Rose's Cantina

My granddaughter turned two weeks yesterday, on her original due date. She arrived early at the ball after the doctors decided to induce her mother to give her relief from gestational diabetes. Newborns are such strange creatures with their big "ready for their closeup" heads and their tiny bodies. Kennedy also has these long pink feet that don't really match. "She's got my feet," my daughter Marissa chuckled. On the day Kennedy was born, Marissa looked up at me and smiled. "I made that," she said with a self-satisfied grin. Yes, you did, I thought . It's the best thing you will ever do. When I had my first baby, I was a hot mess. I didn't know how to do anything. So my husband put my mom on a plane and brought her out to Regina where she showed me the ropes and minded Nicholas while I slept. Maybe it's because we have the Internet now, but Marissa doesn't need me. She's a natural mother, and s

This is my ear. Have a gander at it. It won't look like this for long. A surgeon is going to take a hunk out of it to get rid of an aggressive cancerous lump that's been growing there for years. I didn't notice it because I didn't know what basel carcinoma was. I just thought I had dermatitis. That's what the doctor said I had, too. Bad, bad doctor. Give me your medical licence. Hand it over, right now. I don't have dermatitis, or a bed sore. I have full blown cancerama. The good news is that there's an innovative technique being used here in Ottawa, called the Mohs Technique, which involves shaving and cutting off the cancer while a pathologist sits by and monitors the procedure. When the pathologist rules the cancer is gone, the surgeon stops. Holy shit! That is so cool. I'm still going to be missing part of my ear, which is not at all cool, but I'm okay with that. I could simply adopt a new hair style, join the Red Hats, or find s

Embed from Getty Images My old boss in the Prime Minister's Office was fond of hauling me up on the blue carpet several times a day for various infractions. We worked in the correspondence division, Peggy had very high standards, and I was a sloppy hot mess back in those days. I'd stand there, and stutter. Or I'd make an excuse, or apologize. After a few minutes, Peggy would glare at me. "Stop grovelling, Rose." Her words came crawling back into my head as I watched Tom Mulcair standing on the stage during the NDP convention. His face was contorted and strange. It was as if he were a character in one of those Kindergarten books, the ones that were cut into three different strips, so you could take the eyes on one person and put them on another. His mouth was almost leering, with a strange side smile, and his eyes were glistening and small. I swear to God, his beard got greyer as he pleaded with delegates to keep him on to fight another day

Twenty-six minutes. That's how long it takes to get a hot dog at a chip truck, or to exchange a sweater at Winner's. And that's how long it took my newest granddaughter to pop into this world, after giving her mother nothing but trouble for the last four months. One minute Marissa's cervix was a centimetre and the next, Kennedy Rose was shooting out of her womb like a torpedo. No time, not even for the good drugs. It was the Kennedy Express. The docs called it a Precipitous Delivery, and it only happens in about 2 percent of deliveries. For this "express delivery" to occur, there has to be a perfect storm of genetic and physical factors: an above-average "pelvic outlet" a well-aligned pelvis, pubic bone and birth canal an unusually small baby a well positioned baby a female relative who also experienced fast labors. I had to think on the last one. Then I recalled that my mother Vera gave birth to my brother Gary i

Embed from Getty Images Scott and I entered the Chinese Year of the Monkey with great expectations. This was gonna be our banner year. Wealth, wisdom, maybe a little mirth -- we were on our way. So we celebrated Scott's 60th birthday in high style, thanks to my son Stefan who treated us to a buffet of wonderful treats at Kelsey's, where Stef and his girlfriend Angele work. He also bought us wine, beer, and a bit of whiskey. Indeed, the Chinese New Year was off to a great start. We're both Monkeys, 1956 edition, in the Year of the Monkey. What could possibly go wrong? Lots, it seems. Since the beginning of the year, Scott has meandered from one bad job to the next. My own employment is also in peril, as the Canadian publishing entity where I edit medical journals has been bought by a company from India. That means instead of having monthly paycheques now, pay day is always a surprise. As in, surprise! No cheque this month! Things aren't looking up f

My granddaughters will never know their great grandpapa who died last month at the age of 95. Those who did know him would never forget him. If I'd written a Most Memorable Character for Reader's Digest , I would have written about the father of my children's father, Carlyle Gagnier. He truly was one of a kind. I wanted to get down a few memories for my grandkids in case they asked their parents about him one day. My kids were young the last time they saw him, only teenagers. They lost him to marital estrangement and it is a guilt I carry with me always. Here goes. Carlyle was born in February 24, 1921, the same day as my own sainted mother who passed away more than two decades ago. Carl was one of gaggle of Gagnier children including Patrick, Armand and Marquita. As the legend goes, his French Canadian father married his Irish mother who spoke no French whatsoever. Kathleen spent her life among the French not understanding anybody, including her own husban

Sophie the pug woke me up this morning scratching her left ear, and panting. This is a regular occurrence when you live among the coneheads, those dogs with allergies. Fawn pugs seem to be most vulnerable to the call of the mould that has laid dormant under the patches of ice in our backyard. Sophie's allergies are the worst I've encountered as a pug whisperer. She spends nearly her entire life under the big blue cone, one that extends to twice the size of her face. She's graduated from the smaller, clear cone thanks to her pug predilection for increased girth despite the fact she's been on a strict diet of salmon or duck laced kibble that costs a King's ransom, but fortunately can be found at Costco for half the price. The blue cone is causing her problems. She can't get up the stairs without it catching so I've often founded her flailing about at the bottom of the front stairs, under the watchful and, I swear, amused eye of Finnigan. She's re

Embed from Getty Images Dear Ottawa Employers: I am writing on behalf of my husband who has been videographer and journalist for more than 30 years. I would be grateful if you would consider giving him a job. (Except for call centre. I don't want him to kill himself.) To quote Henny Youngman: "Take my husband, please." Scott took early retirement from the CBC about a decade ago to pay off his ex-wife, and get rid of her. He gave her a house and $100,000. (Many of you employers, I'm sure, can relate.) In turn, she called the Canadian Blood Services, where he had donated platelets more than 100 times. She told them he was a gay, intravenous drug user. As his wife of 14 years, I can swear an oath that he is none of the above. Unfortunately, her claim resulted in his expulsion from the program, and he is no longer able to  donate blood and platelets, resulting in the Canadian Blood Services losing a valued contributor and life-saver. After Sco

I wrote this blog a year ago after Bill Grimshaw completed his photo essay book about Jamaica. Sadly, he passed away recently. Six years ago, Ottawa news photographer Bill Grimshaw set out on a journey that would change his life, and his view of the world. He became fascinated with the culture of Jamaica, and followed his nose into the nooks and crannies of this fascinating island, to meet with the average folk, and get to know what made them tick. The result is a fabulous book he's just completed entitled Rastafari Safari . It's a journey in photographs punctuated by the words of the people themselves in song and poetry. Most of us know Bob Marley and Peter Tosh but few of us are aware of the unsung superstars of song in Jamaica, people like Cat Coore, who founded the Third World Band 43 years ago and the child star turned musical legend Errol Dunkley whose song Black Cinderella still echoes through the Big Yard in Arnett Gardens. As tourists, we are ha

Those young whipper snappers who run with Justin Trudeau might think that they invented the politics of joy in Canada. They would be wrong. We did. Yesterday, I met up with my former colleagues from the Trudeau Liberal era. I haven't seen these bad actors for 30 years, and I haven't laughed so long and hard as I did last night in all that time. We all worked together for a few years for the Liberal Party of Canada at a time when you were never quite sure your paycheque would be honored. These were ugly times in the early 80s after Pierre was resurrected, and before his walk in the snow. These were the days of endless wrangling over the patriation of the Constitution, Trudeau's quest for peace, and the boneheadedness of the National Energy Program. My job was to write the propaganda that was sent out to the Liberal "militants' in the form of the badly monikered ad Lib newspaper. I would write lies, half-truths, nosestretchers, anything tha