Rose's Cantina

Embed from Getty Images On the day the planes hit the World Trade Center in New York, my entire view of the world changed. I had been going through some really rough stuff, trying to raise a small group of hellions who were out of control; desperately searching for work when there was none; and hanging on to a house I hated, one which I had bought irrationally post-divorce. It often felt like I had stepped in quick sand and it was all I could do to cling for dear life onto what was left of the solid ground. Every night, I would sit in the living room and stare at a tree in the middle of the green space behind my house, and imagine building a fort, and just going there to live. I wanted to be in a place where nobody could find me, not the collection agencies, or the ex, not even my beloved children. Instead, I just sat there with a bottle of wine in one hand, and a self-help book in the other. Then the planes hit and the entire world was turned upside down. My kids came r...

The country gentleman took to the orchard, clasping his pruning shears, as he had nearly every day of his life. Lately, he had missed a few days of work. There was a lot of catching up to do. Really he just missed this, the feel of cold steel in his hands, the sound of the snapping of branches. He'd spent weeks in the hospital recovering from a bout of pneumonia he caught during the cold and damp days of early spring. Then he had to have his throat stretched, a ritual he knew well, repeated often since he swallowed lye as a six-year-old. That procedure went sideways, and Dorothy found him laying on the floor, half alive, at least that's what she told folks. Bill knew better. He told the paramedics just to put him back in bed. The paramedics begged to differ. It's always something when you're 86, and you are the Lord of the Manor, so much to do, so little time. He was gentle with the trees, quietly snapping of branches, listening to the birds chirping in between ...

I was raised on a farm, so you might expect that I was a rumbly tumbly little girl who spent her summer holidays working for my Grandpa Loyal and helping with the chores. Indeed, most of my classmates at Woodland Public School spent their summers picking fuzzy peaches, all Vaselined-up in their long sleeves, or planting rows of tomatoes and melons.  Even my brothers made their summer income working for Neighbour Art who ran a vast Gladiola farm next door. I was more of an indoor girl.  I preferred to sit inside on the couch playing board games with Art's son Squeaky or watching Monty Hall and Bob Barker titillate housewives with the dream of new appliances. My favorite shows were talk shows, and they were on for hours, so I watched them for hours. Then I went out and walk around, smelled the Glads and picked some fruit off the tree for a snack. Occasionally, I would help my Grandma Ina juice tomatoes or squish that orange stuff into the margarine. That's...

Of course, all my friends are not dead. I still know a few stragglers out there who narrowly escaped the Grim Reaper by smartening up, and turning down the music. They put down the booze and the smokes and embraced kale, hobby farming, or opted for long runs and paddles and simply forgot to take me along. And of course, I have Facebook friends, boat loads of Facebook friends from childhood, journalism, bar-hopping and other work-related details. Those friends, too, live in the cloud, just a different kind of cloud than the dead ones. Scott and I used to have grand barbecues, attended by tens, but those friends have evaporated. Jennette was the last person to come to our place and celebrate my birthday but this year, she is also in the cloud so she would be marked as a no show. Her plus one, Roger, is spending eternity with Jennette, so he couldn't be counted on, either. Thank goodness I had three kids. When you have three kids, just invite them and various spouses and grand...

At four in the morning, the alarm goes off and I hear the announcer on CBC Radio drone on as usual,  something about the orange clown south of the border.  I slap the radio like it's some sort of pesky mosquito, in hopes of getting a few more seconds of peace.  My little Aussie Shepherd jumps to attention.  Pearl is four months old, and she's good at it. She reminds me of Anna waking up her sister in the opening scene of Frozen .  The sun is awake. And I'm awake. It's time to play! It's Saturday, and I have to drive my husband to work in downtown Ottawa. Later, I have a date with my son and my granddaughter to celebrate Father's Day one day early. Time is a wastin'.  I jump out of bed before Pearl pees on my shoes, then sit outside with my tea while Scott gets showered. Four in the morning is a fascinating time on my street which is almost always busy. It's a major artery during the day, brimming with buses, firetrucks, ...

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...

#181600697 / gettyimages.com I may have slept through the Summer of 2014. Certainly, I didn't do much else. Last week, it hit me. I'd only consumed corn on the cob, my absolute favorite vegetable, twice. When I was a kid, the oldsters teased me that I could eat a dozen corn on the cob in one sitting -- when I was twelve!  For some people that would mean hugging the toilet for a couple of hours. In my case, living in a house without indoor plumbing, that would not have been an option. It just didn't seem to affect me that way, whether I ate one cob or a dozen. I was like a little beaver sawing logs. RRRRRRR; in thirty seconds the cob was done. Alas, as I get older, corn does get me runnin' a bit, but I still love to slather the butter, salt the little number and scarf it down. It's a horror show really, with condiments dripping from my face. Shirts are never the same after a good feet at the trough. But this year, the oompf went out of my corn dog...

What a holy mess. Our beautiful KitchenAid refrigerator blew up on us this weekend. The nice repairman said the compressor was gone and that meant the $2,200 investment I made seven years ago is nothing but a piece of junk. I wonder how many years seven is in refrigerator years. It was working fine on Friday. Then everything in the freezer melted. And that was that. We had to bring in a last-minute replacement, a second stringer, which looks very much like its on its last season, final play. The replacement doesn't even have a bottom crisper drawer, and it's too small for the space allotted it. Maybe it's so much worshipping of false idols, but I loved my false idol. It had a bottom drawer for the freezer where I kept all my frozen berries and meat now spoiled on the counters. It was big enough to hold a week's worth of groceries along with all the weird Thai and Chinese condiments that make cooking healthy worthwhile. It was beautiful on the outside...

Well, that's an hour I'll never get back. The power went out this morning and there were rumors that we would be without electricity all day and into the early hours of Saturday. Of course, those were the rumors. The power actually was only out for 60 minutes. But it had Nick panicking in the basement. "What am I supposed to do with her?" he asked pointing to the baby Skylar. "How about taking her to the park?" A little scream of delight was heard from knee level. Nick rolled his eyes. Skylar stomped on his barefoot with her galoshes. Strange she was wearing rainboots given the fact there isn't a cloud in the sky today. That's what I love about her. She's always prepared. Meanwhile, our tenant Bill, had taken his lizard outside for some sunshine. He appeared unconcerned. I admit, even I was slightly unnerved. I was quoting on a video project this morning and had no email. Even my damned "smartphone" was on the blink. ...

In my third act, I will live in a state of grace, unshackled by the shame, insecurity and demons that have plagued me in the first two acts. I will reach higher, move faster and embrace all that is good in my life. And there is plenty good already. I must remind myself of that. In the third act, no animals or people will be harmed. I will live only on ideas. And tea and oranges that come all the way from China. I will reduce the chatter. I will change the channel. In the third act, I will heal the wounds I can, put salve on them and soothe them. There will be no tsunamis. Just still water. There will be no room for naysayers and detractors, the people who have made me feel small. Sorry is not a word for the third act. No regrets, just possibilities. I will surround myself with people who have love in their hearts and I will encourage others to join me on this path. The mistakes of the past will finally be put in tiny boxes marked "history" and set on a dusty s...

In the end, I should have listened to my mother. And I shouldn't have trusted him, that's for sure. But the person I married, the person my friend Katie now refers to as "the bad man" became my everything, and then I became my nothing. Choosing love over career was a bad decision on my part. Having his children was an even worse one. "But look," said the bad man. "At least you have these beautiful children!" "Yeah," I said. "But I could have had these children with someone who didn't leave me." I was thinking about this conversation reading the New York Times this morning, a feature about women like me who "opted out," then, when their marriages fell apart, wanted to opt back in. I am one of those women, albeit a little older than the ones featured in the article. When I met the bad man, I was having a relatively successful career in Ottawa. Back in the 80s, before mandatory enforced bilingualism, I could ...

I've been mulling a change for some time. My old blog, Rose's Cantina, was turning me into a bitter old crone. I reminded myself of Granny Ina who used to hit the cat with her cane. The cat deserved a whooping, of course, because she was a miserable and mangy little cuss who lay in wait for Granny. When Granny came around the corner, Pixie would pounce on her leg, bite her ankles and sink her razor sharp teeth into the wrinkly old flesh. It was awesome. I realized recently if I didn't stop snarking at politicians and movie stars, I was going to morph into an eighty-pound dame who could wield a cane like a ninja operating nunchuks. So I've decided to change lanes and embark on a more positive, if not bizarre journey, which might land me a gig on CBC radio if I play my cards right. Think a mixture of Stuart Mclean and Jann Arden. Starden.  That's me. A little girl outstanding in her field. Just a country girl with a twang in my heart and a pack of do...

Even in the womb, my daughter Marissa was a gift. Before I got pregnant, I was struggling to lose the baby weight I had packed on during my first two pregnancies and was just beginning to lose some. In vitro, Marissa became my personal trainer. During the nine months Marissa camped out in me, I actually lost that baby fat. By the time she emerged, I was a scrapping size 10. Nobody, not even my doctor, could explain that. She was born on this day, 24 years ago, in the stinking hot tub we call Mississauga, Ontario. It was so smoggy that day, we couldn't see Lake Ontario which was just down the hill on the way to the hospital. Even then, she was an impatient girl. She could barely wait for her father to get home from the city and was stomping on my backside with her little imaginary stilettos. Let me out, she seemed to be saying, the world needs to meet me. Four hours and she was out, and perfect, a tiny little six pound two ounce charmer. That's wh...

I ran into Donna, an old school chum, at the local Starbucks today. Donna is an engaging soul, always busy. She was in Starbucks to grab a quick libation on route to a nail salon and then she was off to a life celebration. Donna told me that over the past weeks, she's been staging her home in hopes of selling it, after which she will retire with her lovely husband Jim to a house they are buying in the Maritimes. Next week, she'll be going to Edmonton for work. Aside from those duties, Donna somehow manages to do community theatre and travel North America as a professional Scrabble player. What a whirlwind life she leads. This kind of life is foreign to me. Our chance encounter came as I was walking back from the gym, all sweaty, listening to Bruce Springsteen do a bad impression of Pete Seeger on my iPod. After Starbucks, I was attending the grocery store to see if I could find some half price meat to put on the barbie tonight. Unlike Donna, I have ...

When you have your first grandchild, that's when it happens. You begin to see how fast time goes. Today, Skylar Angela became a old-year-old. I thought she was born just yesterday. On January 8 last year, I was there when her mom woke us up with water gushing. I lent her my pajamas, which, for obvious reasons, are now her pajamas. We lent the nice paramedics a shoe lace. We'll never get that shoelace back again. We were there at the hospital, too, when mommy had to explain how she hadn't managed to get a health card throughout her nine month pregnancy and myriad doctors' visits and when the nice hospital folks tried to get these broke and silly children to pay the hospital bill. I was there through the first few months, helping the kids adjust to parenthood. And then she was gone -- off to her other grandma's. Just as well. Gordie the pug hated her. Wanted to choke the life out of her. But now Skylar is back living with her parents in my basement once a...

More evidence that I am shallow. Scott: Are you going to the gym today? Me: No, I have a doctor's appointment. I can't do both. Scott: But the doctor's only to renew your blood pressure meds. Me: Yeah, and discuss the results of my mammogram. Scott: But your mammogram was clear. Me. Still. Scott: I don't get it. Most people hold down jobs, look after their little kids, have hobbies. And you can't go to the gym and the doctor in one day? Me: Exactly. I am not a well person, headwise. I cannot multitask. If I have more than one thing to do in the day -- other than walk the dogs and do the dishes -- I become a complete shipwreck. I'm recovering from last week. I edited the copy for my magazine, helped Scott shoot a music video (by hanging around and suggesting cool shots while playing Angry Birds) and took in an audiology conference, all in French, a language I do not speak. I'm exhausted. So I need a couple weeks off. Seriously. I have to co...

I've been pre-occupied of late with my favorite subject -- my breasts. Often I make fun of them because they are absolutely huge. For the past year, I've been living up the alphabet in the H section, though through hard work, I think I've brought them down to a more sensible DDD. Still. I never minded being big breasted. It got me jobs. It got me dates. But huge breasted is nothing if not disgusting. You cannot buy clothes that fit properly. If you wear something loose, you look like you're a fattie. If you wear something tight, you look like a floosie. Add to that a middle aged face, well, then you look like Ma Kettle. (Though looking at Ma now, I realize she was actually smaller than I am. Sheesh.) I've become pre-occupied with how much I hate my breasts. They embarrass me. They make me feel ugly. Scott took a beautiful picture of me a few weeks back and I had to ask him to crop it. Here's what it looks like without the crop. Because of their s...

Over the past week, we've come to accept that we are living beyond our means. We don't have car payments or massive debt, but the day-to-day has become somewhat precarious. It's scary being in your mid-fifties and not having a retirement package. I used to be a saver but ten years living as a single mom to three kids sucked me dry. Scott is in the same boat, though he has a small pension from CBC; he lost his nut to an expensive divorce. We're still living from paycheque to paycheque, which is hard because the magazine I work for only pays me every two months. Scott is in commission sales so is at the mercy of the Ottawa economy, not to mention the elements. You might have seen the story in the paper today about all the car dealerships in Ottawa that have new cars that look like golf balls thanks to this week's storm. Scott was lucky this time around; his KIA dealership is one of only a handful in Ottawa's east end that dodged the bullets of hail falling...

It occurred to me this morning that if my first marriage hadn't crumbled under the weight of infidelity, we would be celebrating our 32nd wedding anniversary in July. If my second husband would have stuck around, instead of decamping for another woman's vagina, we would be celebrating our 26th anniversary. Interestingly enough, Mr. Small and his lovely bride -- the one flapping her arms on the sidelines waiting for us to fail -- will be married 30 years and Mr. Big and the White Witch of Bermuda will be married 20 years. So I have to ask the question: was is me? And another: what would my life have looked like if either husband had not preferred life with another to life with me? Let's see. If I'd stayed with Mr. Small, I would have travelled the world. He was a foreign correspondent and early Internet adapter who lived in Washington, New York, Moscow and London. If Mr. Big hadn't taken up with the White Witch, I would have been very rich indeed with ...