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