Rose's Cantina

Am I the only one wondering whatever happened to Team Canada at the 2012 Olympics? I watched the games all day yesterday trying to get a glimpse of a Canadian, any Canadian, on CTV's coverage. All I saw was stupid bunch of foreigners. There wasn't a single Canadian in the synchronized diving, nor was there a Canuck gyrating during the men's gymnastics. As a result, I'm now in the know about cute little Lithuanian divers, a Canadian ex-pat who chose to swim for the U.S.A. and a lovely boy named Tom who choked on the British synchro-diving team. I did hear about a Canadian equestrian who was bucked from her horse, but I didn't see it because, apparently, there wasn't a camera around when it happened. There were whispers about our rowing team, a few tweets about them, but as far as CTV was concerned they weren't as important as beach volleyball played by the East Europeans or the Chinese. True, there was a bit of tennis. But who the hell cares? We all

That's what happens when you live 10 years alone in Bolivia: you get colorful. Percy in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid Colorful, that's me alright. Twenty years living la vida loca in full fucking living color. Last night at dinner with an old friend, I was reminded that he often accompanied me on my one year bar crawl through Ottawa back when I was a music reviewer for the Ottawa Citizen . My job involved going to three bars to listen to three bands twice a week, then staggering back to the newsroom to write my review. Tom reported, with some glee in his voice, that most of that time, I was bouncing off the walls drunk on beer and power, as I set out to destroy the egos of fledgling musicians. I was a nasty little bitch back then. For this nonsense, I was paid $35 a night which pretty much covered my bar bill. Needless to say, if I could rely on the kindness of male strangers, I could get them to pick up the tab. It was just the beginning of my journey of bad

Those who know me might say that I'm a loud mouthed bitch, and a bit of a complainer. All I can say, in my own defense, is that I simply like to see things done right. I'm the first one to congratulate someone on a job well done. In fact, after doing an interview last week, I commended the public relations person on her professionalism in front of her boss. She was quite tickled. I don't do this very often. That's because almost every person who does p.r. absolutely, categorically, sucks at it. In my recent incarnation as a magazine writer, I'm constantly having to badger flaks to get them to return my emails or phone calls. Need information? Feggedabodit. So I'm finding myself forging ahead and calling their bosses or their colleagues who usually end up giving me the info instead of the p.r. I worked with one of the most useless of these people at a previous job. Everytime there was an important announcement she'd go on vacation leaving the

The Olympics should be held in Britain every time. Every dog owner would thank the IOC. Finnigan gets me out of bed as 5:54 a.m. every day, no matter the weather. He is a stealth dog; he is able to use every single square of the bed for a surprise attack. He starts at the foot of the bed, notices me stirring or turning over. He stands over me like some sort of malevolent spirit, hovering, watching. If I am awake, I can see his evil little white soul patch which is mostly grey but lights up pure white when he's being evil. Then he starts boxing me like a kangaroo, letting out a short, high-pitched moan. When that doesn't work, he slithers between us and begins to lick my face. He is not deterred if I push him down; he just goes to the other side of the bed and sits on Gordie who snarks him. A dog fight ensues. By this time, I cannot stand it any longer. I'm up. He's out the door briefly, then bounds back in for a ball of food. I feed Gordie, then give him ano

It's not going out on a limb to say that the biggest story in entertainment this week was that Kristen Stewart cheated on Robert Pattinson. This story trumped even the weirdness that is the Jackson family, and sent shockwaves through the Twilight community. The Twitterverse was flooded with tweets from little twinkies calling for Kristen's head. How could she do this to Robert? They were so perfect together. They were supposed to live together forever, happily ever after. Makes me wonder what would have happened,  back in the day, when Elizabeth Taylor stole Eddie Fisher away from the adorable Debbie Reynolds. Liz, you slut! You stole Tammy's man. I'm thinking Liz would have closed her account just like Kristen did. Ah, the vitriol. In my corner of the blogisphere, I'm thinking the unveiling of her nasty little triste with the ugly and old director and father of two -- I forget his name -- was a great thing. For years now, little girls have been fed

Over the past week, we've come to accept that we are living beyond our means. We don't have car payments or massive debt, but the day-to-day has become somewhat precarious. It's scary being in your mid-fifties and not having a retirement package. I used to be a saver but ten years living as a single mom to three kids sucked me dry. Scott is in the same boat, though he has a small pension from CBC; he lost his nut to an expensive divorce. We're still living from paycheque to paycheque, which is hard because the magazine I work for only pays me every two months. Scott is in commission sales so is at the mercy of the Ottawa economy, not to mention the elements. You might have seen the story in the paper today about all the car dealerships in Ottawa that have new cars that look like golf balls thanks to this week's storm. Scott was lucky this time around; his KIA dealership is one of only a handful in Ottawa's east end that dodged the bullets of hail falling

It was a heart breaking night for me, as I spent the early morning hours lying on the couch with the old pug and the new dog. Gordie was having trouble breathing; every inhale and exhale was a struggle for him. Fortunately, he seemed a slight bit better after we decamped the bedroom for the couch. I was trying to let my poor husband get a few winks, as he works nine hours on Wednesdays, so I put myself in charge of the canine brigade. Finn must have sensed that Gordie was in trouble because he curled up behind my knees and gave the old pug a wide berth. There is no respite when a pug has a respiratory episode but the cool leather seems to soothe and distract him. I spent five years on pug duty when Ming was around. She had horrible allergies and even with medication, she shook, she shimmied, and she paced until she passed out from sheer exhaustion. Her damaged respiratory system was ultimately her undoing and she left us in April. She must have been grateful for her everlasti

I've finally admitted that my bladder issues aren't going away anytime soon, and I've decided to embrace adult bladder pads. Maybe the advertising campaigns are working. Ever since Whoopi Goldberg and Kirstie Alley admitted they were "spritzers", it seems that this issue has finally come out from Down Under. I've had this problem for years, the result of having three kids fairly close together. During peri-menopause, it was especially dire. I couldn't walk down the street without peeing my pants. I tried everything to strengthen my pelvic floor including Kegels (squeeze your lady parts while going to the bathroom). I even tried making a homemade contraption made with pennies, a condom and, believe it or not, a Kinder Surprise egg attached to fishing wire. That was the most humiliating time of my life. Like many women, I just used the old girlie pads which I always had to wear to catch the other female fluid. I never thought I'd need diapers

Everybody is talking gun control after the Aurora shooting, and that is a good thing. No private citizen should be legally allowed to buy the numbers and kinds of weapons that were taken into the Dark Knight screening Friday night, and that means the issues of  registration and more comprehensive surveillance  are being raised. In the weirdness that is the United States of America, the right to bear arms is written into the constitution. A person has the right to defend themselves with guns and protect their private property. Nothing, but nothing, will be done about that unless politicians change the constitution and that is never going to happen, so let's end that debate right now. But the simple knowledge of how many weapons a person possesses is not against the U.S. constitution; it just makes common sense especially in a land that prides itself on intelligence gathering. If authorities knew James Holmes possessed the arsenal that he did, they might have sent a frien

I was noodling around my Kindle last week, looking for something good to read. The bestsellers were a bust. I'm not going anywhere Fifty Shades of Grey sequels after having nearly ralphed through the first instalment. And the Hunger Games ? Kid stuff. Besides, fiction bores me stiff. I can rarely slog through a novel, anymore -- even by authors whom I admire like John Irving. Maybe I'm getting old and the attention span is going. So I went looking at some of the Canadian non-fiction titles. I came across the Kindlet, the one by Paula Todd, about her successful search to find Karla Homolka. I do love true crime and thought this might just be a booklet for a sun-dappled backyard. So I took a sample. What a piece of crap. The first paragraph nearly made me hurl my Kindle into the dog's mouth. From the smudged window of the rattling prop plane, I see the Caribbean up close for the first time. It's exactly as advertised: emerald ovals of jungle floating in t

I hate to admit this, being the dog lover I am, but I've never had a dog that lived to be 12 before this year. On the farm, we had only four dogs I can remember: Penny, the golden who was hit by an asshole neighbor when I was six; Timmy who was put down because he had a pathological love of eating facecloths; Susie, an outdoor dog, who was put down for chasing chickens; and Cindy, the poodle who went to live with my Auntie Margaret after we sold the farm. In my adult life, I've had many dogs, some died tragically, one was put down, a couple were given away. The most recent batch seemed to live longer. Ming was 12 when she died of respiratory issues and Hannah was nine and died of cancer. Now we have Gordie who is approaching his 12th birthday and seems to be going strong except for having lost half his teeth combined with bad legs.  We also have Finnigan who just turned five months. It's odd having the old guy around as he sharply contrasts the young pup in everyw

An important mandatory requirement of being a freelancer is the ability to drop everything, put on some kind of daytime talk show and have snorefest with the dogs for an hour, maybe two. This, my dears, is essential to the creative process. It is important to get as much work done as possible between the hours of 9 a.m. and noon, then scarf down a breakfast burrito or a bowl of soup, then invest in a siesta. That is because it is a well known fact that a person only has four quality hours of productivity every day. Look it up. Don't spend one minute more than four hours. You'll produce nothing, but nothing first rate. I am not kidding about this. Besides, the dogs need their nap and they have expectations. I have had a nap nearly every day of my life, including during the teenage years. It has helped me keep my girlish looks. And it has helped me keep my sanity between paycheques. So if you are quitting your job, or getting fired by the federal governmen

There is no great magic to surviving these days, unless you count our tickle trunk filled with excuses and unfulfilled promises. But we do have our weapons. Depression warriors did not have the advantage of cardboard-like fast food like Kraft Dinner or transfat laden Ramen Noodles that can be bought for thirty cents a serving, food that could survive a nuclear winter when we could not. The kids who live downstairs have learned to subsist on KD, gelatinous pizza and edible oil products as they circumnavigate an uncertain world where all the good jobs are taken and a career must be cobbled from slinging lattes for entitled public servants. We in the upstairs have to do better in our poverty. We must remain healthy lest the health care system deliver one last humiliating blow, taking our last dimes and quarters for high blood pressure and cholesterol medications. And so we seek to emulate our ancestors, learning that the humble carrots, onions and celery can be our best culinary

This Sunday will mark the end of the Ottawa Citizen's Sunday edition. It won't be missed. There never seemed to be any effort put into it and I could read it in about 10 minutes. It takes me two hours to read the New York Times on Sunday. I mean, if you're going to put out a Sunday paper, why not make it the gold standard of journalism with thoughtful pieces by insightful writers? Instead, for nearly thirty years, The Sunday Citizen published drivel and breathlessly long features about people and issues that I really didn't care about. It was like all the editors hit the snooze button when it came to Sunday. Reminds me of the radio stations that play John Tesh all weekend long. I sort of knew something was up when The Citizen started running obituaries that people sent in to commemorate the passing of loved ones or friends. Like somebody thought, 'hey, how can we put this newspaper out without actually spending money on real writers?' Sadly, with

I sat bolt upright in bed last night as I always do every two months or so. Then the reel started..hydro...cable...credit card...Fido. I'm just minutes away from them all being cut off -- okay, not minutes, I exaggerate, as all freelancers do. But it's getting close. So is my payday. I can practically smell the Euros being deposited into my BMO account! That's what I tell my creditors anyway. I work for an international magazine that publishes every two months, which is my main gig. I do other things but being editor-in-chief keeps a body busy enough that it's hard to take on other commitments. I'm paid fairly well for my job so it allows me lots of other time to get into mischief, or look for other jobs when I start to panic. The thing is, because the magazine is published every two months, I only get paid every two months so my financial situation requires a lot of juggling, not to mention phone calls to utility companies pleading for more time. As soon

The Calgary Stampede is celebrating its 100th year torturing animals. My hearty congratulations on a job well done. It wouldn't be the Stampede if at least a couple horses didn't meet their maker whilst travelling at breakneck speeds in front of a sea of silver beltbuckled potbellies. It just wouldn't be the same if cute little calves weren't running for their lives only to be hog-tied and then hoisted up by their feet in a show of macho cowboy hubris. That wouldn't be the Calgary Stampede, no sir. That would be a petting zoo. Seriously, why do people buy tickets to this stuff? How is injuring innocent horses and babies the sport of Canadians? Oh wait, we have the seal hunt. And reserves where we park our First Nations and let little kiddies kill themselves because of boredom. This country presents well, doesn't it? We have Celine Dion and Justin Bieber that we export. But for the real fun, every summer here in Canada, people become feral cats who

On this muggy day, I was thinking that it would be great if we brought back the common house dress. When I grew up, all the ladies of a certain age wore dresses to pick beans from the garden, do housework and wash the dishes. As I recall, each of these dresses were about 20 bucks at the Fairview Mall in St. Catharines, Ontario. They came in a variety of colors and patterns. They hit right below the knee and they had one thing in common: the belt. So as a woman progressed from singleton to wife to mom to grandma, she simply let the belt out. It was so incredibly easy. Today, we are faced with serious fashion choices that don't generally fit the average middle aged woman with pre-menopausal girth. I have a pair of shorts that I love that I've kept for nearly a decade and now I can finally fit in them perfectly except for the waist which was meant for a 20-year-old. They all have waists like that, other than the shorts made from old lady polyester. Blech. When finally I

Yesterday, Scott and I went to Costco specifically to pick up some freestone peaches from California, which are awesome. I regularly buy certain kinds of produce at Costco because it's better than what we can get here, and it's less expensive. I do not feel, in anyway, guilty about NOT always buying homegrown even if it's in season. That's because I used to work in the tender fruit industry, in St. Catharines, as a fruit inspector. For two years, I graded cherries and peaches at canning and freezing facilities. It was great job and I got to know lots of hardworking farmers who would lineup at my station and allow me, a wet-behind-the-ears university student, to determine how much they would get for their crops. Sometimes, sadly, if one worm was found in a cherry, they would be sent home and their entire day's work was ruined. Once I got a farmer so steamed that he dumped his entire load of cherries in the cannery's orchard. Oops. Bad, bad little worm.

Of late, our family spends a lot of time obessing over the bathroom habits of our dogs. Oh, oh, Finnie swallowed a chewbone. We'll be up all night! Gordie hasn't had a poo all day. What's with that? Finnigan, good boy! The bowels of our dogs are directly related to their behavior, our ability to sleep through the night and the state of our carpets. If Finnigan is "off", he is completely uncontrollable and will eat or destroy anything in sight. If Gordie gets backed up, steer clear! Gordie, the pug, is the funniest one of all. If Skylar, the baby, is anywhere in sight, Gordie will crap himself where he stands, which is usually right behind me, Scott or Nick. Invariably we step in it. I saw him barking at the neighbors yesterday, standing guard at the fence, and with each bark, a stream of fecal matter oozed out. You couldn't turn away. Today, this glorious day, Gordie ate his breakfast then went out and did his business. Like the old days.

There has been a lot of media in recent years about kids who contemplate or execute the taking of their own lives. They want to off themselves for a variety of different reasons, some of which, if we were to be perfectly honest, make a lot of sense. When your life sucks beyond belief, when you can't think of one single reason to keep going, it makes sense to shuffle off this mortal coil. Shakespeare knew this. A lot of people know this. In the last couple of years, the talk about suicide prevention for teens has reached a fevered pitch. Millions of dollars are being spent on ad campaigns, help lines, bullying strategies but guess what? Some kids are still killing themselves. Well, duh. Let me tell you a story. Our young family friend, let's call him Carlos, tried to kill himself back in his teens. He attached a rope to a sturdy beam, put the noose around his neck, and was just about to jump down when his cell phone rang. He couldn't resist the temptation of answe

It looks cool, but being a television producer can be one of the hardest jobs around. There are many words for it -- tedious, hot, tiring, incredibly frustrating -- and you sometimes have to wait hours to get a 30 second clip especially when you're covering live music festivals. Scott and I produced a documentary nine years ago, Carnival of The Blues: Ten Days at the Ottawa Bluesfest , and we had the opportunity to interview nearly all the stars. We soon learned there was a rhythm to it. First you had to get to the crusty old road manager who would leave you cooling your heels for hours. This was just to find out whether you even had a shot at speaking to an artist. You had to push, cajole and charm these old assholes who take on airs because they are in the business of protecting the rich and famous from the media. Once you get to the artist, though, it's a great experience for the most part. Some of them are happy to talk to the media, I mean, who wouldn't want

Nine years ago, Scott and I managed to score a backstage pass to the 10th Annual Ottawa Bluesfest. After ten days of sweltering heat and hours cooling our dogs in the green room just to get a 30 second clip from Gregg Alllman, who was unsure where he was, we cobbled together a one hour documentary, Carnival of the Blues. This is the trailer for it. It never aired anywhere because we didn't get signed consent from some of the artists. We also lost approximately $7,500 making it. But we still had a blast. We got to interview everybody but Sheryl Crowe who was a complete bitch. Blue Rodeo also declined to talk to us -- I mean, we got Allman and Aykroyd, but Blue Fucking Rodeo was to impotent to give us two minutes of their time. I'm posting this in honor of Bank-Sponsored Bluesfest which is not really a bluesfest anymore but a good old fashioned cash-grab. Hopefully, the organizers won't high-tail it to Costa Rica with the money like some other swell concert organiz

In the end, I couldn't finish it. For the past two weeks, I've tried -- in the interest of blog journalism -- to slog through Filthy Shades of Grey. At one point, I thought there was something wrong with me. Perhaps it was time to get my hormones checked. Fact is, I didn't find anything remotely erotic about the damned book. It's like E.L. James went to the library and checked out Letters to Penthouse and cribbed the worst parts. There was nothing titillating about the descriptions. It was just stupid. And mildly alarming. This kind of sexual guidance is likely to get a girl raped. Or worse. What kind of young woman would ever fall for a guy like this, trust him before knowing him, allow him to do all manner of shit to her and beg for more? No woman I have ever met. Police arrest guys like this. The suits in Hollywood made a television show. It was called Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. It's puzzling to me why women read this drivel. I only rea

The visibility of gay and transgender people is a big part of the foundation for LGBT equality...Anderson Cooper made headlines for coming out, and today he goes back to being the same Anderson Cooper reporting the news. But for some young LGBT person in our country who is dealing with a hostile school environment, church community, or unwelcoming parents and family, Cooper is a powerful image that you should be loved and valued as a human being, and that image is important. Becky Garrison, Washington Post The July 2nd announcement by television personality Anderson Cooper that he was gay was applauded by everyone. There is no question that it was the right thing to do. His sexual orientation has been the subject of much discussion on the Internet and amongst the chattering classes. In fact, Anderson's pal Kathy Griffin wrote today in the Daily Beast that she got more questions from interviewers about whether Anderson was gay than she got about herself. Still, being a

This morning, on my 56th birthday, I woke up literally draped in love. On one side, the man who has put up with me for nearly a decade. On the other, the two dogs, Gordie, the old pug and Finnigan the apprentice. I felt, in a way, like I was part of a love sandwich. Finnie is part kangaroo and his first order of the day is to box me in the face. Then the second part of him, the alligator part, bites whatever part of me which is exposed. (Note to self, must sign up for obedience classes.) We had an interesting Canada Day yesterday. I got to spend most of my evening watching the yahoos over in the apartment building set off fireworks into St. Laurent Boulevard, terrifying drivers and spooking the bright eyed crew making their way to Parliament Hill. We also watched a drug deal going down when a black Nissan Ultima pulled up to the building; a crew of serious-looking guardsmen got out of the car and surrounded it while their boss dropped off whatever and shook down whomever.

Now that was one hotsie totsie Canada Day. We got up early and went to the Ottawa Farmer's Market, bought some beets and some dog biscuits. We then took Shyla's cat to his forever home at her mother's place. Then we high tailed it over to Loblaws and the Liquor Barn for burgers and bevvies for tomorrow's mammoth edition of Rosalita My Senorita's 56th birthday bash. We caught sound of the Snowbirds leaving Parliament Hill. Then we came home and made dog food for the pancreatic pug. Later on, we're going to make a chicken and some grilled vegetables and couscous. May throw caution to the wind and drink a crisp White Zinfandel. Go to bed early. I love Canada Day. It's best served ignored.