Rose's Cantina

That Simon Cowell is a heartless bastard, isn't he? There's word today that he dumped Steve Jones, Nicole Scherzinger and even his favorite little puffball, Paula Abdul from the judging panel at the Xploit Factor . Apparently Simon is disappointed with his numbers for the past season, which were roughly half of those from American Idol and the upstart The Voice . Methinks Simon should blame himself. First, American audiences are getting tired of the Brit-factor, lame presenters who might work on U.K. television but certainly don't fly on the highly energized American nets. The Brit drone, I like to call it. Secondly, the show suffers from the hubris of its makers. It isn't a singing competition at all. It is a chance for Cowell and his judges to showcase their fabulous homes and yachts while bickering about who is the best music producer. The contestants get completely lost in the ego. Third, Cowell knew what he was getting with the flaky Abdul who didn

In a parking lot exactly two blocks from my house, a beautiful young woman sat holding hands with her loving boyfriend. It was 2 a.m. and the pair had been tooling around Ottawa, enjoying its wonderful gifts and they stopped for just a moment to steal a kiss. In their final hours of life, there was joy, love and happiness. Their future plans were shattered forever when the girl's brother drove up and shot them both dead as part of a family-sanctioned honor killing. Like an old-fashioned western, a common theme was played out: the boy was no good for the sister. A wrong had to be made right. Two lives were wasted because of some kind of misguided patriarchal principle. Women come to this country to escape this kind of barbarism. They pack up, leave everything and start up with new dreams for their daughters. Unfortunately, for many women, there is no escaping their native culture and values. Within their families, as we saw during the Shafia trial, they are abused, to

Truth be told, not everybody in this household is happy with the arrival of The Little Peanut. Gordon J. Blackstone is positively apoplectic. He whines and he barks, he spins backwards like a New Zealand toilet. If I'm feeding Skye, Gordie will nose in, lick her feet, then bounce back on his back paws, startling himself. When I get up with her, Gordie runs around my feet. My elderly pug may think she's a cat; I'm not sure. I fear dementia. If he thinks she's a cat, I'm concerned. Gordie chased the last cat we had into the furnace room and she wouldn't come out. We had to find her a new pugless home. Can't do that with a baby. Gordie's going to have to learn that there's a new sheriff in town and she wears Pampers. I'm hoping he'll adjust. Yesterday, he was spinning so frantically, he let several tiny turds fly out of his butt hole like it was a machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat.

Stephen Harper is considering raising the age Canadians can receive the Old Age Security benefit from 65 to 67. I have questions: Shouldn't he have mentioned this little detail in the Conservative platform during the election? Do you think this will play well with the traditional Conservative constituency that skews a tad old on the demographic scale? Has the Prime Minister developed a case of dementia? Has he paid his bodyguards? This is how our fearless leader thanks the millions of boomers who have worked hard and paid high taxes over the past forty years. This is how he repays Canadians who do not have pension plans. Canadians working in low income, back-breaking jobs that barely pay a living wage. Canadians who look forward to enjoying their senior years. Not to mention the many women who have stayed home to raise their children, or who worked part-time so they can care for aging relatives. Harper doesn't care about these Canadians. Heartless Harper on

Sad news today. Carole Anne's husband was found dead today. This note was just posted on CTV Ottawa from anchor Carole Anne Meehan whose husband, Greg Etue, disappeared eight days ago. Let's all pray for his return. I am compelled to give everyone an update on my husband Greg’s disappearance. Those are incredibly hard words to write – this is a nightmare that is now into its 8th day. Ottawa Police continue to work hard to find Greg’s Pontiac Montana Van. He had a full tank of gas on the day he went missing, Monday, Jan. 16th. He was last seen on Robertson Road that afternoon. The van has a Thule ski box on top. I ask anyone with information to please call police. We need Greg home. We miss him terribly and our children are lost and confused. I want to thank everyone who knows our family for their discretion in dealing with this subject. Our kids have not been approached with awkward questions…to them Dad, is just lost and will make his way home. I pray this mystery

It's the week that every hockey fan in Ottawa has been waiting for. The NHL All Star Game is coming to town. Lights! Camera! Action! Get ready for the big intro on Thursday when the Stanley Cup will be taken down the Rideau Canal skateway, hoisted by NHLers and topless girls in bikini bottoms. I can't wait to see that. They'll have to wear rubber boots and hip waders given the state of Canada's largest skating rink which is, currently, under water. Ditto, I suspect, for the brand spanking new skating rink in front of city hall that we taxpayers forked over a small fortune to build this year. Let's call it what it is, shall we? Mayor Watson's Paddling Pool.

My Uncle Vern was mentally challenged. We didn't call it that in his day. We didn't really call it anything. Uncle Vern just never grew up. School officials put him through public school until they didn't anymore, and then he went to work for my granddad on our farm in Southern Ontario. Vern was a great guy and I loved him. Throughout my childhood, Uncle Vern was my playmate, a little man who pulled me in a red wagon and took me out for Hallowe'en. He always liked to dress like Freddie the Freeloader. One day, this boy-man of 54 went out to visit a neighbor, to help bring in the crop of apples. I didn't hear the ambulance. I only remember my mother saying that Vern had died from a massive heart attack. You might say Vern died with his rubber boots on. I couldn't believe it. I was heartbroken, as any child would be in losing not just an uncle but a playmate. I remember Vern putting a lot of sugar on his cornflakes but other than that, I think he

Beginning on Monday, I have been instructed to monitor my blood pressure daily, then report back to Dr. Ben with the results. To get ready, I ordered Chinese food for dinner and stocked up on the makings of some very nice gin martinis. Instead of going to the gymnasty yesterday, I went to the Slots to blow two hundred bucks and raise my pressure to blood curdling levels. By the time, I got home, my head was swimming and the beaded sweat had frozen to my forehead. Today, again, instead of going to exercise, I went to the laundromat. I'm considering making chocolate fondue for dessert. Maybe a nice margarita, extra salt. Dr. Ben might say that I'm being a bad patient. Oh, contraire, mon ami. I am the very best patient. I am getting in all the bad behavior before the blood pressure tests. Starting tomorrow, it will be back to lentil soup and the treadmill. The martinis will have been drunk, the Chinese food consumed, and the cupboard will have been re-stocked with

The Little Peanut is two weeks old today. It's hard to believe how two weeks can change a person's life. This week, we celebrated the opening of her eyes, wide with curiosity. Made me think of the French "regard me"; there's no better explanation for it. Everytime I look at Sky, she's giving me the once over, all serious, like a celebrity you've caught up with and asked for an autograph. "And you are?" This week Sky had a mammoth, gucky poop, a kind of anniversary poo full of all the good stuff left over in her intestines from her womb experience. It was green and flowed all over her father, the intended victim of the slime. Nick took it all in good humor, telling the story over and over, as new parents do. I remember Stef had one of those in the early days of infancy. I'd left Mr. Big and my mother in charge of him and I'd gone for a well deserved nap. Suddenly, I heard screaming, then whooping. Rushing the stairs, two at

The CTV Ottawa curse continues. For many years, CTV Ottawa has been known as much for tragedy among its staffers as for its news presentation. This week, we learned that popular news host Carole Anne Meehan's husband has gone missing. Greg Etue has been struggling for years with health issues, including multiple sclerosis and cancer. He left his home on Monday, destination unknown and hasn't been seen since. Just last year, the station was destroyed in a massive fire. Its operation has been forced to relocate to the Byward Market and many precious and valuable tapes going back 50 years and memorabilia have been destroyed. The station was rocked in 1995 when Brian Smith, its chief sportscaster, was gunned down in its parking lot by Jeffrey Arenberg, a crazed killer who told doctors that voices in his head had instructed him to do it. Then just four years later, his replacement, Bill Patterson suffered a major heart attack and died. All of her fans hope that Carole

About a week ago, two days after The Peanut was born, I received a letter from the Ontario government saying Healthcare Connect had found me a family doctor. Whoopee! It was as if I'd won the lottery. I had been on the waiting list for more than a year after dumping The Worst Family Doctor in Ontario (TWFDO), the one who refused to look in my vagina. My family would no longer have to wait in line for hours to see a practitioner. During my last visit to the local clinic, I was made to wait four hours and ended up going to the hospital anyway, only to wait another six hours. Finally, I gave up and turned to my home pharmacy for relief. Yesterday, I trudged down the street(!) to see Dr. Ben, who is a kindly older doctor from Morocco with an impossible name to pronounce. I showed my health card and was whisked in to see him in less than five minutes. We had a meet and greet chat, I showed him my sprained ankle, and he assured me that I was on the mend and gym-ready. We also

I'm going out on a limb here in agreeing with Finance Minister Jim Flaherty about rethinking pension contributions in the public service of Canada. Public servants in this country are well paid and have one of the richest pension plans in the country. The Canadian public service pension plan is the envy of the Canadians served by those who toil for the Queen, and bureaucrats have had a pretty smooth ride. If they want to keep their pensions, they should pay more for them. I don't think asking them to pay 50 percent is out of the question. At a time when many Canadians don't have pensions, and others have watched while their plans have gone bust thanks to greedy and irresponsible employers, it is not a lot to ask government employers to pony up and inject more into the system. The argument that the government will lose the "best and the brightest" is ridiculous. If these brainiacs went looking, they would find that the private sector a) doesn't hire th

I was back at the Ottawa Hospital with Doris yesterday getting an assessment from her orthopedic surgeon about her still very damaged foot. Those of you who are following the never-ending saga of Bob and Doris will know that Doris broke her foot in five places going to the bathroom in October. Since then, she's been closeted in her tiny apartment with her husband Bob who is down to 130 pounds from a fighting weight of 165 pounds. Bob has diabetes, lung issues, liver issues, mouth concerns, numb feet and hands that are, more or less, claws. Tomorrow, he goes for an MRI in hopes of discovering why he's lost most of what was left of his spare weight in a matter of a month or so. I saw him yesterday, hobbling down to the parking garage to help Doris into my car. At just 65, Bob looks like he's 90. I sure hope his innards look better than his outside. Spending time with some of my old Press Club friends is kind of like getting a visit from the ghost of Christmas future. I

There's a popular website in the United States that encourages those voting in talent contests to "vote for the worst" contestant. Vote for the Worst is raging success and has helped saddle popular shows like American Idol with under-achievers who are terrible and unrecordable singers, people who are so bad, I can barely remember their names. Remember that guy Taylor Hicks, the Steve Martin look-a-like, who punctuated his songs with the catchphrase "soul patrol"? Vote For the Worst.com started a revolution. Many candidates fell by the wayside. Adam Lambert and Chris Daughtry deserved to win, but were left shaking their locks while producers found themselves trying to produce "artists" that no one could take seriously. Which brings me to my point, and I do have one. I'm going to suggest that Vote for the Worst start a franchise in Canada in order that we may rig the Liberal leadership so Bob Rae wins. Rae is a complete nob, so untrustwor

There was a time when I couldn't wait to strap on the convention feedbag at a Liberal Party of Canada biennial convention. For several years in my youth, I was a true believer, a political neophyte who hung on every word of my illustrious leader and felt great passion for the debate on the future of Canada. Like many before me, I was swept up by the romance of politics, its possibilities and its rhetoric. I wanted to believe. But I was in my twenties and naive. I believed that what politicians put in political platforms would be realized in communities across this frigid land. In fact, I helped craft the words of the first ever Red Book. I was so proud of the Red Book, I kept a dog-eared copy on my computer table for years. But I soon became Dorothy, a polyanna in sensible shoes looking for those ruby slippers. I quickly realized there was nothing in the Wizard's bag for me. Most of the pronouncements on programs I really cared about were carrots on a stick, fed

The family gathered for Stefan's 25th birthday last night and it was nothing short of bizarro. Stef had been pre-drinking with his friend Kevin (who according to news reports recently has the worst name for dating) and he spent most of the evening snoring in the chair. Meanwhile Nick and his best buddy Vaughan were passing The Little Peanut around and discussing feeding schedules, diaper contents and the proper disciplinary practices for toddlers. I felt like I was in the middle of a Mommie and Me clatch. I'm getting the feeling that there is a whole new attitude towards childrearing amongst modern day twenty-something males. My guys seem really into the whole process. It is my great belief that Nick would breastfeed if he could. No wonder Stef, the single man about town, was sleeping! It's amazing to watch my son now that he has become a father. He's pretty hilarious. He would tell you himself, if you asked, that he is a complete klutz. He put Peanut i

One of my resolutions for 2012 is to be less envious of other people. It is the worst sin of the seven deadlies and I commit it all the time. I find myself making fun of Ben Mulroney or Kim Kardashian for being no talent losers. I wonder what dirt Joy Behar and Elizabeth Hasselbeck have on Barbara Walters. I ridicule Lisa Laflamme's nipple jacket. Sometimes, I'm ashamed of myself. It is my worst fault and I was vowing to make a change this year. Be a nicer, sweeter, more gracious individual. Congratulate people on their good fortune. But I just can't get past Gayle King. I despise Gayle King. She is smarmy and entitled. She is overly familiar with celebrities. She thinks her poop doesn't stink just because she's Oprah's BFF. I have tried in recent times to isolate Gayle as an image in my mind, to ask myself am I just jealous because I want to be Oprah's friend? Is it possible for me to only judge her based on herself? If so, would I like

A quarter of a century ago, I was spending this day at the Pasqua Hospital in Regina giving birth to my son Stefan Gary Robert Gagnier. The expulsion didn't take long -- four hours -- but man, it hurt. Back labor can be a bitch. Since arriving on this planet, Stef has given me a few anxious moments -- like the time he came through the door and passed out in the mud room -- but mostly he has delivered much, much joy to my life. When I was a single mom, Stef found himself in the position of being the man of the family. He walked the dogs, took out the garbage and was the calming influence in our crazy household. He was always level headed and kind. Today, Stef has become a wonderful buddy to me and Scott. He loves to come over for dinner and watch some strange movie like Hobo With a Shotgun or Black Dynamite . Otherwise, the three of us sit around playing video games, me with the 3DS in my hand, Scott on the big screen playing Call of Duty and Stef on his laptop playing

I hate to rain on Bob Rae's parade but I don't think the defector is much of a catch. For those who have read the papers today, I'm speaking about Lise St-Denis, the New Democrat who "stunned" -- that's the word the Globe used -- the NDP by playing musical chairs in the House of Commons. I'm always suspicious of turncoats. Let us not forget Jack Horner. Or Belinda Stronach. Turncoats expect special treatment. If they join the party in power, they expect a Cabinet post. I'm not sure what Saint Lise is going to get from the Liberals. A crappier office. A better table at Hy's. But dern-tootin' she'll be expecting something. Aside from the fact that Saint Lise is a turncoat, she showed now class whatsoever in telling people she's leaving the Party because "Jack Layton is dead". That showed an incredible lack of class. As Colin Linden once crooned: "Her tongue is too big for her mouth". The Libera

Having a baby around is a game changer, especially when it comes to the adult parent and child relationship. My own mother, Vera, and I had a complicated time together. Hugs and kisses were rare. It was more spit and spite. If it were compared to a dance, I would say our relationship was more the Riverdance than the waltz. We spent a good part of our lives jumping up and down or circling one another. Vera and I developed a strange kind of intimacy in my teenage years that made her feel better but made me feel uncomfortable. I blame it on the fact she was a fairly heavy drinker, a lifer with a six pack a day habit. As a result, she was prone to over-sharing. Your father, he really could be a bastard. I never wanted you; I threw myself down the stairs when I was pregnant. I never wanted children, but I just couldn't figure out how NOT to get pregnant. Did you know I had shock treatments? That kind of thing. Honestly, some of it bordered on child abuse. But ou

Bringing home baby will be the main event today. Skylar will be breaking in the new car seat provided by her Auntie Jess, sucking back formula in bottles sterilized by Granny Rose and taking her first nap in her Hundred Acre Woods themed room downstairs. I'm not sure Gordie is ready for a baby. He's not a very tolerant pug, that's for sure. He hates sharp noises and terrorizes cats, so a baby sighting might send him into complete cardiac arrest. We'll also have to keep Hannah at bay, as she is a love monster and will want to sit on Skylar. And Jenkins, the cat, is a complete schizoid. He's already sat in the crib, in the car seat, on the mound of baby clothes. The downstairs apartment is his lair, so there will be some serious adjustment required. Let's hope Sky's not allergic. We're not a big allergy family, although I have developed sensitivities to pollen and cat dander in recent years. Both Nick and Shyla have been exposed to a vast

I was very disappointed to hear that Shyla had a much different birthing experience than I did. There was no shaving of the pubic area, and the modern nurse had never heard of my favorite birthing ritual -- the enema. Where has the fun gone from childbirth? Shyla got drugs -- and lots of them. I got squat, even when I asked for them. By the time Nick was born 21 hours after my water broke, I was ready to chew through the stirrups. Also, there was no pressure on Shyla to breast feed. She tried it a couple of times, hated it, so the nurses said: "Meh" and handed her a bottle of formula. There was no argument whatsoever. No stern looks. No nurse grabbing her tit and putting it in Skylar's mouth. No "it's better for the baby, so deal with it, bitch". Also Shyla got juice and toast and water. I got fricking ice chips. I thought this was Ontario, home of the horrible hospital experience. I actually complained to one of the nurses today abo

On a beautiful Ottawa day, when the air was crisp and the sun was shining, you came into our world to make us whole again. For just a few hours, you made us forget the woes of the world. You made us believe. In the potential that is within all of us. In the possibility that the world could be different. In our own capacity to love. We will save the polar bears for you. We will consume less gas. We will recycle. We will do better in our quest to love you and one another. We welcome you, beautiful Skylar. We love you. You make us want to be better people. Love Granny Rose and Papa Scott. Auntie Em, Uncle Stef and Uncle Jeff. Thanks for just being you. :)

What a wonderful baby Wheels is. She broke Shyla's water this morning two minutes before Nick's shift ended at Walmart. It was 7 a.m.; a civilized time. On Scott's day off. An ambulance was dispatched. They asked us for towels and a shoe lace -- just in case. Question: don't you think the paramedics should come equipped with their own shoe laces? Also, how come we didn't have to boil water? These are questions that will keep me up at night. We drove behind the ambulance and found free parking. It's a Sunday! We left Shyla and Nick so we could come home and do Nick's laundry because he'd left it until the last minute. He also forgot the video camera I'd bought him just for this occasions. So there will be stills only. Some things never change. Breakfast, laundry, making a nice dinner for the family. Awaiting the news. God, it's great being a grandparent. Bragging rights with no heavy lifting.

As I said in my previous post, I was given both a Kobo and a Kindle for Christmas. And yet, I can't seem to break my addiction to print. I've been wrastling with the idea of getting a Kindle subscription to my local paper, the Ottawa Citizen but decided against it. I love my morning newspaper, love the smell of it, love the flyers, love the ads. And the pictures are not the same on a Kindle. Looks like the Ottawa Journal and it's been dead thirty years. Yesterday, in spite of having two e-readers, I bought two books by local folk: The Wealthy Barber II by David Chilton and The Looneyspoons Collection by the Podleski sisters. The first book was a late Christmas present, or early birthday gift, for my son Stef. The second, a cookbook, was for me. I love buying Canadian books because the printing is much better than those made by our American counterparts. No, that's not right. The binding is better. Our books reflect the Canadian constitution. They

Scott and I finally got paid this week so we celebrated Christmas yesterday doling out presents to the family and engaging in a long lunch at Kelsey's where Stefan, my favorite server works. Jay, the bartender, sent me an extra glass of Wolf Blass which, I believe, was one too many. When I got home, I ended up drunk ordering on Amazon.com and mistakenly put two copies of Stephen King's newest book on my credit card instead of one. I can barely order anything online when I'm sober -- I accidentally ordered Weight Watchers online twice -- because I'm too impatient in waiting for the processing. I always think they missed my order the first time. I got on the phone with a nice lady from Amazon who expertly fixed the problem. Truth be told, she did her job too well and deleted both books. So now I have no books and my 22 dollars times two is in limbo on the pay-as-you-go credit card I use for on-line purchases. Today, I will be attempting another transaction with

When I heard the rumors swirling yesterday that Eastman Kodak was about to declare bankruptcy, it made me very sad. If Kodak goes, for me, it will be like losing a close relative or cherished friend. I'm sure many photographers and movie producers around the world will feel the same way. I worked for Kodak Canada for seven years during the tumultuous years when the company was trying to decide what it wanted to be when it grew up. When most people think of Kodak, they think photography. In fact, the business of Kodak was all over the place. When I worked there, Kodak had a number of bizarre business units. It ran a lucrative pop bottle making plant. It owned Sterling Drugs, the maker of Bayer Aspirin. (In a bit of foreshadow, it's interesting to note that Kodak sold Sterling before people realized that aspirin could be used to prevent heart attacks! What a missed opportunity that was.) Kodak also sold a slew of office products, including hybrid photocopiers and pri

Sometime in the next few days, there will be a bellowing from tiny lungs at the Ottawa Hospital, heralding the arrival of our newest family member. Like her father before her, little Wheels seems in no hurry to take her first breath. Yesterday was her formal due date but there are no signs of imminent expulsion. There's talk of induction. We shall see. Meh, says, Wheels. Why the hurry? It's friggin' cold outside. Are we ready for her? Yes. And no. The nursery has been imagined with loving care by Mama Shyla who started nesting just days after she tested positive for new life. There are so many Winnie the Pooh accessories, it's starting to look like the Hundred Acre Woods down there. I hope Wheels isn't afraid of bears and donkeys. There are boxes of diapers, wipes and other supplies piled up in the hallway, Nick's way of forward planning. If there's a snowstorm or tsunami, he's set. Wheels has enough baby togs to outfit entire African

Scott and I had an uncharacteristic fight last night. We were watching The Biggest Loser , which was punctuated by television ads for last-ditch insurance to pay for funeral costs and "to leave a little something for those left behind." Scott has a modest insurance policy, as a CBC pensioner, which would be enough to pay for his funeral and some expenses. I've been bugging him to make sure I'm the beneficiary of the insurance. My jousting on the subject is usually met with a shrug and a stiff comment, something like this: "I'm not planning on dying anytime soon." Last night, I decided to press the issue. "You don't care about me," I said. "If you cared about me, you would have a will and a piece of paper stating what benefits I would get if you die." It was a cruel jab, I admit it. But it did the job. This morning, he called the CBC Pensioners Association and discovered that, indeed, he had no beneficiary listed

I thought I'd seen everything. Then I turned on A&E's Hoarders the other night. There was a woman living in her own shit -- literally. Due to a medical condition, the woman has to wear adult diapers. When she's finished with one, she tosses it into a heap on the floor and just leaves it there. There is a garbage dump full of shitty diapers near where this woman eats her food. She also has myriad cats whose feces is smeared on the other floors. When the clean up crew went in, they found three cats who were flattened like pancakes, dead in the corners. One of them had a perfect head and deflated body so you could see it wasn't a fur coat that Mrs. Hoarder had accidentally tossed on the floor. By the end of the program, those saints who work at 1-800-JUNK were making jokes as they shovelled yet another pile of Mrs. Hoarders paper indies into plastic bags. I guess when you're in hoarding clean up, you have to learn to laugh. I know a hoarder and

Over the years, I've developed an appreciation for God and her mystical sense of humor. God likes to play parlour games, to test the limits of human endurance and suffering. She's sort of passive-aggressive in that way. It's as if God were writing a sitcom and we were the buffoons playing the parts. Sheldon and Leonard. Laverne and Shirley. God likes to give us stuff, then take it away just to see what would happen. So the person who loves sweets gets diabetes. The runner gets bad knees. The wine lover gets cirrhosis. The reader loses her eye sight. The writer loses her mind. My own mother loved nothing more than a brisk walk. Unfortunately for her, by her mid-life, Vera had developed deteriorated discs and she was unable to walk more than a few feet without experiencing excruciating pain. By the end of her life, she couldn't walk at all. I've seen many other people who are denied life's great pleasures. The New York Times food writer Cra

The glass is usually half full in my life. I'm just that sort of person. Life has hit me with a few body slams. Of course, it has. You don't get to be 55 without losses and disappointments, and I try to take them in stride. But I have to say, being on Facebook makes me even more grateful for a relatively stable and uneventful life. Two years ago, one of the my university friends lost her mother and brother within days of each other. Mom died suddenly of a heart attack and brother died in a car crash. Last year, my friend lost her father. While many of us were opening presents and toasting the baby Jesus, Rose spent Christmas eve rattling around the old homestead, by herself, talking to ghosts. Another Facebook friend had to take her dog in for emergency surgery just before New Year's and had to cancel a planned and deserved holiday. Yet another Facebook friend had to put down her ailing retriever on New Year's Day. She was absolutely devastated. There is sad ne