Rose's Cantina

For the past week, I've had obsessive thoughts about maple syrup and honey. Two weeks ago, I ran out of syrup and I've been waiting for the sap to start drooling out of the maple trees so I can buy a four gallon jug of the stuff. I refuse to buy the teeny tiny jars they're selling at Farm Boy -- the remnants of last year's crop. I'm spoiled, I'll admit it. I live in Ottawa. I'm not a damned tourist! Ditto honey. I don't want any of that Billy Bee stuff they sell in toy bears. I want a jug of the stuff that some poor farmer had to suffer to harvest. Honey is no good unless the farmer can personally show me the sting marks. This morning, I woke up to tired trees heaving from the heavy weight of spring snow. This damned winter is making it tremendously difficult for me, and the sap, to run in the sunshine. The snow is pretty enough. Beats walking the Black Bastard Finnigan in the freezing rain. But I hate it. I actually had to wear my spikes t...

I was thinking of Geoffrey Chaucer as I bundled up against the wintry cold the other day, cursing the droghte of March which had perced me to the roote, wishing for April with its shoures soote. Yeah, that Geoff could really turn a phrase. I'm sick of winter. This is the winter I remember from my farm days when I walked two miles to school in boots that made my feet cry. It's not global warming; it's a harkening back to the olden days when winter in Canada made poets weep on pages not yet paid for by the Canada Council. Give me global warming anytime, sister. I'm a woman, I'll take it. I'm not afraid of hurricanes and tornadoes. I live in Ottawa. I fear no backlash from the climate. I'm a middle-dweller. This week, I saw the first sign of spring as I bundled up and headed from my nice and toasty Suzuki into the gymnasty. It wasn't a Robin. There aren't any birds around except the crows that are laying waste to our garbage, sitting as it ...

For those of you concerned about my mental health, I have one word: chill. It's true I've been a bit down in the dumps of late, and have chosen to go a bit dark with my wordsmithing in this space. I have good reason. I'm contemplating ending the life of my Jurassic Pug, Gordon J. Blackstone because he's got some health problems. I just lost my job this week. Scott's only working part-time, so we're going to have to do some juggling. And I'm going for a mammogram on Friday because the radiologist thought he saw something six months ago. Yeah, all in all, it's been a pretty tough few months. But this is the life of a middle aged freelance writer. It's the only life I've known since my husband up and left me two decades ago with three small children. I lurch from crisis to crisis, chase the phantom job that will one day allow me to go to the dentist and juggle a ball or three. I'm used to it. But I'm not a depressive person by natu...

There's something psychologically disturbing about the Canadian character. Perhaps it's the lack of vitamin D. In the nice weather months, we slather ourselves with enough oil to make a bean salad. We do burpies and watch our diets. We get nice new bouncy hairstyles. We work out like fiends. By the end of each summer, many of us are fit as fiddles, looking fine. But something happens when the sun disappears to the other side of world. Something happens as we enter the heart of winter darkness. We press the pause button on life. The yoga pants -- once hilariously called "sweat" pants -- come out. The carefully prepared veggie concoctions rot in the back of fridge as we dive into mounds of mashed potatoes, vats of beer and bottomless bags of Doritos. The insides of running shoes begin to stiffen and the gym rarely sees its door darkened. Winter is for tablets and televisions, PS3s and laptops which become the...