I AM

I am Benner.

I am the Anti-Borg.



Hear me roar,

L

I'm back (for now)!

So, is it time to jump back into the blogging world?

I think so.

I wonder how long I'll hold out this time.

Your cheeky little bugger,

L

Music Monday: You're Unbelievable

Today's track is for my peeps. They are 100% unbelievable. Grooooooooaaaaaan!

Granted, today's song may have used before is known for its profanity. Before I explain, take a quick little listen to EMF's Unbelievable:



The video is less than thrilling, I know. But, did you hear that? Take a closer listen to the chorus - there is a background vocal that can be vaguely heard saying, "What the fuck was that?"

Now typically, this would require strict editing before any type of radio play proceeded. However, these lyrics were never edited (probably because they were considered incoherent background vocals). Now you know better, you are armed for pissing off only the most prominent prudes with your newfound musical knowledge.

Considering the sheer amount of air time Unbelievable has received since its release, and the amount of times the f-bomb is dropped in this specific song, this track is likely responsible for the most profanity ever heard over radio.

Not enough? You want more?

Well, know that according to the song on the B-side of the Unbelievable single was a song called "EMF" (a self-titled track). This song included the chorus: "E! Ecstasy! M! Motherfucker, motherfucker! F! From us to you…"

What would their mother think? I can tell you, mine would not be impressed.

Now that I've mentioned my Mother, here's a fun fact about me: when I was in university I rarely studied in the library. When I did I would do the natural thing - scope out a chair close to a cute boy. I'd set up my song, wait to catch his eye and then I'd push play.

Who needs poetry when you've got a ready-to-go, an "unbelievable" if you will, catchline?

To try my little trick, know that my sweet spot is right around 1:17. A note to catch his attention, and wham bam thank you ma'am!

Starting to get saucy,

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Looking Grey: Avoiding Overheating the Engine

Good evening,

A quick note to you, my lovelies, to advise you that I am taking a small hiatus.  Unfortunately, the blog part of my brain is barren - all my juices are flowing, just to a different project.  Most of my blogging work this week will be undercover.

I only have so much horsepower (and most of the horses are out to pasture).

I will be back full force next week, I promise!  Hopefully then, I will have some exciting work to share with you!  

Until then, enjoy some of the things I have lined up - they may not be written by me but I guarantee they will be fabulous.

Low on grey matter,

L

Traditional Thursday: Know When to Call It a Night

Oh dear, I was to post an etiquette tip.

My friends, that just isn't going to happen tonight.

You see, I was dancing around to The Rolling Stone's The Bridges to Babylon album (one of my rainy day favourites) when Mick Jagger had what seemed like imparting wisdom: " . . . might as well get juiced!" he sang to me.

I took his advice.

Now, seeing as I am three sheets to the wind, I fear I would be a rather big hypocrite if I was to offer you advice.  

It seems I am more in the mood to take it tonight; especially when it is coming from Mick Jagger.

I hope you aren't too disappointed (one less rule to follow)!  

Stylishly sloshed,

L

The Dumpster Dog Chronicles: Welcome to Toronto

On Saturday my sister dropped her dog off at my house.  The dog is to remain here for a week and a half.  A week and a half.

Now people, I live in what is technically a studio apartment in Toronto.  It has lots of space and would be a one bedroom if the bedroom had a wall (and maybe a door).  Point being, I cannot close the bed and get away from what is in my apartment with me.  I have to share and I don't always like to share.

Being as they had just taken care of the Beast for two weeks while I was in Newfoundland I could hardly say no.  In fact, I tried to say no but it didn't fly.

This dog, she is lovely but we don't always see eye to eye.  You may remember her wreaking havoc one weekend (which you can read about here) and our relationship never really recovered.

Now I am stuck with her, in a small space, shared by the Beast and the Newf (who is really a cat guy).

This dog, better known as Dumpster Dog, was literally found in a dumpster (I'm not that mean - and my sister reads this, I think).  The poor thing was only three weeks old and howling as loud as her little basset hound vocal chords would let her.

Here she is as a cute little thing:

Dumpster Dog (just over four weeks old) and my sister

Now she has grown into her female figure and seems to have the beast under a spell.  He just cannot get enough.

The same pair, in the same position.  Dumpster Dog still rules (my sister's iron fist).

Some things to know about Dumpster Dog:

• She is not well trained.  Basset hounds are notorious for following their nose (and their stomach) and this one is no different.  
• She is always happy.  You'll note in the above picture her tail is wagging.  It never stops.  How do you stay mad at a creature that is always happy?
• She is under the rule of my sister.  While Hilary (think a mix of Clinton and the girl on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air) fancies herself tough as nails she is a  big ol'softie.  Hillary does not rule the house, Dumpster Dog rules the house.
• She is a rescue pup.  As I mentioned this dog had a rough start.  She and her siblings were dumped in a garbage can and left for dead before they even had spots.  Two of the four pups died.  Dumpster Dog survived and is understandably scarred as a result.

Well, we have had the pup for four days now.  Better known as "Dumpster Dog's Bootcamp" we have been butting heads the entire time.

See, at my house I really don't care how cute you are, I still expect you to pee in the proper receptacle.  At this point I cannot walk both the Beast (120 pounds of excitement) and Dumpster Dog (nose to the ground and looking for squirrels) at the same time.  I tried, the reactions received were somewhere between rolling laughter and disgust (so is Toronto).

It hasn't helped that I have been battling a nasty head cold.  

For the first three days my face leaked from every hole available.

For the first three days Dumpster Dog leaked on my floor every chance she got.

I guess we do have something in common.  

Miss Dumpster is whining at the door as we speak.  I best not wait.  More to come in the Dumpster Dog Chronicles.

Simply leaky (and sick of fluids),

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

A Pre-Bliss Quiz: Blissdom Canada '10

Good evening kids,

It has been a fabulous trip to date and I cannot believe it is almost over!

In the meantime, I have some news!  Before I left, I arranged to visit a blogging conference called "Blissdom Canada".  It is something new to try and I hope to learn LOTS to keep things chugging along here.

Some of the other ladies attending the conference have a little quiz going which you will see below!

1.) Did you attend Blogher '10?

No, I did not!  I am brand new to the blogging world!

2.) Are you attending Blissdom Canada this fall?

Yes, indeed I am.

3.) When are you at your blogging best - A.M. or P.M.?

I tend to blog the best late at night, which can typically translate into the wee hours of the morning.  I blog when I am in the mood.

4.) How many blogs do you have?  Include links!

I only have this one, Linnie gets Laced.

5.) What technical skills would you like to learn to improve your blog?

I hope to learn more about coding and promotion, as well as different platforms and social media.  Networking will be key as well.

6.) Do you prefer the sound of silence or does action abound while you blog?

I prefer having some kind of noise, whether that be a fantastic movie (Casino Royale plays as we speak) or some amazing music, to keep me company.

7.) Do you include the names of your family in your blog?

No, I do not.  All names have been changed to protect the privacy of those written about.  My family members and their stories, however, are 100% bonafide.

8.) Do you post pictures or videos of your children?

No.  I do not have any children, so that is an easy answer.

9.) What's the grossest thing you've spilled on your keyboard?

Hmmmm, I have gotten a TON of dog slobber on this bad boy.  That is complements of the Beast (and very gross) especially when it is mixed in with bits of his dinner.

10.) Have you ever posted something you wrote while intoxicated?

No, nothing is published while I've been at the sauce.  It's like drunk dialling folks - just don't do it.

11.) Do you go back and edit old posts just because you can?

I have only done so because of a spelling error or formatting issue.  I try to be fanatical about spelling.  However, if I was to alter the content of a post, I would certainly mark the post to let my readers know!
EDIT: I have found myself consistently editing posts due to spelling, grammatical and formatting issues.  This counts as editing.  My answer is therefore: Yes, I edit my posts because I can.  That is how I roll.

12.) Have you ever suspected somebody took something you write and pawned it off as their own?

Yes, I have.  Without absolute proof, however, they are just that: suspected.  Seeing as imitation is the best form of flattery, I try not to get my panties in a bunch about it.

13.) Does your spouse read your blog?  What do they say about it?

Yes, the Newf reads my blog.  He tells me exactly what he thinks, that is just the type of guy he is.  Don't ask if you don't want the answer.  I appreciate his honesty though.

14.) What's something cool/positive/unexpected for you that has resulted directly from blogging?

I am starting to found something that I thought I had lost forever, a sense of confidence and pride in my work.  I am also learning to network!

15.) Link to a post (or a few) which demonstrate your writing style:

"Welcome to the Wild West (You are in for a rough ride)"

"Party Crash (A How-To Guide)"

"Famous and Fruity: Here's to You Mom" 

16.) Name a blog (or blogs) that make you exclaim, "Damn! I wish I'd written that!"

Well, there are blogs I greatly enjoy but I find a blog suits its writer.  I tend to do things to the beat of my own drum, however, the blog that inspired me to start my own is So Fawned, written by Ms. Desiree Fawn.  It really piqued my interest in it's first year.

I would also give a heartfelt thank you to both Tara at Tara's View of the World and Tamara at Blog Conference Guide for the (Un)Experienced for all of their support and encouragement!

So, please, if you are a fellow blogger attending this conference drop me a line!  Maybe we can meet up, go for a drink, and otherwise dispel our pre-conference jitters!



Quizzed and quizzical,

L

Wicked Wednesday: Something About a Jet Plane

Happy hump day!

Oh, my friends, I am SO nervous!  Here, in Toronto, it is 3.45 AM and I am packed and ready to go.  In a mere eight hours my plane takes off for St. John's, Newfoundland!  Did I mention, I will be flying on the new Porter Airlines, allegedly the "high class" method of travel!  I hope they have laptop plugs and wireless internet! 

If you haven't already guessed, the Newf was born and raised on the rock and I have yet to go out myself.  After two years of marriage  I am finally going to meet the remaining Newfoundland clan.

It will be marvellous, I am sure - Newfoundlanders are notoriously friendly and our trip is the result of a big birthday bash (taking the pressure off me, thank goodness)!  On one hand I cannot wait, on the other hand my house has been cleaned three times in an attempt to dispel nervous energy.

So, off I go, heading deep into the land of anchors and aquatics ready to meet my family!

Wish me luck!

High in the sky and yours,

L