Rose's Cantina

Embed from Getty Images "What is the secret to a successful marriage? Don't get divorced." -- Olivia Harrison I've been thinking about Olivia's wise words, spoken to camera when she was asked how it was that she and George Harrison stayed together when other rock and roll marriages failed. She spoke these words after talking about his well known infidelity. As she said, "Women liked George. And George liked women." Her voice cracked, yet there was strands of love in those words. We move ahead. We persevere. For better, or for worse. Scott and I have been together for 14 years now, and are approaching our dotage together. Both of us were married twice before, he to a childhood sweetheart who cheated on him, and then to a woman who used to make him sleep in his car. I got married the first time when I was 24, and did so simply because everybody else was doing it. Two months after we said our vows, my husband cheated the first tim

Embed from Getty Images The old man celebrated his birthday last week with two mouthfuls of a cupcake, then slid back into oblivion. He had made it to 88, accepting congratulations of staff and family in the hospital. As I sat in my chair, I wondered if it had been worth it. Seeing him here in diapers, catheterized, his leg swollen to twice its size, his once barreled chest sunken, his arms the size of breadsticks, we all wondered when it would end, if it would end badly. We certainly knew this was not the ending of his choosing. The man had been a Master of the Universe, a wealthy man who had been able to retire in his 50s and spend two decades moving back and forth from his posh condo in Ottawa to his posh condo in Florida. There had been cruises, sumptuous dinners out, fine clothes and the latest electronics. The wife had died years ago, but the man was fortunate to find a new beauty, a good solid woman who didn't want him for his money, just his company. Th

Embed from Getty Images The Martini Ranch, aka Hy's Steakhouse,* was once the bastion of mandarins and politicians, a place where nobody blinked over a $300 luncheon bill. Soon, it will be a Walmart, or a Baby Gap. The chattering class has spent the last week pondering its demise. All the networks have been busy interviewing the last Hill journalists still with a pulse in this city, wondering what it all means. How could a stuffy dark place with absolutely no ambience, with a menu that offers no hint of leafy greens, possibly go down? A lot of the talking heads are offering such opinions as the culture has changed and journalists and politicians don't drink the way they used to.  Some of them are actually blaming poor old Jim Flaherty who presumably kept the place going on his tab alone. Alas, Jim swims with the fishes, and no longer eats cow on a plate. Why did Hy's fail? I'll tell you why. The real reason for the fall of Hy's and other high pri

We've been through a terrible few months with Scott changing jobs three times, and with my work prospects going into the tanker. Things are getting slightly better: we've hopefully resolved a long-standing tax dispute, Scott is back to work at a nicer dealership with some prospects of getting back to his own field working in television, and my employer has finally assured me that my job is safe -- for now. Not only that, but both of us are within striking distance of the Canada Pension Plan, our debts will all be paid off by the fall, there is no prospect of doggie death (cross all Milk Bones) and my friend Jennette has been given good prospects on her cancer recovery. It's not exactly smooth sailing but we're getting there. We should be excited. As the saying goes, "we been down so long it looks like up to us." But there's another side to the story. When a family has been experiencing massive economic uncertainty and upheaval, its members are

I began a romantic relationship with Scott Troyer when he was only 11, though I'd known him since he was about five when I first encountered him drinking at the National Press Club. I was a much older woman. I must have seemed ancient to him upon our first meeting, when I was 22, just as a dog would look at a human and say, "man, that broad is old as the hills." Despite an age difference of nearly four and a half decades, we took a leap of faith and got married at a time when many Jewish boys were having their bar mitzvahs. It seems to have worked. This year, we celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary. On February 29th, Scott will be celebrating a big birthday. He'll turn 15-years-old. Later this year, I will turn 60. I've realized the age gap is looking more distinct the older we get. I'm getting creaky, he's still spry. I shelter in the house while he drinks beer and throws the Kong for Finnigan in all kinds of weather. Enough about

Embed from Getty Images In eight weeks, give or take, we will be welcoming our second grandchild, another girl, who is giving my daughter more than a little trouble these days. Kennedy is growing like fescue grass on a Scottish golf course and that's caused problems. My daughter Marissa learned a few weeks ago that she has gestational diabetes and now has to test her blood sugar and give herself insulin shots. Thankfully, this kind of diabetes is treatable and won't hang around after the birth, but it's created a tricky living situations for Marissa who was hoping to experience the pre-natal gorge of all the food groups she's denied herself over the past few years. I've admired her discipline, and it hurts me to see her these days all blown up like Gwyneth Paltrow in a fat suit. She is swollen from head to toe -- even her tiny perfect nose has grown three sizes. She's virtually unrecognizable! But she's happy, and that's all that count

Embed from Getty Images My life -- or should I say my career -- flashed before my eyes yesterday as I got down to apply for my Canada Pension. I want to take it when I turn 60 in July instead of waiting for the full amount in five years. I've seen too many people get to pension age, then croak a year later. I'm not taking any chances. As expected, my contribution form is a hot mess. From 1974, when I first started working part-time to now, I only maxed out my contributions 12 times. Usually, I was too poor to qualify, and so the other 32 years were marked "S" for sad and self-employed and "B" for below average. I felt like I was back in public school and I was failing. So my CPP will be a drop in the bucket, and the only person who will benefit will be Scott, at which point I will be dead. He'll have just enough money to incinerate my old ass, while he's enjoying his CBC pension (paltry because he's splitting it with his ex

Embed from Getty Images I love going to the Ottawa Hospital. It's like going to Cheers! where everybody knows your name. If you get lost, a nice volunteer or even a doctor, will actually walk you to your destination. If you lose your parking ticket, you merely have to summon a nice young man who will help you out. It's not the same at the Ottawa Civic, where I went with Jennette today, not the same at all. First of all, you can't find parking. Second, they tell you to follow the blue dots and they're actually purple. And nobody helps you. Not even the volunteers who seem to scatter when someone shoots them a quizzical look. I've actually been flummoxed going there and often thought of calling an ambulance and paying the $45 fee, or hitching a ride on the orange helicopter. I'd probably be sent to jail for mischief, but hey! it isn't against the law to fantasize. Sometimes you just have to go to the Civic, and there's no getting out of

Embed from Getty Images When I was a little kid reporter in the late 70s, I spent hours sitting around various Boards of Education, municipal planning meetings, and the cop shop acting as the eyes and ears of the public. I also went out on weekends and chronicled fishing derbies, 10ks, and pancake breakfasts along with my photogs who took pretty pictures of the winners, losers and local characters. People ate this stuff up. They showed up at these meetings to rail against The Man, and they got their views covered, as a reward. Back in the day, this is how people made names for themselves. Cooling my heels wasn't exactly exciting but I always felt that I was acting in the public interest. Taxpayers needed to know how their money was being spent, parents needed to know how the educators were teaching their kids, and so on and so on. With the exception of small fry newspapers, media doesn't cover the local stuff anymore. They don't even cover the mid-level

Yesterday, here in Ottawa, we experienced a record-breaking snowfall that somehow nobody was prepared for. It's not like we're in Texas where they've never heard of snow tires. Or boot spikes. It's not like there isn't enough money in the city budget to get every bleeding snowplough out, 24/7. And the city had fair warning. Snowmegeddon was imminent. Our smart phones told us so. Environment Canada issued a special weather statement. Meh, we thought. It'll pass us by. That kind of thinking landed Dorothy in Oz . We've only had one big snow fall all year. The Rideau Canal was only open for one week. Canada Goose jackets went on sale! (Now that didn't happen. Canada Goose can't afford to discount; it costs a lot of money to rip the skin off of mother coyotes!) I'm sure the people who work for all the private snow shoveling companies have been counting the dollars in their shoeboxes. Little snow fall means little work, and more money fo

Embed from Getty Images I'm scratching my head about the popularity of Downton Abbey. And yet I look forward to it each and every week. Even though nothing ever happens. Not really. There are hints of a juicy steak, but all we see is day old hamburger. Let me give you a couple of examples. The dog gets sick. Lord Grantham looks at the dog, and says something to the effect that "I don't think he's going to make it." Cut to the dog laying on the floor. Lord Grantham takes him to bed. He is never mentioned again. Yet he is still in the opening credits. Now Lord Grantham has a new dog. Problem solved. So it was like Julian Fellowes says, "I have an idea. Nothing is happening, so let's kill the dog." The end. Cora meets an art patron who comes to her room and tries to nail her. Lord Grantham comes in and slugs the guy. He broods til the end of the show. Then everything is back to normal. Edith gets pregnant and goes away. Nobody

Embed from Getty Images Last week, I received a frantic call from Jennette. "The radiologist called," she said. "He wants me to come back in." Just a week before, Jennette had received a clean bill of health, a thumbs up from both her surgeon and the radiation oncologist who both assured her that radiation wasn't required as a safety net against the return of her oral cancer which had already robbed her of part of her jaw and most of her bottom teeth. I couldn't believe it. First they give us hope, then they take it away. We returned to the Ottawa Hospital for a meeting with the radiologist who looked very sombre, almost grim. "I know I told you that you wouldn't need radiation," he began. "We had a meeting with your surgeon and the pathologist, looked over your charts at our meeting... "And something just didn't sit well with me." The cancer was too close to edge, is a simple way to say it. The surgeon c

Embed from Getty Images I used be a freelance entertainment columnist at the Ottawa Citizen , back when Sting was still with the Police. My job required me to attend three to four bars nightly, and review the bands. It paid $35 a night, and the paper wouldn't spring for my drinks or any cover charge, cheap bastards. I took this job after the Ottawa Journal folded. It was the only gig I could get, and it was pretty nice, except of course, I usually drank my profits with the bands in the Hull bars after I had filed my column, and last call had been announced in Ottawa. By the time I got to the newsroom after my shift, it was usually midnight. The place was littered with a few deskers, lonely hearts, ex-drinkers, current drinkers and the odd vampire. I always thought the Ottawa Citizen newsroom looked like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. It wasn't a traditional newsroom, it was a tarted up version with a state-of-the-art computer system, and the place

This song is dedicated to the men and women at the Ottawa Citizen , many of whom are my former colleagues, bosses and partners in crime who lost their jobs to the Post-Media implosion. RIP Daily Journalism in Ottawa According to Warren Kinsella, the following people with packaged, some willingly, some against their will. The Ottawa Citizen   died yesterday. Oh, sure, there are still some good people there to put it out, for however long.  But make no mistake: the marquee newspaper in our nation’s capital – the equivalent of our   Washington Post   – is dead. Late yesterday, we got word that the following folks (and more) had taken a buyout, and/or were pushed out by the guild of vampires who are Postmedia: Peter Robb:   editor, arts, sports Mark Kennedy:   Parliamentary bureau chief, National Newspaper Award winner Rob Bostelaar:   longtime reporter and editor (and who edited my stuff, full disclosure) Karen Turner:   longtime reporter, editor Glen McGregor:   nation

Embed from Getty Images A few fembots in America have their knickers in a twist over the fact that most young women would rather vote for Larry David than Hillary Clinton. They believe that young women are setting back the feminist cause because they don't seem to care about the historic fact that Hillary could become the first female U.S. president. I call her Hillary, by the way, not to confuse her with her multicultural husband, Bill (Roman hands and Russian fingers) who used to be president but now hovers behind his wife in the background, looking more and more like the old stand-up comic, the guy you remember who always had the corny jokes and played Sullivan. Now he's opening for Louis C.K. The old fembots -- you know who they are, one looks like your grandma, the other looks like she's grandpa's mistress -- are saying that women are flocking to Larry David, I mean, Bernie Sanders, because that's where all the hot guys are working. That may b

Embed from Getty Images I saw something on the Ottawa news yesterday , something that blew me away. There is an Ottawa clinic that is now offering something called FemiLift, and it's basically a vaginal lift that uses a laser to address three areas of concern for women: vaginal laxity (which occurs after childbirth), stress-induced urinary incontinence and dryness. That's according to Dr. Sharyn Laughlin, a dermatologist who works for Laserderm. It's also believed to increase sensation, she says, though that is not the main reason for its use. This could be the magic bullet for a lot of women who pee themselves when they bounce, laugh or even walk. During my worst years, through perimenopause, I used to have to wear a pad the size of a bicycle seat just to walk down the street. When I went to the doctor, I was told to do those useless Kegel exercises which basically have you holding your pee while on the toilet. That never worked for me. I tried everyt