Rose's Cantina

These celebrities were born on my birthday, July 2nd. What else do we have in common? Larry David is a whiner, a cheat, a fibber. Check, check, check. Jerry Hall has had a mountain of plastic surgery. I've had Botox. I think I bought a Pierre Cardin blouse once. I definitely bought Scott one of his ties. Yep. Been there. Done that. Got the App. Trust me Lins, eventually everyone smartens up. Happy birthday weekend to all the Cancers. Thinking about you, Di. I think Camilla is an ugly bitchin' hoe, too.

On Sunday, Canadians everywhere will be celebrating this nation's birthday. Or will it be on Monday? Nobody is really sure. I'll be celebrating on Monday, as it is the official holiday and my 56th birthday. I've invited the usual suspects to dine, dance and puke in my rose garden. Actually, nobody pukes anymore and I no longer have a rose garden. Mostly, people will eat what we put out. I always try to do something different and, this year, I'm going to make banana splits and watermelon margaritas. We'll throw in a few sliders, sausages and grilled dog meat. We have a couple of dead dogs in the freezer; we'll just cook 'em up and see if anybody notices. We'll tell everybody it's moosemeat. Seriously, before anyone rats me out to PETA, do you think I would ever do such a thing? NEVER! Unless I was in a plane crash and a pack of Huskies came along and I hadn't eaten for days. Even then. I'd probably eat the pilot first. I digres

I am an idiot. I burned myself this morning because I hadn't secured the lid on my gigantic kettle and the damned thing steamed me like a salmon filet. My knuckles are the color of said salmon filet. Nuts, nuts, nuts. That's what I get for staying up late to watch a three-hour movie made in 1970. It was the disaster movie, Airport; it had no special effects and the writing was over-the-top, but it was still fabulous. Thanks to Helen Hayes who stole the whole bloody picture. Of course, Airport wouldn't happen in this day and age. When was the last time you saw unionized airport slugs digging a plane out of a snowbank? Never. They prefer to leave you sitting on the tarmac until the snow eventually melts. When was the last time a 30 year veteran security guy "just had a feeling" that a guy might have something in that briefcase? The goons they hire at security today are too busy confiscating your hand sanitizer to spot the real criminals and looney-tunes.

Imagine if a Canadian cabinet minister responded to questions by a journalist by calling her a bitch on Twitter. I would hope that cabinet minister would do more than just say, "sorry, my bad". I'm sure the cabinet minister would be forced to apologize to the journalist in the House of Commons. That's the very least the cabinet minister should do. The cabinet minister should be a) censured and b) fired. Now, I'm not saying that King Stephen would do the right thing by firing the asshole, but I'm sure there would be some kind of punishment. Not, apparently, for Senator Patrick Brazeau who is getting away scott-free for his unprofessional and sexist behavior on Twitter. From what I hear, Brazeau gets rewarded every time he does something inappropriate such as turning his former office into a speakeasy and acting like Don Draper. What happened when he was run out of his big chief job? He got a Senate post. What are his qualifications to be in the Canad

Nora Ephron came of age in the 60s when women were burning their bras and forming angry moshpits to fight for equality and justice. It was a hard time to be a female journalist. Against their better judgment, Gloria Steinem and Barbara Walters were forced into bunnysuits to do "investigative" work at Playboy clubs. Most others had their work relegated to the women's section, writing about fashion and recipes. Nora took her work another way. She broke into the magazine business, a place that was friendly to women writers, where she churned out softball pieces about women struggling to have it all. And yet, she decided to take the traditional route, leaving her beloved New York for Washington to play "wife of" to Carl Bernstein, a man of high morals professionally but gutter values when it came to his family. Carl could have been the inspiration for Don Draper on Mad Men . But Nora was no Betty Draper. She left her philandering husband and set out to pro

I was thinking about my mother today, as I often do on the cusp of a birthday. It's a way I have of marking time, examining my own life against another's benchmarks. When my mother Vera was the age I will be on July 2nd -- 56-years-old -- she was working in a sweltering factory in St. Catharines making fine knit sweaters for the well-to-do. There was no air conditioning at Warren Knit, which had its factory above the shops on St. Paul Street, the main drag of my home town. Often, the temperature would reach into the 40s, an unimaginable working condition for a woman nearing her third act. Vera also worked shift work, which added stress to her already over-loaded system. But she never complained, just came home and downed about six beers and smoked a pack of cigarettes; maybe she'd watch a bit of television. By the time she reached 56, the heavy and difficult job was taking its toll. Vera had a hard time walking the few blocks to the bus and her back was in ruins, t

I love to watch the shape of my face change. Since I've been working out and worshipping Harley Pasternak, I've managed to lose the "second face". That's the doughy rim that coats your real face and makes you look like a Beef Wellie. I've also lost my Joe Clark jowls, the ones that gather like little croissants around the sides of the chin. For years I thought I had a fat face. It was just my second face. Now I'm an oval. Which means that, hopefully, the damned hairdressers will stop trying to give me hairstyles that "frame my face". Maybe I'll even cut my hair short for the first time in a decade. No, that won't happen. Unfortunately, I haven't lost my boobs and that means the long hair is here to stay to bridge the distance between my mams and my pinhead. The other thing that's happened is that I've lost weight in some pretty exotic places. Generally speaking the gut has been transformed from two loaves of bread to

It occurred to me this morning that if my first marriage hadn't crumbled under the weight of infidelity, we would be celebrating our 32nd wedding anniversary in July. If my second husband would have stuck around, instead of decamping for another woman's vagina, we would be celebrating our 26th anniversary. Interestingly enough, Mr. Small and his lovely bride -- the one flapping her arms on the sidelines waiting for us to fail -- will be married 30 years and Mr. Big and the White Witch of Bermuda will be married 20 years. So I have to ask the question: was is me? And another: what would my life have looked like if either husband had not preferred life with another to life with me? Let's see. If I'd stayed with Mr. Small, I would have travelled the world. He was a foreign correspondent and early Internet adapter who lived in Washington, New York, Moscow and London. If Mr. Big hadn't taken up with the White Witch, I would have been very rich indeed with

We had ourselves a serious generational fight over Facebook this weekend. The old guard won the battle and hopefully the younger generation will get the message. It is NOT okay to put inappropriate photos of a young child on Facebook. To the other side -- who were not the parents -- it seemed normal, to show images of them partying with my granddaughter in tow. After all, they've been posting these kind of pictures for years. You know the ones: mouths gaping, fingers splayed defiantly, the look of waste in their rheumy eyes. Every kid who hasn't been laced straight has posted these kind of images -- even kids I would have thought knew better. It seems they haven't yet got the message that what you post on Facebook stays on Facebook, and also stays on your permanent record. Images like these keep people from getting good jobs once they've outgrown the party phase. If the kids are celebrities -- or serial killers -- the photos would be splashed all over televisi

I come from a town where two girls were beaten, raped, mutilated and murdered. Another girl was also brutalized but managed to escape. Once, I drove past the house of horrors and witnessed, for myself, the anger of the community written large all over the doors and windows. Die bitch. Go to hell. That's what people wrote. Eventually, the house had to be demolished. And so I'm not loving Paula Todd and her quest to find Karla Homolka. I don't want to know anything about her. Didn't need to find out she's a wife and mother. The only news I want to hear about is that she has died. Yesterday, my hometown newspaper ran a solacious news story on its front page, detailing all aspects of Karla's new life in Guadaloupe. She still feels trapped, according to Todd, a hunted woman even now, years after she got out of prison. The good people of St. Catharines rightly rose up and digitally pummeled the Standard, a newspaper where I once worked. They didn't l

Back in 1984, I was working as a junior writer in the Prime Minister's Office when Pierre took the walk. We were all stunned, and many scattered to this candidate and that, betting their careers on who would become the next anointed leader. Me, I was happy to ride out the leadership in Trudeau's PMO. I loved walking into the Langevin Building and sitting my pretty little ass down in the West Wing every morning right beside the RCMP detail. I had a good view of the changing of the guard and a few little fun projects to work on. When John Turner decided to run for the leadership, I was excited. He seemed very handsome and charismatic -- what did I know, I was 25? -- until he approached the podium for the first time and I thought to myself: "Who is this old guy and why is he wearing old man pants?" By old man pants, I mean the ones that button above the belly button. Also, JNT had sort of rheumy eyes, the kind you see on guys at the Martini Ranch who've h

Big news. I'm about two weeks away from a new bra size. First time in years I won't have to shop at Ottawa Tent and Awning. The ma'ams are shrinking at last. I'm an H right now, which has been wholly depressing for me. When you're an H, you can't run. You can't bounce. You can't flounce. The tank top is not your friend. But when you're back into the Ds, suddenly, you look, well, a bit hot. (I can't understand how bra sizing works, but you can skip the E, F, and G and go straight to D. Go figure.) My shirts are getting looser in the middle, too. No more need to suck it in. It's all thanks to ma boy, Harley Pasternak and his 20 Days to Swimsuit Ready diet. Okay, it's been about 60 days, but I'm old and I'll take it. This weight loss is not because I go to the gym every day. The bored trainers, they lie. The carbs are what have been turning me into the Pillsbury Doughgirl. The bad carbs! I knew it. Never trust

Scott and I were lined up at the checkout at Loblaws, armed with spinach, whole grain wraps and other taste sensations, when the woman behind us began inspecting our haul. "You must be on a diet," she said. "We've been on one for months; today is our cheat day." I looked back at her cart, filled with lemon pie, chips, sugary drinks and processed food. "I told my trainer that I was having a cheat day," explained the women, who could be rowing heavyweight in the Olympics. "The trainer said, basically, 'have fun cause it's going to be your last." Lately, grocery cart inspection has become somewhat of a sport for me. We've been on the Harley Pasternak joint for nearly a month and have been swapping out those dastardly foods that have sabotaged us for years. Here are my favorites: ice cream. We've also shrunk our portion size and choreographed our plates to make grains and veg the stars of the show. It hasn't

Happy Father's Day weekend to all the good dads and to the men who step up when all the bad dads abandon their families. Unfortunately, as far as I know, there are more bad dads than good dads out there, even fewer men who step up. Mr. Big was, and is, a horrible dad. He never calls his children. Never sends them cards or presents. Never shows interest in them at all. In other words, he is a big fat douche and should have been sterilized at birth. He prefers hoes to children, power to love and money to commitment. He is a bad dad, like Hitler would have been. Or Chris Brown. Scott is an awesome dad, even though he's a stepup-dad. He doesn't owe my kids anything, but he treats them like his own. He sacrifices for the family. He forgives a lot of trespasses. During the Smyth Road days, he drove home drunk girls and carried Stef up the stairs when he passed out in the foyer. He drove Marissa to Cornwall for basketball. He's bailed Nick out of many tight spots.

When I was a skinny little farm girl, I used to pick strawberries to make enough money to buy my treats. Sometimes, I'd ride the half mile to a little confectionery, other times, I'd stand on the dusty road and wait for the Avondale Dairy truck. At the little store, I would purchase a Lick-a-Maid, a bag of chips, more often a butterscotch cone. From the dairy truck, I'd buy an ice cold bottle of orange juice and chug-a-lug it, feeling the cold liquid running down my cheek. These are still powerful memories. As I sit here drinking my Chai tea, getting ready to make a smoothie for me and the working stiff, these memories offer up a little clarity, into the sad behavior that led me to put on fifty pounds of blubber over the last decade. I can hear the brilliant lyrics from Will.I.Am We are the Now Generation/We are the Generation Now/ I want it now As kids growing up in the 60s, we had to wait and anticipate our favorite snacks and foods. Today, we eat them at

Bob Rae thinks the argument that he's too old to lead the Liberals is "bullshit". And I agree. That old bastard Chretien was kickin' it as PM well past his first Old Age Security cheque. So was Pierre Trudeau. Bob Rae's age is not a factor, yet it is. The problem with being Rae's age is that a person accumulates a lot of baggage along the way. Like making an ass of himself as Premier of Ontario. People our age don't forget that. Oh, and being a turncoat. And if he did decide to run, even though the Liberal executive wanted him to sign a paper saying he wouldn't, he would be a liar and a cheat. It has nothing at all to do with his age. It has to do with what he's done during his 60 odd years on the planet. That's why Bob Rae can't run. It's simple as pie. Some people think Justin Trudeau is too young to run, too inexperienced, a mile wide and an inch deep. But that is why it's the perfect time for him to run. Someb

There is one thing that's good about growing old as a woman. If you are fair-skinned and fine-haired, you can virtually stop shaving. I shave my legs once or twice a season and I'm good to go. I don't even own a razor most of the time. I never have to worry about waxing or plucking, either. Even my eyebrows. While I admit to being envious of beauties with thick luxurious hair, I now can take pleasure in the fact that these ravens have to spend hours on self-care. And when they get older, well, all I can say is "woof". Thank you, God, for this magical gift. I have not appreciated it before, but I'm loving it now. Hair salute the rest of you.

Finnigan the puppy is teething and he's using Gordie's neck and my arm as his teething rings. His gums are all purply and his eyes are menacing; quite clearly Finn is gripped by madness. Yesterday, I was trying to edit copy for my magazine and he was everywhere. Up on the table, into the laundry, shredding the newspaper -- which is okay, I can deal with that. But it's the barking that's getting me. He has this high pitch bark and howl combo which he likes to demo right beside my left ear. Not since I was a rock and roll bunny have my ears taken this kind of abuse. I've had to take away his chews because he swallows them and has to be let out three times in the early morning hours. I am frickin' exhausted. We've tried everything. Consulted Cesar Milan. Talked to the vet. We are just going to have to deal. Hope this is just a phase.

What's with all the banning of stuff? Our politicians seem to have this false sense of confidence, now that they've been able to tear the cigarettes from the yellowed hands and wrinkly upper lips of smokers. Don't get me wrong; I'm all for a smoking ban in areas where non-smokers collide with smokers, like on a train or in a restaurant or office space. I still remember having to choke through a shift in a newsroom while an oldtimer hacked up a lung at the next desk. Indeed, it wasn't pretty. And I often wondered to myself how anyone could believe you could have a smoking section in a compressed cabin on an airline. But I do feel for the poor smoker who isn't able to light up a butt on a park bench or on an open air patio. What are we afraid of? That the seagull trying to take a guy's sandwich is going to succumb to lung cancer? I'm somewhat in favor of a smoking ban, but a plastic bag ban? Please. That's what's happening in Toron

"Anastasia," he drools. "Your helicopter is ready." Those words make me horny. I bite my bottom lip, an action I repeat for dramatic effect. I know it drives my host crazy and gives him a party in his pants. I climb into the seat beside his hirsute-chested loveliness and blush over and over again as he expertly fits my seatbelt and hear muffs. "We'll get to my lair soon, but first we have to make a short stop," he explains darkly, running his fingers through his tussled hair. I had to suppress a squeal. Within minutes we were setting down on a rural highway, the scene of a horrific accident. A paramedic opens the cabin door and nearly surprises me out of my jeans. Several others spring out the door. "What's going on?" I quiz the man who will soon be my first lover. "Oh, I own ORNGE helicopters -- that's how I made my billions cheating the government -- and we need to make this pitstop to pick up a couple of patients.&q

I agree to meet Kate and Jose in a little bar down the street from our apartment to celebrate the end of the school year. As Jose gets ready to order a second pitcher of margaritas, and I find myself weaving a little, unaccustomed as I am to drinking large volumes of Mexican libations. Or maybe it was the crackpipe I smoked earlier. On the way to the john, I have an idea. I pick up my cellphone and dial the last number. It's Christian Gray's number, his private number, the one he scribbled on his business card. "Grey." "Hello, Christian, this is Ana. I'm sitting in a bar here, thinking about your snake trouser and wondered if you'd like to show it to me once and for all. You've got a lot of competition, here. Jose is just about to jump my bones so if you want to see me, just follow the signal." With that, I hang up, just before I lose my cookies. Nice. I wipe the drool off my face and comb my dampened hair, then re-enter the ba

I can remain silent no longer. Fifty Shades of Grey is the worst book I've ever read. It's horribly written, it's contrived, and it's ridiculous. There, I said it. Glad it was only eleven bucks on Amazon.com. It reads like it was written by an eighth grader. An illiterate eighth grader. I'm ploughing through it though. Waiting for sexy parts. Hoping they're better than the crap porn they run on The Movie Network.

Dear Harley: I'm into my second week of your diet, and I'm now 209, which I haven't been in years. Thanks for helping me make this breakthrough. Last night, we enjoyed our second solid meal, a sumptuous feast of elk, brown rice, three bean salad and tomato. I realize, it's not on your list, but your recipes blow, though the people around you may fail to tell you this fact. We kept our menu within your calorie range and substituted elk for bison because we found elk at the Ottawa Farmer's Market. I must tell you, the elk was the best meat I've ever eaten, and that includes kangaroo! With meat like this around, I will have no trouble giving up beef. For the first time, I managed to beat Scott in the weight loss department. His weight met a plateau, although he's already lost 13 pounds. I told him that's because of the four cans of beer he consumed yesterday. Seriously, I think he's finally realized that the beer is what has made him fat. Wha

Dear Harley: I'll admit to a setback last evening. It was our first chewable meal since last Monday and we couldn't resist. I mean, come on, scallops? The addition of wine was truly necessary, that's all I'm saying. Also skipped my workout yesterday. Not my fault that a lady hit a transformer and knocked out the power to the gymnasty. How fast was she going in the Trainyards parking lot and how distracted was she to hit a friggin' transformer? I still lost a pound yesterday, bringing me to 210. That's five pounds lost in a week. Yippee caya, mo fo. Not as good as Scott who has so far lost 13 pounds and is the envy of his car dealership. Back on track this morning. Smoothie for brekkies. Squash soup for lunch. Bison for dinner. Question: If a buffalo is so big, how come the steaks are so small? Since the gymnasty still appears to be closed, we'll be visiting the Ottawa Farmer's Market today to see if they got game. Not game as in basketball,

Dear Harley: I'm slightly bummed today. I socked down my whey-laden smoothie, drove the hubs to work and turned the car into The Athletic Club in Trainyards only to discover it was "closed indefinitely". I must be the only one in Ottawa who does not know this; the parking lot was empty save for a couple of environmental cleanup trucks. That can't be good. I called the Orleans club and discovered that some douche had been doing wheelies in the parking lot last night and hit a transformer. No power means no elliptical and rower today. Have to settle for some barbells and an exercise video. Normally, I would take Finnigan out for a power walk but it's pissing rain and I don't like exercise that much. So I took myself to Starbucks for a double cappucino and here I sit, with Finnigan chewing the leg of the chair and Gordie snoring at my other foot. I'm not going to let this little blip get me down today. I'm psyched because tonight Scott and

Dear Harley: You might be surprised to know that I'm keeping farmer's hours these days. The new pup, Finnigan, is a morning dog, up at 5:30 a.m. bouncing off the bed, hungry for food, desperate for his new life. I don't mind it, really; dawn is a terrific time for writing and reflecting on my own new journey as I confront my demons, my weight, my bad habits, my inertia. I stood on the scale this morning and was pleased to see that I was down to 211 pounds; that's a four pound drop in a week. Not bad considering that I lost only five pounds while working out like a fiend at the gymnasty for over a year. This kind of kickstart will be key to motivating me to drop the more than 50 pounds of fat cells I've gained over the past three decades. What amazes me -- and I found this out when I first got to the gymnasty -- was how much weight I'd actually put on. It's a slow creep, an inch here, an inch there, a thick layer of goo that coats your bones and th