Rose's Cantina

I was in severe pain yesterday from an unidentified throat injury, so I decided to pay a visit to my local clinic, where I was refused treatment. The dumbass on the front desk -- who admitted to being a nubie -- told me my health card had expired. Immediately, I thought I had destroyed the wrong card, so I left the clinic, more than a little mad and embarrassed. I renewed my card last July along with my driver's license, but I hadn't used it, being adverse to medical intervention of any sort. I knew I received a new card, so spent about two hours scouring the house. Alas, no health card in sight. So I sat on my Ekornes chair with a glass of red to dull the throbbing pain and felt sorry for myself. Then I thought, wait a nanosecond! The picture on the health card is exactly the same as the one on my driver's license, so THEREFORE... I picked up the card and sure enough, it was my new, non-expired health card with the date 2015 on it. Should I have noticed this

I woke with a start last night, bathed in post-menopausal sweat, fearing that the pain in my throat was coming from an abcessed tooth. There I lay for at least an hour with the pain throbbing up from its original little ball of misery in the side of my throat into the jaw and radiating to the cheek. As an uninsured individual, I live in fear of pain like this, the kind that requires a medical professional who is not paid by the government. After a Motrin, the pain eased back into my throat again and I was able to relax. False alarm. I've had a running battle with my esophagas and the tendons in my neck area thanks to a perpetually sour stomach and a profession that requires me to sit bolt upright for hours at a time. But that's not where the pain was coming from. My misery was caused, it seems, but an uncharacteristic bout of over-talking. I know. It's strange. Being a shut-in, I rarely talk to anyone. Scott gets my attention in the evening and I can

A few weeks back, I contemplated writing a new blog called "We're Having a Baby" about our journey into hands-on grandparenthood. Several months ago, we agreed to rent the downstairs of our house to my son Nick and his pregnant girlfriend Shyla, and to help out with the initial rearing of our yet-unborn granddaughter, Skylar. Fortunately for my bleeders, I thought better of it. I still cringe at many of the columns I wrote over my seven years as a columnist for the Regina Leader-Post. A lot of my blabber related to raising my three young children in a place where people used to smell like corn on the cob when they showered. (I'm told the water filtration is much better these days.) I find mommy bloggers to be tiresome, for the most part -- like they invented procreation, child expulsion and diaper management. But you may find my son Nick's blog interesting. It's called Dear Skylar. The blog contains letters he is writing to his unborn child.

A few years ago, my kids lost one of their friends, Michelle, to suicide. Michelle had been a fixture in our household throughout high school. She was a sweet girl, a troubled girl. I have picture of Michelle from when she graduated from Hillcrest High School in my photo album. Michelle died just a year later, just barely twenty, found hanging, a red ribbon wrapped around her neck. My kids all attended her funeral. My son Nick had a tattoo emblazoned on his arm as a tribute to a life cut far too short. The story of Michelle bothered me for years. I found myself going to her Facebook site, reading the comments. It felt goulish, but I couldn't look away. I felt almost ashamed. My experience with Michelle's death informs what I'm about to say. When a friend or a child dies by their own hand, we all share private grief and wonder why it had to happen. We all want the answers that we will never know. But at some point, it's time to move on and celebrate the o

When it comes to the long-standing festival debate, I'm with the lawnchair people. I absolutely hate waiting for hours for a special act, only to be toppled by a group of interlopers, armed with beer cups and errant cigarette butts, who come in at the last minute and block my view. That is why I don't go to festivals in Ottawa. I don't lineup for food, either. The buffett is an absolute puzzle to me. Why would I pay a hundred bucks to go to a restaurant only to have to get up and get my own food? I believe I am not alone here. Today, I enter the coffeehouse debate. There is a story in today's Citizen about people who use Starbucks or Bridgehead, or any of these places as their personal offices. Thanks to somebody's bright idea, there is now WiFi in coffee places. This means that people with nothing better to do can spend the entire afternoon sipping a cuppa cuppa, writing on their laptops and doing their homework. There should be a law. Two weeks

For the most part, the City of Ottawa does a pretty good job of running things. For the most part. But the city's water and sewer department is, in my opinion, a disaster. We don't run out of water and the sewer in my neighborhood is never found spewing stink all over the street. And there's always enough water to make sure your house doesn't burn down. I'm talking about its billing department. Yesterday, I got my water bill and I opened it with trepidation. That's because the cost of water delivery has soared over the last year. I've said to Scott, more than once, that we shouldn't have to pay this much for water when we don't have a washer or a dishwasher. So imagine my surprise when the water bill wasn't a bill at all. It was a statement which said "credit balance -- do not pay". It seems we've overpaid our water bill by $163.87. That's a lot of overpayment. This happened to me a few years ago, when the w

My kids love to come over for Sunday dinner, but they hate sitting on soft surfaces. I'll be having a conversation with one of them and suddenly, the child will leap up as if being consumed by Army ants. The arms start flapping, the eyes go back into the head, and the child retreats into the bathroom. Never fails. That's because Scott and I live in a very hairy place. We have three dogs, two pugs and a retriever, and two of them shed pounds of fine blond fur. It's everywhere, all over the carpets, in the muffin mix, on my pillows. No matter how much I scrub and vaccuum, it's like having tribbles. The fur just keeps multiplying. Last year, my daughter's friend offered to groom the dogs, as a promotion for her new business and she came in and got to work. An hour later, Hannah the retriever was shorn like a sheep, Gordie, the black pug was so well polished, I could actually see my face on his backside. Then Krystle went for Ming, the fawn pug. Big mista

There's news today that Amy Winehouse died as a result of drinking an extreme amount of alcohol. A coroner found that Winehouse had four times the legal limit of alcohol in her system. That meant she downed two forty pounders and a little guy on her final alcoholic binge. Across the pond, of course, the trial of Dr. Conrad Murray is examining the death of another superstar, Michael Jackson, who died from an overdose of a highly lethal amount of propofol, an anesthetic he used to induce sleep. Both of these cases show the addict in the extreme. Amy managed to kick hard drugs only to succumb to alcohol -- her gateway drug. She spent her final year on a roller coaster of sobriety and bingeing which is the most dangerous phase of severe booze addiction. Jackson needed the propofol to counteract all his other crazy drug and booze taking. Another rollercoaster of end stage addiction. These were people who had lots of resources, but they couldn't kick their habits. Ima

Well, it seems I do have a face for radio. I just finished my first ever radio spot, on Definitely Not the Opera on CBC radio. The producer said I was a pro. I'm sure she says that to all the girls. A few weeks back, I was discovered by one of the show's producers, who found me at my old blog The $10 Life . DNTO was doing a show on things people have lost, and they realized that I was professional loser, so they wanted to hear my story. But by the time they found me, their deadline had passed. The producer asked if I'd be interested in having my name put on their freelance list. Would I?! I tried unsuccessfully to contain my excitement by biting onto a nearby pug, but I'm sure she got that I was more than a little interested. I always wondered how you got to be a CBC commentator. I've seen all manner of folks become instant stars for being masters of none, and I've always felt well qualified for the challenge. Like the lazy armchair quarter

Have you gotten any Linkedin requests lately? Linkedin seems to be the nerd's Facebook. A tool for bastards and boasters. Or the guy who has resolved never, ever to be on Facebook (because in reality he doesn't have any friends outside the office or because he left his family long ago and he's too embarrassed to put it out there). Lately, I've been getting loads of Linkedin requests. They remind me a bit of those Christmas cards folks used to send out with all the details of their fabulous lives and their perfect children. I always wanted to puke when I got those cards. I never trusted those handmade Christmas cards, and I don't trust people to tell the truth on Linkedin. What's the point of Linkedin anyway? It just seems to be a resume service. And most of those resumes look a bit padded, slightly contrived to make the vitae's curriculum a little sexier than it is in reality. Me, I'd like to write the first honest resume. It might

I hate the World Series and I don't mind saying it. It clogs up the entire television lineup. What makes it worse is that it's on Fox which means that House was pre-empted last night. It's also interfering with my quality watching of Simon Cowell in his undershirt. I have a question: why do all Brit men of a certain age wear the shirts on the outside they are supposed to wear on the inside? Paul Abdul told Anderson Cooper a couple weeks back that Simon wears those flimsy little shirts because he likes to rub his nipples while he watches the nubile contestants on his shows. That's just creepy. But what about Ricky Gervais? What's with Ricky Gervais and the black undershirt? Word. It's not flattering on a pug-nosed chub. Put some clothes on for Christ's sake. Anyway, the World Series has done FX Canada a favor. Since there was nothing else on last night, I decided to give a look-see to the newest offering on premium cable. And it was, in a

Costco is an evil place. I mean, how ridiculous is it to pay a vendor $100 just to shop at their store? Ditto for Direct Buy. I've often thought that going to Costco was like going to the Rideau Carleton Slots. People have the same zombie-like stares are they meander through aisles and aisles of SWAG, or in their case, Stuff We All Don't Need. Then they come out into the parking lot with 100 unit boxes of candy bars, hot dogs the size of nuclear missiles, and nativity scenes that could fill the entire city of Jerusalem. I, myself, am a slave to Costco. I've spent the budgets of some Third World countries at Costco some years, so I've had to learn to be frugal. My strategy is simple: just buy the fresh stuff and you can't go wrong. I mean, you can only eat so many strawberries and so much salad right? But a three-pack of mustard, well, that will last into the next ice age. Anderson Cooper had a show on yesterday which presented strategies for shopping

I have a dirty little secret that I'm hiding from my family. It's a new obsession, and I'm just waiting for someone to tell me "I told you so". So here is my confessional. Ever since Oprah Winfrey left her daytime show, I have been haughtily dismissing her determination to start her new network, OWN. I didn't want it to work. I was angry. I wanted her to fail. That's because when Oprah left, she changed my world. Every day for the past many years, I had tuned into her 4 p.m. show. It was part of my daily routine, like walking the dogs and helping the kids with their homework. After she left, I felt the vacuum. Kids grown, husband at work, I felt lonely. I am a homeworker, and all day long I have no one to talk to but the dogs. Sure, there were other shows to watch -- Dr. Phil, Dr. Oz, Anderson Cooper -- and I do watch them. But it hasn't been the same. About two weeks ago, I tuned into Oprah's Lifeclass ready to hate it. I r

When I heard that Chatelaine had named Danielle Metcalfe-Chenail its "Maverick of the Year," I ran out to get my copy of its Women of the Year special edition. I've known Danielle since she was a wee girl swimming in her family swimming pool. I've watched with interest as she has grown into a wonderful young woman, full of chutzpah and confidence. She's already published her first book, For the Love of Flying , a history of Laurentian Air. She's also managed to convince a bunch of cynical old air geeks to install her as the first female president of the Canadian Aviation Historical Society. Right now, she's hard at work on a historical novel about a female bush pilot in the 1930s, and I'm told she's also working a personal project -- the first grandchild of Mary and Jacques. Danielle wrote a highly amusing blog, The Adventures of Dani Canuck , in which she describes her travels around Canada's great North. Last year, she did a stin

Because I work at home, I have a modest wardrobe. Don't get me wrong, I'm not hanging around here in my jammies all day. I get up first thing, and go to the gym, so I'm often meandering around in nylon and lycra or yoga pants for much of the day. Otherwise, my current fashion choices include capri pants, same ones in five different colors, two pairs of black jeans and two pairs of cotton shorts I bought at Addition Elle about ten years ago. The buggers never wear out. But I do have a closet full of $1,000 suits which I've taken with me to three houses. There is the cashmere and wool suit that Mr. Big bought me when I was pregnant back in the eighties. He bought it at the Hotel Vancouver; I looked at the label today and the label says "Nonesuch, Hotel Vancouver lobby". Really. I have another suit purchased in my PMO days at a place in Ottawa called O'Shea's Market Ireland. It's an Irish walking suit with a long car coat and tailored sk

Going to the Ottawa Farmer's Market is like going to the casino. Even if you leave your credit cards at home, you still blow 60 bucks in half an hour. Not only that, but you come home with some pretty expensive stuff you would never buy in the grocery store, and not much food. Today, we snapped up lamb shanks, hot sauce, unfiltered cider vinegar, enough garlic to ostracize every single employee at National Defence Headquarters and a 20 pound bag of onions. So, if we are very lucky we'll be able to make one meal and give everyone onion pie for Christmas. We could have bought a mountain of vegetables for our money, but how much fun can you have with a tree of brussel sprouts, anyway? I saw a really cute little knitted hat for Wheels, but I'd already blown my money on the St.Lucien hot sauce and the vinegar. There you go. So much for the three mile diet I was trying to organize. Oh well. It was part of an experiment we tried. We've been thinking we'v

The rowing machine at the gymnasty gives me a bird's eye view of everyone's figure flaws. There is an elliptical machine that sits in front of me, and when I look up I see all manner of shapes and sizes. Like the unfortunate girl with the tiny little torso and the huge bottom. She could come on Hallowe'en dressed as a deformed apple. Or the skinny fellow who looks like he's swallowed a giant marshmallow which has lodged in his midriff. Or even the perfectly coiffed, pony-tail sporting Lou Lou Liz Lemon whose buttocks looks like a loaf of unbaked bread. God love 'em. As Freddie Mercury once crooned: "Big bottomed girls, they make the world go round." No one should be afraid to go to the gym. There is always someone who is worse off. I see one guy every day -- he looks like a Carleton philosophy professor -- whose leg looks like it's been mangled by a rabid dog. A couple of weeks ago, I saw a little person who stood only two feet tall

When Nick was in private school, I spent a lot of time hussling him back and forth from the Ottawa International Aiport. As frequent flyers know, you see a lot of important or famous people if you're just sitting around. One time, we were standing in line and I saw Alex Trebek, the host of Jeopardy , in line in front of us. Obviously, Alex didn't realize there was a line for him (first class) and a line for us (no class). "Nick," I said, excitedly. "Look it's Alex Trebek." He shrugged. "Go on up there. Don't you want to meet Alex Trebek? He just looked at him. "Maybe he'd like to meet me." What a great attitude. I wish I had Nick's self-confidence. For my whole life, I've been fascinated by celebrities and impotent folks, so I spent a lot of time doing jobs that put me in direct contact with them. For a few years, I was an entertainment writer and got to interview all sorts of famous people, mostly on

I just got back from hauling Doris out of the Ottawa Hospital. What a bunch of maroons. They've been trying to kick her and her broken foot out for the past three days, even though she is not able to care for herself or her husband. Turns out, Bob has rallied and is now able to take ParaTranspo to do some shopping, though he hasn't quite figured out how to order his ride. That makes me feel slightly better, but I'm still worried that they won't be able to make it without some kind of care. Anyway, the hospital told Doris they were sending her home with a wheel chair and that physio would be at their place next week to help her with negotiating life as a hoarder with no left foot. So I got to the hospital and we waited around for her wheelchair to arrive. And waited. Finally, I went to the nursing station, who called physio who told Doris that she'll have to wait until next week to get the wheelchair delivered -- this poor elderly woman who is not

I just finished making, and consuming, my rat's breakfast . The rat's breakfast is a combination of an egg white omelet dressed with an ounce of hard cheddar and a mess of ratatouille, hence its name. It is a wonderful concoction, filling, tasty and healthful, but it wears thin after being the breakfast staple for more than 30 days. The rat's breakfast is my go-to healthy meal. I discovered it when I was on the South Beach Diet a while back and it keeps me full until mid-afternoon -- even without a snack. Today is my first day back on my healthy eating kick after a couple of weeks living as a gourmand and eating everything in sight. My slide began on Thanksgiving with all that rich food combined, always combined, with overindulgence in wine and margaritas. And now, I am paying for it. The jeans I bought last fall which were too small are still too small. The black jeans, which are a little larger, just fit. Even though I put in an hour and a half at the gymna