I AM

I am Benner.

I am the Anti-Borg.



Hear me roar,

L

The Cursing Ceiling

I'm fed up.

Wait, no, let me rephrase that. I'm fucking fed up.

Whew. That feels better. I've been told to speak my mind and today in this odd blogging world and I've been slightly nervous. The things I think aren't always becoming; they are thoughts that won't always make friends, but they usually influence people.

Today a good f-bomb was all that was needed to break that meek little mouse ceiling. Sometimes, if I don't say it, no one will. Don't say I didn't warn you.

What naughty little habit do you have to clear your cobwebs?

When something a little stronger is needed, and a stiff drink is unavailable, try throwing a phone book at the floor. A trick learned from my mother, it usually does the trick.

Happy hurling,

L

Wordless Wednesday: My First "Official" Self-Portrait

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

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

Tuesday is Trouble: Let's Find Some

Good afternoon readers,

Question for you:

What type of person are you?  What type of person do you want to be?

I ask because most of us are rarely who we want to be.  How many of us are changing to be what others think we should be or feel strong social pressures?  How many of us are desperately trying to fit a mold we broke years ago?  Is this what you pictured five, ten, fifteen years ago?

Granted when I was a young child I wanted to be the sun.  I wanted to be that big ball in the sky, shining and always making people happy.  By the time I hit sixteen I was a big ball of fire all right, just ask my mother.  That doesn't mean I was happy with me (somehow I don't think most teenage girls are).

Some time went by and I hit university.  Gone were my geeky unpopular days and in entered Linnie the girl of luck, love and parties.  I was still geeky but it was cool to be geeky.  I was somebody: the makeup artist, the bouncer, the bartender, or the girl who wrote your paper for some extra cash.

I graduated and started looking for my niche.  Fun work considering I was ready (and had the wardrobe to boot).

Some more time went by and I suffered an explosion that literally ripped my room apart.  As I was looking at my knickers and knickknacks littered along Bayfield Street something broke.  I wasn't alright.  I was scared.  I began to hide from the world.

Then, I got married.  As much as I love the Newf and he loves me, marriage doesn't exactly encourage individualism.

Well, two and a half years later and I am ready to set the stage for wickedness again.  It has take some time and I have a lot of remodelling to do but I am ready to kick this can.

Who wants to join me?  What skin do you need to shed?

I can't promise you'll turn into an official superhero but I am sure we can work something out.  Sometimes, all you need is a little push and a little company.  We aren't behind, we are just getting started.

Ladies and gents, welcome to my world.  Welcome to our world; it is what we make it.

Wicked and ready,

L