Rose's Cantina

Happy Easter to everyone who loves a jaunty chapeau and a soft shoe. To all my friends, gay, straight, bisexual, transexual and asexual. All Easter bonnets are equal.

I'm sure the Majic 100 Morning Team had a ball making this video. But do they have the right to inflict it on us? What happens on radio should stay on radio. I don't want to see this on television when I'm eating my dinner. This one is bad enough.  

  I have been a Rogers cable/internet/homephone/wireless customer for more than two decades. Until a couple of years ago, I was relatively happy with Rogers, the company. I didn't bother Rogers. Rogers didn't bother me. But this week, I am officially severing all ties with Rogers. I've gone back and forth on this. I've tried switching some services and keeping others. But it's finally over. The issues are many. The company's pre-billing process is outrageous. Their added charges are something akin to a back door virus that eats up your wallet. And trying to get rid of Rogers borders on mission impossible. Rogers is still hounding my daughter for money years after she severed ties with the company. I've heard similar stories from other law-abiding communications loving Canadians. Enough is enough. Our last and final beef is with cellphone charges. The kids had a couple of smart phones and tried to cancel and they were told it would cost them

  I haven't been much of a Christian in my life, but I do believe in Jesus. He was a good dude. And a good son. He taught his Father to be a better God. Imagine before Jesus came, played by Kris Kristofferson, the world was in the hands of Moses, played by Charlton Heston. If Cecil B. deMille were to be believed, Moses was a bit of an ass, like Charlton Heston. A control freak. I mean, you don't see modern musicals made about Moses. Jesus, on the other hand, was dope. He lived among the poor. He whipped up a whole mess of vittles when there were none. He liked everybody, even the hoes. Maybe especially the hoes. The disciples weren't great prizes, let's face it. They were a motley crew, some misguided, others downright mean. Some were better than others. But Jesus didn't care. He treated them all equally. I can't imagine being able to forgive somebody who ratted me like Judas did. That's why Jesus is better than the rest of us. The whol

Recipe Alert! Over the past few months, depression has set in. Let's recap. I lost my job despite Herculean efforts to keep it. Also, Scott is only working part-time at a wine store and last night he was told he'd be lucky to get any more hours -- ever. This means all the wine we can drink but no money to eat. Sigh. We haven't exactly been broke because the money was still coming in from my whack-job helping a French company start an English website, but now my income has been reduced by 60 percent. And yesterday, we got a tax bill claiming we owe $4,000. Wowee, kazowee. I suspect the whole thing can be straightened out -- there is no way given our financial situation that we owe that -- but it is quite heart-stopping going from getting a refund to owing the equivalent of a year's property tax in the Glebe. (Prior to Lansdowne Live!) This and a few health concerns have left me comatose on the couch for most of the shortened hockey season. As a result, I

It may be ironic only to me, but a gigantic liquor barn opened beside my gym at Trainyards yesterday. Right beside Farm Boy, the healthy eating joint. I parked beside Farm Boy, went to the gym and when I returned to my car, the parking lot was bumper to bumper with folks waiting to get their drink on, mostly old folks, all in cars. It was 9:30 a.m. Being the curious sort, I piled my kale and cucumbers into my beat up Subaru then ventured inside. I wasn't going to buy anything; I just wanted to see what the fuss was all about. People were milling around with the same look I've seen at the casino, eyeballing the 65 varieties of beer in the humungous beer fridge, ogling the 45 varieties of tequila and filling their carts with wine. There were lineups at the cash. At 9:30 a.m. In the middle of it all, I found Andre, the kindly LCBO clerk from my local, who had wangled himself a job at this mecca of libations. He seemed absolutely pixelated. "Any freebies?

@ rosalita54 You know Rose I give free breast exams! I even do housecalls, when husbands are not around of course, I'm a backdoor man. — I AM THE JJ! (@JJClarkeOttawa) March 16, 2013 We all know that people can be inappropriate on Twitter, right? But what about celebrities? I recently tweeted about getting a Mamagram and got this tweet in return. JJ Clarke: Really? What would your wife say? I am assuming this isn't the real JJ Clarke, the weatherman from CTV. If it isn't then JJ may have a complaint against the guy who spends most of his time writing inapprpriate musings about sex and defecation. He has all kinds of followers who seem to think he's the real McCoy. This is not good for the rep of a local personality. If it is you, JJ, get a new hobby. My husband has access to my twitter account -- and he's packin'.

I saw a concerning post from Jenny Lawson, better known as The Bloggess, this morning. "After a long night of ambulances and hospitals, it wasn't a heart attack," she wrote. "They don't know what it was." Her story is similar to that of Shyla's mom who has been a frequent flyer these days at one of the local hospitals. She, too, was convinced she was having a heart attack. Jenny famously suffers from anxiety. Ditto Angie. While Jenny is young, Angie is not-that-young. Both got the same answer from medical professionals. Dunno. Secretly, the medpros are calling it as they see it, "whack job," "middle age crazy", "hypochondriac", "hysteric". That's because what medical professionals know about wimmen could fit in a box of Tic Tacs. What's interesting is that, as suddenly as the symptoms appear, they vanish, at say around 55. I know. I suffered for ten years with debilitating panic, heart palpi

My son Stef has been urging me to get into a new line of work -- making videos for YouTube. He wants to work with me on a new YouTube show called Moms Playing Video Games . He is convinced we'll make a fortune. Apparently, you just has to shoot yourself playing, say, Paper Mario Sticker Party , and post segments on YouTube. The more likes and views you get determines advertising, similar to how this blog works. I remain unconvinced. So far, the ads on Blogger have netted me a cool $135 over a year and a half. It's not even enough to pay one month's Internet bill, so I doubt Moms Playing Video Games will do much better. Besides, I have a couple of video game injuries. Last night, I woke up with a wicked itchy trigger finger, obviously the result of hours spent playing the Nintendo DS which, for my aged friends, is a portable video game player. In 3D. The damned thing is so addictive. After this weekend, I'm packing Mario and Luigi away for the spring. The Yo

When Scott and I first got together, his ex-wife was pissed. She was so pissed that she made an anonymous call to the Canadian Blood Services to rat Scott out for being a promiscuous gay intravenous drug-user (her words).  He was hauled before the Medical Officer of Health to answer to these ridiculous allegations. In the meantime, he was told he could not give platelets, which he did every two weeks, contributions that saved many children and adults suffering from cancer. Another nasty acquaintance of mine called the then Revenue Canada to say that someone who had spurned him had cheated on his taxes. That person went through auditor-hell. This snitch didn't make a cent off his call, but he did exact revenge on someone who was only guilty of preferring the company of another. It's one thing to call Crime Stoppers when you believe someone has committed a crime. It's another thing to be a tax snitch. Add to that a 15 percent commission and, well, people like Scott co

Methinks the viewers have created a stir because CTV Ottawa seems to have rehired Eric Longley. The former weather guy who got the boot, along with a number of well-loved radio and television personalities at joints owned by Bell Media, resurfaced yesterday as a reporter! We are happy to see Eric back. He's a great guy and hard-working fellow and he's from the Prairies. Besides, unlike a lot of other broadcast thingies, the guy doesn't have his ego charred into his forehead. And there's even bigger news. The Disco girl must have got the hint because she's toned down her outfits. Now she no longer clashes with the weather screen. Also, she's not wearing Lululemon camel toe! Plus, she's reduced the product in her hair, meaning less global warming. Thanks, CTV Ottawa. Now just bring back Corey Ginther and we're good.

Bobby Orr turns 65 this week. Huh. Another one of my schoolgirl crushes is becoming a pensioner. This does not fill me with great joy. It reinforces the fact that I'm getting old myself. That's not the worst of it. Ilya Kuryakin turns 80 this year. Ditto Michael Cain. Robert Redford is 77. WTF? I pride myself on being young minded. Many people think I'm much younger. Because I'm immature and I have a potty mouth. But deep inside, I know the truth. I'm crushing on seniors now. I take blood pressure medication. I actually bought my own blood pressure cuff at Costco this week. I watch CTV News at Noon. I know how reverse mortgages work and I'm thinking of getting one of those tubs that Pat Boone is selling. If only I could find someone to crush on who isn't a geriatric time bomb. Like Ryan Seacrest. Or Matthew Perry. But they're kids. And I'm no pedophile. Besides, being menopausal, I have low hormones, therefore I have lost m

Every other Sunday, my daughter and her fiancee come over for dinner and a movie. The fact that these youngins want to spend time with the old farts fills my heart with warmth and great joy. We try to make these encounters special. Scott slaves over a hot stove or barbecue and presents mounds of tasty morsels while the rest of us try to pick a movie Marissa and Jeff haven't seen. Afterwards, they bundle up leftovers for Monday's lunch. Sounds old fashioned, right? Let's stop action for a moment and let me demonstrate what really happens. Marissa and Jeff arrive and are mauled by Finnigan while Sophie scrapes unwanted skin cells from Marissa's shins. They plop themselves on the leather section and whip out their Smartphones which ding and howl every ten seconds. Dinner is eaten on their laps between tweets and instant messages, their eyelines rarely straying from their devices. Kids, right? Not so fast. This weekend, we invited a pair of elderly friends over

Like some sort of Alfred Hitchcock character, I usually sit for hours in the rear window of my house reading, writing and watching the crazies who begin to come out of their lairs with the first nip of spring. My neighbor adjacent was standing on his balcony yesterday with a green hat on, beer and smoke in hand, yelling insults and spitting bile onto the walkers on the street below. It's St. Patrick's Day weekend, the time when all the lunatics claim to be Irish. Party on, dudes. The cabin fever has official set in. Yesterday, I bounced from my various stations, all designed with great care to stave off the boredom of an unproductive life. It's been two weeks since I was sacked from my job and I don't know what to do with myself. The four hours I spend writing web junk doesn't cut it. I'm in desperate need of distraction. Scott was working at his part-time drone job at the wine store so I was left to my own devices. Fortunately, the spirit of St. Pa

March seems to be the month you get mad at. We spend all winter looking forward to March and it nearly always disappoints us. This year it's snowy and cold. Most years it's rainy and bleak. Only last year did we sing March's praises only to be let down on this one. We want to be golfing, instead we're still shovelling. The only people who love this weather are the ski lift owners and frankly they can just go fuck themselves. Scott drove me to the hospital yesterday for my MamaGram in a blizzard -- on the highway, a place I never go. We were heading toward Parkdale Avenue in a whiteout and some guy decided he didn't want to take the ramp and dovetailed back into traffic right before our eyes. Then we waited on the ramp because a cop had decided to do a traffic stop. When I left home, we were right on time for my appointment. When we finally got to the Civic campus we were fifteen minutes late. March, the month that always lets us down. The appointment it

Chopper McKinnon passed away this week. Chopper was the vessel through which many people in Ottawa came to know and love folk music. He was also a co-founder of the CKCU Ottawa Folk Festival. Here is an excerpt from our 2004 documentary. Farewell, Chopper. See you in Folk Heaven.

I'm going for a mamm scan today. Wish me luck. I had a mammogram -- they should really spell it MamaGram -- and ultrasound six months ago and the radiologist thought he saw something. They took pictures from all sides -- man, with the size of my breasts wouldn't it be wild if they did this in 3D? Anyhoo, they couldn't definitely find anything, so I'm going back for another blast of rays. I'm okay with it. What's great about the Ottawa Hospital's breast health program is that they let you know right away if there are demons lurking in the old milk ducts. I got to go home with a clean bill last time. Hope for the same today. I used to worry about these things, wring my hands for days before the procedure, lay awake at night with the "what if?" scenarios. I don't anymore. I told Scott last night it's like worrying whether your husband is cheating on you. If he is, there's nothing you can do about it until you see lipstick on

Upon hearing the news that Marc Garneau blasted off from the Liberal leadership race, I glumly posted the following tweet. "Great, now who are we supposed to vote for? I've never even heard of Joyce Murray." Faster than you can say space poop, I received a tweet from Murray's campaign asking me to read her platform and consider supporting her.  I thanked them for their pitch, then pressed delete. Does this make me a bad person? As a long-time lapsed Liberal, a person who once gazed starrily into the aura of Pierre Elliott Trudeau, I don't have the interest, heart or energy to brush up on all things Joyce Murray. Fact is, the woman is seven percent in the polls, compared to Justie who has already scooped up two-thirds of the registered Liberal votes. Like Marc Garneau, I can read the tea leaves. I could easily jump on the Justie bandwagon, but I won't. I'm not voting for him. He doesn't need my vote. He's already driving top-down throu

Really, I don't give a hoot who becomes Pope. Black smoke, white smoke, no smoke, makes no difference to me. My children are all Catholic, but I'm sure if I polled them about the Pope, they would say, 'meh'. The church has never been relevant to their lives. Besides, I have a grudge against the Catholic Church and my own church for that matter. And everybody knows I can hold a grudge a long time. When I married to Mr. Big, I made the decision to raise my kids in his church, mainly because I didn't have a positive connection to my own church, the United Church. I've always wanted a spiritual connection. When I was a little girl, I begged my mom to dress me up all pretty and take me to Sunday school so I could participate in Sunday School and learn about My Lord. Mother was calloused about it all. She agreed to take me -- and dropped me off at the church door. Me, a six year old! I always felt sadness and raw nerves when going up the steps with my lit

From her privileged perch atop the Facebook empire, Sheryl Sandberg is pulling an Oprah. She's asking working women to Lean In , in her words, to her own brand of consciousness raising. According to the New York Times , she wants ambitious females to devote precious hours in their weekly schedule "to absorb the social science showing they are judged more harshly and paid less than men; resist slowing down in mere anticipation of having children; insist that their husbands split housework equally; draft short- and long-term career plans; and join a “Lean In Circle,” which is half business school and half book club." This sounds absolutely exhausting. I watched Sandberg explain her vision on Katie yesterday. She took us through her own heroic struggle to have it all. She told us that it is possible to have a nice family, double degrees and rise to the top like so much silken cream. It is possible, she said. Just do what I say and it will happen . Seems to m

Gordon the Jurassic Pug is still with us. How do we know? You just need to follow the trail of poo. He's somewhat incontinent, you see, so he poops when nature calls, usually while Scott is carrying him out to the back yard. It's like he's a tube of toothpaste; you squeeze him in the middle and it comes out the end. We've been worrying about him, as many of you know, because he's blind, arthritic and somewhat mad, and lives mostly a still life moving only to get a better stop on the sofa. So we've been thinking that it's time for him to take the long walk, but he seems to have perked up. Maybe it's spring. The pooping is a worry of course, and a nuisance. A few weeks ago, he got up, toddled around the bed, turned his back on me and shit on my shoulder. There is nothing, believe you me, more disturbing than to watch a 20 pound pug pinch out loaves directly under your nose. And you know what? You're helpless. You pretty much have to let h

In the wake of the international incident involving BEN AFFLECK and Argo, Canadians received another slap last night. Saturday Night Live inaugurated its Five Time Host Award, complete with smoking jacket, private club and pin and it was full of American comics. That's right, ladies and germs, there were no Canadian members . Well, there were two Canadians in the room-- Dan Ackroyd and Martin Short -- but they were, wait for it, The Help. Yes, indeedy, the former Blue Bro was tending bar while the former Ed Grimley served up snacks. And unlike the American comics, everytime they opened their mouths, they killed. Of course they did. So that's how you're going to play it, eh? Lorne "turncoat" Michaels. Making Canadians the stinky kids. Well let me tell you Americans something. We Canadians will not stand to be ignored. It's time we stood up and counted all the thousands of indentured comics who slave away in your comedy rooms. It's time

For those of you concerned about my mental health, I have one word: chill. It's true I've been a bit down in the dumps of late, and have chosen to go a bit dark with my wordsmithing in this space. I have good reason. I'm contemplating ending the life of my Jurassic Pug, Gordon J. Blackstone because he's got some health problems. I just lost my job this week. Scott's only working part-time, so we're going to have to do some juggling. And I'm going for a mammogram on Friday because the radiologist thought he saw something six months ago. Yeah, all in all, it's been a pretty tough few months. But this is the life of a middle aged freelance writer. It's the only life I've known since my husband up and left me two decades ago with three small children. I lurch from crisis to crisis, chase the phantom job that will one day allow me to go to the dentist and juggle a ball or three. I'm used to it. But I'm not a depressive person by natu

Once again, Galen Weston is in our faces, wearing his blue cashmere sweater and $200 hair cut, telling us all about what a health nut he is. He's pushing Loblaw's Blue Menu products, the ones that have fewer preservatives and artificial colors, less salt and reduced calories. And it's all in the name of reducing ill health and obesity in this country. Please. As a grocery baron, Weston shares much of the blame for causing obesity and ill health. The vast number of things we buy in his grocery store are edibles with ingredients you can't pronounce. The meat is full of additives. The fruit is lacquered with waxy substances that allow you to still gnaw on them weeks later. How does he have the audacity to sell his shit for sunshine on national television? What he's sellin' on television, we ain't buyin. We're still loading up on chips, salted caramel ice cream, Kraft dinner and Campbell's soup. Blue Menu might be healthier, but it'

So yesterday, I was sacked from my sketchy journalism job as editor of the Canadian edition of an international magazine. The one that pays me in Euros. When the publisher feels like it. I saw the writing on the wall this month when I had trouble getting paid. When the cheques stop coming in the magazine business, ladies and germs, it spells trouble. It means the robber barons who own the brand aren't making money, so neither will you. My sacking came at the fingers of a 20 Something Over Educated Spaniard who chided me for not picking up the phone so she could ruin my economic livelihood in person. I thanked her and reminded her she owed me $2,000. Then I sent out courtesy emails to all the organizations which supported our noble effort and suggested they might use my skills and knowledge of everything from Australian Tree Wets to ear hairs. Then I put on the television, tuned into American Idol and got drunk. Not stinking drunk like the old days. I don't do that

We've taken to calling Gordie the Jurassic Pug because he's starting to fossilize. He's all crusty around the eyes and ears and Scott spends a good hour every night cleaning out his facial orifices. He can barely walk, has trouble peeing and is half blind. I swear, at times, he's also demented. With two young dogs in the house, cavorting and chewing and fighting, it's hard not to view Gordie as part of the furniture. He gets up only to eat. He still loves eating. But the light has left his beady little eyes. It's about time to say goodbye. We made the decision last night to cease treatment and allow the little curmudgeon to go toward the light. I'd say he's going to walk the Green Mile, but he can't walk and will have to be carried. Poor little guy. We'll spend the next week or so letting him do all manner of bad things. We'll feed him bacon. He still loves bacon. But before he goes, a retrospective. I'd rather write this

We were just beginning our excellent shopping adventure yesterday, after the dogs had been walked, watered and fed, when a bad thing happened in the Loblaw parking lot. Our beloved Subaru 2000 died. You know the sound, that rur-rur, when the engine won't turn over and you have the same fluttery feeling in your gut? There we were, fists full of heavy bags stuffed with canned goods and milk, feeling very much like the climbers of Everest who had to stop when the air got too thin. Fortunately, we live just four blocks from the Elmvale store and we were able to schlepp home our bags on foot. I had a flashback to the really broke days when I didn't have a car at all. The kids and I had to find a way to get a week's groceries home. If we were lucky, I'd have taxi fare. Otherwise, me and my little ducklings would make the trek on foot. I tried to make it fun. I'd bribe them with candy and suggest that we were living an exciting adventure foraging for our food. The l

We may finally be nearing the end of our battle with Rogers over our telephone charges. A year and a half ago, we signed up for two phones for Nick and Shyla because Shyla was pregnant and needed to keep in touch. She was a high risk pregnancy, so we thought this would be a good idea. Instead of opting for cheap phones, we allowed the pair to get smartphones on our Rogers plan. Now we want to get rid of these phones because they are simply too expensive. Unfortunately, we were told we would have to pay about $1,000 to do so because of the damned phone agreement. This whole debacle has meant that we have severed all ties with Rogers except for the phones. We reduced Shyla's plan to zero and she hasn't had a phone for six months but we're still pay $60 a month for a phone that is basically garbage. A few weeks back, Scott was phoning in a payment and bitching about the whole mess and a nice young man from Rogers gave us an interesting piece of advice I will share with

I have a little test -- it's called a mini-cognition test --that doctors can give to their patients to determine whether they have dementia. It's a simple test (see above) that's a jewel for anybody concerned about a loved one's mental state. Friends of Tom Flanagan might want to administer this test. What other explanation could there be for someone like Flanagan to commit professional suicide as he did this week? Even child molesters or pornographers would be hard pressed to state, at least in public, that those who watch, collect, and capture children in various poses and states of undress aren't deviants. Those who declare so rarely pass their parole hearings. If Flanagan passes the mini-cog, then this is further evidence that something is wrong in the State of Harperland which in the last few years has become chockablock with whoreing, thieving, conniving hangers-on. I suspect it has more to do with the longevity of Harper's reign. It happened t