Rose's Cantina

There is a sidebar to the gruesome case of the dismembered unfortunate which has official Ottawa all a-twitter. Do political parties receive such ghastly gifts on a regular basis? Newspapers today are reporting that a number of MPs have received -- let's call it what it is -- shit in the mail -- as well as interesting artifacts and lube cream apparently made from what's inside what people need lube for. Back in the 1980s, I worked at Liberal Party headquarters when Pierre Trudeau was still king. I was a writer and opener of fundraising letters. We always got great, great mail. That's because Canadians take great care in responding to political fundraising letters, spending hours crafting them and getting them just right. My favorite was a letter from a disgruntled fellow who sent us a picture of his lower torso and erect penis spraying his male seed all over himself. "Thanks for the letter," he wrote. "Here's my contribution." The sec

Dear Harley: All is forgiven. This morning, I woke up and put on my favorite Radio-Canada t-shirt, one I've had to suck my gut in to wear, and it was loose. Oh, how I love you, right now. I've lost two pounds, which for me is a near impossibility. I've been going to the gym for a year and a half and only lost five pounds, so two is a biggie for me. Scott, on the other hand, bastard that he is, lost eight pounds over the last three days. That's men for you. Let's go golfing; I've never been before. What? I beat you? That's impossible. I can't believe I made a souffle; I've never cooked before. What? You can't make a souffle? Sure, you can. Rotten bastard. The Ex-lax is going in the smoothie for sure this morning. Seriously, nothing could dampen my mood. Even the intimidating Shrek-sized jar of vanilla whey powder I had to lug home from the gymnasty. It's so large that my tiny perfect hands can get around the jar to open it. I

Dear Harley: Some experts advise that a person who is dieting should have a partner to share the pain. I disagree with this idea. I love my husband, but I hate being on a diet with him. First, he can lose 20 pounds in a day blinking and it takes me a year to lose five pounds going to the gym nearly every morning. He says it's because he has more weight to lose; I think he's just being diplomatic and that he's internally rubbing his intestines together in glee. That's just my thinking. He's not that competitive. He loves me and doesn't want to hurt my feelings, but the whole situation just pisses me off. But that's not the only reason I loathe doing the twin diet. I may be an obsessive-compulsive, who counts each morsel of food going down the gullet, but at least I don't cheat on my diet. I'm a perfectionist and believe if I stray in any way, I will gain ten pounds. Now don't get me wrong. It isn't that Scott is sneaking c

The Huffington Post is reporting today that most women with big breasts hate them. This may come as a surprise to men, who love them. Please, dudes, let me school you. Despite what the creator of Mad Men implies, women with big boobs generally do not get ahead at the office. Well, that's not true. Women with big boobs get ahead if they are fat, mean and unattractive. Attractive women just get cornered in the stairwell by the boss after a long lunch. When I was growing up in journalism, I was teased mercilessly. One photographer used to call me Rosie Tits. I hope he died a very long and painful death from prostate cancer. A woman with big boobs is never taken seriously. She spends much of her time craning her neck to see the eyes of men who NEVER look her in the eye. And I swear, most men don't realize they are staring at a woman's rack. Or they don't care. Big boobs mean you can never wear a nice swimsuit, tank top or a halter. You can't wear many k

Dear Harley: I was so happy to get your reply to my tweet yesterday. It's pretty unusual for a busy guy like yourself to take interest in the weight loss plight of an ordinary citizen like me. I can't really compete with your clients: J Lo, Miley Cyrus, Rachel McAdam, Halle Berry and all the other movie stars you train into ripped shapedness. So your tweet was well appreciated. I was pretty sure, when I asked you what I should drink on the Twenty Days to Swimsuit Ready diet, that you wouldn't say "vodka" or "red wine". Basically, you're telling me what I already know but don't want to hear -- that I must drink more water. Like most people, I don't drink enough water. In fact, I have a full glass of the stuff that's sitting here, right next to my computer, and it's been here since 7 a.m. Just can't choke enough of the stuff down. But I'm trying. Yesterday, which was my first day on your diet, was brutal, let me tell

There's a story I like about the demise of the newspaper business in Canada and it goes like this. A Montreal Star editor back in the 70s decided to take a vacation. When he returned from his rest week, he discovered the newspaper had folded. So he and a group of editors and reporters got in their cars and drove down the road to Ottawa where they took jobs at the Ottawa Journal . A year or so later, the guy decided to go on vacation again. When he returned, he discovered that The Journal had been closed along with the Winnipeg Tribune . Needless to say, the poor fellow never wanted to go on vacation again. I've been up close and personal with the abrupt endings of several newspapers in Ottawa. The first, in the late 70s, was the closing of Ottawa Today . I had been assigned by my editor at the Ottawa Journal  to verify rumors that the troubled newspaper was on the slow slide; I had a couple of rogues in the newsroom who kept me posted on the paper's rapid decline

Dear Harley: Well, it's the first day of My Revolution. I'm up at the crack-o dawn with Finnigan who would not let us sleep past five-thirty. We were a bit concerned about the little guy; we watched last night in horror when he swallowed a chew bone whole. You may not know this but I had a two year old retriever years ago who dropped dead after eating a slew of muffins left out by the nanny. So you can imagine how terrified I am that Finnigan will be dispatched by a chew bone while still an infant. I may be paranoid but I still remember the time Oprah's lab choked on a ball. We must be vigilant. These dogs are stupid. I was playing ball with Finnie yesterday and he knocked himself out when he slammed his head against the wall. Given his state of whimpiness and clumsiness, we're thinking of renaming him Sidney Crosby. I digress. Today, I weighed in at 217. It seems I put on two pounds yesterday wolfing down paella, cheesecake and margaritas. Time to

My dearest Harley: Scott and I just finished our grocery shop for your Swimsuit Ready in 20 Days diet, as promoted on The Revolution .  We managed to deftly avoid the bread and meat aisles and realized what a bargoon this diet really is. Not counting the toilet paper and paper towels, our whole week's groceries came to less than a hundred bucks and that includes frozen fruit, Greek yogurt and four kinds of tofu. It doesn't count the cheesecake I will be gorging on tonight, nor did we five factor in the margaritas, wine and cheesecake we will be enjoying as part of what I like to think of as Our Last Supper tonight. I saw a movie last night about death row and last meals. That's the sort of mentality I'm trying to avoid as I set off on my journey to see my belly button again. But I can't help thinking about what I'd like for my last meal. Hot dogs and poutine, I'm guessing. Definitely not tofu and chia seeds. That mentality -- and the booze -- a

Perhaps against my better judgement, on Monday, I will forging ahead on yet another diet regime. I'm not a good dieter; I have trouble staying with most diets because they make me feel sick. But I'm hanging my hopes on Harley Pasternak, trainer to the stars, who claims he can get a person like me swimsuit ready in 20 days. I haven't been swimsuit ready in decades. If you don't know him, Harley is a Canadian with a masters in nutrition and kinesiology. He started his professional career as a trainer for the Canadian military and segued into the movie business training the likes of J Lo and Halle Berry. Actually, a better question than who "has" Harley trained is who "hasn't" he trained. Okay, so I'm not stupid. The odds of me having a bod like Jennifer Lopez is a big friggin' zero. My hope is that I merely can start looking good for Rose . I'm not looking to be a size four. A size four would make me look like a cancer patient

I don't usually write -- or care -- about Quebec politics but it's becoming alarmingly clear that the situation is turning into a powder keg. So far, more people have been rounded up and arrested than during the FLQ crisis. Police are using "draconian" methods to detain innocent Montrealers, something called kettling. And the government is about to pass a law which restricts lawful assembly. My inner Neil Young is saying: Shiiiit. Word: Neil -- time for another song? But there is good news. You can probably get really good tickets to the Montreal International Jazz Festival or Just for Laughs. So that's something. Unless unionized musicians refuse to cross a picket line. Well, Just for Laughs will still go on. Everybody knows that comics are ruthless, self-centred pricks. The crazy part of all of this is that the Charest government is frantically trying to salvage what's left of its reputation because it's worried about what the protests

I can't help feeling a little bit of smug satisfaction at the plight of Facebook which is currently getting creamed in its offering to the public. Like most have nots, I'm always delighted to see the mighty fall, the Masters of the Universe take a faceplant in a pile of dung. It's been a hard week for the social networking site which is watching its stock and image go into free fall. Over at Kodak, with the loss of its patent case against Apple, et al, I'm sure they're feeling about the same. The chemical giant is going the way of the do-do bird. And Facebook, once a media darling has become the stinky kid. I don't know a lot about the stock market, but I know a couple of things about people. Some people are arrogant materialistic bastards who buy stocks, then day trade them without any commitment to the company. But most folks still buy into companies because they believe in them. And not many people are believing in Facebook these days. I don't

It could have been worse. I fully expected the finale of House to include a musical dittie starring all the team members, living and dead, narrated by Neil Patrick Harris. It seemed to be going there. Thankfully, David Shore resisted the temptation and pulled it out in the end. Still. I found the ending to be ponderous, self-serving, a cheesy riff on what hell must look like for a guy who has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Bringing back the old cast members wasn't a bad idea except for the notable absence of the most pivotal of players -- Lisa Edelstein. If Wilson was House's conscience, then Cuddy was House's foil for all years but this one. Cuddy would have done a terrific job hectoring House about his failings, but that, unfortunately, was left to Cameron who couldn't quite get it done through her starry-eyed worship of the man. The finale reminded me a bit of the so-disappointing ending of Six Feet Under, and it's no wonder. Fox has been running

I was thinking of suggesting to Charles that he gets hairplugs. Everytime I see the hair to the throne I want to rush him with some of that spray-on hair to get rid of that ugly bald spot on the back of his head. Word, Chuck: In no way is your chrome dome helped by the combover. You often wonder about the Royal Family. In spite of having a cabbage patch load of servants, does anybody ever call them on stuff? Say the Queen has her skirt tucked into her granny hose. Does anyone say anything? What's the protocol for "ma'am, you've got broccoli in your teeth" or "your Royal Hiney, you have a booger up your nose"? Certainly nobody told Lilibet about the hats. I'm thinking all this while reading Jane Taber blather on in the Globe and Mail about the Royal Hounds who are attending Canada over the next few days. I'm a grudge-monger, I'll admit it, and as a Canadian taxpayer, I do not want my government to spend a single dime on Camilla, not

Very few bands have been able to reinvent themselves as many times as the Bee Gees. They started out as one of the knock offs of the British invasion, an Aussie-flavored concoction of treacle and tart, harmony achieved through a deviated septum. Then came the 70s and the roll of quarter tight jeans, big hair and bigger teeth. When other bands were packing in their drumkits, the Bee Gees became the voice of a new generation, the disco ducks with their chains and gold lame. But you know what? With apologies to Donna Summer and Gloria Gaynor, the Bee Gees did disco better than anybody else. You might have hated disco, but you couldn't help smiling when you heard Saturday Night Fever or Jive Talkin'. It was toe-tappin' bliss, alright. The Bee Gees weren't afraid to tackle any musical genre. They could rock it out, they could mellow it down and they could countrify it. The Bee Gees were the original cross-over artists. Everything they touched turned to gold and

Some women crush on George Clooney, Brad Pitt or Justin Bieber. They like guys who are handsome, charming and well groomed. I am not one of those women. My secret crush is on a drug-addled cripple with a penchant for hookers. He has a nasty mouth and disposition and would be more likely to put Ex-lax in my coffee than Cognac. He is a doctor, sure, and a good one. Perhaps a brilliant one, though I don't think many patients would give him credit for bed-side manner. Sometimes, he actually has to kill a patient before saving him. Meh. I am a sucker for losers and abusers. Call me a bum magnet, I don't care. Mean is sexy. Do the nasty, House. You know you want to. For the past eight years, House has been my home. But tomorrow night, it will be over between us as House takes a hike from prime time. Probably, they'll kill off his homoerotic best friend Wilson, and House will pack it in. I fully expect to see House having a cocktail on Amity Island, the place of shar

We don't go to many weddings, which is odd, since our kids and their friends are of the marrying age. I suppose it's because a lot of kids decide to skip the whole marriage deal in favor of cohabitation, or maybe they're just waiting until the time is right. I can't wait to go to more weddings, as I've had quite enough of life's celebrations at the other end. It seems like more people are dying than getting married these days. Maybe it's just our age and stage. So it was nice to participate in something on the positive side of the slide rule for a change. A marriage, with its good intentions, reaffirms all that is positive in life. Love, commitment, family. Good food, silly music, great company. I like that. The marriage of John and Monica was a small yet stunning affair. She was truly a beautiful bride. She literally shimmered with joy. Her groom and his dad were the hit of the night, if I were reviewing this, both so emotional, hardly able t

Dear Air Miles: Thank you for embarrassing us at the grocery store. We were soooo excited that we were able to redeem our Air Miles at Metro, the nearly 3,000 Air Miles I've carefully accumulated at the Liquor Barn, by buying bad Chilean wine. We got to the checkout only to be told that we had no cash miles. "What do you mean no cash miles?" I asked little Elliott at my neighborhood store as the woman behind us hurrumphed while putting her groceries back into her cart to go to another line. "Nope," he shrugged. So our dream trip to Metro turned into a fiasco. This was a big deal for us. When you're like me and you don't get paid for nearly three months because you work at a magazine that pays on publication every other month, sometimes you have to live on fumes. We'd allotted our remaining funds to go to a wedding tonight and expected to be able to buy our groceries on our Air Miles account. We had to scramble. Our food went on our cred

I, for one, can't wait to go down to my neighborhood museum to see what all the fuss is about. In case you who haven't heard, the Museum of Science and Technology is playing host to an exhibit called, wait for it, Sex: A Tell All Exhibit. Goodie, goodie, gumdrops! There hasn't been this amount of indignation in Ottawa since Statistics Canada had to take down a sculpture of a woman's vulva which graced its entrance back in the 1970s. Oh yeah, there was also a meat dress -- I think Lady Gaga bought it -- which made Ottawans squirm a decade or so ago, as well. I hate museums, generally. I find looking at artifacts and mummy cases boring. And don't get me started on the National Gallery, with its toney displays of spiders, ancient art and boobies. Meh. But this new exhibit is different. It's an interactive display of how and why people exchange bodily fluids, and it's aimed at kids! One kiosk asks your twelve-year-old to identify and touch! the erogen

Today is Swallowing Awareness Day. No, not a day to be aware of swallows. A day to be aware of swallowing. I, myself, am a bad swallower. Scott can attest to this. There seems to be a spot in the middle of my esophagus that is very sensitive to certain foods and drinks. If I'm not careful, I end up hacking up a lung or puking out an entire meal. I am not making this up. My condition has worsened since Dr. Ben put my on blood pressure medication that gives me a chronic, dry cough. As a result, I have to wear a diaper. And I have become a social pariah. Yesterday, I was parked, just about to go into the gym, and it started, that little tickle just under my right boob, inside. This tickle fills me with dread. Frantically, I searched my purse for a cough drop. In vain. I took a swallow from my water bottle, opened the door and puke it right up. In the parking lot. Fortunately, there were no people walking by. It would be hard to explain. Dr. Ben has taken me off this

I'm proud to have raised three wonderful and respectful children, ones who will always do the right thing. And that is why I'm alone on Mother's Day, because the children have chosen to celebrate "Other" Mother's Day with their in-laws. I never make a fuss about this. It is the right thing to do when the Other Mother is a Single Mother who doesn't have a wonderful husband to cook her a fancy feast. Or take her out to dinner. I've been in that snack bracket, before, thank you very much, and I would have been devastated if my kids left me alone on Mother's Day when I was a single parent. So I'm paying it forward, so to speak. Besides, it means we don't have to make them dinner, so that's something, right? We celebrated Mother's Day last Sunday, and also this past Friday night when Stef came over with beer and I made him watch Billy Jack and the Last King of Scotland . Stef doesn't have an Other Mother yet but he had t

This year will be a very different Mother's Day for me and a few of my friends. In 2012, we officially became grandmothers for the first time. We watched, in awe, as our children took up the challenge of the first diaper and swaddling. We agonized over whether they were ready for parenthood, remembering every misstep we took ourselves in keeping these new bundles alive and out of trouble. We heard the echo of our own mothers' voices as we offered reassurance about a cough or a wound. And if we were to be totally honest with ourselves, we felt pangs of longing for our own youth, for the bodies that once turned a man's head, for the creaseless corners of our eyes and mouths, for the smooth surface of a virgin neck. I wasn't quite ready to be a grandmother, I realize that now. I was angry at the prospect, disappointed that my young son did not have a plan, a car, or a good job that would offer his new daughter a secure life of endless possibilities. Then I reali

It's the time of year, and I think you will agree, that television sucks. We're in the in-between time when all the good prime time shows are ending and the schlocky reality-based shows are rearing their ugly bikinis. The boss called it; 57 channels and nothing on. Especially in the summertime. Even on HBO, there's little to watch aside from the excellent Nurse Jackie ; even the summer vampires of Bon Temps haven't re-surfaced yet. Last night, I was bored and a little numb from outdoor cocktails. You know the zone, "Hey, I got an idea!" And so I decided to introduce my son Stefan to Billy Jack . If movies were songs, then Billy Jack would have been the anthem of my generation. Billy Jack was a our call to action, to rise up and fight injustice everywhere. Made for only $800,000, Billy Jack went on to make a whopping $65 million buckaroos. Not a bad haul for the Seventies. In the movie, Billy, a half-breed American Indian and Viet Nam vet, retur

When I was growing up, everybody's mom wore dresses. Even around the house, which is I guess why they were called house dresses. They were usually a jaunty print with belts designed to cover the bulges in the middle. Corsets were out back then. In the early 60s, everybody's mom looked like Ma Kettle. Except my mother. My mother always wore pants. I think she was more influenced by Katherine Hepburn than Ma Kettle, but then, my mom was as equally skinny as Kate Hepburn with the same kind of bobby-pin curled hair. By the time I was a teenager, everybody's mom wore stretchy pants made from whole families of polyester. And sweaters with kittens and baby tigers. If they wanted to be fancy, they went with bejewelled tops that made them look like hookers, with big cleavage. Needless to say, my role models have made it difficult for me to make good fashion choices. When I was young, I used to look like Jane Russell, and I liked to wear inappropriate clothes, like

Yesterday, Mayor Jim Watson met with his counterpart -- that's a laugh -- Mayor Bloomberg in the Big Apple to settle a bet. Millhouse brought Bloomberg some Beavertails to settle a hockey bet. The Sens lost, so Millhouse had to fly to NYC to personally meet with the mayor. Isn't that rich? I certainly hope the Ottawa Senators are paying for this trip. I'm sure Millhouse appreciated a little vacay from his problems: LRT, Lansdowne Dead, his fight with the good people at the Lord Elgin Hotel. Maybe he took a tour of New York to see how they handle their transit issues. Maybe he got a rub down at the Four Seasons. Perhaps he took in a play. Does anybody else find this whole thing offensive? We don't pay our Mayor to go to New York City to play tummysticks with their politicians. We pay him to stay home and sit through boring meetings and cut ribbons. I certainly hope that Millhouse takes yesterday as a vacation day. Who's with me? Update: Accordi

OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER OF CANADA AND KING OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT Dear Public Servant: Thank you for serving the Harper government over these many years. It's been a blast. If you are receiving this letter, you're probably aware that your job has been red circled. Don't despair, you still have a chance to work for the Harper government. Here are some handy hints to up your chances: Don't blab to the media. We've noticed an awful lot of public servants who are freely telling everyone who will listen that they're probably going to lose their jobs, houses, families, college funds and gold plated pensions. Let us be clear: If you speak to the media, you will be fired. Like Santa, we're all about keeping a list and checking it twice. Don't cry. As Tom Hanks once famously said: "There's no crying in baseball." That's our motto as well. "There is no crying in the Harper government." Ask Helena Guergis.

My grandpa, Loyal Crown, took a tray full of medications each day for his various ailments. As a result, he used to fall down a lot. Granny Ina called them "spells". Today, we might suspect that his "spells" were caused by the fact he mixed so many medications. That topic never came up in the 60s. He just fell down a lot until one day he didn't get up. Farmers are suspicious of doctors.We only go to see them at the 11th hour and sometimes that means that we see the doctor after an ambulance visit. That was how Granny Crown used to do it. She'd stay away from the doctor for years then something would happen, like the time she went downstairs for a bottle of beer and ended up being carted to the St. Catharines General Hospital with a fractured hip. One thing we knew. Once you saw the doctor, you were in the system and that would eventually lead to death. I start this blog with this anecdote because, when it comes to modern medicine, I hate to be

Finally, the province of Ontario is belling the cat. Health Minister Deb Matthews has finally mustered the courage to tell our doctors that they'll have to settle for Subarus instead of Cadillacs this year. Like the rest of our public servants, they won't be getting a raise. Teachers are getting the same message, and worse. Austerity is what all governments -- except the Western provinces -- are selling and our professionals had better get used to it. Many other public servants are having to tighten their belts because of the economic downturn. Why should doctors and teachers be immune? Can you believe how outraged they are? Blustery, even. It's our own fault. We've put them on pedestals, caved to all their demands. Now we've smartened up. We're saying there's no more money in the coffers so they're going to have to take a pay cut. Boo-hoo. Doctors don't like it one bit. They've been coddled for too long. Now it's time for doctor

The Canadian Mental Health Commission is releasing its long-awaited mental health strategy on Tuesday. Too bad somebody leaked it on Sunday. Whoopsy! The Commission spent six long years studying the state of mental health in Canada and is recommending governments spend $4 billion over the next decade to shore up our embarrassing efforts to keep people from harming themselves and others. It's funny that the Commission had to spent six years doing this, considering the Kirby Commission on mental health had previously studied it for four. Why did it take six years? Why are the recommendations pretty much the same? In other words, the Commission wasted the lifespan of a First Grader to tell us what we already know. Also, it's asking for $4 billion at a time when all governments are in austerity mode. Doctors are having their pay cut. Hospitals are being asked to do more with less. Not-for-profit organizations dedicated to helping the mentally ill are having their grant

In a tale reminiscent of the McDonald’s hot coffee lawsuit, moms in the U.S. brought a class-action case against Nutella maker Ferrero, claiming it misled them by portraying the chocolate spread as “an example of a tasty yet balanced breakfast.” Seriously, moms? You thought that crap was good for you? You're probably the kind of mom who buys food for your kids that says made with "real fruit juice" or "real cheese". Read your labels, people! Here are the ingredients in Nutella, according to Wikipedia: According to the product label, the main ingredients of Nutella are sugar and vegetable oils (mostly palm oil [ 5 ] ), followed by hazelnut , cocoa solids , and skimmed milk . In the United States, Nutella contains soy products. [ 6 ] Nutella is marketed as "hazelnut cream" in many countries. Under Italian law, it cannot be labeled as a chocolate cream, as it does not meet minimum cocoa solids concentration criteria. About half of the