Rose's Cantina

Embed from Getty Images Scott and I went out in search of a patio last night where we could socially distance and meet a new friend I found on Twitter. The Byward Market was out. It's always a carwash and I had no expectation that it would be any different on a warm and beautiful Friday night in Ottawa even in a pandemic. I suggested we find a place near my new friend's home which is close to the hotels in the northwest area of downtown. She made a reservation at the Baton Rouge on Albert Street. When she called they said it was good she made a reservation; they were turning away walk-in traffic. That sounded responsible, so we climbed in the Subaru and headed down. Scott turned onto Bank Street from Sunnyside and we were pleasantly surprised to see the Barley Mow, one of our old haunts, was full but not packed. They had added some tables in the parking lot and it seemed very safe. I know that about the Mow. They have always done a good job of keeping the place in good

Okay, so this isn't me. It's Leeann Lacroix, Ottawa style maven, who has spent the last few weeks getting a little help from science to reduce what she called the marshmallow in her midriff. I'd heard about CoolSculpting, a process that basically freezes and flushes fat cells from a person's tummy, arms, and other areas where the little bastards squat for years and years and years. Leeann was getting a more targeted treatment called Emsculpt, which is for the hard bodied crowd that has been hit horribly by the closing of gyms during this wretched pandemic. She got four treatments over two weeks on her midriff area which, ladies and gents, let's face it, is pretty hard to lose as the years go by.   " When I was in my twenties and thirties I could regain muscle tone with regular, moderate workouts," she wrote. "Now, since you start to lose muscle mass after forty it is really hard to achieve muscle tone, at least it is for me. I don't

Now that Pearl has decamped our house for a life of fancy treats and pool parties, it's time to read the new room. In just a few days, we went from a household of dogs that seemed to run on energy drinks to one that looks like a cannabis bistro. As I write this, Sophie and Viggo are both lallygagging under the kitchen table, opening an eye now and then when I get up to stir the soup. Occasionally, Viggo, the 90-pound lab, tries to hump Sophie the pint sized pug, who reacts by lunging at him like a disturbed rattlesnake. He takes it all in stride, and lopes over to the table and falls from a great height in sleep mode. The first day after Pearl left for the Logans, I was heartbroken. I hadn't felt that sad in a long time. Rehoming a dog, especially one as special as Pearl, is not a decision one takes lightly. I felt like my heart had been blenderized and  was sinking into my toes. It's been nine months since the fighting between our nine-year-old pug and Pearl, th

Ben Mulroney took to the airwaves this morning to announce that he is stepping down as the host of ETalk , CTV's popular infotainment show.  He did so after blowback from his wife Jessica Mulroney's tone deaf attack on a black fashion influencer  threatening her livelihood.  As a result of her antics, CTV cancelled the shoe heiress' wedding show, I Do, Redo. Now many people wonder why Ben has to step down because his wife showed bad and insensitive behaviour. He didn't. She is not him, he is not she. I'm sure the move was simply a public relations gesture, possible at the request of CTV where he is Everyman. Benedict is, after all, host of the flagship morning show, This Morning as well as host of ETalk and all of its red carpet specials. It's a pretty sweet deal but he probably doesn't mind losing the evening show as he has to get up so early to entertain Canada with cute dog videos, constant weather updates, and a smattering of news. "While

“Dogs are blameless, devoid of calculation, neither blessed nor cursed with human motives. They can't really be held responsible for what they do. But we can." -- Jon Katz Early Thursday morning, my old pal Rick was awakened by his terrified wife who had found their eight year old dog whimpering, and pooping all over the floor. LuLu hadn't been sick at all, so the couple were shocked as they watched the light fade from LuLu, an eighty pound Lab mix. The pair loaded LuLu into the car for the short journey to doggie emergency but there was nothing they could do for her. LuLu took her last breath in the arms of Jarmila and Rick, leaving them devastated. On Friday, Rick put out a plea on Facebook.  "Does anyone know where we can find a puppy?" Immediately, I thought of Pearl, my beloved Mini Aussie Shepherd who is just two years old. She is one of three in our pack, and she has spent nearly a year partly sequestered after she and Sophie the Pug be

Like most fatherless daughters, I have a complicated relationship with Father's Day. As a young kid, I was embarrassed that I was the only person in my class who didn't have a father. In fact, I was so skittish on the subject that I actually lied and claimed my father was still alive, farming the land. That person, of course, was my grandfather who helped raise me. But it took me years to even talk about the man who left this world when I was only eight months old. I tried to avoid any situation which required the attendance of a dad. I skipped the annual Girl Guide Father-Daughter banquet. I prayed every year that we wouldn't have to make a Father's Day card in class. Fortunately, back in my childhood, people didn't make a fuss over dads who were seen as not being as needy as moms. Dads didn't require cards and flowers and chocolates. They just got a nice meal at home, or something. Because I was fatherless, I had a big void in my life to fill. I looked fo

This is an ongoing series of my columns and articles that appeared in Canadian newspapers. This story appeared in the Ottawa Citizen on August 3, 2013.  Thanks to Postmedia and the Citizen for permission to reprint it.  It's been a hard and arduous journey for my son Nicholas who has faced many challenges over the years. Born into privilege, he got a good start but his soul was literally fractured by a bitter divorce that left him, for five years, in an abusive situation with his stepmother and father. Then he was sent by Dad to a boarding school where he was subjected to so much abuse that he and his classmates won a financial settlement. When he came back to live with me he was a broken boy, and ended up on the street and lived in a cloud of drugs and alcohol while in his teens. But he clawed his way back, thanks to the love of a good woman -- his little daughter Skylar who is the light of his life. And he reclaimed his life through writing. This month, Nicholas published

This essay is part of an ongoing series of articles I wrote for newspapers in Canada. It appeared in the Globe and Mail on September 4, 2009.  We were expecting an uneventful birth, and all seemed well when Nicholas entered the world weighing eight pounds exactly, with a head the size of a football. "Don't worry," my mother said. "Your brother Bob had a big head, too. He'll grow into it." Something was wrong. Nicholas was jaundiced, as babies often are, but the doctors could not figure out why. "We think he might be hydrocephalic," my family doctor said, adding that water on the brain could have caused an enlargement of his skull, which could destroy much of his neural tissue. I blamed myself, wondering what I had done during my pregnancy to give my child this terrible life sentence. He looked so perfect, I thought, how could he be so broken? That night I tossed and turned, waiting for the nurse to bring Nicholas into my room. I

This is part of an ongoing series of articles and columns I wrote for Canadian newspapers. I am grateful to Postmedia and the Ottawa Citizen for permission to reprint this article which ran on March 18, 2002. By Rose Simpson I felt a lump in my throat recently when I heard police had found a 13-year-old Renfrew teenager who had gone missing. The boy was found safe at the Young Men's Shelter of the Salvation Army in the Byward Market. I thought about my own experience with a runaway teenager, an experience the rocked my world to its very foundation. And I wanted to share this story with you because it, too, has a happy ending, thanks to the people at the Salvation Army and the Youth Services Bureau. My son and I had been battling for some time over his penchant for skipping school, his smoking, his friends and his attitude. As the cliche goes, you could cut the tension in my house with a knife. And finally, it all came to a head one Sunday night when he arrived home thre

This is part of an ongoing series of stories and columns I wrote for newspapers across Canada. I am grateful to Postmedia, and the Ottawa Citizen, for permission to reprint the following articles which ran March 18, 2002.  LIFE ON THE STREETS: Earlier this year, Nick Gagnier, an Ottawa teen, left home after a fight with his mother. What he learned while living on the street has left him wiser -- and stronger. Meanwhile, his mother, Rose Simpson, experienced the heartache of a parent whose child has left. By Nick Gagnier What do you see in a homeless person? Do you see a low-life, huddled against a downtown building, panhandling for money to buy his supper? Or do you recognize a human being underneath the filthy hair and clothes? Society tends to see the first image. But personally after spending a week with no place to call home, I have warmed up to the homeless. I really should start from the beginning. I spent five hectic years living with my father and his wi

One thing I learned writing a city editorial column for the Ottawa Citizen: you never know what will piss people off. I've written some pretty flammable pieces in my time but this one created a national conversation which dominated the airwaves for a few days. The topic? School dress codes. After I wrote this, I was called every name in the book by concerned parents who thought I was advocating allowing my daughter so much fashion leeway, she would become a common day stripper or prostitute. All because I allowed my daughter Marissa to wear a "crop top" which was a modest shirt that left an inch or two exposed on her midriff. Hey! I grew up in the 70s when girls went to high school with barely there shirts that exposed their nips and shorts that showed their other bits. A little bit of skin didn't hurt, I thought, even on a 12-year-old. The principal did not approve of Marissa's fashion sense, ridiculed her in class, and nearly sent her home. I was livid.

This is the first in a continuing series about my weird career in journalism.  Evidence of my pistol shooting prowess Fri, Mar 2, 1979 – Page 25 · The Ottawa Journal (Ottawa, Ontario, Canada) · Newspapers.com When I was a little kid on the farm, my granddad taught me to shoot. He didn't take me hunting for turkeys, or vermin. If he had, I wouldn't have touched the pellet gun. I am a life-long animal lover who would often cry when I saw roadkill. So hunting animals was definitely off the table. Grandpa Loyal set up a shooting range in the basement of the farmhouse where he let me practise shooting cards off a makeshift cork board. I had some difficulty -- hey, I was six! -- so he would prop the rifle on top of a chair back, to stabilize the weapon.  I absolutely loved the time we spent together. Grandpa Loyal was kind, and smart, and world weary, and he still had so much patience with me. Even now, I feel warm and fuzzy when thinking about the bond we shared.  Fast forward

Everybody is trying to cash in on COVID-19. Delivery services, Big Pharma, fast food joints -- even  large corporations. They have flooded the airwaves with sappy commercials telling Americans to be strong, keep their chins up, and hold their hands over their hearts while they watch their jobs disappear, their credit lines swell, their tummies rumble and their dreams shatter. "We're all in this together," corporate America declares. "We will look back on this and remember that we had the grit to get through the bad times." Meanwhile, America burns and festers under the weight of racism, unemployment, and hopelessness. It's hard to watch big corporations trying to pull the wool over the eyes of Americans, particularly the heartless banks, as they use this opportunity to reach into the back pockets of young adults who are graduating this season. Come to us for a car loan. Credit? No problem. Student loans? Easy peasy. The commercial below, from the Bank

Embed from Getty Images I had my bi-weekly call yesterday from an old friend from my political days. Rick usually calls me from the car after he's been for a haircut he gets through the back door of his barbershop. "My barber tells me I'm lucky to get in," he reported. "Now that he's open again, he's booked up for the next month." I thought to myself I put CNN on pause, and put down my video game for this? "Great!" "Did you see all those stupid people marching in Ottawa last week?" he asked, and didn't wait for me to answer. "Now we're going to have pandemic all over the place. We'll have to close everything up again. You didn't go I guess." "No," I said. "My daughter and her husband went, and I babysat for them." There was a long pause. "My son-in-law is black," I said. "And so is my granddaughter." "Well, I hope you don't catch it," he s

It's been seven months since the last time we saved Sophie the Pug from the jaws of Pearl the Aussie Shepherd after they got into a fight to the death in the backyard. Scott and I still have scars from these battles, hard won scars that we got trying to tear Pearl's razor sharp teeth from Sophie's neck. Last November, we hired a dog trainer who came highly recommended. He gave us some really great tips, and promised us that the dog fights would end with a bit of intensive training. I'd like to say his advice worked. I'd like to say that my dogs now sit quietly by my side, and eat calmly, that they play tug-of-war and sleep between us. That is not our reality. Our reality is that Sophie and Pearl will never, ever be friends, or even frenemies. The truth is that they cannot be in the same room together unless tethered in some way. It's not just Pearl, by the way. Sophie is also an instigator. Early this spring, Scott let Sophie loose in the yard while

I recently applied to become a volunteer contact tracer as part of my personal effort to keep the COVID-19 bug at bay. The federal government's application process bordered on the ridiculous. The first twenty questions, designed obviously to weed out the riffraff, asked applicants if they were: epidemiologists, social scientists, social workers, medical students, pharmacists, and so on and so on. I didn't qualify in any category. Instead of making me feel empowered, and useful, filling out this questionnaire made me feel bad about myself.  After checking no, no, no for thirty minutes, there was a final question which was basically, ok riffraff, what makes you think you would qualify as a good contact tracer? "I have more than 40 years experience as a journalist," I wrote. "I can find anybody." There is no better training to be a contact tracer than being a newspaper reporter or a television chase producer. The job is basically finding people who do