop at Canadian Tire, go ahead!"

No shit. Verbatim.

I spun around and thought about what I should do next. I had so many options and I was wearing a helmet, so chances are if I went for Option A: Diving back through the plate glass window and grabbing the bitch by the throat – at least my head was protected.

Instead, I held my yellow-flowered head high and walked out, past the trendy bicycles and straight to Canadian Tire, where – for $1.97 – I bought an entire bag of thin plastic straps that got the job done, perfectly.

I also popped into Patricia Graham Massage Therapy's new location at 6156 Quinpool and booked an appointment for a long, therapeutic massage.

You see, while it has been suggested that I could reap the benefits of regular therapy – truth is – the power of kindness, a little exercise, and the human touch is unparalleled.

And call me crazy, but the inner strength and peace that comes with unabashedly donning a flowered yellow helmet at this stage of the game is pretty special indeed.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Patricia Graham Massage Therapy is now at 6156 Quinpool Road.

To book an appointment call 902.576.4500 or email: patriciagraham@ns.sympatico.ca.

For a tune-up and your very own yellow, flowered helmet drop by Nauss Bicycles at 2533 Agricola St, Halifax, 429.0024.

For the cutest damn cobbler in town head to Quinpool Shore Repair at 6424 Quinpool Road.

Fancy bike and matching attitude, try Halifax Cycle Gallery, 6299 Quinpool Road.

Who am I to judge, but really.

Dear Mr. Camping,

Please find the attached receipt for $76.25. As you can see, it's dated for May 20, 2011, or Judgement Eve, as it's likely called in your house.

Stepping out for what was supposed to be the "last supper", we went big – opting for Bubba Ray's wings on a non-half-price wing night. As you will also note, we went big on the beverages, surrendering to the rapture of the over-served. Please also find the attached taxi receipt.

Also, Harold, please watch for a parcel heading your way via Canada Post (don't hold your last breath, because what are you, 104?). If it does indeed arrive before your own personal Judgement Day, please note the package contains a large stack of unpaid bills, mostly in brown, governmental-looking envelopes. Also, please note they are unopened, so beware of doomsday-sized paper cuts. I have also given the nice lady at Revenue Canada your phone number because, quite frankly, her persistence and lack of enlightenment is starting to piss me off.

Also arriving by courier is a load of horse shit. I think you left it by mistake, and please note, it will be arriving C.O.D.

Shame on you, Harold.

Judgement Day is finally here, and I jumped out of bed with such high hopes (and a touch of the whirlies) only to be slapped in the face with disappointment of Biblical proportions. It was like the Christmas I prayed for Santa to bring me a Chatty Cathy all over again. Instead of a talking blonde with a rip cord, I got that fucking ugly church lady of a Mrs. Beasely doll.

Judgement Day, my ass.

Oh, Mr. Camping had I known then, what I know now, I would have paid my taxes and waxed my unruly beaver. Had I know now, what I didn't know yesterday, I never would have ordered the split double-order of Jamaican Jerk and Suicide wings, washed down with a gallon of Blanc Table – working my way into the XL sweats with HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS written across the bum. Because of you, you ignorant prophet of doom, I am knee deep in unpaid bills and unwanted hair, worshipping the porcelain God. And he is very, very angry.

Oh, Mr. Camping. You are the guy who said he'd call and never did. You are the finger wagging poster boy of pea-brained piety, and likely an Oakland Raiders fan. You are the Sarah Palin of the Bible belt. You, you, you, are also laughing all the way to the Bank of the Holy Sepulchre to deposit the millions reaped from harvesting sheep.

Shame on you, Harold.

The good news is, today is happening. And, today marks the 21st birthday of Thornbloom. Yes, Harold, the optimistic leaders of the Havenotian house of interior worship are celebrating their 21st birthday, offering a generous 21% off everything until June 4th. By the looks of that tattered armchair from which you preach, you should probably go.

So, Mr. Camping, you're either having a really good chuckle right now, or, you are parked, head in hands – your boney old ass unloading a shit load of suicide wings into your porcelain holy grail. When you get a moment Harold, today, or maybe the glorious day after that, please reimburse me for expenses and suffering incurred while anticipating the end of the world as we know it.

And have a nice day.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Social climbing responsibility.

Damn her.

With a mere two weeks remaining before embarking on my coming of age adventure, I have moved into what is known as the "intense" segment of my Machu Picchu ascent training. This involves shitting in the backyard, limiting myself to two squares of single-ply toilet paper, speaking only in Quechua (phrases like "Carry me, Eduardo, you filthy man donkey") and drinking lukewarm Chilean wine whilst enclosed in a urine-stained sleeping bag.

Then I get the email.

First, can I mention that the Little Bastard has decided to vocalize his own coming of age independence by announcing that he'd rather get circumcised by a palsied rabbi (I initially typed rabbit by mistake) than go to Peru – putting his size 14 foot down on my soul, just before Mother's Day.

And then I get the email.

It seems, leaving one's comfort zone and foregoing yet another opportunity to purchase RRSPs is simply not enough. And, now that I am facing the very real possibility that I may be going it alone, I'm thinkin' – why, oh why didn't the good folks at Maritime Travel encourage me to push the Tennis in Tuscany tour button before settling on 10-Day Incan Incontinent?

Fuck.

Then there's the email.

It seems being flawless of skin, petite, and genuinely nice, isn't enough for Elaine Shortt of Thornbloom fame. The good wife, mother, entrepreneur, and arthritis sufferer has decided she not only wants to climb Machu Pichhu without cracking a sweat – she's doing it for a good cause.

Damn her.

I am doing it... because... well... I am not sure why I am doing it – but if it's for any cause it's BECAUSE it's THERE and not HERE sitting in my jammies in Havenot wondering if the sun will ever shine again. My goal isn't raising money for a do-good worthy cause like the Arthritis Society's Joints in Motion – I just want to raise my head up off of this desk.

And, wouldn't you know it. According to Elaine's timely email, between now and August 31st, all proceeds from the sale of selected Oxo Good Grips products at Thornbloom will be donated to Arthritis research. That bitch! Oxo Good Grips, for those who are ignorant and ill informed, are easy-to- grip gadgets ergonomically designed to ease the difficulty some people may have pulling corks out of bottles and unscrewing lids from cocktail olive jars.

Not to be outdone, between now and two weeks from now, donations of any kind (flowers, Chilean wine) can be delivered to me personally – because unlike Elaine – I am perhaps not in the best of shape for climbing anything except maybe out of bed. And while I may not have arthritis now – in about 18 days, I guarantee you – I will have the worst goddamned case of arthritis and likely diarrhrea in Peruvian history.

So go ahead – feel all warm and fuzzy by contributing to Elaine's socially responsible cause. Keep in mind she is a size 2 and wouldn't know a wrinkle if it bit her on the ass. Just click on the Arthritis logo over to the right, then go about your miserable day.

I know I will.

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

Oh... adding insult to injury, for those who choose to make a donation of $25 or more, Thornbloom will be offering a gift of a selected Good Grips gadget; for donations of $100 or more, a Good grips salad spinner valued at $49.95. Just present your tax receipt at Thornbloom to claim your thank-you gift.

Happy Mother's Day

Click to purchase and share the parental love.

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.

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