Rose's Cantina

It's always heartbreaking to celebrate Christmas without a loved one. But most of us cannot imagine what it is like to live without a child who was taken by violence, and whose body has never been found. In April 2020, it will be four years since my cousin Ashley Simpson disappeared without a trace, and for her family, it never gets easier.  There is no closure. No resting place where they can visit her. No idea how she met with her demise. And so the wound reopens every time the family gathers, on birthdays, on holidays. And this year, the sadness drove her dad, John Simpson, nearly to the brink. And it led him to a very sad decision.  Please read his post on Christmas Day, and say a prayer for this family.  Hmfffl. Well Merry Xmas and all that jazz that goes with it. Hope ur season is better than ours and it should be for most...hoping next year will be better, and it should be. So the reason for this post. It's been three years since we heard the new...

On the National Day of Remembrance,  I remember Ashley Simpson, my cousin who was murdered in Salmon Arm three years ago. Her murderer is still on the loose. Let’s help find him. 

As I watched my 50 pound puppy lean over the bed at 4 a.m. and barf yet another dishcloth, I began to question my sanity. Had I finally lost what was left of the marbles rattling around in my brain? Had my Trump Derangement Syndrome hit fevered pitch, and turned me into the crazy lady who pays for dog food with pennies? At 63, what was I thinking inviting a chocolate lab puppy to join the roster. Did I really need a third dog? Me, with a wonky hip and knee combo, a husband who can barely walk thanks to old football injuries, and an errant one and a half year old Pearl, the Mini Aussie from Hell who acts like a sergeant major scaring small children as they dismount the school bus. It was Scott's fault. After we lost Finnigan, he claimed he couldn't do another big dog, so we got Pearl. Then he started literally bawling because he missed the big nose giving him a wet willy while he sipped his Scotch at night. Truth be told, I missed the big goof, too, and I eagerly a...

Against our better judgement, three months ago, we decided to get a third dog. Viggo is a chocolate lab. We purchased him over the Internet, and we picked him up at a chicken auction in Winchester. A farmer had advertised two chocolate puppies, Viggo and his fat brother. Scott picked Viggo; I wanted the fat brother. But Viggo was a present for Scott, so he got his way. The kids thought us insane. Once again. For the most part, they dislike the dogs. Sophie the pug is the exception, but then pugs are more like cats, and the kids like cats better than dogs. Except for Stef, who has the moribund Belle, who is a Bassett Hound, and 80 pound paper weight. We got Viggo to stop Scott from crying. He was still pining for Finnigan, our Black Lab, who died two years ago at the tender age of six after suffering from a series of strokes. Scott adored Finnigan, and I tolerated him. He was genuinely insane. He used to sit in the living room and bark at me, for no apparent reason, for hou...

You never forget your first, right? Mine was a man who resembled a toad who forced me as a six-year-old to sit in his chair with a slobbering bulldog atop me while he chiseled and pulled my beloved baby teeth. I seemed to have a lot of cavities that needed to be filled, even though most of my later life was spent cavity-free. He was a welfare dentist so I assume he took advantage of a golden mouth.  He also scheduled me for two operations, one to remove my tonsils, and another to have my wisdom teeth removed, in the hospital, at the tender age of 15. That wasn't the worst of it. Even as a tiny tot, I recoiled as he pulled back his liver-like lips into a slimy smile and insisted that I hug him. Then he gave me a toy, as if to reward me for having to put my arms around his girth. Uh, just thinking about this eel today makes my skin crawl. My worst experience came after I broke my front teeth playing dodgeball in Grade Eight. I was literally in shock when I went to see hi...

I went to Employment Ontario last week in hopes of getting some help getting a job. It's been several months since I was laid off from my very good government job, and things aren't looking any better for me, in spite of finally getting my degree after 40 plus years. The Ontario government offers help for those of us on the D list by offering retraining and the assistance of somebody they call a "job coach". The way I figured it, any assistance would help. One of the things the government offers is up to two years of assistance for people to go back to school to upgrade their skills or find a completely new "second career". I was assured that the fact I was 63 would not deter me from getting into retraining. So I was pumped, and eagerly sat in on a seminar. The first order of the day was to fill in a matrix to determine whether an applicant can qualify for assistance. The person has to get 16 points to qualify. I scored only 14. My deficits included: ...

Two weeks ago, I was thrilled to be invited to a job interview that was completely in my wheelhouse. Usually, job postings today ask that a person who calls herself primarily a "writer/editor" is also expected to have experience in social media and nuclear medicine, in addition to being able to speak four languages. But this job posting, more or less, matched my personal qualifications. So I got up, showered, coiffed my hair and put on my best outfit, and arrived at the job site which is so close to my house, I could smack the roof with a tennis ball. I was completely stoked, not nervous in the least, and settled down with the two interviewers, one in khakis and another, the HR lady, in a sensible suit and pumps. The job interview lasted for an hour, and I felt that it went well. Then I was given a writing test which I believe was developed by a dentist. I left the interview feeling pretty terrific, and told Scott I had a 50-50 chance of getting it. I'm a pessimist, ...