Rose's Cantina

Tonight is the season finale of Downton Abbey, the show everybody else is watching who doesn't have Netflix. Like most people who adore public television, I have been a loyal subject, though I admit to be getting a tich weary of its meanderings, not to mention the colors teal and mauve. Surely, the wealthy at the turn of the century could have afforded a little pig's blood. Anyway, this season has become a bit ridiculous, not like the shocker from the previous season which involved the expedition of three characters, the result of contract disputes or boredom. Downton is becoming a tired soap opera of church bazaars, endless, faceless and uninteresting suitors and agrarian discussions. Should Downton diversify from sheep to pigs? Should the pudding be fig or bread? It's all getting so pedestrian, what with all the milling, drinking and eating. And standing. In tails. And smoking. Even Maggie Smith can't save Downton Abbey , though she certainly is a troup

Forty years go today, Tim Horton wiped out in his sportscar near my St. Catharines home. The rest is history. Poor Tim didn't get to enjoy the spoils of the Tim Horton empire. Apparently, his business partner did very well by him. Then so did Dave Thomas, late of Wendy's. And now that l'll red headed girl has cashed in, and is wearing cashmere sweaters and talking on television about burgers with more than a hundred grams of fat. I don't think she's as good a huckster as her dad. Apparently, unlike Dave, Wendy's not very good at driving traffic. So they've replaced her with a younger redhead who runs around extolling the virtues of slabs of cow tucked into ciabiatta bread. It's just so darned adorable. But I digress. Dave sold the company back to a Canadian company a few years back. Or did Wendy? I think Dave was dead by then and I'm too darned lazy to google it. Anyway, this blog is not about the ownership of Tim's, it's about a ser

In the end, I've realized, genetics win. Genetics and middle age. I was recently thumbing through the family album looking at my Aunties and saw myself in those wonderful women, those Scottish shortbreads with the pug faces in house dresses. Fashion-wise, there were good reasons women wore house dresses. They were cool when you didn't have air conditioning, they were inexpensive because the only shapes were made by cinching and darts, and you could let them out easily when your body started giving out. In my Aunties' day, there were no expensive gyms to go out, no plastic solutions to be had, only house dresses and sensible shoes. Aunties weren't athletic, but they worked hard, used something they called elbow grease, got on their hands and knees several times a week to scrub unscrubbable floors, hung clothes on the line instead of throwing them into the dryer, and cranked their own windows in cars. Their weight in middle age couldn't be explained by their e

My husband Scott put this video together way back in 2007 when my daughter Marissa was moving out of home. It's a wonderful look back at my life with my kids and the dogs. Made me tear up seeing Hannah as a puppy. If you have kids still at home, I hope you take the time to spend Family Day together. Before you know it, they'll be putting you in a home.  

CBC reported this week that an Ottawa therapist turned aesthetician has been doing face lifts and nose jobs in her home. Eve Stewart, who advertises heavily on local television, admits she's not a medical doctor, but somehow believes that she is within her rights to do procedures that doctors need a licence -- and 12 years worth of training -- to perform. Stewart, who owns a spa in her lavish home in Westboro, also does cosmetic laser work and gives Botox and dermal fillers to her customers (not patients, as I said, she's not an MD). She says she receives supervision from a medical doctor, though the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Ontario has been unable to locate said doctor. According to CBC Ottawa , the college is trying to get an injunction to stop Stewart from doing surgeries for which is not trained or certified, procedures which include, wince, something called vaginal beautification. Meanwhile, women are lining up for her services, apparently. It's just

Hello: Goodbye.

PGX is a weird and wonderful concoction. You've probably heard about it especially if you are a devotee of programs like The Biggest Loser. Essentially, PGX is a form of natural fibre. When taken in shakes, capsules or powder forms, it expands in your stomach making you feel full. You can take it as a drink, swallow the caps or sprinkle it into your soups or on your cereal. It is not a liquid diet and it is all natural, not like diet pills and many of the dangerous supplements out there. It's meant to provide a natural and sensible support for your weight loss or maintenance regime. This makes good sense. Remember when Oprah Winfrey lost all that weight and smugly carted out a hundred pounds of lard in a wheel barrow? Oprah was at her skinniest when she was on a liquid diet. Trouble was, once she was exposed to mac and cheese washed down by Moscow Mules she quickly gained back her weight and doubled it. Healthy people should not be on liquid diets. My mom was on on

There's no place like home. Right Ontario? You can sample fine wines, jump into hot tubs, go parasailing on Lake Ontario, eat in cool restaurants, shop in neat stores. Huh. I can't do any of these things because I have to pay my Hydro bill which is now over $700 every billing cycle. Four years ago, when we moved into this house, it was around $300, which meant we had $400 to go towards our other bills: phone, Internet, heating. Now we have to find that extra $400. We've done everything we could to reduce our spending. We cut right back on our discretionary spending, things like cable and Internet. We renegotiated our cell phone plans. We never go out anymore, either. But right now, the cost of Hydro -- along with a 100 percent jump on our water and sewer bill -- has meant we're having to cut back on food. Splurging used to mean a night on the town or a terrific holiday. Today it means paying full price for meat at the grocery store. The thing about it is, t

All I can say is THANK GOD THE CBC GOT THE OLYMPICS BACK. No more Ben Mulroney. No more Tanya Kim. Just fricking fantastic coverage. If you get a chance, catch the documentary on Mark McMorris, the Regina kid who kicked Shaun White's butt at Slopestyle. Poor Shaun. He got cold feet. The New York Times wasted an entire Magazine front on him and how he was taking his millions to challenge the Slopestyle. Shaun took one look at the Slopestyle at Sochi and decided to pack it in. Too dangerous, he said. Not for this 19-year-old who will put Regina on the map. Suck it, Shaun White.  

I woke up in the middle of the night, as I sometimes do, in an agitated state worrying that the neighbors might firebomb my garage after I ratted them out to bylaw. I ratted them out to bylaw because they are running some kind of illegal operation, either a business or a school, which requires at least a hundred minivans to pull up a day and block my driveway. You might ask: why don't you go and talk to them directly? The reason is simple. I don't actually think anyone lives in the house. There are streams of young people, including children, going into and out of the house but I haven't identified one single person who seems to be a resident of the pile. So who, exactly, does one ask? As a result of the congestion, the street is turning dangerous especially after a snowfall when the plows are trying to negotiate the street. Plows can't exactly weave in and out of a sea of minivans, especially ones that are parked in the middle of the street. Also, the garbage gu

      Looking after the elderly is often a thankless job. They don't seem at all grateful for it especially Lord Blackstone who is constantly whining and kvetching if his routines aren't followed to the letter.   Since his stroke, Gordie requires servants to help him with all his rituals. Here is his valet, Mr. Bates, helping him pee.      He also requires a specially-designed feeding station and a cook, Mrs. Patmore, to make sure his dietary needs are met and his pills are dispensed. Still, he is never quite satisfied with his food. All in the name of duty.

One of the great things about municipal governments is that, generally, they get things done smoothly and in consultation with the residents who elect them. It's not always the case, but if a decision has to be made it gets made or residents can walk up to the mayor and give him an earful at whatever meeting, ribbon cutting or celebration he is attending. Not so in Ottawa where many of the decisions about the aesthetics of the place are made by people who don't even live here, have never lived here and will never lived here. That's because the National Crapital Commission TM has its ball in nearly every play. Its board of directors is made up of people you and I have never heard of, with the exception of former Mayor Jackie Holzman and Chairman Russ Mills who was dumped as publisher of the Ottawa Citizen a few years back. There are 13 cogs in the NCC wheel who live elsewhere. That's nearly twice as many people on the Board who live in Vancouver or Montreal and co