Rose's Cantina

Don't try this at home. Rely on a medical professional to burn you. When I texted my husband yesterday to tell him I have skin cancer, he immediately wanted to come home from work. I told him to never mind, that I was a-ok, and I was. I've spent the last many months sitting around the Ottawa Cancer Clinic, and I got myself a crash course in all things cancer. I sat for many hours with my friend Jennette in the company of oncologists and surgeons. I took her for her oral cancer appointments, and I watched her go through a living hell and come out the other side. I have been asked by many reading this blog how she is, and she's fine. She rejected the doctor's recommendation that she undergo radiation "just in case". Since it required the pulling of all her teeth, she decided she'd take her chances, which were about 40 percent that the cancer would return. Jennette is very brave. I'm not sure I would have had the guts to tell the radiology on

Embed from Getty Images Shit, I have skin cancer. On my face, and on my ear. I spent an hour today with a dermatologist who burned and froze various portions of my face and took a chunk out of my right ear. The doctor was nice. She said, "Well, if it's any consolation, if you're going to get cancer, this is the best one to get." With that she lopped off an unsightly bump on my chin. "At least you won't die from it." Lovely. People might say we the skin cancer people have only ourselves to blame. We've spent too many hours in the sun playing tennis and golfing without the benefit of hats or sunscreen. Of course, we didn't know about sunscreen when we pinkos were lathering ourselves with baby oil back in the day. And we scoffed at it when the news came out that walking on sunshine could kill you. Me, I've stayed out of the sun, for the most part, for about five years and put sticky stuff on my heaving bodice. I don't

Vern and his siblings When I was a little girl, not bigger than a bug, I had a playmate, a devoted playmate, who followed me around, hitched the Golden Retriever to my wagon, and sang songs with me on the front porch. He liked to dress up like Freddie the Freeloader, and take me door-to-door on Hallowe'en. My childhood friend was my Uncle Vern, and he was 50-year-old. Vern was the first born of my Grandmother Ina, the son of her first husband Herbert who had died in the Great War. Unlike the other grownups, Vern wasn't much bigger than me. I'd say, he was five foot with his shoes on, You might say he was as tall as he was round, and had a cherubic face that was always plugged with a roll-yer-own; it was a face that always lit up when I walked in the room. When he wasn't playing with me, Vern helped on the farm weeding the rows of strawberries, picking cherries and plums, or feeding a virtual Canary Row of odd animals: a banty rooster, a crow my G

Embed from Getty Images I will not speak his name. He does not deserve attention anymore. In some other cultures, this man would have been cast out into the wilderness, shunned by his people, at the very hint of the violence he committed against many, many women. In other cultures, he would be allowed to let his energy flow freely, and it would be the women who would be cast out for being dirty, evil, lesser. In our culture, it's somewhere in the middle. He has been cast out, in some way, unemployable in the vainglorious media where he toiled; he has been denied his hunting ground. But he still walks among us, his face allowed to feel the cold and damp of this spring/winter day. I hope the rain stings like needles. In our society, the women, too -- one named the others nameless -- have been singled out for punishment. They weren't believable enough, they didn't remember enough, they talked among themselves, reassured each other. In some cases, they cov

Photo by Canadian Press Like most folks, I was stunned to hear the news of the passing of Toronto trainwreck Robert Bruce Ford at the tender age of 46. He was only a couple of years older than our Prime Minister, with two little kids. I couldn't believe it, and I felt sad, really sad. It surprised me, the news, and made me shed a tear. Why, I asked myself. The man was creepy. He brought strippers into the hallowed office of the Mayor of Toronto. He smoked crack. He mused about the abundance of access to his wife's area. I guess everybody loves a redemption story, and we couldn't believe that Ford was actually capable of cleaning up his act. And he had cancer; nobody deserves to die in that horrible manner, not at the age of 46. It made me wonder: what would have happened to Ford if he hadn't gotten a dose of deadly cells?  Would he have managed to successfully beat his addictions and demons when more than 95 percent of addicts go back to using after rehab?

In response to much prodding and pleading from my fan(s), I have finally decided to write that first book. It will be called Party Girl: From Ottawa Hack to Parliament Hill Flack. Or something like that. The last part might change, but not the first part. Definitely not the first part. It will be an e-book to start with, though reader(s) will be able to buy a soft cover copy for much, much, more money. I'm going to follow the lead of my brilliant son, the man-child living in the Bat Cave downstairs, who has self-published three bestish-selling books of poetry. He managed to publish without ever spending a bleeding penny, and I intend to do the same. So think of Party Girl as my handmade love letter to Ottawa. It is a memoir of sorts, as much as it can be a memoir because I don't exactly remember everything. It will follow my exploits beginning with my studies at the Carleton School of Journalism where I never really managed to get a BJ (that's Bachelor of

Embed from Getty Images Media Relations 101. Tell the truth. If you made a mistake, apologize. And for God's sake, stop lying. This morning, even the television anchors were having trouble keeping straight faces over the nose-stretchers being told by upper management at Loblaws. The company's flack was trying to put a tourniquet on the company's worst public relations bleed in recent memory. It was all over a memo  that was circulating which said that company decided to stop stocking French's Ketchup because it was "cannibalizing" sales of the company's house brand. "The memo was unofficial, misinformed and sent by a staff member prior to (Tuesday's) decision to restock French's ketchup," Kevin Groh, vice-president of corporate affairs and communication, said Wednesday in a statement. I assume that staffer is now stocking overnight shelves. Doesn't matter. The damage is done. Who you gonna believe, the f

Update: Since this post was published, an internal memo from Loblaws, obtained by Canadian Press, revealed that French's ketchup was being pulled from stores to stop the "cannibalization " of the Loblaws' brand by the Canadian product. Loblaws denies this, of course. Maybe they're smarter, and dumber, than I gave them credit for. Loblaws had some 'splainin' to do yesterday after it pulled French's ketchup off the shelf because it wasn't a big seller. The people spoke, and the grocery chain had it back on the shelves before you could say, "Want fries with that?" Despite its claims that it sources local whenever possible, it's quite clear that the Westons don't give a rat's ass about where they get stuff. Either that, or they simply don't pay attention to the news. There was great uproar when Heinz took its act on the road and left Ontario throwing hundreds out of work. And yet, Heinz is still front and centre in L

Embed from Getty Images A conversation I had with an emergency room doctor keeps coming back to me. I was doing a story on fall prevention among seniors, for the  Canada Safety Council , and I asked this doctor about treating obese seniors who come in after falls. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Well, if they are obese, is there a greater likelihood of them losing their balance, and falling?" The doctor just laughed. "We don't see a lot of obese seniors," he said. "There aren't many of them around." I was shocked by that statement. He went on to say that the chances of seniors living into old age are remote if they are fat. The chances of getting life threatening illnesses such as cancer, heart disease and diabetes put them at greater risk for an early meeting with their maker. This conversation came back to me yesterday, as I was talking to my plastic surgeon who told me I had to lose 40 pounds before she would perform

One kilo, maybe two. Maybe one kilo on one side, two on the other. Two-thirds. The calculations are swimming in my addled brain. Even then I'll probably end up as a DD cup. Hot damn! That's the assessment of my plastic surgeon whom I met today, the very nice and spirited Dr. Rockwell, a renowned plastic surgeon at the Ottawa Hospital. They say she has fairy hands. The breasts that once nursed my children, and were the fantasy of news deskers everywhere, have thinned my skin and stretched beyond any recognition, like an over-used Slinky. About five pounds --that's what she needs to take off. But when it's over, in two short hours, I have the promise of becoming a normal person again instead of a self-loathing woman with Old Stripper Boobs. Sure, I'll have the scars to show for it, an accordion scar under the breasts, and ones around the nipples and straight down the middle. For a few weeks, I'll look like I did, in fact, fall off the turni

Tomorrow is my scheduled appointment with the plastic surgeon to see if she is willing to save me from all this boob weight. I've been waiting for nearly two years for this appointment, and I'm really excited. I'm also a bit nervous, as I haven't yet met my goal of being a BMI of 30. Despite watching my diet and exercising like a maniac for a couple of months, I've lost all of two pounds. Here's hoping that the good doctor has one of those miracle weight loss pre-surgery diets. I suspect I will be learning to love Boost. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Anyway, in preparation for my surgery, I've been conducting some research on the subject of breast reduction. A few weeks ago, I came across this terrific show on Lifetime called Atlanta Plastic. The reality show follows three African American plastic surgeons as they add and subtract human tissue from their clientele which is all black folks. I love this show because it's the first one

Embed from Getty Images Choose a size: A few weeks ago, I asked my very pregnant daughter Marissa how long she was going to take off work with her new baby, Kennedy Rose, who is expected to arrive in early April. "Three weeks," she said, matter-of-factly. "Three weeks? How are you going to manage that?" "Jeff's taking parental leave," she explained. "And I can work at home. It only makes sense because I make more money than he does." It's true. Jeff works in the not-for-profit sector in a job he loves. He is also a French hip hop recording artist, and for that he works nights. Marissa toils in the high powered world of consulting with blue chip clients; she's something called a "digital strategist". I smiled when I got off the phone. She didn't always take my advice, but she did listen one day when I told her to "be the man you want to marry." That's the advice I wish I could have g

When the Zombie Apocalypse arrives, I know where I'm going. Conroy Pit, the off leash dog park near my house. Yesterday, it looked like the Walking Dead if the Walking Dead was filmed in Ottawa and all the zombies wore big fat winter coats and galoshes. There were hoardes of people milling along the trails. We even saw a squad of Portuguese Waterdogs on their daily constitutional. Sometimes, you have to jostle through bouncy canines having a go at a stick, or chasing each other. Sometimes, they are all congregating around the orifices of the unfixed, reminding their owners that it is spring, and it's time to plug those up or cut them off. Anyway, it was a marvellous way to spend a late winter day. I'm saying I want to be at Conroy Pit during the Zombie Apocalypse because I know I'd be safe there. At Conroy Pit, there isn't one living, breathing soul who isn't a kindly saint put on this Earth to help a fellow man or woman. Yesterday, we were a

Embed from Getty Images Unlike most British shows, Downton Abbey has been fun for the whole family. There aren't boobs flying everywhere, no tossing of the salad, no rogering the help from behind. There are no EastEnders sucking down warm beer whilst on the dole. Everything is respectable in Downton. People get dressed for dinner. They eat with the good china. Even the downstairs help is allowed to dip into Lord Grantham's reserved cellar for a tipple. The writing is fabulous, the dialogue flawless. Why should we care about the lazy plot points? Or its total lack of continuity? The stuff doesn't make any sense. Like Into the Woods. Questions remain. ...There was much made about the illegitimate daughter of Edith, a child named Marigold. Yet the only children seen in the finale were George and Sibby. Is Marigold locked up somewhere? Has she been stolen by the farmer's wife? ...At the beginning of the episode, Anna Bates was roughly eight hours p

Embed from Getty Images Last weekend, I was invited to my daughter's baby shower, and I was not looking forward to it. Most moms would be ecstatic, but I am not like most moms. I suffer from social anxiety and agoraphobia, which is basically a fear of leaving the house. For years, I would have to make excuses, but there are some events to which a person is morally obligated to attend -- graduations, weddings, funerals, and your daughter's baby shower. So I wrapped a present and trotted off. When I got there, I realized that I knew only a couple of women, friends of my daughter's from long ago. None of my peeps could make it to the shindig, so that left me sitting in a chair all by myself surrounded by a sea of 20-somethings. What saved me was my Smartphone which often rescues me from social situations. If the crowd had been older, I might have appeared distant, rude even. But this crowd paid no heed to the woman behind the screen. Everybody was looking

Embed from Getty Images Dear American Citizens: We are writing to let you know that we are truly sorry for what you may be about to do -- turn your class bully into class president. The guy is going to give you all a collective wedgie. Now, we're all hoping that common sense prevails, and the people of the United States elect Hillary Clinton or better yet Bernie Sanders. But that might not happen because there are too many people walking your streets, and hunting in your hills, who believe America will be stronger with a guy who resembles a Stephen King character. Soon, you will be forced to sleep on Trump mattresses and gamble your life's savings at casinos on every block. You will have to do all the heavy lifting because you can't count on immigrants to do your dirty work. Donald Trump will build an impenetrable wall that not even you will be able to traverse. So act soon. I suggest moving to an island in the stream where if you buy some land, you

Embed from Getty Images The old man was looking forward to his daily visit from his daughter and his lady friend. At 2 p.m., the orderlies bathed and catheterized him, then put him in his diaper. For the first hour or so, he zoomed in and out of consciousness, grateful for the morphine, but frustrated that it basically put him to sleep. His loved ones sat and chatted during these frequent episodes; it's what to be expected in end of days. Suddenly, he sat up. "Oh no, I went again," he cried. Something had gone wrong with his catheter, it sprang a leak. At the same time, he soiled himself unable to control his bowels thanks to the tumour that got him into this mess in the first place. His daughter rang for a nurse. Nobody came. She rang again, and finally went to the nursing station. "My dad needs to be changed," she said. The nurse just looked at her. "He'll have to wait until shift change," she said. "But that'