Rose's Cantina

For the past week, I've had obsessive thoughts about maple syrup and honey. Two weeks ago, I ran out of syrup and I've been waiting for the sap to start drooling out of the maple trees so I can buy a four gallon jug of the stuff. I refuse to buy the teeny tiny jars they're selling at Farm Boy -- the remnants of last year's crop. I'm spoiled, I'll admit it. I live in Ottawa. I'm not a damned tourist! Ditto honey. I don't want any of that Billy Bee stuff they sell in toy bears. I want a jug of the stuff that some poor farmer had to suffer to harvest. Honey is no good unless the farmer can personally show me the sting marks. This morning, I woke up to tired trees heaving from the heavy weight of spring snow. This damned winter is making it tremendously difficult for me, and the sap, to run in the sunshine. The snow is pretty enough. Beats walking the Black Bastard Finnigan in the freezing rain. But I hate it. I actually had to wear my spikes t

In this big and mean world, it's hard to hold on to your beliefs when all around are losing theirs and blaming it on you. It's also hard to believe in people. They are fallible. They let you down. And when good people do bad things, they are punished, often severely, and you wonder a) how could this wonderful person do such a horrible thing and b) why can't we do as the Bible says and forgive them? I've been running these thoughts for about a week now, in the harsh shadow of the public humiliation and downfall of Father Joe LeClair, once beloved priest in Ottawa, now inmate 54601 (or what ever number) at the Ottawa-Carleton Detention Centre. This case has haunted me, as it has many others, since the popular priest was first accused by the Ottawa Citizen of stealing a mountain of cash from his parishioners and throwing it around the Casino Lac Leamy in an apparent drunken stupor. It wasn't his cash; he knew it and he didn't care. His crime started small

The New York Times,  God bless the Old Grey Mare, had diet bloggers binge-eating this week over a new large -- large is important, apparently -- study that revealed that there is no link between the consumption of saturated fat and obesity. What this means for those of you who do not devote your entire afternoon to watching medical chat shows is that you can eat red meat and butter and it won't give you a heart attack. Well, Hail Mary and pass the collection plate. Heck, if it's in the New York Times , it must be true! This is good news, just in time for barbeque season, so fire up the coals and get a big slab of T-bone on the grill along with corn slathered in butter. Hold the suga, Ragtime. Sugar, is the culprit now, not fat. Well, duh. Every cornpone low life knows that if you drink too much Coca Cola -- which according to the Great and Powerful Doctor Oz this week also contains cancer-causing carmel fake food coloring -- it's gonna make your butt into

The media has been a-flutter recently, ever since Quebec media mogul Pikachu Peladeau announced he was running for the Parti Quebecois in this weird winter provincial election. It's like he is some kind of weird Sigfried and Roy character who has mesmerized all the typists and deep thinkers with his bedazzle. Or a Moses who is standing on the banks of the Ottawa River ready to part the waters, once and for all. Quebec will separate, Pikachu has ordained. So it is, and so it shall be, for now and all time. Put on the brakes a minute. Settle down, already. Nobody's going anywhere. The day after we wake up, and the PQ wins, if that happens, the sky will not fall. Poutine will not lose its flavor. Molson Canadian will taste just as good. We've seen his ilk before, he's a paradox. Handsome in that French sort of way, Pikachu is a wearer of shiny Hong Kong suits and slave to meticulous grooming, save for a serious case of bed head. He is a friend of Brian Mulron

I have been called many names in my longish life. One evening out, whilst working in politics, one asshole journalist accused me and my friend of being part of the "cunt club". I've also been called, let's see: a crazy bitch, an idiot, a gossip, a slut, oh yes and ROSIE TITS. That was the name given me by an uppity photographer at the first newspaper where I worked. That's the name I liked the best. I grew up a very sensitive kid, the kind who went to church, believed in God and would not utter one single swear word. That changed, of course, in high school, but I don't believe I ever said "fuck" in front of my mother. High school was where I met up, virtually speaking, with the sage of all swear words, the late, great George Carlin, a man who reveled in saying the Seven Words You Can't Say on Television. You know what they are. I've just mentioned a couple in the paragraphs above, and I know a few bad words George hadn't thought

There was a funny meme going round on the CBC Community page yesterday. "It could be worse," the post suggested over the symbol for Hockey Night in Canada. "We could have this guy." The guy they were talking about was Ben Mulroney, our sad Canadian version of Ryan Seacrest,, the belittled son of disgraced Prime Minister Brian Mulroney, who has become the host of everything from CTV's coverage of the Oscars to our country's failed attempt to launch a homegrown version of Canadian Idol. I have never gotten what the appeal of Bennie was. He has nice teeth, I suppose, though his hair resembles that of Count Chocula and his smarmy nature harkens back to the days of "ya dance with the girl who brung ya." It would have been disturbing to have Vlad the Impaler as the replacement for Ron and Don, the muppet pair who look down from the balcony each weekend on HNIC and reminisce about Bobby Orr. But George Stromboulopoulos?(heretofore referred to as S

I was thinking of Geoffrey Chaucer as I bundled up against the wintry cold the other day, cursing the droghte of March which had perced me to the roote, wishing for April with its shoures soote. Yeah, that Geoff could really turn a phrase. I'm sick of winter. This is the winter I remember from my farm days when I walked two miles to school in boots that made my feet cry. It's not global warming; it's a harkening back to the olden days when winter in Canada made poets weep on pages not yet paid for by the Canada Council. Give me global warming anytime, sister. I'm a woman, I'll take it. I'm not afraid of hurricanes and tornadoes. I live in Ottawa. I fear no backlash from the climate. I'm a middle-dweller. This week, I saw the first sign of spring as I bundled up and headed from my nice and toasty Suzuki into the gymnasty. It wasn't a Robin. There aren't any birds around except the crows that are laying waste to our garbage, sitting as it

Like most folks who qualify for cheap insurance, I have fond memories of travelling the world for business and pleasure, exploring the architecture of Europe, basking in the sun in the Caribbean and attending conferences in exotic climes. I used to love air travel, couldn't get enough of it, loved that petrol smell, felt the anticipation of the rushing aircraft as it took off. Occasionally, I had a bad experience, like the time I got a cheap flight from L.A. to Ottawa only to have a four hour layover in Texas, or the time we got stuck on the tarmac on New Year's Eve, destined for Mexico, when the flight attendant threw a snit and locked himself in the bathroom. Most of the time, I flew Air Canada and I had no quarrels with the airline. Back in the last century, tucking into the early years of this century, I proudly flew on the Canadian bird. That was then. This is now. Whenever I fly, which is rare these days, I try to fly another airline because Air Canada is a

I've been brushing up on my politics this week, and I noticed that, aside from the Ukraine and Toronto Mayor Rob Ford, everybody is talking about one subject: the plight of the middle class. PM Stephen Harper is trying to help out by using one of his tried and true tricks of economics -- income splitting. But he's only intending on trying this one on a hair of the population, namely well-to-do married folks with school aged kids who want mum to stay home and help with math problems. Justin Trudeau has uttered some piffle about the poor down-trodden middle class who "work hard (and deserve) a real chance at success" so they can pay off their debts and retire. "We're also all about freedom," he chirped. "Opportunity and did I mention Laurier?" What? There he goes again with the no sense making. And Tom Mulcair, of course, he's all about the worker bees. That's what the NDP has always stood for. More of the same. As a card-car