Rose's Cantina

I love to watch the shape of my face change. Since I've been working out and worshipping Harley Pasternak, I've managed to lose the "second face". That's the doughy rim that coats your real face and makes you look like a Beef Wellie. I've also lost my Joe Clark jowls, the ones that gather like little croissants around the sides of the chin. For years I thought I had a fat face. It was just my second face. Now I'm an oval. Which means that, hopefully, the damned hairdressers will stop trying to give me hairstyles that "frame my face". Maybe I'll even cut my hair short for the first time in a decade. No, that won't happen. Unfortunately, I haven't lost my boobs and that means the long hair is here to stay to bridge the distance between my mams and my pinhead. The other thing that's happened is that I've lost weight in some pretty exotic places. Generally speaking the gut has been transformed from two loaves of bread to...

Big news. I'm about two weeks away from a new bra size. First time in years I won't have to shop at Ottawa Tent and Awning. The ma'ams are shrinking at last. I'm an H right now, which has been wholly depressing for me. When you're an H, you can't run. You can't bounce. You can't flounce. The tank top is not your friend. But when you're back into the Ds, suddenly, you look, well, a bit hot. (I can't understand how bra sizing works, but you can skip the E, F, and G and go straight to D. Go figure.) My shirts are getting looser in the middle, too. No more need to suck it in. It's all thanks to ma boy, Harley Pasternak and his 20 Days to Swimsuit Ready diet. Okay, it's been about 60 days, but I'm old and I'll take it. This weight loss is not because I go to the gym every day. The bored trainers, they lie. The carbs are what have been turning me into the Pillsbury Doughgirl. The bad carbs! I knew it. Never trust ...

Scott and I were lined up at the checkout at Loblaws, armed with spinach, whole grain wraps and other taste sensations, when the woman behind us began inspecting our haul. "You must be on a diet," she said. "We've been on one for months; today is our cheat day." I looked back at her cart, filled with lemon pie, chips, sugary drinks and processed food. "I told my trainer that I was having a cheat day," explained the women, who could be rowing heavyweight in the Olympics. "The trainer said, basically, 'have fun cause it's going to be your last." Lately, grocery cart inspection has become somewhat of a sport for me. We've been on the Harley Pasternak joint for nearly a month and have been swapping out those dastardly foods that have sabotaged us for years. Here are my favorites: ice cream. We've also shrunk our portion size and choreographed our plates to make grains and veg the stars of the show. It hasn't...

When I was a skinny little farm girl, I used to pick strawberries to make enough money to buy my treats. Sometimes, I'd ride the half mile to a little confectionery, other times, I'd stand on the dusty road and wait for the Avondale Dairy truck. At the little store, I would purchase a Lick-a-Maid, a bag of chips, more often a butterscotch cone. From the dairy truck, I'd buy an ice cold bottle of orange juice and chug-a-lug it, feeling the cold liquid running down my cheek. These are still powerful memories. As I sit here drinking my Chai tea, getting ready to make a smoothie for me and the working stiff, these memories offer up a little clarity, into the sad behavior that led me to put on fifty pounds of blubber over the last decade. I can hear the brilliant lyrics from Will.I.Am We are the Now Generation/We are the Generation Now/ I want it now As kids growing up in the 60s, we had to wait and anticipate our favorite snacks and foods. Today, we eat them at...

Dear Harley: I'll admit to a setback last evening. It was our first chewable meal since last Monday and we couldn't resist. I mean, come on, scallops? The addition of wine was truly necessary, that's all I'm saying. Also skipped my workout yesterday. Not my fault that a lady hit a transformer and knocked out the power to the gymnasty. How fast was she going in the Trainyards parking lot and how distracted was she to hit a friggin' transformer? I still lost a pound yesterday, bringing me to 210. That's five pounds lost in a week. Yippee caya, mo fo. Not as good as Scott who has so far lost 13 pounds and is the envy of his car dealership. Back on track this morning. Smoothie for brekkies. Squash soup for lunch. Bison for dinner. Question: If a buffalo is so big, how come the steaks are so small? Since the gymnasty still appears to be closed, we'll be visiting the Ottawa Farmer's Market today to see if they got game. Not game as in basketball,...

Dear Harley: I'm slightly bummed today. I socked down my whey-laden smoothie, drove the hubs to work and turned the car into The Athletic Club in Trainyards only to discover it was "closed indefinitely". I must be the only one in Ottawa who does not know this; the parking lot was empty save for a couple of environmental cleanup trucks. That can't be good. I called the Orleans club and discovered that some douche had been doing wheelies in the parking lot last night and hit a transformer. No power means no elliptical and rower today. Have to settle for some barbells and an exercise video. Normally, I would take Finnigan out for a power walk but it's pissing rain and I don't like exercise that much. So I took myself to Starbucks for a double cappucino and here I sit, with Finnigan chewing the leg of the chair and Gordie snoring at my other foot. I'm not going to let this little blip get me down today. I'm psyched because tonight Scott and...

Dear Harley: You might be surprised to know that I'm keeping farmer's hours these days. The new pup, Finnigan, is a morning dog, up at 5:30 a.m. bouncing off the bed, hungry for food, desperate for his new life. I don't mind it, really; dawn is a terrific time for writing and reflecting on my own new journey as I confront my demons, my weight, my bad habits, my inertia. I stood on the scale this morning and was pleased to see that I was down to 211 pounds; that's a four pound drop in a week. Not bad considering that I lost only five pounds while working out like a fiend at the gymnasty for over a year. This kind of kickstart will be key to motivating me to drop the more than 50 pounds of fat cells I've gained over the past three decades. What amazes me -- and I found this out when I first got to the gymnasty -- was how much weight I'd actually put on. It's a slow creep, an inch here, an inch there, a thick layer of goo that coats your bones and th...

Dear Harley: All is forgiven. This morning, I woke up and put on my favorite Radio-Canada t-shirt, one I've had to suck my gut in to wear, and it was loose. Oh, how I love you, right now. I've lost two pounds, which for me is a near impossibility. I've been going to the gym for a year and a half and only lost five pounds, so two is a biggie for me. Scott, on the other hand, bastard that he is, lost eight pounds over the last three days. That's men for you. Let's go golfing; I've never been before. What? I beat you? That's impossible. I can't believe I made a souffle; I've never cooked before. What? You can't make a souffle? Sure, you can. Rotten bastard. The Ex-lax is going in the smoothie for sure this morning. Seriously, nothing could dampen my mood. Even the intimidating Shrek-sized jar of vanilla whey powder I had to lug home from the gymnasty. It's so large that my tiny perfect hands can get around the jar to open it. I...

Dear Harley: Some experts advise that a person who is dieting should have a partner to share the pain. I disagree with this idea. I love my husband, but I hate being on a diet with him. First, he can lose 20 pounds in a day blinking and it takes me a year to lose five pounds going to the gym nearly every morning. He says it's because he has more weight to lose; I think he's just being diplomatic and that he's internally rubbing his intestines together in glee. That's just my thinking. He's not that competitive. He loves me and doesn't want to hurt my feelings, but the whole situation just pisses me off. But that's not the only reason I loathe doing the twin diet. I may be an obsessive-compulsive, who counts each morsel of food going down the gullet, but at least I don't cheat on my diet. I'm a perfectionist and believe if I stray in any way, I will gain ten pounds. Now don't get me wrong. It isn't that Scott is sneaking c...

Dear Harley: I was so happy to get your reply to my tweet yesterday. It's pretty unusual for a busy guy like yourself to take interest in the weight loss plight of an ordinary citizen like me. I can't really compete with your clients: J Lo, Miley Cyrus, Rachel McAdam, Halle Berry and all the other movie stars you train into ripped shapedness. So your tweet was well appreciated. I was pretty sure, when I asked you what I should drink on the Twenty Days to Swimsuit Ready diet, that you wouldn't say "vodka" or "red wine". Basically, you're telling me what I already know but don't want to hear -- that I must drink more water. Like most people, I don't drink enough water. In fact, I have a full glass of the stuff that's sitting here, right next to my computer, and it's been here since 7 a.m. Just can't choke enough of the stuff down. But I'm trying. Yesterday, which was my first day on your diet, was brutal, let me tell ...

My dearest Harley: Scott and I just finished our grocery shop for your Swimsuit Ready in 20 Days diet, as promoted on The Revolution .  We managed to deftly avoid the bread and meat aisles and realized what a bargoon this diet really is. Not counting the toilet paper and paper towels, our whole week's groceries came to less than a hundred bucks and that includes frozen fruit, Greek yogurt and four kinds of tofu. It doesn't count the cheesecake I will be gorging on tonight, nor did we five factor in the margaritas, wine and cheesecake we will be enjoying as part of what I like to think of as Our Last Supper tonight. I saw a movie last night about death row and last meals. That's the sort of mentality I'm trying to avoid as I set off on my journey to see my belly button again. But I can't help thinking about what I'd like for my last meal. Hot dogs and poutine, I'm guessing. Definitely not tofu and chia seeds. That mentality -- and the booze -- a...

Perhaps against my better judgement, on Monday, I will forging ahead on yet another diet regime. I'm not a good dieter; I have trouble staying with most diets because they make me feel sick. But I'm hanging my hopes on Harley Pasternak, trainer to the stars, who claims he can get a person like me swimsuit ready in 20 days. I haven't been swimsuit ready in decades. If you don't know him, Harley is a Canadian with a masters in nutrition and kinesiology. He started his professional career as a trainer for the Canadian military and segued into the movie business training the likes of J Lo and Halle Berry. Actually, a better question than who "has" Harley trained is who "hasn't" he trained. Okay, so I'm not stupid. The odds of me having a bod like Jennifer Lopez is a big friggin' zero. My hope is that I merely can start looking good for Rose . I'm not looking to be a size four. A size four would make me look like a cancer patient...

My newest guilty pleasure is a daytime show called The Revolution which features celebrity trainer Harley Pasternak and stylist Tim Gunn. I like the show because it's different. It's not just a medical show or a chat show or a psychotherapy show. I'm so damned tired of Kelly and Ellen. I'm starting to get really pissed at Dr. Oz. I mean how many vitamins can a body take in one day? And don't get me started on Dr. Feel with his folksy "I been doin' this a loooong time by the way buy my book". I want something to perk me up in the middle of the afternoon, not put me to sleep. The big feature of The Revolution involves a weight loss story. It's shot over five months and involves one "hero" who is trained and fed by Harley and dressed by Tim, then headshrunk by a doc named Tiffani and medically examined by a doc named Jen. Somewhere in the middle is Ty Pennington, the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition bingocaller . I'm not quite su...