Rose's Cantina

It's been seven months since Ashley Simpson left her home in Salmon Arm, disappearing into thin air. My Christmas wish for her family is that they will have some news, but it's not looking good. I thought of this song, a war time song, that was penned for all those families who were missing their loved ones during the holidays. I dedicate it to her family, and pray for news soon.

Embed from Getty Images On a dark and crisp morning, last November, too early even for the murder of crows that normally hovers over the Ottawa Hospital, my friend Jennette and I joined a steady stream of haggard looking souls padding into the Ottawa Cancer Centre. Some people looked frightened, others simply dazed, and few looked bloody famished. My soul cried out for coffee, but it seemed rude to slurp a Starbucks in front of the unfortunates who had been fasting for hours. So I just doodled on my iPad and watched the sleepy bunch try to amuse themselves. There we sat, the friends and relatives of the cancer gang, clutching on to our loved ones or trying to be chill, reading Smart Phones, flipping through old magazines, or watching the CBC News with no sound. This was a shitty place to cool your heels. We all have that memory of our first surgery. Mine was tonsils, pretty pedestrian stuff. But on that morning, my six-year-old memory muscle transported me to the operat

Embed from Getty Images Once I read a story about a butterfly in the subway, and today I saw one. I couldn't believe it. It got on at 42nd -- and got off at 59th, where I assume it was going to Bloomingdale's to buy a hat that will turn out to be a mistake. As almost all hats are. -- Nora Ephron When I was younger, I used to wear baseball caps all the time. I loved them. When I got into my 50s, I realized that the only baseball caps made for women my age were bedazzled, and were accompanied by pot bellies in velour track suits. That ended my love affair with baseball hats. I haven't worn a hat since. I don't like them. They give me sweaty hair and make my head itchy. Today, I will have to change all that. Today, I will go out an buy a hat, maybe two, to cover and protect my ear which received a skin graft last week follow microsurgery. I will need the hat to protect my ear and my dignity. Don't get me wrong. The plastic surgeon did a

Today, on your birthday, your mom and dad are lighting a bonfire in your honor. The assembled friends and family feel the warmth, but it doesn't come from the fire. It comes from the love that embraces them, your love, which you left behind when you disappeared nearly seven months ago. You tell us not to be sad. You tell us to rejoice. In your short time here, you made your mark. You say: Do not be afraid, I am with you, forever with you. I am at peace. My spirit pulses through your veins, my laughter lives within all of you. I am somewhere, catching the big fish, teasing and cajoling. I am one with you. Always and forever. For I know, that I am forever loved. And that means the world. From those who miss you, know this. You will always be with us, in your special way. To you, my cousin, whom I never met, but feel I know. To you, I say this. You are the girl who touched my heart, and the hearts of so many. We love you. Deeply. Spiritual

In the spring of this year, I was diagnosed with skin cancer on my right ear. It had been growing on the top of it for years, and had been misdiagnosed as a minor bedsore by my family doctor who will be forever known as the Worst Family Doctor in Ontario. He left town in the spring, fleeing a malpractice suit not doubt. That's when I showed the painful bump to a young walk-in doctor who literally jumped back after she looked at it. "You have skin cancer," she told me. Not shit, Sherlock. She quickly found me a dermatologist who confirmed the diagnosis and lopped off a big chunk of the offending tissue and referred me to a MOHS clinic, one of the first of its kind in Canada. The wait time was eight months, and I'd almost forgotten about it. This week, I got a call. "Can you come in within the hour?" the receptionist asked. "Can I?" The stars had aligned. My granddaughter is usually in my care but her dad had decided to work from home

Like most of you, I am sick to death of watching an orange-tinged orangutan with scrawny biceps, a big belly and tiny baby hands. Embed from Getty Images  And don't get me started on that helmet-haired dame who reminds me of Dr. Evil. Don't tell me that hasn't occurred to you. It's like watching an endless loop on the Zoomer Channel, not CNN which has turned into a gigantic infomercial for Trump Resorts, a reality series about the goofs that run the FBI, and Bill Clinton's nose. Get him to a vein clinic, stat! I'm also tired of shrill Latisse- and Botox-loving blondes wearing jumpsuits, named after Best in Show dogs and home shopping channel mavens, who have nothing better to do with their days than scrapping with blacks and Latinos. I guess none of these people have day jobs. The only fun I get is trying to figure out how old Barbara Starr  is or even if she is still alive , and watching John King squirm while sitting next t