Rose's Cantina

View image | gettyimages.com At the end of February, my beloved Scott will turn 59. He will tell you that he will be turning just short of 14, as he was born in Leap Year 1956 when his mother's doctor decided to induce her just so the doc could say he birthed a Leap baby. Scott only gets a birthday every four years, which is good for me since I have time to save up, but also bad for me because he keeps reminding me that he is, on the record at least, just past the wet dream stage. Fifty-nine is that magical year, the grey zone between having nothing and getting in on the Canada Pension Plan. You are also eligible for some discounts, not very good discounts, such as ten percent off at First Choice Hair Salons, but you don't get a senior's discount on the bus. The good news is that, after 50, you've already qualified for Grey Power insurance, but are not yet eligible for a reversed mortgage which involves the slow sucking of all your money out of your h...

Nick came up from the basement clutching a maroon cardigan, my beloved maroon cardigan, which had disappeared during one of the many moves over the past year. "Is this yours?" "I've been looking for that all winter," I said. "Figured," he sniffed. "Neither of us own anything from the 1980s." I shook my head. Silly boy. I bought that sweater in 1992. It is the sad story of my plunge into middle age, and the cardigan is a symbol of my fashion decline. I still have clothes -- I still wear clothes -- from the time the kids were not just young, but small. I also have a closet full of clothes I covet but can no longer wear. There is the designer coat that harkens back to a visit to the Hotel Vancouver in 1985. God I love that coat. There are the blouses I haven't fit into for a decade, the silks, the creams, the cottons; no way can I button them up. But I'm keeping them just in case. Back in the day, I spent thousands of do...