Rose's Cantina

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Good morning, boys and girls. Stephen Harper, here. That's right, Stephen Harper, your prime minister Skyping in from Madison Square Garden where I just woke up in a beer-laden haze from the defeat of my beloved Ottawa Senators. How pleased you must be that I took time out of my busy travel schedule to be with you today. You're welcome! As you know, hockey embodies all the basic core values of this great nation: guts, bravado, trash-talking and above all, fighting. That's why Canadians embrace the national game -- because every good fight can be settled with a solid right hook. When the ref isn't looking. I apply all those principles to governing this great land. I love to tell my caucus about how I sandbagged the Governor-General awhile back just to stay in power. It was a piece of cake! She was a girl, after all. And an immigrant. And a journalist. What did she know? My, how we had a good laugh at caucus over that one. A real knee slapper! I digress. I&#

I'll admit to being elated at dumping Rogers Communications as my Internet provider, though I'm just a little worried about the effect it will have on my social and professional life. I've had the same email -- as was pointed out by the passive aggressive Rogers agent -- since 1997 and changing providers means that my entire email history will be wiped out. So I spent the better part of this morning cutting and pasting email addresses and saving critical files, which I should have done months ago, but I didn't because I'm lazy. One of the good things about what I do, as a magazine editor, is that I'm able to complete a magazine then toss out the photos and stories after they have been published. Being a magazine editor is a bit like being pregnant; the contents stay with you a while but eventually and gratefully, they are purged. It can be a painful process but it's very rewarding. This means that I don't have to save a lot of what's in my in

I've always said that I like to get kissed before I get fucked. Well, it seems Rogers would rather that I took it up the ass without complaint. In the previous column, I wrote that we had decided to cancel Rogers Cable/Internet/Home Phone/Prostitution charge because we had our services restricted because we were three weeks late paying a bill. Tonight, we had our services restored once we gave them our credit card plus access to my granddaughter's stem cells. But we'd had enough. The PVR never worked properly. My Internet went down five times in the last week. I've been a loyal Rogers customer -- a VIP customer no less -- since 1997. Too bad, so sad, they said. We informed them tonight we were switching to Bell -- oh, the horror! -- and they told us it would cost us $180 for a cancellation fee for Internet and cable plus we had to give them thirty days notice. I told them, okay, then downgrade our cable to basic for one month. This after basically 15 years as

I simply cannot wait for deregulation in the cable, Internet and telephone industries. The conglomerates that now run those utilities are cruel, cruel masters who only exist to rip off the poor Canadian ratepayer. They bill for services they can't explain and then they expect us to salute and say: "Yes, sir, Mr. Rogers! Damned straight, Mr. Shaw! Derned tootin', Ma Bell!" I say it's time we started screwing them instead of them screwing us. Last year, we moved and we finally tossed Ma Bell to the curb. We switced our phones to Fido and we bundled all our other services with Rogers, thinking it would be easier. A few months ago, we got two phones for Nick and Shyla on the Rogers' plan. Needless to say, we should be considered awesome customers. Apparently not. This month, we got a little behind on our Rogers bill -- a couple of weeks, max -- due to the extraordinary amount of moolah we had to shell out to the veterinarian to kill two dogs and extract the

After incurring more than five grand in vet bills over the last two months, we've decided to take out pet insurance on our new pup, Finnigan. With three dogs, we could never afford insurance, but now it just make sense. Our new vet, Dr. Dave, suggested it along with harvesting some stem cells from the little guy which is also a little insurance policy on his limbs. That we'll think about. But insurance for us is a must. We can afford a $250 deductible in case of an emergency but we would be heartbroken if we couldn't afford to get Finn treated if he swallowed one of Skye's toys or broke his leg. It was bad putting down two wonderful older dogs -- we had no choice -- but it would he horrendous to say goodbye to a young dog. As we get older, we understand that insurance is a must for both humans and dogs. Being self-employed Scott and I don't have extra health insurance and, at the moment, can't really afford it. But for $30 a month, pet insurance is a no

Gordie and I survived our first day alone with Finnigan -- barely. By the time the afternoon was done yesterday, Gordie the pug had taken to hiding behind my chair. As for me, well, I got a pretty good case of tennis elbow trying to distract the little bugger from chewing my expensive leather couch and chairs and using my sandaled foot as a meat toy. I'm not complaining. He's joyful and not half dead and he makes me laugh. And you know the saying: Puppies are like toilet paper; they're always in shit. No I made that up. I'm pretty sure it will end up as a Columbus famous quote someday. His best asset is his ability to sleep through the night. His head hits the bed and he's a goner. We actually have to wake him up in the morning. But I'm going to have to work on his social skills. Yesterday, he snapped at Nick and Shyla, then Marissa and Jeff. It was curious; I thought he had bonded with Marissa after he puked all over her in the car Sunday. He's a

It's my first day alone with Finnigan and he's laying on my foot. In a minute, he will try to chew my sandal -- or my big toe -- and I'll have to push him away, But for now, he's cool, calm and collected. It's been years since there has been puppy love in this house. Nine years, to be exact, when we brought home Hannabelle at only four weeks old. Now she and Ming are in doggie heaven, with only Gordie the pug left to train the youngin'. I was frankly worried about Gordie who is the same size at 11-years-old as Finn is at three months. But Gordie seems to have taken on the role of eminence gris, the grandfatherly guide for the new puppy's journey. That's not necessarily a good thing. Gordie regards the entire world as his toilet, he barks incessantly and he hates my baby granddaughter. Finn has yet to have a urinary accident in the house, although he did puke twice. He barks in play but not at people coming to the door. But he may have followed Gor

It was a hard decision, but we've decided to change vets. Over the years, we've seen the prices skyrocket. Even for a checkup it's costing us in excess of $300. That's what we get for having a vet in the Glebe. But that's not the reason. We'll be taking our new puppy, Finnegan, in for his shots and puppie checkup on Tuesday -- we're picking him up tomorrow -- and I cannot bear to see that place again. It's too difficult knowing that Ming and Hannah met their maker on the table in the back. Their pictures are up on the wall and on the digital photo frame. Hannah when she was four weeks old. Ming when she was a spry two year old. Today, they're fertilizer. I can't look at the vet in the face again. We've had too many difficult talks. Too many knowing glances. Too many tears shed between us. Time to forget the past and look to the future. Time for renewal of the Puppy Pile. Time to celebrate a new life in the house. And new adv

For the last three days, Gordie has had a hang dog look. He's not his usual self. He hardly barks or gets into things. He spends his time sitting by the stove. Who can blame him? On Tuesday, we had his pal Ming euthanized. On Tuesday, he got 10 teeth hauled out of his mouth. Now he's like a little alcoholic: hungry, angry, lonely, tired. Not to mention the fact that he can't keep his tongue in his mouth anymore. So he's like a hobo alcoholic. Next, he'll be sitting in his own urine. Or take up smoking. So Scott and I made an executive decision. We're getting him a pal. A big, goofy pal who will be adopted on Sunday. I hope beyond hope Gordie likes the little guy. More than he likes the baby. Which is not at all. We're hoping it's a new beginning. Losing two dogs in two months is too much to bear for humans. Imagine being Gordie.

I am swiftly coming to the conclusion that all hair dressers are sadistic assholes. Last Saturday, I bravely entered a hair salon for the first time in at least five years. That's because five years ago, I got a horrible hairstyle which made me want to commit suicide. You see, I have Tina Fey hair without Tina Fey's money so my hair always has a sort of half curl. Not a nice curl, a half wave that makes it stick up when my hair is short and frizz when my hair is long. I've been watching old reruns of 30 Rock recently, before Tina decided to embrace the frizz and noticed that she had great, beautiful straight hair. Five years into the series, her hair now looks like a gigantic puff ball. Exactly like mine. I asked the hairdresser not to give me a Tina Fey haircut. I asked her to give me an Ashley Judd haircut but she refused to cut it in a short bob and gave me "layers". I let her because I decided to trust her. It's been five years. I'd thought sa

In China, pugs are referred to as "sleeve dogs" because the Emperors would carry them in their massive sleeves. I can't imagine it. The average pug is the heft of a bowling ball, at least in my house. Did you know that the pug is the only dog which is bred purely to give companionship and pleasure to its owner? I read that somewhere. It stuck with me. Which brings me to Ming, my beautiful gyrating, snoring, shaking pug, who gave me love and companionship in spades. She passed yesterday after suffering a disturbing breathing episode prior to dental surgery. The doctor said she wouldn't have survived the 90 minutes of anesthetic and so, sadly, I gave the order to have her put down. I was grateful not to be there, at the vet, as I had been two months early when we learned our retriever Hannah had cancer. I simply couldn't bear seeing my second dog in two months take the perp walk along the Green Mile towards oblivion. Ming was already heavily medicate

I was joking about it yesterday. It's how I deal. That we would sign a do not rescuscitate order on my 12-year-old pug, Ming, when she went in for dental surgery today. I did not expect the phone call an hour in. It was Doctor Morgan. Doctor Death, as she is known affectionately in this household. Dr. Morgan said that Ming probably wouldn't survive the surgery. She had a compromised airway, made worse by a wheezing fit she had last night, the result of allergies. And so I gave the order. And now there is only Gordie, the one we thought would go first. Gordie who had already had two operations for stones in his bladder, Gordie who had to be treated for pancreatitis. But he's now the last pug standing. It's pretty hard considering we lost Hannah only two months ago. But this is what it is with dogs. You get to have them, to love them, and then they're gone. They aren't meant to outwit, outlast or outplay us. They're like beer; you only rent them. There I am

Scott and I are going to the vet tomorrow with a sock puppet full of twenties and two unsuspecting pugs. First, Gordie will be cathetered because the little bastard won't give us a pee sample. He pees all over the God damned house, but approach him with a bowl and he dries up like a Prairie slough in summertime. It's embarrassing. At 8 a.m it's lights out, doggie style, while Doctors Craig and Morgan get up on the operating tables and yank out their molars. Ming's expected to be under for 90 minutes while they pull her smelly black teeth. Nine of them. Moms Mabley, that's what I'm thinking. Moms Mabley. Gordie might do a bit better at an hour or so with four molars yanked, but Dr. Morgan says she'll probably pluck a few in the front. Which makes me wonder what will happen with Gordie's six foot tongue. Will we have to purchase a grill? Hopefully, all will go well and they will wake up. We have, however, decided to sign a do-not-rescusitat

Like most families, I've been blessed with an assortment of colorful relatives. This gives me plenty of fodder for blogging -- which is much, much cheaper than therapy. I have two family stories to tell you about today. One involves a murder, the other a Darwinian accident. First, the murder. My cousin Walt was married to a woman named Monica, who seemed to my tender young eyes to be not unlike a school marm. But you know what they say about school marms. Monica and Walt had some marital issues -- as most people do -- and decided to separate. One day, Walt's sister Norma arrived at the farm to inform us that Monica had been murdered. Apparently, she had been strangled. This was pretty big doin's for our family whose only scandal to date was that my Uncle Tom had a "housekeeper" named Vi. Anyways, Monica was dispatched and a man was convicted of manslaughter. I thought, in my little pea brain, that he got off pretty easy considering strangulation

So the truth is, I've become addicted to video games. Well, that's not exactly true. I'm addicted to Zelda games, the ones with the little guy in a green hat running around looking for a princess who is usually captured by some dark malevolent figure. I remember buying Zelda for Stef when he was about eight; I didn't pay much attention to his gaming and to the creepy dungeons he explored. He admits that some of these games scared the crap out of him and I didn't even know. It was Stef who turned me on to Zelda when he bought me my first Nintendo DS for Christmas. It was so weird; I hadn't played video games since the 70s when the Press Club introduced me to Space Invaders and Pacman. I vividly recall spending whole evenings trying to beat Jerry Beauchamp, the master gamer. I gave up video games when I decided to become an adult, get married and settle down. I took them up again, albeit briefly when Stef and Nick were three and four, then gave them up aga

I was so happy for Brangelina, finally getting engaged after all these years, that I almost wet myself yesterday. The kids will no longer be bastards, in the old sense of the word. They can now legitimately adopt a few more. Give them cool names, like Peach or Cherry. Move to the suburbs of Atlanta and do a reality show. Adopt Erma Bombeck's slogan: If life is like a bowl of cherries, why am I always in the Pitts? News of the impending nups made the twitterverse go crizazy with comments like "I thought they were already married" and "who cares?". The entertainment media cares, that's who. The studios are creaming themselves. Entertainment Tonight broke into its 24-hour coverage of Dancing with the Stars . Elizabeth Hasselbeck is fuming that Angie's ring is better than hers. Now don't get too excited. Billy Bob put down that dildo. They haven't set the date; he's only given her a promise ring, meaning Brad might marry her  mayb

Look at me. I am the NDP's target audience. I am a lapsed Liberal, a disillusioned centrist lifer who is looking for change. Demographically speaking, I would be a good catch. I am a middle-aged woman with a heart of gold, a person who is concerned that the Tories are ripping away our social fibre and changing the country I cherish. I am a mother and a grandmother. The ad would read: "average Canadian looking for a new political home". But the Liberals do not appear to be an option anymore. Despite having a wonderful MP in my riding -- David McGuinty, not his smarmy brother -- I do not want to vote Liberal because I could not, would not, vote for Bob Rae under any circumstances. I don't think I'm alone here. So I was anxious to see Tom Mulcair perform in his first national commercial, speaking to the great unwashed, to real Canadians about their concerns. This is what I saw yesterday. Wow. What a slick commercial. Loveable Canadians all sha

I was blessed with one of those iconic names. Rose. Actually, it's Rosalie. Named after my father's cousin in Scotland. Or a girl he knew in the Army. Depends who's telling the story. Rose is the girl that songwriters write songs about. As such, I've been a ballerina, the fun Puerto Rican girl of Bruce Springsteen's youth, a handjob given to a roadie in a Jackson Browne imagining. I've been a posey, a Texan, a Washingtonian. But this one takes the cake. Now I'm Richard Nixon. Or I used to be. I'm supposing this is referring to Nixon's Karma. Or it's something that Bruce Cockburn wrote when he was on mushrooms. Check it out. It's truly disturbing.

Nick came up from the basement clutching a maroon cardigan, my beloved maroon cardigan, which had disappeared during one of the many moves over the past year. "Is this yours?" "I've been looking for that all winter," I said. "Figured," he sniffed. "Neither of us own anything from the 1980s." I shook my head. Silly boy. I bought that sweater in 1992. It is the sad story of my plunge into middle age, and the cardigan is a symbol of my fashion decline. I still have clothes -- I still wear clothes -- from the time the kids were not just young, but small. I also have a closet full of clothes I covet but can no longer wear. There is the designer coat that harkens back to a visit to the Hotel Vancouver in 1985. God I love that coat. There are the blouses I haven't fit into for a decade, the silks, the creams, the cottons; no way can I button them up. But I'm keeping them just in case. Back in the day, I spent thousands of do

These days, they call Anderson Cooper a "veteran" newsman. He was born when Mike Wallace was 50. Wallace and his buddies over at 60 Minutes invented the term "veteran". They were born before people had radios in the house. They invented television. And now it seems, alas, Myron Wallace has shuffled off the mortal coil. Along with his buds Don Hewitt and Andy Rooney. 'Bout time. They were on television so long, they started to smell bad. Morley Safer's still alive and on television, unless Walt Disney did, in fact, perfect cryogenetics. He shouldn't be. He creeps me out. It's like watching Tales from the Crypt. I liked Mike Wallace best of all the old curmudgeons because he scared the shit out of every Master of the Universe on his way down. The mere fact Mike Wallace was calling probably sent most folks into cardiac arrest. He wasn't perfect. He paid for stories. He misled. He entertained. He smoked. But Mike Wallace was a helluva pe

On this beautiful Easter morning, I sent Scott out for a breakfast of Kettlemans bagels, smoked salmon, full fat cream cheese and shallots. Yum! There's nothing that says fresh better than Kettleman bagels right out of the oven, served up by a cranky baker, piled high in a brown paper bag and eaten while still hot. We used to savor these bagels every Sunday, but now they are reserved only for special occasions. Wouldn't want to eat too much fat or white flour, right? I had forgotten how good this kind of food tastes. I rarely allow myself a feed of anything involving white flour, sugar or frustose corn syrup anymore in my effort to watch my weight. But oh, how I miss the way the smoke salmon melts on my tongue while the crunch of the sweet bagel assaults my ears. Most days, I hear Peggy Lee. Is that is there is? Time was we would spend our Sundays over a hearty breakfast while snacking on a hefty pile of newspapers. These days, I'm find myself downing a prote

Days like this are for humility. While many people were carving up hams or painting Easter eggs yesterday, Helene Campbell was finally getting a pair. A pair of lungs, that is. It's hard to imagine what it must be like for anyone, let alone a 20-year-old, to be sitting in the hospital dying, helpless, knowing that the only way she will live another month would be if someone else tragically lost their own life's battle. When the news finally came that Helene had a lung donor, she must have felt like she was sitting on Holy ground. She must have been having her own conversations with Jesus. Imagine getting the news. A person cannot help but be grateful for one of life's strangest miracles. We're all hoping that Helene will not have to go down this road another time. Transplants don't always work. Sometimes it takes two. But this little girl is strong. She has become one of God's warrior, sitting in her little hospital room in Toronto asking the impossibl

Like many of my generation, I am ambivalent about organized religion. That's because every time I've interacted with a church, it's turned into a horror show. When I was six, I really, really, wanted to go to Sunday school like the rest of the kids in my class. My mother was against it, but agreed to drop me off at church every Sunday where I sat in my best second-hand Rose dress clutching my dollar for the collection plate. After church, she would be waiting in the car she bought for $50 which my grandfather had painted foam green. I felt at once enveloped by the sense of community and ashamed because my own mother wouldn't take me to church. I believe this was the beginning of my feelings of being an outsider. Years later, my mother told me that she didn't go to church because, after my father died, the church came to her expecting her to pay a tithe that she couldn't afford. Ironically, my mother is buried behind that church, along with my grandparen

UPDATE: Kelly Ripa called Ben Mulroney "Canadian royalty" today. I suppose she was referring to Prince Charles. If you have absolutely nothing better to do -- including taking out the trash, washing the floor or putting in a meaningful day's work -- it might be worth it to watch Live with Kelly! from Banff, Alberta today. That's because the son of "Fingers" Mulroney will be cohosting the show today. You say what? Yep. Ben Mulroney, the boy who threw away a promising future to become Canada's lame version of Ryan Seacrest, will be in the chair next to Kelly Ripa. Apparently, he will be dishing on what it's like to be the son of Karlheinz Shreiber's bumboy. Mila, surely, will be attending in a bunny suit. Be still my Canadian heart. Here's a scoop, by the way. Gelman lied. The show was actually taped early last week so it's not live at all. So Benji had an opportunity to sit down with the Calgary Herald following his perfor

Great news! CTV Ottawa's Carol Anne Meehan will return to her seat at the anchor desk beginning Monday, April 9, 2012. Carol Anne has been away since the death of her husband Greg Etue in January. She appeared live on CTV News Wednesday to announce she will be back on-air anchoring the six o'clock news alongside Graham Richardson on Monday. Hundreds of CTV viewers have sent notes of support to Carol Anne and her family. She says she is grateful for the outpouring of kindness. "What has helped so much is the love and support we have received, not just from our family and friends, and my colleagues here at work, but all of you who sent cards and letters, or who gave me hugs in the grocery store," Carol Anne said. "I can't thank you all enough." Many in the community have been eagerly awaiting Carol Anne's return to the airwaves. "A day has not gone back that we have not received an email or phone call from viewers asking when Carol

Watching the heavily government-sponsored Live with Kelly ! this week, I couldn't help but feel embarrassed. Might as well call it Pandering to Americans, the Lowest Common Denominator Edition. The show was chock-a-block full of cliches. There was the RCMP color guard -- which I believe is owned by Disney -- which escorted the diminutive little Ripa. Guess they don't have anything better to do now that we've taken away their tasers. There were the obligatory fiddlers and pipers. Sojourns up and down the mountains. There were toques-laden tossers who were participating in something called The Canadian Word of the Day. One of them was "ginch" which apparently refers to mens' undergarments. Funny, I thought the word was "gotch". I didn't know most of the other words. Every day of the shoot, the hosts made fun of Regina. One of the American hosts, the ignorant Peter Facinelli, actually asked if Regina was a real place and not a cooter. Real

We have a hard day coming up. We have to take the pugs to the vet to have many of their teeth extracted. Their bad for not flossing. Dentistry on pugs can be challenging. The last time we took in Ming for a simple cleaning, we got a call mid-surgery to say that all her teeth were falling out. She only has a few in the back left and two fangs in the front, but apparently the back molars are pretty bad. Ditto for Gordie's. We've been trying to shrug this off not because we are indifferent but because it will be financially painful. We just paid $600 to have Hannah assessed and then, sadly, dispatched and over the last two weeks we've spent over $500 get the pugs their annuals. And dental, well that's trip to Florida we will never take. To be perfectly honest, we figured that spending $3,000 on two elderly pugs was not a great investment but Dr. Morgan assured us that the dental surgery would mean they could live another five years each at least. Not fixing them up,

In a stunning development last night, Prime Minister Stephen Harper announced he was stepping down as prime minister and voluntarily handing the reins of power to the most deserving candidate. Governor-General David Johnston met with Justin Trudeau last night at Government House to formally swear in the first son of former Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau. Thomas Mulcair expressed shock and awe. "Frankly, I'm shocked and in awe," said the NDP leader who has yet to pick up the keys to Stornoway, the official residence of the leader of the opposition. "I can't believe it. I've wasted all this time so that snot nosed little entitled bastard could just swan in." Bob Rae, the interim Liberal leader was seen weeping in the Railway Committee whispering "no, no, it can't be so" and being comforted by his long-suffering wife, Arlene. Reached at his art deco apartment in Ottawa, Trudeau appeared jubilant and self-satisfied, his usual demeano