Rose's Cantina

  For years, I made tens of dollars writing about fashion for the Ottawa Citizen . I've even appeared as a model in the same newspaper. But I have a secret. I am a terrible dresser. Terrible. I'm saying terrible. Yoga pants by winter, cargoes by summer. I'm Laura Petrie except fatter and with boobs. I have ill-fitting t-shirts from places I have never visited, courtesy of Value Village. About twenty of them. Ten pairs of guy's gym shorts. Sneakers, morning, noon and night. Sue me, I'm a shut-in. My fear of fashion is well known to my friends. Donna Andrew is blunt about it. She once referred to me as the Fashion Anti-Christ. And now, I am firmly in the sights of fashion expert Tim Gunn, whom I revere and adore. Tim told ABC News recently that the worst fashion faux pas is wearing capris pants. There goes the neighborhood! I have 12 pairs in different colors, including a pair of cargo capris, which Tim considers a fashion crime. I feel the

That #WHCD was pathetic. The rest of America is out there working our asses off while these DC assclowns throw themselves a #nerdprom — Sarah Palin (@SarahPalinUSA) April 28, 2013 I myself CANNOT get enough of Sarah Palin. Notice she used the word "assclown" and "ass" in one Tweet. She must have learned to write from the New York Times. Guess she was more than steamed for not getting invited. I feel a little trip down memory lane is in order...

There's an hilarious story in the Globe and Mail , the paper that fun usually forgets, about the Harper government's obsession with spending your tax dollars to bring the War of 1812 to homes across this great land in the form of Hollywood style commercials. The story reveals that little Harpos at the "Centre" became obsessed with continuity and rung their hands raw over the smallest details of the battle including the color and texture of Laura Secord's cape. (I would have colored it chocolate!) Anyways, the story brought back memories of Grade school field trips from my beloved St. Catharines home to Niagara-on-the-Lake where we got eat a bagged lunch and ogle the Brock monument. As kids, we put up with this nonsense because our real reward was to continue on to Niagara Falls where the real fun was at Madame Tussaud's and Ripley's Believe it or Not! I do not recollect much about the War of 1812, but I cannot forget seeing my first shrunken hea

I'm having a pretty good day so far, considering the world ended at approximately 5:45 this a.m. Not really sure how it ended, as I woke up before the big "whatever" occurred. I think it involved something from space, maybe a really big toilet seat. Bruce Willis was not available for comment. I woke up in the middle of this dream, and remember someone telling me that we had two days before the Earth burned up like a Zippo lighter. I think I spent the two days looking for the dogs who had escaped. Other than that, I don't think I did anything at all. It made me wonder this morning: if the world were coming to an end, how would I spent my last couple of days? Aside from crying on the commode. I couldn't do the usual things, like watching premium cable as I assume the people who put such things on the air would be running to and fro, not giving a shit whether Rose missed the last episode of The Big C (spoiler alert! Laura Linney dies). And the Internet

She wanted it and she got what she deserves. That's what Christie Blatchford is intimating in her column today about Rehtaeh Parsons. Please read the response from her father to Blatchford's allegations (below). I have only one thing to say. Christie Blatchford is a throwback. And someone should throw her back into the cesspool from which she rose. This morning I woke up and read an article in the National Post about Rehtaeh’s case. I’m not upset or mad. A little disappointed maybe. The writer, Christie Blatchford makes a few statements I would like to address. “What they had was a complainant whose evidence was all over the map, independent evidence that supported the notion that any sex was consensual, and no evidence that Rehtaeh was so drunk that she couldn’t consent: The case was a mess.” ~ Christie Blatchford “What they had was a complainant whose evidence was all over the map,…” Rehtaeh was intoxicated at the time and she has always stated she couldn’t r

Grandma, what's this, here in the box? Why, it's a newspaper, Skylar. Newspaper, what's that? It was something people used to read usually in the morning with their coffee. You mean, like their iPad? Yep, exactly, except the words were printed on big sheets of paper that smelled like ink. Who wrote the words, Grandma? Reporters. What were reporters? They were writers who wrote stories about people and things that happened in the world. What are writers? Writers were people who shared their experiences by writing them down and people would read them. On paper? Yes, on paper. Why would they do that, Grandma? That seems like a big waste of paper when all you have to do is turn on the computer or your iPad. And all the stories I know about I saw on television. Yes, dear, I know, it sounds a bit old-fashioned. Like those books over there. I know, Grandma, I keep telling my friends that you have books but they don't believe me. Nobody has books in their

In its annual job survey, CareerCast.com reported that the worst job in America is being a newspaper reporter. I am reporting this as a public service for all those graduating journalism students from my alma mater, Carleton University. Good luck in your new career. Then again, how could that possibly be? What about crime scene clean-up crews, janitors, school teachers? Why is the newspaper reporter the worst job? "Ever-shrinking newsrooms, dwindling budgets and competition from Internet businesses have created very difficult conditions for newspaper reporters, which has been ranked as this year's worst job," says CareerCast.com. "Consumers can access online news outlets almost anywhere thanks to technological advancements, which are threatening the existence of traditional print newspapers. As a result, the number of reporter jobs is projected to fall 6% by 2020, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), while average pay is expected to co

There is a new study from the geniuses at CHEO which says that kids should have one hour of exercise every day and they should limit their screen time to two hours. I wonder how much the taxpayer paid for this study. I could have told you this, if only you'd asked. Did we need a study to tell us this? Any mom could tell you that our kids are fat and lazy. What I'd like to see is some kind of strategy to get the kids off the couch. In my day, that strategy included a bull whip, lube and perhaps some brussel sprouts. We live in a Pillsbury Dough Boy society where kids are coddled and entitled. They are given every indulgence. Just try to pry the controller out of a braindead kid's fingers. Just try it. Kids aren't interested in exercise. They want others to do it for them, as in soldiers and ninjas. So how are we supposed to enforce this? Come on, Johnny, let's go to the park. To do what? Let's throw a ball around. You throw a ball around. No

    I've got nothing today. For that reason, I provide this humorous interlude. Enjoy.    

Breakfast alert! If you are eating, don't read this. Let your breakfast settle first, maybe take a nice walk. Ahem. The kids were over for Sunday Supper last night, as usual, and Scott was busy in the kitchen preparing the rest of the pork goulash. I say "the rest" because earlier in the day, Finnigan the lab, aka The Black Bastard had eaten the better part of a pound of juicy, raw Ontario pork. Anyway, we were watching the Beyonce documentary, wondering what planet she was from and where could we get us some of that planet, when it happened. Gordie the pug was sitting quietly on my lap when I detected a smell. I called for Scott and paper towel. "What happened?" "Gordie shit in my hand." I presented the evidence, three perfectly moulded nuggets of poo. Dr. Oz would be proud! Actually, the scat showed evidence of slight dehydration. I made a mental note to discuss this with Dr. Cohen at Gordon's next visit. Let's recap. Gordie

Scott and I took the hounds to Conroy Pit, our beloved dog park. What a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the path was nearly dry. And the smell! Looks like the takeover of the National Crapital Commission by Heritage Canada is going smoothly. Or maybe a decision has been made to move the Carp garbage dump to the dog park. Somebody do something!

Dear Justin Trudeau: We know that you are a little light in the loafers when it comes to policy, and given I am one of the editors of the original Red Book (true story!), I have a policy idea for you. It will save Canadians money once a year, and it will make everyone's life a lot simpler. This weekend, many Canadians will be gathering up their tax files and installing Turbo Tax, then e-filing their taxes. Wait. Let's rewind. This time of year, everyone will be scrambling to get themselves to a big box store and get the cheapest version there is of Turbo Tax (80-140 bucks). Alternatively, they will be getting themselves to a tax preparer (accountant, Money Mart, H&R Block) and handing over boxes of receipts. Then somebody will e-file it for them, and give them a juicy refund right on the spot. Or in Nick's case, they will cheerfully announce that the government is taking their refund for pay off back debt. That will be fifty bucks! Sigh. I believe that t

Exactly why hasn't Commander Chris Hadfield won an Order of Canada? Same reason Stephen Harper is still Prime Minister. Canadians are idiots. Meanwhile, here's my dedication to the Space Cowboy. Long live bodily fluid living inside your suit.  

    If an Oscar were handed out for best director of the Boston massacre it would not be handed to the terrorists at its epicentre. Nor would it be given to media who lined the streets of Boston and Watertown, presenting us with every morsel of truth or untruth. It wouldn't even be given to first responders who risked life and limb to take down the Brothers Tsarnaev. Nope. If there were an Oscar given for best director, it would be handed to the Internet which influenced absolutely every part of this horrible passion play. It all began with Tamerlan's web flirtation with terror and extremism. The Internet was the place he met and bonded with terror. It was the place he became a home cook, with recipes made from ball bearings and nails, all concocted in a pressure cooker the way Martha Stewart might make a pot roast. Once the horrible pot was stirred, and the bombs dropped, the World Wide Web spread the news of the unthinkable horror, with ghastly pictures of men, wome

The tragedies unfolding in the United States over the last 48 hours remind us of the sacrifices made by first responders. In Boston, they risked their lives to save those blown apart by terrorists in the Boston Marathon and in the subsequent fire fight which left one police officer dead and another fighting for his life. In West Texas, five firefighters lost their lives and many others were missing or injured. A few year ago, Scott and I made this video to honor firefighters who died in the line of duty in Canada. The country may be different, but the sacrifices are the same. God bless and thank you.  

All I can say is thank goodness for pay-tv and American television. It's pretty hard to stomach Canadian channels these days as they are being polluted by the Harper Government and it's so-called Economic Action Plan, which might be creating business for SnapOn tools, but is otherwise doing squat for most of us. Especially career women. As Dorothy said to the wizard: "I don't think there's anything in that bag for me." It just steams me that so many of our tax dollars are being spent on these damned ads. You can't watch one single half hour of television without seeing some feel good bullshit that Harper is selling. And it's getting even worse with the Justin Trudeau ads. I have no opinion about Justin Trudeau. I suppose that Harper's death star ads are therefore aimed at me, to remind me that Trudeau the younger is inexperienced and, at various times in his life, has mispoken himself. I have news for the focus testers. The

Only in Canada could Rita MacNeil have become a big star. If she'd been in the U.S., she might have gotten a shot on PBS, but mostly only people in her own region would have known her. But here, we treated Rita -- who died today -- as a national treasure. Her Christmas specials were made years ago, but they are replayed every year. Apparently, they still get big numbers. Rita MacNeil became a star -- and stayed a star -- in Canada because we're a bit old fashioned. We look beyond what's on the surface and see the radiance below. And we also have a national broadcaster that reflects our Canadian values. I haven't watched the CBC for many years -- it hasn't been on my radar, what with 57 other channels of nothingness to enjoy -- but it must be credited with being in tune with the psyche of the "ordinary" Canadian who lives in Kamloops or Sydney Mines. The CBC still reflects the decency of this great land and showcases people and places that would nev

On a warm summer's night in June 1984, I sat my office at the corner of Wellington and Metcalfe watching Pierre Trudeau's last address to the Liberal Party of Canada. All of my colleagues were gathered to hear him in person at the Ottawa Civic Centre. As a consultant, nobody had bothered to think of me when the tickets were handed out, and I was too proud to beg. So I walked down to the Press Club and bought a six pack from Denny, then took it back to the Langevin Block. It was just me, a few commissionaires and a lone RCMP officer rattling around the stately old caramel building. There weren't many of us left in Trudeau's office after he took his long walk on a cold night. There had been a lot of excitement among the Liberal faithful who were eagerly jostling for new digs with a new leader. Perhaps it was a career killer, but I chose to stay with Trudeau until the very end. It just seemed like such an outstanding moment in history and I wanted to drink it in.

Yesterday night Justin Bieber visited the Anne Frank House, together with his friends and guards. Fans were waiting outside to see a glimpse of him. He stayed more than an hour in the museum. In the guestbook he wrote: "Truly inspiring to be able to come here. Anne was a great girl. Hopefully she would have been a belieber." That's it. Take away his passport. Justin Bieber, on behalf of Canada, I unfriend you!  

  The Prime Minister said it best. What happened to Rehtaeh Parsons was not bullying. It was sexual assault. Made even worse by the fact that the act was played over and over on the Internet, forcing the young victim to take matters into her own hands. Now it's your turn, Nova Scotia. With the victim now in abstentia, will you finally stand up for Rehtaeh? And for all the women, girls and boys who are waiting in line to be victimized? Rape. Sexual assault. Bullying. Cyberstalking. It's not about sex. It's not about humilation. It's about power. Rehtaeh Parsons lost her battle. In death, she tragically took back her power. Those boys can't hurt her anymore. But they still have her death on their hands. In turning your back on Rehtaeh, so do you, Nova Scotia. Do the right thing.  

Anderson Cooper has completely missed the mark on Korea. He thinks the little dictator with a mushroom cut to match his nuclear dreams is a threat to our free world. Anderson Cooper would be wrong. It's this guy. He has a new song out, as you can see. My granddaughter -- who is one -- insists that her Dad play him constantly. My day is officially ruined. Pssst. If you play it backwards, it says Josh Groban is dead.

This winter reminds me of days of yore, when we Canadians were still slipping and sliding in spring. We were tough back then. Walked a hundred miles to the one room school house. Played shinny on the pond even though sometimes we fell through. Drank from stubbies and rolled our own. Then came the greenhouse effect. Suddenly, we were barbecuing in January. So I'm a little glad that the good old days have returned. So much for the greenhouse effect. Here. Not so much in the U.S. where God is once again using her mystical sense of humor to turn farms into parking lots and trailers into tin cans. Vicious. She must be really pissed off. My condolences on your trailers. Seriously. But I am here, sipping my Chai with the dogs at my feet. I'm wearing shorts, too. I'm not worried. Sure it's snowing outside. But it will be 30 degrees and summer next Wednesday. In the meantime, here's a good old fashioned Canadian musical interlude from DJ Rosalita to get

I am posting this blog from the father of Rehtaeh Parsons, the 17-year-old who took her own life after being drugged, sexually abused and humiliated on social media. This is for all the girls and boys who have been victimized, held up to ridicule and been forced into the unthinkable situation -- suicide. This is also for all the school officials who did nothing. Every day, children take their own lives because they feel they have no option, no hope, no escape from pain. Our family knows the pain of teen suicide. My son's friend Michelle took her own life at 19. We are forever scarred. Please share this with your own children. Talk about it with them. Heed the warnings, get them help, hold them close. There but for the Grace of God... This is a post from the blog of Glen Canning , Rehtaeh Parsons’s father, in response to media inquiries about his daughter’s death. Canning posted this on April 10. My daughter was three years old when we went to watch Babe: Pig in th

  I'm not sure who is more excited to see Oprah -- Graham Richardson or Jim Watson. They were both gushing about her on the news yesterday. Our metrosexual mayor was even proudly showing off a Sens jersey with a big O on it. Looked like a big fat zero to me. The stories in the media are completely over the top this morning. Twitter is, well, atwitter, with news that a group of "foreskin" activists are planning to protest her visit because at one point, she supported a cosmetic company that used baby foreskins to create cosmetics. Ewww. This story appears to be somewhat bogus. While the company has admitted that baby penis cast off cells were used in the original research, it states in a press release that it does not use them in the cream itself . They were being used as some kind of plumping agent, perhaps. Ewww. I'm not too concerned about this story, as I am Pro foreskin removal. I had both my boys' chopped off. I have no use for foreskin. A b

@ rosalita54 Maybe.... Maybe not.. — James Purefoy (@JamesPurefoy) April 9, 2013 Okay, okay. I may be an old broad but I still get excited when I get a nice Tweet from a cool actor. James Purefoy, the star of The Following , had just wrapped the season and tweeted about it. The Following is a must see for anyone who loves serial killers, especially hot ones, which are in short supply these days. Purefoy's character, Joe Carroll, is a sinister killer, in the tradition of Charles Manson, who has a cult following of cops, nannies and fauxmosexuals. He's terrific in the role. I sent him this Tweet and he was nice enough to reply. Thanks JP. You rock. I'm still waiting to hear from Ricky Gervais, another Brit. He never writes back to me, ever. A self-professed athiest, Ricky only replies to hate Tweets from Godseekers. Apparently.  

You see this apartment building? We live down the street from it. The police are there sometimes twice a week. Ottawa fire, too. Last year, we called the cops because the yahoo yelling on the right balcony was also lighting fire works right in the street on Canada Day. And menacing, he's always menacing women and children who walk by. See these guys by the car? They were protecting the car while their boss went in. You know they weren't up to good. I watch them from my rear window each day, the place I sit to write my blog. Sometimes I take pictures and send them to the police. Let's call me Neighborhood Watch. Last night, I saw pictures of this building on the local news. It seems last spring and early summer, this building was a party palace housing sex slaves as young as 13 years old. Girls from my neighborhood, girls lured by Facebook into prostitution. How did I not see that? How did the cops not find them when they are at that building every single w

What a day. Two icons to mourn. Margaret Thatcher and Annette Funicello. I never liked Margaret Thatcher's policies, though I admired her. But I really admired Annette Funicello in How to Stuff a Wild Bikini. I have never been able to rock a bikini. Never. Not even when I was twelve. RIP, ladies. Both of you are now free of pain and illness. Have a beach party. Save a blanket for Dennis.  

His locks flying, the Prince did a little two-step with the missus just before his final speech to the Party faithful and the yawning media. The Prince was home, where he belonged. It's been forty years since the King received his Crown, nearly twenty-odd since the King set down his golden chalice and sped off into the sunset leaving his kingdom fractured and in disarray. That day, the subjects remember well. Half the country was mourning, the other half rejoicing. "The King is dead," said the detractors. "Long live the King," said his supporters. For ten years, the land has been sleeping under the strong arm of the dastardly Sheriff of Calgary who rode into town to take advantage of the vaccuum and play the odd tune on the piano. It's time, the people said, yesterday. It's His Time. And so the nation waits with breath bated until the Prince can muster his forces and vanquish the Sheriff. There is much work to be done. Must gas to be spill

Once a week, usually on the weekend, I agree to eat a totally unhealthy dinner. It's a compromise, and I'm usually disgusted by the outcome. Last night, we ate a Buffalo Wing-style pizza from McCain and chicken wings the size of nuclear test turkeys. It was a totally bleach blonde mess with not one speck of green. Don't get this brand of pizza, I'm warning you. It is the most disgusting piece of shit I've had in sometime. The only discernible taste is that of Frank's Hot Sauce, which apparently is its selling point. The wings weren't bad, though they were breaded to look not unlike Arnold Schwarzenegger, all puffed out like peacocks, bursting with water and steroids. Because I eat healthy, my palate is not used to such excesses of salt, sugar and Frankendough, which usually leave me with a hangover that can be vanquished only by a gallon and a half of water at 3 a.m. As I said, the Saturday Night Special is a compromise, my effort to appease the

Last night, Canada got a big lecture from Brian Williams, the host of 30 Rockafeller Center.   Williams gave us an earful about how Canadians don't appreciate Chris Hadfield, Canada's favorite space cadet. Before Hadfield, nobody gave a crap about the Space Station. Now everybody wants to go.   The NBC host showed clips of the the Space Station commander talking to the kids about space tooth paste and how to make a sandwich in zero gravity. We saw the awesome pictures Hadfield has taken. We even heard a tune or two. I mean what can't the guy do?   At the end of the piece, Williams made an impassioned plea for Canadians to honor our spaceman with the tiny little pin and medal.   The Order of Canada.   What? You mean Chris Hadfield does not have the Order of Canada?   Why did we not know this?   It's not like it's hard to get one.   You just need to be nominated and not be a criminal.   You don't have to be a great person to g

Oprah's coming to Ottawa next week! In honor of her visit, I am reposting this blog I wrote back in August 1, 2011. At that time, Oprah was looking for the "quintessential Canadian". Enjoy! Note to readers: This is an actual form you can fill out on oprah.com. I am not making this up. If you want to participate in this contest, please follow the link, here. Otherwise read on. Live in Montreal? We Want to Hear From You! We want to know what life is like in Montreal for a typical Canadian family and how it’s different from those of us in the United States. How is your daily routine different from a typical Americans? Are there customs or traditions you follow that are unique to your family, Montreal or Canada? Does your family speak French at the dinner table? Are you a hockey fanatic? How is Montreal different from say life in Cleveland, Ohio? If you or someone you know is the quintessential Canadian, we want to hear from you! Tell us your story. If we were t