Merry Christmas

My darling readers,

I hope you have a lovely holiday season.

I'll catch you all in the New Year. I think it is going to be a good one.

Home with the family,

L

Dad, Your Boat is Showing

Are you freezing yet friends?

As you may recall, the Parentals flew in for the holidays. For those of you who are not aware, the lucky buggers spend their time floating around the Caribbean on their sailboat.

I guess that is their reward for raising three children.

Never one to disappoint, Mother Nature was there to welcome them with a wallop of snow.

A full frontal shot of the house.

That black bit is the dog - my full grown Newfoundland, aka The Beast. He digs snow.

The darling Mini Cooper. We left it clean and cozy at midnight.

Never to disappoint the neighbourhood, my father ventured out in the subzero weather to snap these pictures. While he was outside he chatted with a couple across the street. The catch? He was wearing nothing but a bathrobe.

Thank goodness the wind wasn't blowing and the garage was full of liquor.

I missed you Dad.

Check out his blog for the full sized shots, sailing stories and anything else suspiciously screwy.

Spawn of the strange,

L

My Christmas Card Carol

After a very long night with pen in hand,

I've just finished my Christmas card demand.

You may snicker, you may sneer,

But I've beat my record from last year.

In need of a stiff drink for my stiff hand,

L

Music Monday: Tighten Up

Good morning my readers!

Today we have a submission from Jake, the badass bartender (and my little brother).

The two of us have holed up together, waiting for The Parentals' to arrive home for the holidays (I know, my family is a tad backwards - believe it or not, it is our detention that keeps us groovy).

So far we have not been successful in our wait. It seems the Parentals' have gotten themselves stuck in Pittsburgh, apparently due to the snow (I blame a reluctance to leave sun, sand and lots of rum).

I will give them a stern talking to tomorrow, provided they actually show up.

In the meantime, Jake has suggested a fab song to start your week. This is the official music video.

So, my crazed compadres, please have a listen to "Tighten Up" by The Black Keys.

I think I'd go for the geek in the glasses. I like the way he winks. Do you have a favourite?

The original music video was a low budget clip starring a puppet dinosaur, Frank, and a plant, name unknown. Apparently they had the dino dance and mime some words.

It doesn't sound like the dino did much, but I know the feeling.

Have a wonderful week!

Waiting on the weather,

L

Blown Apart: Chapter One

My eyes cut across the dance floor - I was enamoured by a funny shaped fellow in what appeared to be a Hawaiian shirt. It was unfortunately, a horrible Hawaiian shirt but it fit this fellow perfectly.

He had no fashion sense. He had a pot belly. He definitely couldn't dance, but oddly the strobe lights didn't seem to do him justice. I wanted him.

Earlier that night a friend, Stacey, had blindsided me with a request to go drinking. It had been a full day at the Rib Fest and after packing half a rack of ribs, mashed potatoes, corn, buns and ice cream into my body, I had put on the stretchiest pair of pants I owned and retreated for the evening.

"LIND-say!" Stacey whined over the phone, "I reeeeeally want to go! I'll pay for a cab!". I hated it when the whining started. I especially hate that everyone who has ever known me has the ability to whine "LIND-say!" at the first opportunity.

"Fine," I shot back. "But we are starting with margaritas here. I spent all my cash on pig, pork and pistachio goodness earlier. I don't have the moolah for an extended night on the town."

Half an hour later my hair was slicked back, my makeup was done and my bra was back in its drawer. I was ready to rock.

Always a source of bubbly goodness, Stacey and I threw the margaritas back and posed for some photos with my RibFest swag before leaving my apartment. These are the only photos I have left.

Stacey and myself. Yes I am wearing a pig hat made of felt, and yes, I like it.

Stacey and myself: she is sporting a roller derby flag, picked up at Rib Fest earlier that day.

We were drunk, dressed and ready to dance.

I knew Stacey had somewhere she wanted to be - it wasn't like her to randomly hit the bars. Stacey always had an end goal in sight, I was merely along for the ride.

What a ride it was.

After half a block (in heels!) we met a group of boys. Being the end of July it was warm, so we flirted. We had time to spare and no escorts to tell us otherwise.

The boys had ordered two cabs and offered to share. I had jumped in to decline, when I noticed the girls staring from a living room window. "Those yours?" I asked, nodding toward the furious females.

"Nah, you be imagining things baby;" the leader of the pack answered "Share a cab with us." I could tell he was working those little brain cells hard.

"Didn't the the busty blonde just call your cell phone," I retorted, seconds after the mumbled rap starting blasting from the big boy's pocket.

"I don't have a busty blonde!" some redhead piped up. "You know you want me, and I know I want to leave. The blonde has him whipped;" he snorted, clearly at the big boy's expense.

"How many of you have busty blondes?" I asked the group of five or six guys. Two stuck up their hands, one gave me the finger. That left the redhead, the leader and two other cute guys who appeared to be neither attached nor assholes. One can never know.

"Sure! We don't know where we're going, but a ride would be great!" Stacey chimed in. The bars were all relatively close together, and besides, if she saved cab fare she'd have at least another round of change in her pocket. The leader of the pack rolled his eyes. The busty blonde, now on the front porch, fumed and fretted and furiously strapped those heels to her feet.

When dropped off downtown the redhead sauntered over, slapped my butt and said "Thanks for the ride." I haven't seen him, or his group, since.

"Where to Linds? I've got to get my drink on!" Stacey blurted out. "I mean, your margaritas were really, really good, but…." she trailed off as we stood on the street corner. Stacey was drunk and didn't know what her next move was. She had been nervously checking her phone all night, obviously waiting for a heads up from someone. This top secret text message was obviously going to determine where we went.

Until it arrived, we had some time to blow.

We wandered into a pub, searching for a drink and familiar faces. Stacey knew half the city's regular bar crowdand I knew half the bartenders. While Stacey actually went to bars, often, my "in" was my little brother. He happened to tend bar at the chicest club in town, and it had a cover charge to kill.

Suddenly, some guy put his arm around me and a drink in my hand. A little taken aback by his boldness, I looked up to find Stacey snuggling his partner in crime. It was obvious that we were not going to be moving for quite some time (what your mother told you is true, there are reasons to stay together). After receiving two fresh drinks from the waitress it was announced that these boys were NHL players.

As if.

I assume they weren't very good (despite all the hockey talk there was very little mention of their showing on the ice) but I guess it was kinda obvious: one had scraggly blonde hair and was missing a couple of teeth. The other had short brown hair and a bloodshot eye. They were both built like steamrollers and had bottles surrounding them. We spent an hour sitting with these guys, watching how men in the big leagues roll. They were okay, but insistent on refilling our glasses with thick brown liquid.

They liked their girls drunk.

This was not my scene and the more I drank the more I wanted out. I had a delicious rack of ribs in my stomach and didn't want to waste them on good whiskey and bad discussion. Then, out of the blue, "Sorry guys, we have to go! It's been fabulous, but we really must go." Stacey chirped. "Why don't you meet us later?"

We wouldn't be meeting them later - Stacey had gotten her text message. Now we were on a mission.

"Some of my friends are meeting up at the Tap House. I really want to go."

Ahh, the Tap House. The infamous bar where baby brother bartended. On a Saturday night we could expect to spend $20 each in cover charge and still wait an hour to get in.

"Let me call my brother," I offered, knowing that our stash of cash, although untouched, would not carry us through a massive cover charge and drinks at the Tap House.

"Jake!" I yelled into the phone, trying not to sound drunk. "I need a favour, I'm a party of two!"

Always the calm, suave kid, Jake answered with one word "Done."

I have had a lot of decent breaks in my life: amazing parents, a wonderful childhood, an education like no other, but one of the best breaks I have ever had was the luck of my younger brother tending bar at the hottest club in town.

When given the green light I could show up at the Tap House, breezing past the line and waving to the bouncers (mind you, at this club, the bouncers were called "hosts" - they still did the dirty work of dealing with the angry drunks though). Once settling myself on a second floor sofa some manager would magically appear and ask what I wanted to drink.

This was always the best part. I knew that Jake had told the manager what I would be wearing, but the feeling of having a man in black, complete with headset, seeking me out with the sole task of taking my order had me on cloud nine. It always did. Once my request was placed, the man would jump up, snap his fingers and drinks would appear. With his first free moment, Jake would wander over and chat before heading back to his stage.

It was a luxury I dare not use and abuse. Not only did I not want to lose a privilege comparable to a Black American Express card in a country liquor store, but I wanted to make my little brother proud. I wanted to be cool, commanding and utterly breathtaking just like him.

It therefore seemed appropriate that I call this favour in tonight. Stacey had something important to attend to, and I was dying of curiosity. Was it a guy, an impenetrable social circle, or a bad day that needed to be attended to?

In hindsight, it also seems appropriate that I met him that night. After receiving more attention from males in one night than I had the last three months it seems perfectly fitting that I met this funny shaped, horrible-Hawaiian-shirt-wearing man at the coolest bar in town.

Blown Apart: The Preface, Part ii

Three years ago today, my apartment burned to the ground.

Blown Apart: The Preface

Three years ago today, my apartment exploded.

Music Monday: The Logical Song

With all of this snow, it can only mean one thing: it is time for SUPERTRAMP!

Always one to brighten my day, Supertramp is a delight, using both standard and contemporary sound effects. Sure you can hear the keyboards and castanets, but can you also pick out the Mattel electronic football game or the Trouble "Pop-o-Matic" bubble? They are there, I promise.

We both know you remember the board game "Trouble". Don't deny it. If you don't, I sincerely suggest you jump back into the eighties and have a go; it's pleasure is ranked slightly above "Hungry Hungry Hippos".

This song tells the story of a man who was ripped from his childhood, educated for adulthood and realizes that his future is expected to be lacking in any spontaneity.

Sound familiar? It gets better - the man feels constricted in his freedom of speech, feels the pressure to conform and ends up confused, without a clear self-image.

See if you can pick out the story (or just dance madly around your room, as all snowy Monday's should be spent).

Obviously not the official video, these girls do a good job of keeping the words onscreen to help my ailing brain. It's a generational thing, I think.

I don't know what my generation has been dubbed, "The Mini X's" maybe, but we are certainly walking around confused.

Here's hoping you start your weekend on a roll.

Kinda cold and certainly confused,

L

Awkwardly Amazing: My Dinner Date

Friday night I travelled to Peterborough for dinner and a night of trouble with an old friend.

It was an amazing and awkward night. We must do it again soon.

We began with a dinner date - hooking up on a cold cement sidewalk and searching for an establishment suitable enough for two girls to enjoy a delicious dinner. We needed something that offered an atmosphere entirely encouraging of comfortable banter.

We slid into our seats and dove into conversation. It has been well over a year since this girl and I had connected alone and without influence. It confirmed that we were still as friendly as ever, but also that we have grown older. Our conversation also concluded that while we had desperately spent the last two years denying our age and slowing the inevitable leave from a careless time, our life had done what lives do; they had moved on. New insecurities, new problems, and a new desire for a friend and female companion. We both wanted someone to spill to, someone who would appreciate our plight and tell us what to do.

That was awkward.

The social stops and starts, the little pauses between deciding a decision should be made and actually making it. The conversation, too excited and lopsided one sentence, pulled back, nervous, hesitant even, in the next.

There is something that occurs between two people, something that allows them to form a relationship and hold onto it though years of turmoil and triumph, but did we still have it?

This girl, Alena; she was front row and centre when I became me, complete and full fledged, and now that we don't see each other as much as we would like, we still have this innate ability to meet and pick up exactly where we left off. It's as if I just stepped out of the room for a minute and jumped right back in.

That was pretty amazing.

We met in my second year of university. My first year of studies had not gone as planned. Separated by over 4200 kilometres (almost 2500 miles) I missed my parents. Joined by my high school boyfriend I was miserable, and my studies had not engrossed my attention as I had hoped.

The daughter of my landlord upon my return to Ontario, little Alena and I became fast friends. We were together constantly, and alone often. Our studies gripped our passions and parties filled our weekends. When things happened the other was consulted. When down time was needed we would curl up on her bed and chill, together, for hours. Somehow we could read each other like a book - painful topics were avoided, alcohol was poured and silence prevailed when our minds rode heavily with contemplation.

She was the small, quiet girl who was scrappy to a tee. Always one to stay small and keep quiet Alena had a tendency of going along to get along. Oddly enough, she also had a way of getting what she wanted, no matter the cost. Everything was negotiated to a decent fee. It didn't happen very often, but it was brilliant to to watch when it did.

I, on the other hand, was the louder more domineering part of our pair. Always with a new idea and some neon accessory I stood out and wrote my essays the night before they were due. My employment experience swelled and I was always involved in the social circuit. I stood out and I stepped out.

But we were both there, watching, waiting and wondering. We encouraged when needed and agreed to keep our dirty laundry a secret - to my knowledge it still its in its smelly basket.

Our unsaid motto "you can do better than me, and I can be better than you;" defined us and propelled us forward until here we sat, across a pub table from each other. After years together, would a noticeable separation break us? Was the geography too much? Were we too different now, with husbands and fiances and careers to plan?

I popped the lemon garnish on my glass of water into the cold liquid, nervous for the waitress to bring my wine. The wine I had ordered certainly didn't match my dinner but it would taste good and go down easily. It was calm the nerves that were silently exploding under the pressure. Alena eyed up my water glass, and noticing her lemon sat still propped up on the rim, pushed it into the water swirling below.

Our glasses, and now our mindsets, matched.

After sleeping the night off on her couch I awoke at a comfortable nine thirty in the morning. Comfortable considering I had yet to befit the hour and a half drive home, but oh so early for a girl who didn't set down her glass until three thirty the night before.

Despite my lack of sleep and excess of alcohol, I awoke serene and comfortable. Her home smelled familiar and calm. It was cold and blowy outside but not enough to slow the Saturday morning traffic.

I stood to use the bathroom, just in time to hear the bathroom door shut and the invader begin to fumble with taps and toothbrushes.

It felt like home. It was where I was supposed to be.

I just love mornings like that.

Music Monday: I Feel Fine

How was your weekend my lovelies?

The Newf and I hit some major shopping locales and spent the day swamped with crowds.

I don't know how we made it out alive.

To celebrate the coming of the crazy Christmas consumer season I have something special up my sleeve.

I am sure you have heard this track before - it suitably makes mentioned of four apocalyptic references: earthquake (as in the opening of the sixth seal in the Book of Revelation and the Synoptic Gospels), birds (as in Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds and one character's reference to Old Testament scripture), snakes (an Ancient Egyptian god, Apep, was represented as a snake and made daily attempts to devour the sun) and aeroplane (a modern prospect of nuclear holocaust).

Bounce around, my beauties, to Great Big Sea's.'s It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine).

Great Big Sea does a cover of R.E.M.'s original version, but I like it (and the video) better. Let's face it, Canadian is a good way to go.

Do you battle the crazy crowds? Do you think the end is near? Or do you just avoid the Christmas shopping season?

The Newf says I'm paranoid. I say I'm ready.

Here's to avoiding the crazies,

L

Picking a Fight with the Police

I honked my horn at a cop the other day.

He was sitting in a marked car, plain as day. I don't normally honk my horn, but I didn't like his attitude. Seriously.

Dude cut me off by way of the left hand turning lane. There was no need, traffic was moving at a decent pace, the sun was shining. But no. He had to roar up next to me and literally cut in front without so much as a hand wave.

He was a big important police man. He had places to go.

Then he cut me off and I snapped. "HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!"

Now normally I avoid honking my horn. It is rather rude; Miss Manners compares it to yelling and I think she has a point. Horns are loud and obnoxious, just like the crazy guy randomly yelling at the local mall. I am, however, the queen of using my horn to bring attention to road rage ruffians who attempt to scare me into doing what I'm told. The best way to deter someone from pressing on with their poor behaviour is to lay on that noise maker with everything your mama gave you. People always hate having public attention drawn to their foibles.

This guy was embarrassed and enraged. He looked back at me with indignation in his wrinkled face. I held my breath as the lights went on. "Not again Linds," the Newf snorted; "I thought you learned not to argue with the men in blue."

Full disclosure, cops are not my favourite people. Somewhere between my dislike for authority, growing up with a father as a lawyer and being arrested as my house burned to the ground, a strong dislike for police has formed. Don't get me wrong, I'm a good girl and I stay out of trouble.

For some reason, that doesn't deter the fucking fuzz. They follow me like a Boston creme donut needs its creme filling. Newf says I'm paranoid, I say he doesn't appreciate my situation. I mean, I could be the next Mad Max.

At this point, the lights are on, his siren is wailing and I am contemplating how hard it will be to pull a U turn next to a subway station.

Country girls never have to deal with this; the rule of thumb is to get your car out of sight. Once the cop can't see you anymore he can't lay charges, because he can't say it was certainly you. It is a great rule, unless he has your license plate number or you are surrounded by innocent people and cement barricades.

Then an amazing thing happened. The police officer bolted forward - an emergency had clearly come over his radio as he stared me down. Thank goodness, whoever was in trouble called off his request for assistance. Once his car cleared the city bus his sirens and lights were turned off.

Whatever, I escaped the lecture and the Newf has something else to rib me about. After all, that whole puke in the pumpkin incident was getting pretty old.

Avoiding authority,

L

It's All About Me: Time to Go Back to School

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I had some big beans to spill. As an extremely superstitious person I tend to hold back on announcements, waiting until contracts are signed and bills are paid.

Today is that day.

You may remember that I recently asked for your help with a project I was working on.

You, my lovely readers came out in spades to assist me - something I am completely grateful for.

Well, that project was my photography portfolio. And that portfolio was successful. I start school in January.

This is exciting for a number of reasons, one of which being the incredibly cool camera I bought today. But the biggest reason this acceptance has me grinning from ear to ear is the very simple reason that I thought my plan was a long shot.

I've always been a little more mad scientist than moody artist. My university career began in chemistry labs and ended in breaking apart bones in the forensics wing. My life and judgements tend to fall in one of two categories: black or white.

As a logical being I never thought I would have a place in art, but I've proved myself wrong.

The Newf, who has been incredibly encouraging as I spend money we don't have, thinks it is a perfect fit. He is convinced I will be take the world by storm and is sickly supportive of anything that will get me onto a boat.

I've got my work cut out for me. Until yesterday I had never laid my hands on a DSLR, let alone own one. However, I have the next two years in a program to begin my love affair with my new best friend: my Nikon D7000.

Friends, thank you for your ideas and thank you for your support.

Soon to be a student (again),

L

Music Monday: We're Mad About Madcon

Good morning my misfits,

It's a Mondo Monday around here! To enjoy the mega star shining on my week so far, I have my ultimately favourite song of the year lined up to break this week open.

I could tell you these beats became the big number uno in Norway, blasting away the charts in France, the Netherlands, the UK and Germany, but who needs statistics? We have pure proof to jive to today, my turkeys.

This remix has been completely re-recorded: the instrumentals were performed by 3Elementz and the vocals are completely Madcon.

If you are completely down and out, this puppy will perk you up. If you are already basking in blissfulness this tidbit will allow you to ride that high.

To start your week, I m tabling "Beggin" by Madcon:

So, the question is: what kind of controller would they find in your hands?

Personally, I'm an original Nintendo type girl.

Rocking out to remixes,

L

Some Sass for your Sunday: The Little Black Glove

Good evening my darling delinquents,

Are you missing a little lace in your life? Desperate to feel daring? Or maybe, just maybe, you want to wow your wardrobe?

Well, I have a little surprise for you! Your quest for sassy spice has ended!

For the first time on Linnie gets Laced I have a press release to share (you can't imagine how suave I feel right about now). This is hot to the touch, oh so sexy, and just in time for all of those spectacular party dresses I know you (or your lady friends) will be rocking this season!

Feast your eyes on these beauties:

You can shop this fabulous line at The Little Black Glove.

These gorgeous gloves are part of the brand new holiday line, designed by Miss Numa herself. Not only is this lady chicer than most cats, but she knows her gloves.

Now, who wants to argue with a lady like that?

Miss Numa knows her gloves. She started wearing them while performing as a showgirl in a musical. To her dismay, she was forced to return her prized possessions every night at the performance end.

Years and a massive vintage glove collection later and this fox found her calling: she started designing her first collection. It has done amazingly well (think editorial, runway and celebrity press) and the reason for that is obvious.

If you are even a little bit like me your inner bitch battles to have the best outfit at the whatever shindig you are at. You not only want to look good, you want to own that room.

The best way to do that? Find a trend or piece that no one else has worn yet. Better yet, find one that is unknown and catches the eye of the gentlemen sharing in the festivities.

There is no better way to win the fashion game than to be that girl. You know, the hot girl in the black gloves...

Which ones are your favourite? What would you wear them with?

I'm dying to get my hands on the Tuxedos (pun fully intended). I'd wear them with everything from my military greens to my tight pencil skirts.

Oh, and for my fellow Canucks, yes, she ships to Canada (or wherever your lovely fingers may lie).

Giving it in gloves,

L

Wordless Wednesday: Fog and Logs

An eery evening with fog and two gorgeous Canadian pines.

Music Monday: Bowie's a Rebel

I'm a little late; no, I'm a lot late. Either way, I still have a song for you.

This week I have to make a decision, a decision that is likely going to change the face of Linnie for good. It's a decision that has my nearest and dearest stumped, and maybe that isn't a bad thing. Sometimes, it is good to shake the pot up a little bit.

That is exactly what David Bowie did with this beauty. This song was Bowie's farewell to the glam rock movement that made him a star.

Ladies and gents, please dance around the room to Rebel Rebel.

Sometimes it is good to be bad; it's even better when you're different.

Defying my disposition,

L

A Day to Remember

Ladies and gentlemen,

Lest we forget.

Today is a day to remember, remember what so many have sacrificed to ensure we could enjoy the ultimate comfort, our freedom.

I am not going to prattle on about my experiences and relations with war or the veterans that fought in them. I am not because we as a generation have no understanding of war. We have no understanding of true hardship and absolute sacrifice. We have only the stories our veterans relay, the knowledge that humans are capable of horrible things.

We are not victims. We are not, because they protected us.

So today, please wear your poppy with pride. Please remember that today has nothing to do with us, but it has everything to do with passing on the invaluable message of our aging generation. Today is about their message and having the ability to tell it.

Lest we forget.

Yours,

L

Wordless Wednesday: My Newfs, With Words

I have some quick photos to share. A rare glimpse into the life that is mine.

The Beast and the Newf, aloof and without bribes.

The Beast and the Newf, much happier, after being bribed with fish.

Never underestimate the power of a Newf's stomach.

Have a good one.

It's a wonderful Wednesday,

L

A Little Tease, A Little Tired

Booyah.

I have some big news brewing. It is rather exciting for me and I cannot wait to share.

I want to have a chance to chat with the Newf, make it official and then I will discuss further.

Right now I am so tired I can't see straight. In an attempt to reset my inner clock I stayed up all night and I am hurting today. It is obvious I am no longer a spring chicken.

I guess that makes me a hen. Cluck cluck, baby.

Strutting and sleepy,

L

Music Monday: Yolanda Be Cool (I Assure You This Is)

Good morning my friends!

Just in case the extra hour of sleep didn't make you smile enough, I've got a special double feature for you.

This video was sent to me by the oh so lovely My Girl Thursday. This lovely lady really is a dame, and completely witty. She's far from normal and that alone is worth a look; we appreciate anything out of the box over here.

There is no room for normal.

According to this doll, this video has been viral for awhile now (I'm always late) but just in case, I thought it was worth a look.

The song is catchy, and I believe the first pop song featured on Music Monday.

Released on an Australian label earlier this year, the track samples a 1956 song "Tu duo fa l'americano", written by Renato Carosone and Nicola "Nisa" Salerno. This Neapolitan language hit was one of Renato's most famous songs and was recently remade by our featured artist.

Have a jump and jive to "We Speak No Americano", remade by Yolanda Be Cool.

Isn't that impressive? The hand-eye coordination and memory required is just mind boggling; not to mention the straight faces, I think I'd burst! Unlike the song, their routine omits any kind of chorus in movement and they look so much alike they could be twins (I really hope they are).

The pair isn't bad looking either. He can feed me grapes (or whatever), whenever he wants. The Newf has a similar opinion of the hand-dancing miss. All is fair. . .

Anyways, I digress. Keep in mind that this is not the track's official video but just a feat of finger field events. Hopefully that extra hour of sleep has me as ready and rearing to go as their hot hands.

Did you enjoy your extra hour of sleep this weekend? Was it put to good use or completely squandered? What did you do to celebrate?

Have a fabulous week!

Dancing with my digits,

L

Showing My Geeky Side: Gaming Giggles

Good evening my darlings, how was your weekend?

Did you enjoy the extra hour of sleep this morning?

I sure did. So much so, I got giddy and decided to share a few pics that (actually) made me laugh out loud.

Enjoy, and happy Sunday.

Surfing on a Sunday,

L

Breaking News (and the Rules), One Ball of Yarn at a Time

Oh goodness, it would only happen to me.

After spending the last couple of days surrounded in illness I woke up feeling marginally better. Seeing as it is just gorgeous outside, I thought a walk downtown was in order.

Fresh air always does a body good.

The Beast was game so I clipped him to his leash and off we went. After stopping at the yarn store and the library we headed home.

It then became apparent the streets were oddly quiet. On a hunch, I checked the news.

Apparently a giant chemical cloud has escaped and Toronto residents are being "ordered" to stay indoors. I suppose I should have checked the news before I left, I just didn't expect a big ball of fury to be unleashed on the city.

I'm pretty far from the blanket of acid leaking from 10 Chemical Court, so maybe I'll head back to the yarn store later tonight.

I'm just that dangerous. Nobody "orders" me to do anything. Booyah.

With burning eyes,

L

Happy Halloween: A Foiled Pumpkin Plan

'Tis the Halloween season. Perhaps the best party season of the year, we were treated to have Friday and Saturday devoted to the evening of the dead. Sure, Christmas is fun, but all the eggnog can get a little boring (and never settles well with rum).

You know what does settle well with rum? A hot costume on a deliciously healthy body.

In the past I have held Halloween parties with a vengeance. One of my (and my roommates') best was a costume keg party, complete with Texas mickeys, random handcuffing and a live psychic.

This year, however, we were not as lucky. This year, the Newf, the Beast and myself have been fighting the stomach flu. Sexy. There has been so much fluid floating around here that we don't know which way is up; adding booze did not seem prudent (we only have one toilet).

Regardless of the bugs and bodily waste we thought it important to send a shoutout to one of the best holidays of the year. We had to set up on the sidewalk, close to the action and close to the kids. The Newf and I had an idea, one we had seen executed perfectly in the past.

We planned to plunk a pumpkin on my head, stuff my clothes with straw and set me up next to a bowl of candy. The Newf was going to lurk in the bushes with a video camera. When the unsuspecting children helped themselves I was going to jump to life and scare the living daylights out of these kids (and hopefully their parents).

If only we had gotten that far.

It took me forever to find a pumpkin. Apparently city folk have one size pumpkin: small. My head is size unusually large. We spent $30 on a pumpkin, thirty dollars, but it was a massive pumpkin. I scooped the guts out and drew a face on the bad boy while the Newf was at work. A hole was carefully carved in the bottom to ensure a tight, but comfortable, fit.

We had to give up on straw. Apparently city folk have no straw either; leaves would have to do. What they feed their livestock I do not know.

At the appointed hour I stuffed my clothes full of leaves (I assure you, it is not comfortable) and waddled out to the required chair.

With our plan ready to go and the sun setting the Newf hit the bushes. It was then I felt the gurgle; it was the gurgle of death.

"Newf, I don't feel so hot."

"Really? Are you okay?" the Newf inquired.

"Yeah, I guess. I just, I really don't feel good."

"Linds, you were fine five minutes ago. It is probably just nerves, you've always been the nervous type;" Newf suggested. "Besides, I think I see some kids!"

"Newf, I don't feel good, I gotta go."

"Lindsay, you are a scarecrow now. Scarecrows don't have stomachs, they have nerves of steel. Take a deep breath, it'll be fine. I promised you won't get arrested. There is a whole group of kids coming!"

I took a deep breath and that's when it all ended. We were so close.

I threw up in my pumpkin.

Not only did I vomit in the orange ball of bitterness, but I was trapped. I ended up on all fours, bringing up bile like it was going out of style, blindly pawing at the pumpkin, while a group of children watched. The Newf was laughing so hard he forgot to tape the scene (there is a God).

When I finally pulled my head out it was covered in puke. I had spew dripping down my face, pooling under my shirt collar and even up my nose.

"Cool!" one of the kids exclaimed. Not only was my plan thwarted, but these kids thought this was all a stunt.

"Oh really?" I questioned, still pissed off that my $30 pumpkin was now filled with the product of my purging.

I stepped towards the group and the kids' mother lost her cookies.

At least all was not lost: I was cool. She is just weak.

Needless to say, the Newf passed the candy out and I took a shower. There are no pictures; at least, there better not be.

Hope your tricks went as planned. Did you dress up?

Pickled in puke,

L

Music Monday: Cooper is Creepy

Good morning, my ghosts and goblins! I hope you had a horrifying weekend.

Seeing as we only recently had our socks rocked off, it seemed only fitting that we enjoy a scary tune to jump-start our week.

This week was exciting; I wanted to avoid the obvious choices and yet find something really soul wrenching.

I turned to creepy Alice Cooper, because this guy always gets the job done. Mr. Cooper has been around forever. We still have some vinyl kicking around from my Mom's dangerous days; she is still dangerous, but maternal at the same time. Think Mrs. Adams, but in colour (and pearls).

The interesting thing about this song is it was actually released in 2003, on Cooper's "The Eyes of Alice Cooper" record. The album actually had four different cover art versions; the only difference being the colour in Mr. Cooper's eyes. You can choose from blue, green, purple and red.

How thoughtful, you can match your album to your decor.

While you are choosing colours, please enjoy Alice Cooper's "This House is Haunted".

Please note the video above is not affiliated with Mr. Cooper, but was created by highwayrobberyrocker. The pictures are certainly interesting, but don't let the imagery overpower the poetry. Isn't this song darkly romantic?.

It creeps me right out. I can't help but think, that, maybe this is how you feel after your companion, the love of your life, passes.

Thoughts?

What Cooper colour would you choose?

Don't kid yourself into thinking this is it for the creepy crawlies. You may deck your halls next (or nosh on turkey for my American friends) but the ghosts will be close behind. The Christmas ghosts are the worst; who wants to focus on the past or present? Even worse, who wants to talk about the future?

Where does that leave us? Running; running from time, life and possibly turkeys.

I hope you've got some speed.

Giddy about ghosts,

L

I Need Some ID: Show Me Your Dog

This evening I set out on my nightly walk with the Beast. A daily ritual, I try to find a different purpose for our trot around town.

Tonight, I felt lucky. I felt really lucky. The Beast agreed, so we set off to find some lottery tickets. A constant number player, I often purchase tickets. I am convinced I will win. Most people sing with the shampoo bottle in the shower; I practice calling the lottery office. If I was an addict, gambling would be it - this is to say I always feel lucky.

We lumbered to the convenience store, the cool air crisp on our faces and the Beast blowing through piles of leaves. We had a destination, we needed to see the Milk Man.

The first thing the Newf and I did when we moved to Toronto was to find a convenience store. Being small-town, I avoid chains like the plague, always looking for a friendly independent establishment. A buddy-buddy business is always best; it provides friendly chit chat and service is always better when you are a consistent, loyal customer.

It didn't take us long to find our store of choice. One walk, on a warm spring day, found us our man. There, sitting in a lawn chair, stretched out in the sun, and smoking a cigar was the owner of Sun Milk Convenience. The man, later to be dubbed the Milk Man, looked up from his cigar and went nuts. "Ohhhhhhhhh! What a big puppy! Oh, you a big boy, you a big boy!" he excitedly exclaimed as he outright kissed the dog.

This guy was weird; we were sold.

Every warm day thereafter you could find the Milk Man, sunning himself next to his umbrella, cigar in hand. The umbrella doesn't offer much protection from the sun, the Milk Man always sits next to the contraption. Instead, this pole offers the perfect place to tie up your pooch. Somedays there will be a bunch of dogs, in differing shapes and sizes, all tied to the same pole. Lord help us when they all decide to run.

Every day we pass this little store we have a quick chat and the Beast gets a little French love.

So, it was a given that I would stop here for our lottery binge. Being late October it was chilly I had an oversized sweatshirt, warm vest (plaid of course) and reindeer toque plunked on top of my wet hair. I was dressed appropriately for poop scooping. The Beast was left, tied up to the umbrella pole, and I waited for my chance at the counter.

When I got up to the counter my cheery conversation and ticket request was shot down. "You have ID?" the Milk Man said, calmly but firmly.

"Oh, no, I am sorry, I don't!"

"Oh, no ticket then;" the Milk Man responded, face flat and hands motioning to reiterate that he was closed for business to minors.

"Oh dear, I come by all the time," I replied, hoping to avoid the walk back home (I really felt lucky). I wracked my brain for something recognizable, "I have the big black dog!"

The Milk Man did not look impressed. He held his ground.

The line was growing in the small store, so I shot a smile his way and went out to get the Beast. Now, our dog is a good one; he doesn't eat the Jos Louis on the bottom rack nor does he jump on people. He is friendly, but he is BIG. When you get him into a small store, filled with people, he just doesn't belong. Normally I wouldn't bring the Beast in a store, especially one that had food, but this was an emergency.

The Milk Man took one look and lit up, "Oh! Oh, oh, OH!" He knew who we were, and he knew he'd seen my ID before.

The Beast was escorted back outside and I took my place at the back of the line. When I reached the counter the Milk Man put his hand on my shoulder, head down. "How old are you?" he asked.

"I'm twenty-six," I said hesitantly, wondering if this was a trick question.

The Milk Man burst out laughing. Face red and cheeks full he yelled (loud enough he made the woman behind me jump), "Oh! You look SO YOUNG!"

I bought my lottery tickets. I love the Milk Man.

Do you have any commercial loyalties? Any favourite stores, brand name or family run?

Enjoying my youth,

L

Small Things: Ads CAN Make you Smile

I saw this ad yesterday while streaming some Mantracker online.

I love it. Not only is it clever but the faucet is pretty cool too. Problem is, if I owned it I would spend hours turning it on and off, just because it was fun.

The two-button water-saving toilet entertained me for days when we moved into our current place.

Small things, simple things.

Enjoy.

It gets me right at ". . . even make a pizza pie!"

Do ads and commercials ever make you smile? What's your favourite?

Amused by ads,

L

Dead, But HOW Dead?

I saw a dead guy the other day. I've been thinking about him (or her, let's be fair) ever since.

I was out walking the Beast when he decided to have the mother of all shits; it was a double bagger. As I looked up, I caught sight of a shiny black Suburban pull into the funeral home across the road.

Two people got out and opened the back doors. Assuming they were dropping the casket off I paused for a second; it seemed like the right thing to do.

What followed was not a casket but a bona fed body. It was on a stretcher in a black body bag, complete with feet poking up like circus tents. The body seemed to be a long one (aka, he took up the full stretcher) so I'm assuming this was a man. Either way, it was a thin body.

For those of you who think I'm completely nuts, let me justify my fascination with advising you that my university studies revolved around dead bodies. Skeletons, forensics and human behaviour were my subjects of choice (maybe a little English was thrown in).

It was such an odd sight, this body fresh from the hospital. I certainly wasn't expecting anything other than a pine box (possibly mahogany, considering the neighbourhood). I've seen lots of bodies, fresh and foul, during my own employment at a funeral home. Thing is, I always knew the story behind them.

I don't know this body's story. Where did they come from? Why did they die?

Tonight I was walking the pooch again and saw a crowd milling around the same funeral home - likely the family and friends of the deceased.

I didn't stick around but I still wonder, what is the story?

Debating the dead,

L

Music Monday: Surviving the Election

Good morning!

IF you are living in Ontario, Canada, and IF you are over the age of 18 today is election day! All over the province people are lining up, ready to vote for the best candidate to run their village, town or village.

Today is municipal election day.

I love election day. I enjoy chatting with people at the polling stations and I especially love spending the evening on my couch with a bag of carrots in one hand and the remote in the other. Granted, the bag of carrots is relatively new (a big thanks to Veggie & Fruit Induction '10) and the remote is useless (the channel is not to be changed until the results are in) but it is always fun to see how things end up.

I've been lucky to live in an exciting riding; Canadian politicians can be so boring.

With all the big boys battling things out, I have what I believe to be a well-suited song.

Originally requested by a Mr. Sylvester Stallone, this song was written to replace Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust". Stallone could not get permission for the Queen tune so he had to switch gears.

Amazingly popular in the eighties (I guess there wasn't much going on) this video is wicked. How do you not love watching Mr. T crack someone, especially Sylvester Stallone?

Please, enjoy and rock out to "Eye of the Tiger" performed by Survivor.

At first the song-writer, a Mr. Jim Peterik, was going to name the song "Survival" (did you get the tie to the band name?). Eventually he smartened up and ended up with a hit.

What are your plans for today? Are you voting in an election? Do you have strong political views?

Marking my ballot,

L

Tossed: Tomato Soup

Tis the season for tomato soup.

As part of Veggie & Fruit Induction '10 I have rid my house of all chocolates and cakes. All of my pizzas and pastas and anything delicious is gone. Well, Newf usually brings home the good stuff but that is another story.

Point is, when I get hungry there isn't much to do but eat something healthy. Sometimes I wait awhile, hoping a pizza will magically appear. Sometimes I settle for a PB&J. Tonight, I cracked a can of tomato soup.

This tasty red stuff is something of childhood memories. Most would associate it with cold days of snow, tobogganing and grilled cheese.

Tomato soup does not remind me of grilled cheese, snow or sledding. Tomato soup reminds me of the fact that the plants in the Galleria Mall in London, Ontario are real. That's right, they have real plants baby.

Back when I was a youngster, perhaps 12 or 13 my mother decided to take my younger siblings and I shopping. She loaded us three into her car and off we went, 45 minutes to the Galleria, which in that day was quite the mall. Now, not so much.

As a country kid, mall trips were special things.

Anyways, we were happily bouncing around when I suddenly felt a gurgle in my stomach. The gurgle was not a good one, my stomach was not happy. Stuck in the middle of traffic (which was never my mother's forte) I knew what was about to happen and had to warn my mother. "Mom, I'm going to throw up!"

Panic took over. My mom was not going to get out of traffic. She could not pull over because some mother f#*k@r had taken two cars out and rendered traffic to a stand still.

My mother responded, very matter-of-factly, "Lindsay, just try to keep it on the floor mat!"

Well, my aim did not fail me that day. No, not at all. I hit the floor mat of her backseat with full force. Undigested tomato soup and crackers spewed from my mouth like a bad word. My siblings were crawling up the walls of the car and my mother managed to pull over.

The floor mat went directly into a garbage can.

Feeling much better, the four of us continued on our way to the mall, hoping the projectile puke was a one shot deal.

Hope was all we would have. I threw up three more times, all in the mall. Once in a garbage can and twice in real potted plants. I remember being impressed as I pushed my fingers into the cool dirt surrounding the plant. Here I thought I was simply defacing some plastic plant.

Real plants rule.

That day the mall had class and some (free) extra fertilization. I had a day I will never forget.

Tis the season for tomato soup. Enjoy!

Never quite normal,

L

Back in Black, For Now

Good evening my electronic locals!

Did you miss me?

Well, regardless of your love (or lack thereof) I am back, for now. In my absence a few things happened. Let's recap:

1.) Thanksgiving: can you say YUM? While my turkey day was turkey-free (I blame the Parentals who were too busy living a life of adventure to cook me a turkey) it was fabulous. I ordered pizza.

2.) Grannie got the staples from her foot removed and I was there for the whole thing. I even have pictures! If you missed it, you can read all about her broken bone here. After being told she was not to shower or walk on it, the first thing she did was take a shower. I can hardly blame her I suppose, but, Grannie, please leave the sledgehammer at home.

3.) The Beast got some bad news. Being a large dog he is prone to dysplasia and it seems the D has effected the L; his elbow that is. The poor guy is limping around and he is still growing! He is still young and so we are hopeful he may grow out of it if we keep him quiet and consistently exercise the joint. It could go horribly wrong and we could end up putting him down early on but I just don't think so. The Beast is a dog set in his ways and right now, his ways include living. Dude is on a diet to keep him lean and we enjoy short walks. No more jaunts at the beach or slices of 'za on Friday nights. Well, maybe half a slice is okay - he's a big boy and he deserves to have a little fun.

4.) I won a MASSIVE giveaway. My darling friend has a wonderful crafty blog and Etsy store. Recently she hosted a giveaway and I won the first prize of a $75 gift certificate! Since I love her stuff, it won't last long. Word on the street has it she is making some new products - I can't wait! I'll post pictures of my purchases as I get them!

5.) I finished my mysterious project I had asked for your assistance a couple of weeks ago and I finally put your words to use! A big THANK YOU for all the responses! Look for my work later in the week!

6.) I have started the colourful journey of attempting to add more fruits and veggies to my diet. There is a wonderful foodie blogger who has offered to provide me tips on healthy eating. The caveat, I have to do one tip before I get another. How is that for punishment??!? This week I have to drink (or eat?) a smoothie. Problem is, it has a banana in it. I don't do banana's folks. I promise to let you know how the fruity feast goes.

All in all, it has been a busy week!

What have you been up to these past few weeks? Any particular events or accomplishments to speak of?

Working with the wicked,

L

Music Monday: Pretty Woman

Just a quick song to let you know I am still alive.

I am alive.

More to follow this week! My mysterious project is almost completed and I have so much to tell you all! Everything from disgruntled grannies to perfect pictures, tucked turkeys to brash brides, and the undefeated Toronto Maple Leafs.

In the meantime, something to keep you skipping on the sunny side of the street.

This song tells the story of a pretty woman walking by. He yearns for her and wonders if, despite her beauty, she is as lonely like he is. At the last minute she turns back and joins him.

Please enjoy the smash hit Oh Pretty Woman by Mr. Roy Orbison.

The title of this titty twister was inspired by Mr. Orbison's wife, Claudette. As Claudette announced she was going out Mr. Orbison asked if she had enough money. Orbison's co-writer interrupted, "A pretty woman never needs any money."

How sweet and delectably disgusting.

Enjoy your week friends!

Daring to be different,

L

The Best Day of the Year: It Isn't Christmas

Friends, it is a glorious day. One to be remembered and noted in history books.

Today is the first regular season hockey game. Be still my beating heart.

I am a hockey fan. A hardcore hockey fan. I may not know all the rules or the players' statistics but I can jump and yell with the best of them. I wear my team's colours with pride and a piece of me dies with the end of the playoff season.

But now, today, that piece has had new life breathed back into it. As I write this the arena is rearing to go. GO LEAFS GO!

Do you watch hockey? What colour is your blood?

Bleeding blue and white,

L

Maybe She's Crazy: A Musical Note

You know what people? I like music. I really, really like music. I like music SO much I just made a big decision, based on music.

Music has the ability to change my mood in a heartbeat, increase productivity and make a party fabulous. It is a must have at the gym, a necessary luxury at work and an easy way to create your image.

Over the years I've dabbled in instruments, ranging from pianos to trombones, clarinets to accordions, drums to guitars.

When my life derails, music is the thing that picks me up and pushes me to go forward.

This is why, when I hit university I vowed to build my music collection and fill my bedroom with band posters - bands that I knew and loved, bands that I deserved to show my love for.

I got to work early and by the end of my first year at Trent University I had weaselled my way into a group of music junkies, started dating a hot DJ and more than doubled my music collection. I had my albums organized according to use - serious projects and papers needed serious albums (enter Our Lady Peace and The Doors), gym going requires energy (um, hello Dance Mix '92-'95) and party going requires some pump up tunes (how I love French Affair) while applying makeup and sipping wine.

As the years went on my roommates all turned into DJs or writers of some sort. One loved folk, the other wrote rap rhymes, there was an 80's guy and that hot DJ was still kicking around. Somehow, with all these different tastes three of the four boys created a band in our basement. The 80's guy taught me the basics on a bass guitar (I have manly fingers, what can I say).

Our house was known for blasting move in music out our windows with massive amps during student move-in week. We hosted coffee houses, keg parties and had more musical acts sleep on our couches than I can remember. I even partied on the tour bus with Default after a hard night at work. My music collection grew to unimaginable proportions and I was happy as a clam. I was musical.

Are you a pop girl? A rocker chick? Maybe a morose metal head, whatever you are the music you listen to defines you. Even if all you do is rock to the radio, that tells me something about you.

So there I was, recently graduated, exploring the new (and real) world; all with my music backing me.

Then my apartment exploded and I lost it all (a common theme). My music was lost and I felt like a part of me had gone missing too. The boys and groups I had partied with had scattered as everyone does after university and I was lost.

I spent months trying to find my footing. Then, the other day, it hit me. I realized I really didn't like me, I didn't like who I had become. My music was gone and I was miserable.

I made the decision that to get over this whole apartment fire I needed to surround myself with music. I needed that familiar friend pushing me to go forward. I had to look, where in my life was music lacking? At the gym? Nope, my MP3 player is stocked. At home? Certainly not. Work? Not so easy. There is no music at work, not a note.

Not only was there no music at work there was only yelling. How could I continue to work at a place that is missing music, in melodies or metaphorical form? There was no success at that place, only unpleasantness.

So, I quit. Yes, here I sit, technically unemployed (I prefer the title temporary housewife). I don't know what kind of job I want but I know I want music. I want at least a little radio on the desk or a little love during the day.

My job was wholly unpleasant for a number of reasons. I worked soft collections for a major financial institution. I hate fighting with people and even more, I hate repossessing houses. I hated taking away the homes when the feeling was so fresh in my mind. The straw that broke the camel's back? NO MUSIC. They could have at least given me a radio to perk me up as my client was smashing me down.

So I guess my question is: are you hiring? Will you let me play some music? I promise to be quiet and I have a huge selection to choose from! If you are really nice, I'll even let you control remote (now that's love).

Musically motivated,

L

Please Help: Answer a Difficult Question

Dear friends,

I have a mind melding favour to ask of you. At the moment I am working on a large project that will *hopefully* get me where I want to go.

This is completely of my own volition but I would like to ask for your wise opinion.

What vulnerabilities do you think children face today? What do you worry your children will have to face in the coming years?

It could be a single emotion, a thought or a specific experience. Maybe it is something you yourself suffered as a child, maybe it is something you have watched another child suffer. Whatever it is, I would like to know about it.

I am hoping to draw attention to the severe difficulties (emphasis on the Western world) our precious little people face. I am not a parent so your additional input would be an invaluable point of view.

My project will be disclosed in the end, but your attachment to any ideas will be kept completely confidential if you so request. Feel free to email me LinnieDeLuxe (at) gmail (dot) com, drop me a Tweet or a Facebook message. I'll be looking for your responses.

Please, parents, friends and people of all sorts, pass on your ideas. Children are such innocent creatures, waiting for instruction on how to live life. They are our most valuable resource and I want to know what makes you worry.

This is not an easy question but if you have an idea, it would be most appreciated.

Working hard to get where I want to go,

L

Music Monday: Let's Rock that Lobster!

Good morning my lovelies!

How was your weekend?

My weekend was spent watching rowing races and drinking in my university parking lot. It was Homecoming weekend after all, and Trent University knows how to celebrate in style.

Trent does not have a football team, so instead they throw a big bash meant to raise funds for our first class rowing team. The incredibly buff boys and girls wandering around in spandex certainly helps the cause. Anyways, the parking lot next to the water is cordoned off and the beer starts to flow at noon. The Newf, the Beast and I all met friends for an afternoon filled with too much beer and long lost laughs.

It is the largest one day rowing event in North America.

Officially named, Head of the Trent (heh, you dirty minds) the student friendly acronym is HOTT. Over at Trent, a notoriously green school, we all work hard for our HOTT status.

As a shout-out to my long-term buddies I have a song so good we named our soccer team after it.

To begin your week, enjoy a dance around the room to The B52's "Rock Lobster":

While the song includes a lot of fictional animals (dog-fish, anyone?) a rock lobster is an actual creature (also known as spiny lobsters or langoustine).

This spiny creature is actually worlds apart from "true" lobsters. These water-logged, musical wonders aren't even closely related to the lobsters that so often end up on our plates. Rock lobsters have very long, thick and spiny antennae and lack any sort of claws (although the female rock variety have a small set of claws on their fifth pair of legs, go girls go).

True lobsters (think Sebastian in "The Little Mermaid") have smaller antennae and claws on the first three sets of legs, the first pair of claws being really BIG.

That's enough for the biology lesson today, folks. It should be a fantastic week but only time will tell.

GO GET'EM!

Loving the langoustine,

L

Boy Howdy: A Happy Creature

There has been enough of drab and dreary material lately, so today I have a complete smile creator.

It is no secret that the Newf and I have no children. It isn't that we don'twant any, it just hasn't felt right yet. That doesn't mean I don't fawn over adorable babies like any other clock-ticking clod.

In my Facebook stalking I found something that my friend created. With no other little ones in the extended family I have found my resident baby, if you will (I think everyone should have at least one). This little guy always puts a smile on my face:

I could eat him whole, just like he's killing these blueberries. They didn't have a hope.

My lady friend has told me that Mr. Emerson is a very happy baby. He eats just about anything his mom puts in front of him and is at seven months weighs just less than twenty-four pounds.

Folks, this little family just makes me happier than anything. They may not be clad in Gucci and driving a Mercedes but they are oh, so happy.

We should all wish to be so lucky.

Bubbling with berries,

L

Why Do I Have To Be Such A GIRL?

This morning while pumping it hard at the gym I burst into tears. I don't know why. Maybe it was the endorphins (or the pain searing through my thighs) but as I was bouncing around on the elliptical I looked up into the mirror and saw a very sad, very timid set of eyes looking back at me.

It was too much and I let it go. The room was empty and I was already soaked, so a little more salty moisture didn't seem all that bad. In fact, it felt so good. So there I sat, alone, exercising, and crying.

That is, until the woman next to me (where she came from I still do not know) tapped me on the shoulder, pulled out my earbud and asked if I was okay. Now, normally I would have been offended at her brash method of questioning - the gym was empty, there were tons of free ellipticals (that weren't next to me) and she pulled the plug on my music. Never touch my music.

I was stuck. I couldn't deny the crying, nor did I want to give this odd woman my life story.

"Oh, yes, thank you," I said, wiping my face. "It's just, it's just, [big pause] I just had a nasty breakup. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin the atmosphere," I responded.

I lied and I was feeling really bad about it until this perfectly weird woman huffed: "MEN! You can't live with them and you can't live without them! They are all demons! I caught mine with a clown and honey, I mean a clown! You think you have problems, WELL!"

Normally I would have had to stifle a laugh but this woman was so angry (and dreadfully serious) that you could tell her hurt was still fresh. All I wanted to do was give her a hug. Alas, I was all sweaty.

Instead, I took her out for a cookie. I came clean, we chatted about our demons and I made a new friend.

A fun-filled morning of estrogen; I hate crying and I hate demons but I love cookies.

Debating my demons,

L

Music Monday: I Smell Smoke (There Must be a Fire)

Good morning!

After a very productive Sunday it is time to go back to work. People, I have been slacking in a very big way.

To celebrate my short-lived freedom I have such a fabulous song. Let's get to it, we've got "Smoking in the Boys Room" by Brownsville Station:

This song was originally recorded by Brownsville station in 1973 only to be ripped off covered by Motley Crue in 1985. Lots of bands do covers, sure, but these boneheads waited twelve years to completely copy the song, the look and the style of the band.

Maybe I've got something to learn about covers and the music world, but for now, it's Brownsville all the way baby.

Sure I've been smoking (something) but it hasn't been in the boys room. While I have kinda left you lovelies hanging, it has been a fabulous break from everything electronic.

I hope to catch you all in the new week! What do you have planned??

Loving life (and actually starting to live it),

L

Let's Talk About Sex: Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Daddy always said I avoid speaking about politics and religion. Well, this may be political, it may be religious but above all else it is sexual.

Recently the "don't ask, don't tell" policy entered into the news, the Canadian news. It's a cold day when (you hit the Canadian news).

Well, here is my two cents about the matter.

First, I think that gays have as much of a right to fight for their country than anyone else. Gay, straight, bisexual, who cares? It does not matter to me, nor should it matter to anyone else.

Second, I do not agree with the policy as it currently stands. Sexual orientation, like an individual's sex, should not play a role in one's employment. One should not fear being found out (unless they are touting cocaine across a border, or something of the same).

Third, I agree with the statement, "don't ask, don't tell" in its raw state, free of the bill currently on the table. This statement needs to apply to all.

Currently, in the Canadian military one is not permitted to have a relationship of any sexual substance while deployed. This applies to any type of sexual relationship, regardless of orientation.

Whether deployed or not, why does one have to advertise their sexual orientation? Is this not gauche? A man who walks up to me, all muscles and attitude, coyly mumbling, "Hey baby, I'd like a ride on your gravy train!" gets as much attention as some woman telling me what "wonderful tits" I have.

Unless I am actively searching for a sexual partner, and a quick one at that, any type of advances from any individual are unneeded. If you know me well your advances are even less likely to be desired (as I am currently married to the Newf and he doesn't take well to competition).

So, while in the military I do not see the reason why any one individual would ever have to discuss their sexual orientation. I cannot think of an instance where saying "Oh, by the way, I'm gay/hetero/bi." is going to improve the combative situation, or further, a tense work environment. Your orientation isn't going to pull that trigger faster.

If your flashy mannerisms express your sexuality, hetero or homo, they should be toned down. One needs to be aware of their actions and how they affect others. Sexual advances or connotations are not always desired and they can constitute harassment.

Are you in favour of a "don't ask, don't tell" policy? Do you have your own view of an appropriate policy? Do you think I'm completely out to lunch with my idea?

DO TELL!

Armed and dangerous,

L

Traditional Thursday: The White Why Behind Labor Day

Labour day has come and gone, summer is dwindling and fall is upon us. Many are clearing their closet of their summer clothes, making way for their chunky knits, coats and gorgeous cashmeres.

There is an infamous rule that you are not to wear white after Labour Day. Many cry out against the tradition of banning white from their wardrobe, stating they will not fall victim to silly fashion rules. The fact that these same individuals are found prowling the malls searching for the newest trend at the cheapest price never seems to dawn on anyone.

No matter, what is the elusive reasoning behind the "Wicked White" rule? Why must we ban our crisp white linen suits and lovely leather handbags? I believe it comes down to pure symbolism.

Many suggest logical reasons for the white wardrobe rule:

We all know that white is literally, a cool colour. Ask anyone wearing a black t-shirt in the middle of July if they feel the sun and they will almost always answer with a dogged and dried up, "Yes". Surrounded by our air conditioning, fans and exposed shoulders a simple colour choice may not seem important but to those without these luxuries I bet you buttons to dollars you would be wearing white too. Let's face it, when this rule was created there was no such thing as halter tops and spaghetti straps.

Also let's not forget the effect of the rainy season (directly pre and post summer) on that lovely crisp white shirt. Again, when this rule was created a nipplely wet "mistake" was not an option. There are modern rules for such a sight but those are for another day.

Like most rules of etiquette, I believe this is all about the symbolism:

Back in the day it was chic to "summer" in various neighbourhoods and at specific resorts. This was a luxury only affordable to the affluent, as they would flock from their places of work to their treasured summer locals. Work was certainly to be avoided and was replaced by parties, beaches and more socializing than you can imagine. One wore airy white clothing while sipping drinks at a luxury resort; dark coloured clothing was reserved for times of labour and hardship.

For example, black, grey and purple are colours of mourning. White is associated with weddings, celebration and purity. If you look back at pictures of the early twentieth century, the fun-loving summer clothing consisted of seersucker cottons, white linens and Panama hats. White clothing signified a time of light hearted fun.

At the the summer's end, the affluent would move back to their permanent address and their dark wardrobes. Similar pictures of people scuttling about in the city show dark suits and coats. Fall was and still is, considered a season of new beginnings (odd, seeing as everything is dying). It may not be vocalized but many, especially in the Western World, begin school and revamp wardrobes in the fall season. Throughout the summer the retail spending is painfully slow but things pick up again with the "Back to School Season".

To the upper crust, the group that made the rules, white clothing was packed away with the fancy drinks and summer parties. Seeing as everyone wanted to be viewed as "polite society" the easy way to fake having two wardrobes was simply to avoid wearing white. With Labour Day came a new round of work and a new beginning; an opportunity to straighten up.

I will point out that this topic is largely debated but I think there is some serious merit to this argument.

Will you be wearing white after Labor Day? Have you heard of any reasoning for banning white?

Whether you wear white after Labor Day or stick to cream, off white or beige enjoy your new beginning! There is no harm in breaking the rule if you are ready to own it. Personally, I avoid white after Labor Day; as I do the entire year, it washes me out.

Strictly suppressing white (for now),

L

Credit Where Credit Is Due: Social Media Buttons (that rock my world)

Have you heard of deviantART? It is a wicked art-oriented website that allows you to post your art, view others works and even purchase prints of the stuff you really like.

From time to time I'll Tweet my favourite works after a night of art surfing (it's better than window shopping, ladies). Well, last night I stumbled upon an interesting gentleman and his oddly amusing sense of humour.

If you are the cookies-and-milk type of person (verses the vodka and OJ breed) you may want to steer clear. On the other hand, you may not. This guy has drawn perhaps the coolest social media buttons I've seen in a long time. There is no shiny glass effect, nothing overly busy or complicated about them. These buttons are just really cool. I'm sporting them to the right of this post but you can also view his whole collection (and download them for yourself) here. You can also check out his Tumblr page here.

This guy has put his artwork up, free of charge and any kind of advertisement. That is pretty cool folks; he is even taking suggestions for a new round of hand-drawn icons. You know he does what he loves when.

That is all for now.

Art surfing and admiring,

L

The Dumpster Dog Chronicles: Something Smells Fishy

The Dumpster Dog Chronicles: Something Smells Fishy

As you may recall, Dumpster Dog recently spent the week at my home while my sister was in Cuba. Dumpster Dog and I have a love-hate relationship; she loves to find trouble and I hate waking up to find it.

Well, this hound dog was home less than a week before she was stirring up trouble. She's just that good folks.

It was early morning as my mother, home for a brief break, rose and started a pot of coffee. She popped her bread in the toaster and opened the jar of peanut butter. it was then, with the scrape of her knife meeting toast that Dumpster Dog (with her superego senses) came barrelling down the stairs.

If I hadn't you didn't know any better you'd think her ears were leading the way but no, it was her nose. You'd be amazed as to what smells good to a dog.

"Out, damn Dumpster Dog, out!" my mother exclaimed propelling the hot dog out the patio door. The door was left open a crack and Dumpster Dog was left to her own devices in the garden.

Approximately two hours passed and it was discovered that Dumpster Dog is nowhere to be found. The yard is fenced in, the only gate is secured by two heavy duty bolts; this is not the first time the bitch's nose has led her astray. The family dispersed, searching in vain for the hound, she is nowhere to be found.

Fast forward a couple of hours. My mother and sister are shopping. My father is enjoying a house free of estrogen.

Then comes a knock at the door.

On the other side is an old lady, her face tight with some emotion that can only be described as bad. This lady is my grandmother; this lady has broken her foot.

As it turns out, the determined 75 year old was attempting to stake a piece of rebar next to a tree. The tree was crooked, you see, and you'd hate to waste a good tree (being Dutch has nothing to do with it). As Granny teetered atop a step ladder, sledge hammer in one hand, rebar in the other she took a tumble and her old ankle was unable to support her weight.

Not being one to waste time or mince words, the tough old broad promptly drove to the hospital, confirmed her foot was broken, made arrangements to have a pin put in and drove back to my parents' home.

I never asked how many pain killers were involved; I don't want to know. I can tell you, with assurance, that we country type are a tough breed..

My father deposited my grandmother in a chair and called my mother to suggest it best if she come home (this is my maternal grandmother after all). His silence infiltrated by a woman, Dad waited in defeat.

It was at that moment that a familiar "AAAAAHHROUUUUUUUUU" is heard through the house. It is Dumpster Dog, but where is she??!? My father searched the house and yard (with suggestion from my out-of-commission grandmother, I'm sure) and no dog is found. The thing is still howling away but there is no ball of fur and bits to match it.

Where was the mini-beast? Well, it turns out she had nosed her way into the trap door of the compost bin, following the delicious smell of week old fish. I have no idea what happened then (or why the fish was in the compost). It is assumed, after her scrumptious breakfast of rotten fish, Dumpster Dog took an extended nap. People, this is the dog that was found in a garbage can as a pup - she does not like enclosed spaces.

Needless to say, my father's afternoon went from an empty house to one filled with three women, the oldest of which was loaded on pills and bitter she hadn't gotten the rebar staked before she broke her foot. There was also a dog, a Dumpster Dog who wreaked of fish and needed a bath.

I think he finished the morning with vodka. Can you blame him?

Finding fish funny,

L

Welcome Home: My Name is Earl

Yesterday I spoke to the Parentals. It appears they have returned from their sailing adventures for a brief break. Last weekend a big storm hit Nova Scotia and last week my parents were holding on for dear life in, you've got it, Nova Scotia. I imagine they are slightly battered and bruised from their battle with Hurricane Earl.

The Parentals (like everyone else in my family) have fallen off their rocker. They are older and wiser than the rest of us so they have hit the floor that much harder. About ten years ago they took up sailing: it's posh, athletic and got them away from a house full of teenagers. Then a little more than five years ago they decided it would be a good idea to sell everything (their businesses, the house, cars, everything.) to become full-time sailors.

Now they live on their boat, touring the world.

Most of the time it is pretty cool. Last weekend it was a little too windy.

They were touring the Maritimes on their way to Sint Maarten. As sailors they are well equipped with radios and get the weather reports daily. Their weather reports are slightly better than ours (and I'm not bitter) because they live by it. They got news on Thursday that Earl was slated to hit on Saturday.

They have a big tough boat and have weathered many storms but the Parentals have never been through a hurricane. They were unable to find space at a dock so they did what any other crazy sailor type would: they tied their boat to a mooring ball.

For those of you who aren't up with the lingo (and you should know I check mine with the Newf regularly) a mooring ball is essentially a floating beach ball chained to an immovable object at the bottom of the lake/ocean/pond/whatever wetness you are in. You attach your boat to the ball and the idea is to stay put. It is more secure than an anchor.

I love my parents but at times they can be daft. Most people learned the lesson with the Titanic. The unsinkable sank. The Parentals tied themselves up to a floating marker and insisted they were unmovable. Silly old people.

About half way through the storm they got a little nervous about the whole immovable thing. Go figure.

They were fine and the boat didn't move but I do think their chains were a little rattled (pun fully intended). My point? My father blogs about his experiences.

Here are his videos. Yep, those are my parents, floating around.

Here is his journal of Hurricane Tropical Storm Earl. FYI: My mother has been dubbed "The Budget Committee". She is thrifty and so it fits (I love you mom).

My dad blogs about his travels which have spanned the East Coast, Caribbean and beyond. They have been boarded by men with guns in two countries (semi-automatics in Cuba), had a friend eaten by an alligator (or a crocodile, I can never keep them straight) and viewed more than enough boat accidents. You may want to skip over the sailing details and get right to the best part - the places, people and things they meet.

Glad you are home guys. I figured you'd make it - it was just a little bit of wind and you seem to have connections with the wolf.

Lucky to be on land,

L

Music Monday: A Triple Header

Darling readers,

How was your weekend? Was it full of play and song or was it one best not to be remembered?

Here in the Land of Linnie we are sick. Our brains are working at half capacity and we were thankful to have a couple of days together to sleep. That was our only job, and kids, we killed it.

Alas, it is now time for the week to start all over again and we need something to drag our behinds out of bed. Somehow I don't think our employers would be fond of us sleeping until six o'clock. The beast gets a little antsy too; we don't have a doggie door and there is only so long he can hold it.

To help smack us back into reality I have a triple header loaded; I hope you like the nineties!

First up, a Dutch Eurodance act and their 1991 single. This song is perhaps the most played opening song for arena-based sporting events. Turn the volume up for 2 Unlimited's only Billboard Top 40 hit, "Get Ready for This".

The above song is being sent out to my hurting (and very Dutch) granny. If you ain't Dutch, you ain't much (and man, can that woman bake an apple pie)!

Second in line, we have another European based music project that brought us the first house hit to break into mainstream American music. Pretty damn cool, if you ask me. The Belgian based group was formed by Jo Bogaert (also known as Thomas DeQuincey) and was not Mr. Bogaert's first musical success. This song began as an instrumental and lyrics were added by an actual vocalist, Ya Kid K.

This bad boy reached number two on the Billboard Hot 100 and was later certified triple platinum. For the pleasure of your ears, I present, "Pump Up the Jam" by Technotronic.

ZING! If you weren't pumped up before, I hope the lasers took care of that! Also, no more worries about your hair - if you aren't sporting the nineties blow out you aren't doing half bad.

Finally, the only American hit for today is courtesy of a boy born Marvin Young. Now, he was technically born in England and raised in Queens, New York but I'm not about to split hairs.

This boy has an interesting story - at a very young age this kid had trouble remembering his rhymes. He used to read them, carrying the whole lot around in a plastic bag. One night a shootout broke out at a block party and he was forced to flee, sans lyrics. The next day young Marvin was able to retrieve his bag of lyrics but the lesson was learned: memorize the lyrics you are planning to perform.

I strongly suggest you check out Marvin Young's story; he was a remarkable young man. In the meantime, get up and get ready for Young MC and his hit "Bust a Move".

I hope you hit that track. I can't help but get my swagger on while listening to it.

That's all for now. Time to get some work done

Have a good week!

Dutch and delighted,

L