Rose's Cantina

A few years ago, I would have jumped at the chance to see Oprah Winfrey in person. That’s because Oprah Winfrey had played a huge role in my life. She helped me build a relationship with my mother. From health care to wealth care, she gave me information I could take to the bank. She provided light in the afternoon for me as a stay-at-home mom, then a single mom. She gave me Dr. Phil when I was going through a messy divorce. And Dr. Oz who convinced me to get my blood pressure checked. Oprah got us through. But something changed, maybe five year or eight years ago. Oprah began to see herself as a prophet of some sort. “I believe I was born to greatness,” she told Barbara Walters. In other words, Oprah drank her own Kool Aid. Suddenly, she was smarter than the rest of us, an expert on religion, morality and politics. She force fed us new age nonsense, built an opulent school in South Africa to separate the smart girls from their po’ neighbors. She bought the Uni

I'm so excited that Oprah Winfrey is leaving one of her mansions to come to Ottawa to impart her wisdom on we lesser humans. I wonder if Gayle is coming. I can't wait for later this week to pay 300 dollars in advance for the privilege of being in her aura. It will be an ah-ha moment for a lot of women who will sneak in, not wanting their husbands to know. Neighbors across the city will be pointing figures "Ah ha, I knew I'd see you here!" I bet Pam Wallen will be there. On Senate expenses. I really feel sorry for the poor fans who would have to skip groceries for the month to see her. All those women who faithfully watched her for twenty years on the tube. They should have followed Suze Orman's advice. Tch Tch Tch. Guess Oprah doesn't do poor. Oprah in person. Wowwee, kazawee. Much more powerful than seeing her on the Oprah Winfrey Network which a lot of people can't get with basic cable. But Oprah in person...I can't wait

When I was a little kid, I grew up on a fruit farm in St. Catharines where I ate my snacks off various trees or plucked them from the ground. Each summer, there were baskets of second grade peaches, cherries and strawberries that my grandfather couldn’t take to the station, the same fruits that I now have to pay six bucks for at the grocery store. In the winter, we ate jarred fruit put up by my granny over the summer. If we wanted another kind of snack, grandpa would climb down the rickety wooden stairs and toss a basket of popcorn – kernels he grew himself – into the furnace and let it fluff up. I rarely got a store bought snack, unless it was a holiday. My mum bought pop, but we were allowed only one can a week, not because she wanted to limit our sugar but because she was poor and couldn’t afford to buy us more than that. It was only when I went to my Auntie Aylwyn’s – every Friday night – that I was able to take advantage of the snacks that modern technology had cr

Aside from maybe six years, I've worked in a home office for my entire adult life. There are many reasons for this. I don't play well with others. I prefer canines to humans. And I panic at the sight of an OC Transpo bus. Generally, I find office occupados to be curious creatures who take on odd characteristics once they leave the safety of their homes. They eat meals out of tins and cardboard. They decorate their cubicles as if they were still in their college dorms with puppy photos, fake plants and odd hanging things like dreamcatchers (as if!) and cheap trinkets from far flung places. Office workers engage in seriously weird chitchat that would find them shunned in any self-respecting bar. They'll chatter on endlessly about their medical issues, flaky feet and hair habits. And they almost always seem to look forward to medical procedures and dental surgery. I found the bosses were the funniest. The male bosses were usually drunks who would disappear at

Watching Mike Duffy on television last night as he agreed to repay his housing premium reminded me of another television gem -- when Brian Mulroney was before a House of Commons committee talking about taking money from German businessman Karlheinz Shrieber. Both admitted taking money they shouldn't have. Both refused to take blame for their action. The difference between the two scenarios, of course, is that Mulroney didn't have to pay money back, just the income tax on it. The Puffster and Brian Mulroney are very similar characters, full of hubris, needing to be loved, playing the angles, engaging in some pretty dodgey behavior particularly when under the influence. And neither of them sees anything wrong with what they do, so  full of themselves and their entitlements. Duffy needed money to renovate his cottage, so he took advantage of the people of Canada. Mulroney needed money to keep Mila in the style to which she was accustomed so he kept the Shreiber money. B

It appears my dreams of a future in journalism have been, once again, dashed. For the past year and half, I have been on a wonderful, almost unbelievable, journey. I was called upon to create a new magazine in Canada, part of a chain of magazines worldwide. The topic is unimportant, suffice to say it involves commiting medical journalism, one of my favorite areas of interest. I absolutely love creating new magazines. I've done it maybe ten times in my career and I'm good at it. Lifelong learning has been a passion for me and I'm always amazed at how small our personal worlds are and how much we do not know. Part of the allure of being a journalist is being able to interview smart people: doctors, scientists, difference-makers. Interviewing them makes me want to be a better person. Anyways, the magazine is now in its eighth edition and the company has now set up a website which means that I can now commit daily journalism. Haven't done that in 20 years. It's

Whenever I touch the lobe of my right ear, I think of Eugene Whelan. I was talking to him just minutes before I lost it. We were at the Ottawa Car Show, invited there by the man from Chrysler, Othmar Stein, who was hosting a VIP reception at the Westin Hotel. We drank white wine for an hour, then took a spin around the show, and were back at the bar in no time. Gene was regaling us with stories about his adventures. I don’t remember what he was talking about, but it was sure funny. My feet were hurting, standing in three inch heels, so I sat on the corner of a love seat, slipped and clipped my ear on the glass coffee table. A few minutes later somebody noticed blood streaming down my neck. Seems I’d taken an entire chunk of the lobe. I didn’t notice, mesmerized as I was by the guy who seemed like he was agriculture minister forever. Gene, Gene, the Farmin’ Machine used to give six speeches a week at various places, didn’t matter where: a grocery store, a far

One of the great things about small towns is that there aren't as many places to hide. That rang true for Senator Mike Duffy this past week as a Charlottetown Guardian snoop staked out the airport making sure that Duffy couldn't dodge his questions. Despite the reporter's efforts, Duffy did find the last bastion of privacy at the airport -- the bathroom -- where he planted himself for what seemed like an hour. Still, the reporter remained undaunted and finally got an interview, cornered like a squirrel up a tree. Heee Hee. This reminded me of one of the best scenes I've ever seen in a movie. In the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas , Charles Durning plays an oily governor who plays fast and loose with reporters. It's posted below. Remind you of anyone?

  I'm looking on Wikipedia to find evidence that Martha Hall Findlay has more understanding of what it's like to be middle-class than Justin Trudeau. Let's see: she grew up at the base of a ski hill in Blue Mountain, became a Canadian ski champeen, and graduated high school at 15. She went to "Toronto French School". She went to the University of Toronto where she studied law while also owning two stores. Since then she's practised international and high tech law. I don't see too much middle class about that. It says, though, that she had to work her way through law school as a waitress. Justin Trudeau was a bouncer, so they have that in common. Which brings me to my point. Martha Hall Findlay should shut her gob about being more middle class than Justin Trudeau. She isn't middle class. She's a lawyer married to rich guy. So don't call Justin Trudeau out for not being middle class. That's like calling him out because he's no

Hello. I'm not doing this because I'm lazy, but I'm reposting one of my old blogs from $10 Life because nearly 2,000 people read it yesterday. I'm puzzled. Anyway, enjoy! I decided to make Rice Krispies squares and took a chance on the no-name cereal. They were, as I expected, utterly delicious and exactly the same as the ones made from the cereal we grew up scarfing down by the bowl full. Also, as expected, they were gone by the time I sat down with my tea to watch The Biggest Loser . Can’t keep treats in my house, no way, no how. Scott ate a handful, then Nick came up for the rest. He’s come a long way; he used to balk at no name cereal. He called it welfare cereal, sometimes ghetto treats. Now that Schnick (Nick and Shyla) are getting ready to welcome Wheels into the world, his priorities have changed. I don’t see him filling his cart with name brand items. I don’t even see him shopping at the regular shopping mall. No sir, Nick and Shyla have embraced

  (Pamela Wallin) knows why the prime minister appointed her. She’s a celebrity senator. No one else from here gets asked to speak all over the country like she does. Not the MPs, not the other senators and when she flies to Halifax to give a talk and flies home from there to Saskatchewan, that’s considered other expenses.—Bonnie Wallin, interviewed in the Toronto Star Pamela Wallin has been one busy Senator these days. Call her Pamela Pit Stop. Last week, she appeared on all of the chat shows. She wrote an op-ed piece in the Globe and Mail defending her travel expenses as a hard-working Senator. She even made herself available for a puff piece in the Toronto Star , allowing an intrepid Star trekker to follow her around her hometown, to the florist to buy flowers for mum, to the grocery store. She’s Saint Pamela of Wadena, the prodigal daughter who sells ice cream to the natives and slathers sun lotion on her skin at the family cottage. Maybe they buy this in Wad

Hey folks, the Ottawa Breakfast Program needs your help. Please watch this video, produced by the students at Algonquin College and the good people who feed our hungry children. And please pass it on! We need to raise awareness and money for this worthwhile cause.

Ten years ago, I decided to take one more chance on love. Our first date was supposed to be Valentine's Day. Well that's not exactly true. Our first date was supposed to be New Year's Eve. When Scott eventually got around to taking me out, it was about four days after a promised date on Valentine's Day. I was not too impressed. But I liked him. I always like him over the 30 years we bumped into each other at the press club. For 30 years, we were each married to other people and rarely spoke to each other. But when we did, he made me smile. I always thought he was nice, funny, handsome. As it turned out he was so much more than that. Over the last ten years, Scott has been the rock of my family. He took over the father role when my ex-husband went AWOL on his parental duties, driving Marissa and her friends to basketball games in far flung cities, helping Stef up to bed after his dates with tequila, picking up Nick at whatever shelter he was frequenting, talki

My earnest and hard-working husband will be going for a job interview today to be a school bus driver. To get that job, which pays not much above minimum wage, he had to have a criminal and vulnerable person background check to make sure that he is not a child molester. He then had to go down to the cop shop to have his fingerprints done, because apparently, one person was born in Manitoba, on the same date as him, who just got pardoned for sex offences. The fingerprints will rule Scott out as that deviant. After the criminal check, he has to take an airbrake licence and have a three-person interview. After that, his references will be checked. This is the process that the ordinary Canadian has to follow to get a crap job. People with higher up jobs have quite a bit more vetting. They are first screened by the head hunter, then undergo a series of interviews, often testing for their ability to speak various languages, to write at a Grade Nine level and think logically. In fac

Okay, so it's #BellLetsTalk day and I'd like to get some things off my chest. I can't put them in a text message and send them around to my friends, so unfortunately, mental health initiatives will get no help from me today. But it's still worth having a dialog. Here's what we need to talk about. We need more mental health resources for parents in our community. We need better education about mental illness for teachers and doctors. We need more appropriate resources in our emergency rooms to identify burgeoning problems. Who do we get instead? The police. When my son was having suicidal ideation ten years ago, I called the Youth Services Bureau for help. They called the police. The cops hauled both of my sons out onto the front lawn and frisked them in front of the neighbors. A few days later, my son went onto the street. It was only when he was sleeping in parking garages that I was finally able to get him the help he needed -- from the Youth Services

Dudes with the smoke. How about considering the first female Pope. I'm sure she knows Latin and I'm betting she went to Catholic girls' school. She knows all about what goes on in the bathrooms.

Dear flock: Feeling about fluish today. Think I'll take the rest of my life off. Sincerely, Benny (and the Jets) Dear Pope: Don't let the door hit you in the ass. We're a flock; we're not sheep. Sincerely, The World

Now that I have officially reached the 10th year mark in my relationship with Scott, I feel confident enough to give some advice to the lovelorn. It took me until my 46th year to figure out what makes a successful relationship. I tried marriage twice before and due to infidelity, both went bust before the husband could even get his seven year itch on. I was talking to a younger girlfriend this week who gave me the 411 on the piece of shit who was her long-time boyfriend, whom she caught sexting a senior and boffing a barmaid. It took her a while before she finally kicked his ass to the curb. I also talked to another friend who is in the throes of a bitter divorce thanks to her slimy husband who lost interest in her after she gave birth. Both these women are in their 30s and are pretty much done with men. But I've told them to hold out. The ocean is full of decent middle aged men and the water's fine. Besides, I said, experience is everything. You have to kiss a bunc

Do you think the media is being hard on Senator Patrick Brazeau? Aside from focusing on allegations that he's a wife beater, a child-abandoner and a mysogenist, in addition to being a bad boxer. And calling Chief Theresa Spence fat. Ouch! I'm not talking about his personal life, which is a shambles. I'm talking about his work as a member of the Senate of Canada. So I decided to take a journey into the heart of darkness, into the very chamber itself, the place that pays the good Senator a six-figure salary. We know he has been censured for not showing up much in the Senate, but surely that's because he's working on behalf of his constituency. So I looked at his personal, Senatorial, website. ( http://senatorpatrickbrazeau.com ) Hmm. Well, he got off to a good start in February, 2009, with his first maiden speech in the Senate. Added a bit of eye candy to that smelly and musty old box of chocholates. Check. And he gave us a few bon mots --six -- congratu

As the killer storm dumped a pile of snow on the streets of Ottawa, it became clear that this wouldn't be an average day. Senators and Members of Parliament would have to stay in Ottawa instead of getting back to their constituencies. Public servants would have to drop their vital work to clean off their minivans and SUVs for the long trek home to their five bedroom houses in Kanata and Orleans. Residents of the Glebe scrambled to find other arrangements because the City of Ottawa had raised its heavy hand and announced there would be a parking ban. Yoga classes were cancelled. Ditto indoor soccer. The RA was forced to cancel bandminton tonight. Oh my God, what will we do, they cried. There is nothing, but nothing on premium cable this evening. In a panic, members of the Canadian Forces took to their Twitter accounts to decry the cancellation of their flights south to their time shares at Disneyworld and in The Islands. The less careful among them grabbed their hea

CTV Ottawa just fired their weekend weather guy, Eric Longley, who was always well turned out. This is his replacement. I have questions. a) do they have a dress code at CTV? b) should they? c) If you were Rinaldo --who gets credit for hair design on the news -- would you admit to doing this hair? These things keep me up at night.

Looking at this sad little machine, I'm realizing it may be time to retire it, or maybe simply use it as a virtual recipe box in the kitchen. It's only been a year and bit, but my laptop is unreliable. I've had to reformat the hard drive already because of a virus. The keys are not only sticking but the lettering has nearly rubbed off on some of them. I work my machines hard, every day, slamming down on the keys when they aren't working properly, taking my frustration out on them. I am an impatient ass. Ask my husband. The old Underwood, the one I learned to type on, didn't have these problems. You just replaced the ribbon once in a while and it was good to go. People who pecked on Underwoods had strong hands and upper arms, like pianists. Nobody ever complained about carpal tunnel or repetitive stress, at least nobody ever complained about them to me. Basement museums are full of old Underwoods. They still work. They'll still work in a thousand ye

Trying not to be cynicial -- who me? -- I decided to follow up on Bell Media's "Let's Talk" request that is being splashed all over its monopolized media these days. We have a lot to talk about when it comes to mental health. In my own family, we have addiction, ADHD, personality disorder, general anxiety disorder, post-partum depression and depression of the old fashioned kind. In other words, we cover the waterfront. So I wanted to follow Bell's lead and connect. Learn. Understand. Ah, but I cannot do so. That is because my phone allegiance belongs to Fido and I don't know anyone, not a single living, breathing human, who has a Bell phone. The whole February 12th thing is about texting on Bell. If you do so, Bell will donate five cents for every text you send. Huh. Oh wait. We can also see some sort of town hall on CTV supper hour programs. But town halls are people talking out. What do we have to do to talk in? I wonder if we're in the mid

I like the HBO show Girls about a group of twenty-somethings exploring the complicated worlds of sex, money and work. I like it better than Sex in the City. I could never relate to Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. I was never pretty or skinny or rich. I was Lena Dunham. Dunham has been hailed as the next Woody Allen and villified as a dirty little pudgy girl who spends too much time with her boobs hanging out. I wouldn't go quite so far as leveling up Dunham against the Woodster. But I do understand and appreciate what the fuss is all about. Dunham speaks to all the insecurities that girls -- and women -- have when they are first starting out in the world. Her stories are in the present tense, but they certainly aren't new. Every girl has a woulda, coulda, shoulda in her closet. Some of us old broads have done the walk of shame more than once. We're not the Red Hat Society, that's for sure. Just call our behavior Past Imperfect. So even though

There are many staffers and reporters who have literally grown up on Parliament Hill. Over my 30 years working in Ottawa, I've watched a parade of fresh-faced nubes come to the Show from small towns, and some big ones, all eager to change the world. Within weeks and months many fall victim to the allure of SWAG, alcohol, sex, Wonderful Wednesdays and the inevitable Terrible Thursdays. It doesn't take long before they realize that Pierre Trudeau was right. Members of Parliament and the Senate really are nobodies, and those who cover them are nobody understudies. Most of what happens on Parliament Hill is boring, trite and bordering on the ridiculous. Unless you're Stephen Harper, you don't have much chance of "making a difference in the lives of ordinary Canadians". There's really not a lot of wiggle room, books-wise, so most of the work on Parliament Hill is about shuffling cards or deckchairs, robbing the leftie Peter to pay the conservative Pa

There has never been a question, among a lot of Canadians, that the Senate should be abolished. It has never really made any sense to give people jobs for life based on their ability to raise money for political parties, or garner other favors for the governing party. The Canadian Senate is a Tony Soprano wet dream. The first time I questioned the Senate was when I was working in Trudeau's office and he appointed a gazillion of his friends to the Senate after taking his walk in the February snow. Two words. Colin Kenny. Colin Kenny has been a Senator now for 30 years and he's only 69. This means he has more than five years left in the Senate, if you can believe that. Now, Kenny has done some fine work over the years, nobody can question that, but at the time, he was just a Trudeau fartcatcher. Even some of the party hacks found it hard to believe that a man shy of 40 could be a Senator. Over the years, there have been some fine individuals appointed to the Senate, pe