Rose's Cantina

A note to my readers on the occasion of my million view milestone.  People become bloggers for many different reasons. They want to express themselves creatively. They want to make money. They want to become influencers. I began blogging to save my mental health.  It all began back in 2009 when I published an essay in the Globe and Mail entitled: We're Living the $10 Life . In the essay, I wrote about the serious downturn my life had taken after a bitter divorce that left me reeling. Even though I had recoupled with the wonderful Scott, we were barely making ends meet. It was a terrible time for both of us even though we had enjoyed successful careers in the past. When we met, Scott was living in misery. He'd taken a buyout and left his career as a CBC cameraman to pay off an abusive ex-wife. I was a freelance speechwriter, and I had lost most of my income because I was a Liberal living in Stephen Harperland.  Together we were raising three teenagers, cannibalizing tropi...

Embed from Getty Images Remember the good old days, back when there was snail mail, and your mailbox was filled with Christmas newsletters from friends near and far? I believe it was the 80s when those Christmas essays were all the rage, mailed to the masses, included in cards filled with photos of expensively dressed rich families in their matching sweaters -- including the dog. I always hoped at least one dog bit the photographer. I haven't gotten any in recent years. And that's because we're all entering our dotage. Those massively successful kids? The ones who went to good schools? Unemployed, divorced and living in the basement. But some of the families are still out there. They're the ones who inherited cottages from their parents. Anyway, I miss those cards and letters. So I thought I'd write one this year. You'll have to read it here -- like most Canadians, I cannot afford stamps. Hello! Bonjour! Friends: How are you!!! We are fine...

The fact is, I don't have any useful skills. I can cook, I suppose, but I cannot make Jello. Or fudge. Both turn out gloopy no matter how I try to change up the recipe or follow it to the letter. I can't assemble things. I once tried to put together a desk from Ikea and I thought I was successful at it. Then the cat jumped on it and it folded like a deck of cards. I can't sew. I can't paint. I can't sing. I can't play an instrument. I tried to crochet, but the thing look like gum when you take it out of your mouth and stretch it out. The holes were not at all consistent. My aunt said I didn't have the right tension. My mother said it was because I was left handed. I can't play sports. When I tried to play powder puff football in university, I got a black eye. I tried to run and I got plantar fasciitis. I tried to play golf and hit some old codger in the head. On a parallel green. Ever since I was a little kid, I wanted to be good at something but ...

What a ridiculous day this has turned out to be. With temperatures in the mid 30s, it's too hot to be outside so the dogs are inside driving me nuts. Sophie is just finishing up her heat -- thank the Lord, hopefully, it will be her last -- but Finnigan's gotten all randy all of a sudden. He simply won't leave her alone. Strange, fixed boy dogs, they still want it but don't really know what "it" is so they chase fertile little girl dogs all around, grabbing them, coaxing them, with about three feet between their genitals and the generous opening provided for them. Reminds me of the boys in high school with their gigantic notebooks. Sophie, for her part, wants none of it, which is a good thing because that means she's getting close to being finished. The trapdoor, hopefully, will slam shut. This is news to Finnigan who got doused with my kale juice this morning. We're all fed up. Sophie told me, telepathically, that she's planning to t...

Well folks. It's come to this. I wasn't sure what to call it. Panhandling? No I'm not begging. Scott says it's more like busking, you know, providing a little entertainment on a wintry afternoon for you folks. Instead of taking my guitar to the Sparks Street Mall -- which would be ridiculous because I can't sing or play guitar, heck, I don't even have a guitar -- I'm busking right here in my kitchen. Using Bell Fibe Internet and the ten falanges attached to my wrists. Think of me as a virtual busker. My greatest hits, you can enjoy them over and over again. They are to the right of this blog along with something called a Donate button. That's what you click if you want to support my silly hobby. Along the way, I might have a few things to sell as well. Scott has this cool flag from the time Nunavut first became a territory. As with all things up that way somebody probably had a bit of hooch and made a bunch of flags with a mistake i...

I've always wanted to be famous. Also rich. Perhaps notorious. I've never been any of these, but I wanted to know what it was like. So I paid a paparazzo to stalk me and take naked pictures of me blogging. I was hoping this would improve my numbers. And let's face it, I'm not getting any younger or prettier. Actually, my husband Scott took this photo looking through our backgarden. The neighbors were too busy swapping spit or smoking crack to notice. I sit in this window, like Rapunzel, sometimes letting my hair flow through the air vent at odd times of the night. Sometimes I'm naked, sometimes I'm not. But I figure if anybody with a long lens wants to take pictures of me and post them on the Internet, have at 'er. I'm not like Catherine, I keep my nips heavily guarded behind my laptop. Oh yes, and I've decided to issue a challenge to my fellow bloggers. Jenny Lawson, Rosie O'Donnell, Ellen and Oprah. You know who you are! Come j...

My children are amazed at my success in blogging. I started this blog, my second, in May 2009. Since then, nearly 50,000 people have visited this site. That's the population of a pretty big small town in Canada. Most of the people who read this blog aren't my friends. In fact, I think it's fair to say that maybe a dozen of my Facebook friends read it. Usually I get between 150 and 200 visits from people all over the world. For a while, I was a big hit in Europe and Russia. Now my peeps seemed to come from America, Canada and the U.K. I don't know why people read my blog. Unlike many successful blogsters, I rarely write on the same topic. Mostly, I just sit down at the keyboard after reading the newspaper and something comes out. Like this blog, for example. When I sit down here and look out the window on the weird and wacky St. Laurent Blvd., I often feel like a musician trying to compose a tune on the piano. I just peck away and hope what comes out is to the lik...

I didn't do any market research when I started this blog a few months back. I didn't do a survey asking people what kind of blog they'd like to read. I didn't poll advertisers to ask what kind of blog they would support. I just knew what I had in my heart. And that is why I write this blog. It keeps me grounded. I gives me insights into my own psyche. It's just that simple. But bloggers can't avoid the numbers. Google gives us a run down of who's reading, where they live and how many times they click on advertising. This gives people like me a bit of a guide. Sometimes, you don't get it right. Sometimes, a blog just hits a nerve. Look to the right and you will see my most popular blogs of the year. One is about Kevin Nelson, a beloved disc jockey who passed away recently. One is about Gloria Steinem and the future of feminism. More than 3,000 people clicked on Gloria Steinem. That's pretty big in Blogland. But the most popul...