Rose's Cantina

My adrenal glands were fully depleted by about 8 o'clock on Christmas night and I repaired to my bedroom, with a glass of fizzy water and my iPad. I couldn't see straight, thanks to a toddler dose of Benadryl, which I took an hour earlier after my eyes got so itchy, I wanted to gouge them out. I was stricken with a nasty allergy to something -- maybe all the cat fur the kids brought in, maybe a sudden bad reaction to date squares. In any event, I was knackered. Scott had prepared a lovely Christmas dinner just for us last night which included an over-large ball of poultry, potatoes, corn and stuffing. All the Christmas food groups. I could barely eat it. I was clearly down a quart of oil and I needed my bed and my canine bedmates. Sophie snuggled under the covers as I skimmed the latest offerings on Netflix. I was absolutely done with Christmas and looking for something to soothe my pain body which was a concept that Oprah Winfrey planted in my psyche so many ye...

I'm looking out at a winter wonderland wondering how anyone could doubt we would have snow on Christmas. I can't remember a Christmas in my longish life when there wasn't snow on my Canadian home. Even in St. Catharines, the homeplate of damp drizzle, there was always a white blanket on Christmas. We're Canadian. It's how we roll. And yet for two solid weeks, the news people have been kvetching about a green Christmas. Oh, ye of little faith. The Environment Canada weather dudes told us we had an 80 percent chance of green, but I suspect they were smoking something. Just look out the winda. After I write this and have my chai tea, I'll be rolling out the door, heading for the shopping mall, not to line up with the idiots who worship false idols on Boxing Day, but to get my sweat on at The Athletic Club once again. I've missed a few days and my bones are starting to ache. I'm at the age when I've started to feel little jabs of ar...