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

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

Music Monday: Music at Work

It is Monday, already!

Thank goodness it is a loooooong weekend, I'm spent (and I assure you I have done nothing to exert myself).

Boys and girls, today I include a personal favourite video, a shootout to all who have to work today, tomorrow and the day after that.

This song makes me smile.

Back in high school I spent two summers working at an onion factory.  I worked shifts, alternating between days and nights, making sure those little pearl onions got all the way from the truck to a barrel full of brine or a box to be shipped.  

That job was a huge learning experience, an eye opener and to this day the smell of sautéing onions reminds me of showering after a shift.  My grannie loved that job: she missed the scent but gained pounds upon pounds of the little white onions, pickled in brine.

Night shifts were always my personal favourite, there were no big headed bosses around and Bert the forklift driver would be working.  Bert was a darling little man, perhaps 75 and a lonely widower.  He worked the seasonal job to pass his time and keep him busy.  Throughout the summer he taught me to drive forklift and by the end he was able to take his leave in the lunch room while I drove around happy as a clam (this was before the introduction of the required forklift license).  

This onion factory was situated directly beside a drag strip (I suppose onion and fuel counteract each other).  On the long weekends a Canadian band would fill the night with music as race-goers camped out of their cars.  

So there you have it, my long weekends were spent bopping around on a forklift, listening to The Tragically Hip and 54-40.  Sure, I reeked of onion, my clothes were ruined and I cried for an hour straight (the onion smell people).  The water fountain never worked and the pay was all but non-existent.  But that didn't really matter, I had Bert and Bert had a nap.  We all had good music.

Take a listen to the lyrics in this Canadian hit, "My Music at Work" by The Tragically Hip.

Did you catch the chorus?

Everything is bleak.

It's the middle of the night.

You're all alone and

the dummies might be right.

Outside, the darkness lurks.

My music at work.

My music at work.  

How fitting.

To all of you ladies and gentlemen working on this long weekend, have a good day and have a better night.  To anyone starting school, work or watching someone start school (perhaps the most nervous position of all), good luck.

Sleepy and satisfied,

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

Wicked Wednesday: How Dated Are You?

On Monday I promised you something fabulous, provided you liked the Music Monday feature, Right Here, Right Now by Fatboy Slim.

Well, here is a video that I cannot get enough of.  It ramps me up and winds me down, all at the same time.  The music is the same Fatboy song but the video is completely different.

It was actually presented at Sony's annual meeting a couple of years ago.  It knocked my socks of.

This is not for those who puff themselves up with feigned importance.

Turn the volume up and give this bad boy a full size screen.  It is worth it.

Now, keep in mind this video is a couple years old.  

How small do you feel?  

Typically small equates to insignificant but that isn't how I feel after watching this.  Instead I feel invigorated and ready for the world.  Ready to show everyone how cool I really am.

I hope you feel the same way.

What are your thoughts?  Do tell!

Corporations aren't all bad, I suppose.  Well, we'll see.

Pensive and pretty,

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