Keira-anne.com

Vancouver is a city full of people who differ from one face to the next on a scope much grander than most would imagine. For as long as I can remember, it’s a city that’s become somewhat of a mecca for backpackers and transients who pass in the night.

Living downtown, many faces become familiar. It’s always the same souls on the same corners asking for change with the same lines. Quite simply, it’s heartbreaking. My intent here isn’t to dive into a diatribe about the injustice that is a bobsled course being built in the hills overlooking Metro Vancouver while I’m stepping over sleeping bodies while I walk to work, quite literally. It’s not news to anyone that much, much more needs to be done within the streets of our not-so-fair city.

A few weeks ago, I noticed a young man who was new to the intersection near my office. With him was a stuffed hiking pack and two very sad looking dogs. At times I attempted to strike up a conversation with him but he seemed painfully shy and wouldn’t reciprocate dialogue. On Tuesday, I placed a $5 bill in his tattered hat.

As I walked to meet my friend Brock for lunch yesterday, I noticed the two familiar dogs tied up outside Blenz on Granville Street. I scanned the window and saw the reserved young man sitting at a table near the door. The table at which he sat was scattered with plastic packaging and in his hands was a brand new PSP system. Is it wrong of me to say I felt a little hurt by what I saw? Of course I can’t jump to conclusions, but it’s certainly a strong case of persuasion to stuff my bills in charity pots as opposed to tattered hats.

——————————————————

Tomorrow I’m hittin’ the ferry to head to the Island for the last time before Christmas. Next weekend, on the eve of my actual birthday, I’ll be having a small and quiet celebration with a handful of friends. However, me being me and mom being mom, her and I still want to celebrate together along with my lovely Aunt and Charley too. It’s safe to say that Chinese Food and a Dairy Queen ice cream cake will be somewhat involved.

While I’m on the subject of birthdays, yesterday the subject of computers came up between Raymi and I. “How do I get a new computer?” she asked me. I said that if I knew how, my Dell would be long gone. A few weeks ago, Duane gave me a fantastic suggestion on how to go about getting myself a MacBook, so here goes:

If I have any wealthy, stalker-type (or non-stalker, for that matter) readers that feel so generously inclined to buy a blogger her first MacBook for her birthday, I invite you to go right ahead. In fact, I will show much appreciation for it by using it every single day. And in doing so, there may be many more glimpses of debauchery between Becky and I, proudly presented by PhotoBooth and red wine.

Photo courtesy of Apple Canada

Sometimes it’s as simple as “ask and ye shall receive.” Here’s hoping, anyways.

V FOR VIRGINITY

Popping the cherry, deflowering, giving up the goods, giving up the pit and expired V-card are all slang for one thing: losing one’s virginity.

Photo courtesy of ChinchillaVilla on Flickr

Virginity is quite possibly the touchiest (pun very much intended) and most personal facet of sex and all things associated. Some people lose it by choice, some keep it despite their choice, while others are robbed of it and even more, some aren’t even sure if they still have it.

12 years ago, a 22-year-old intern working for the Clinton Administration in the U.S. White House was the match that ignited a nation-wide debate on what constitutes as virginity.

Touching, orgasm, penetration? And if penetration is the turning point at which one’s cherry is popped, does it matter which nook or cranny is infiltrated by Battlepants Galactica?

Question No. 1 for tonight’s debate: in your opinion, which activity do you consider to be the proverbial “point of no return?”

And while we’re on the subject, let’s consider an appropriate age for stepping out onto the lusty ledge.

I remember in sixth grade, as I sat in my desk one afternoon, the conversation of two boys behind me caught my attention. “Yeah, after school, me and Katie (*name changed) are gonna get a condom and have sex!”

I was mortified. Whether or not that boy’s after-school activities ever panned out as planned is besides the point, but the fact that it was on the agenda is cause enough for concern. Keep in mind that this was close to two decades ago.

I’m sure that, were all of you to post a comment informing the readers of that magical number at which you lost your virginity, we’d have a wide range of ages.

Growing up, and even well into my teens, I was of the “romantic” notion that it would be best and greatest to wait until I was married, and actually give my husband my virginity of my wedding night. Laugh stifling aside, suffice to say that never happened and I have zero regrets.

To wait or not to wait is cause for great debate between families and religious factions alike. Being involved with the Christian church when I was younger, I was taught that waiting was what was “best for me,” but that wasn’t the reality I saw. Though sex isn’t something I believe should be thrown around with whoever and whenever, and should be treated with somewhat of a sense of fragility, it’s not something to be placed on a pedestal either.

At the end of the day, all mental, emotional and expectational connotations aside, sex is very much simply a physical act (in your humble narrator’s opinion).

Which leads me to question no. 2 for tonight’s debate: at which age do you feel it’s appropriate to give up the goods?

* In commenting, please be aware that comment moderation is strictly enforced. All IP addresses are recorded, and any comments of a malicious, slandering, or otherwise inappropriate nature will be instantly deleted and the user blocked. Everyone on here should feel free to discuss, debate, ask and share in a safe manner. Let’s keep this SFO (Safe For the Office) *

Quite obviously, nothing on www.keira-anne.com is as it was. I packed up my boxes and moved over to WordPress and brought all of you along with me.

I owe a huge thank you to duanetheminx and Muggs for their amazing web skills that I’m totally in the dark about, and to Jack for making my site really, really ridiculously good looking. You guys are awesome!

Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think - I’d love to hear some feedback!

And don’t forget…tomorrow’s Wednesday, so you know what that means. *wink*wink*

I take much guilty pleasure in the programs that A&E has to offer. It started innocently enough with shows such as Cold Case Files and American Justice, but has more recently branched out into a show which is now running into its third season: Intervention.

Two weeks ago I spent an entire Saturday on the couch in my pajamas and legwarmers with a 3-hour Intervention mini marathon to keep me company. Undoubtedly, each episode’s chronicle of the life of an addict tugs on the most delicate of heartstrings, but a particular installment that rainy Saturday afternoon completely ripped on them.

It told the story of John, a 33-year-old Bostonian who lost his mother as a little boy, and in the last year had lost his sister, his cousin and his best friend. Over the course of the last 12 months, John’s dive into the rabbit hole of crack cocaine and alcohol had seemingly hit rock bottom. He looked sickly and completely unhappy. However, what became glaringly apparent to me in the solitary times between John and the camera was the deep hurt behind watery eyes. An intervention was his only hope.

John’s story moved me in way that I can’t explain, but it got me thinking about dependency on substance and how prevalent it has become. As someone who has dealt first-hand with a person whose substance abuse problem cost them their life, it’s easy for me to view those who share the same struggles with a slightly less biased (and more open) eye.

A few weeks ago, as I sat in the sunshine with a girlfriend, the topic of conversation drifted to substance abuse. I stated to her that I think, based on the picture that’s painted within the media, it’s one’s natural reaction to judge. Abusers are labelled as foolish people who “should know better.” Unfortunately, that’s not the case and the solution isn’t nearly that simple.

To turn to any addiction, whether it’s gambling, alcohol, heroin, compulsive shopping, purging after a meal or smoking crack cocaine, is more often than not the direct result of deep-seated pain most likely and completely unrelated to the addiction itself. I believe that the reason so many people from all walks of life battle with the compulsions is the desperate need to self-medicate - a hopeless attempt at numbing the demons that possess.

We turn on the news and see a profile of Vancouver’s downtown eastside. We see incoherent people stumble back and forth across East Hastings, bouncing from alley to alley, fix to fix. We think “what a sad life they lead.” Few of us stop to think how these people got to such a place. The truth is, they are sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and friends.

The misconceptions about those who struggle with various compulsions is, in my own opinion, vastly misunderstood and largely misjudged. And why is it so crucial to open our minds and our eyes to the true nature of this reality? Because the people that struggle aren’t just the ones you see on the 11 o’clock news or an A&E series. It could be the very person living right next to you, and the need to overcome the internal ache is so much larger than the need for another fix.

Alas, I have returned from the land of endlessly greasy food and fantastic bargains. I have to preface this by saying that “eating well” is next to impossible when I venture to the U.S. The food I consumed today is as follows:

1 Starbucks Grande Americano
3 IHOP classic pancakes (with butter and syrup)
1 Auntie Anne’s pretzel
1 bottle of water
1 Hot Dog On A Stick corndog
2 McDonald’s cheeseburgers
1 medium McDonald’s fries (only half eaten)
1 medium Pibb

I’m now working on glass of wine #1 for the evening.

Since the King always insists that I blog my adventures through photos, “here’s a little story I’ve got to tell about one bad blogger you know so well…” (7 high fives for whoever can tell me what song that comes from)

Today I had my Nordstrom Rack cherry popped, and it’s a good thing too. I found Christmas presents there for both my brother and his girlfriend. If you’re curious as to what Nordstrom Rack is, think of it as Winner’s plus better. Plus they carry Coach.

My favourite bargoon of the day? Finally, fantastically…my new UGGs.

They’re heaven for my feet.

Stop staring.

My experiences in the States are always pleasant ones. They certainly seem to know a thing or two about customer service. Our IHOP waitress was a doll and the older man at Starbucks went out of his way to get Susan some real lemon for her ice tea.

And here’s a tip: New Order and Kanye West make for excellent road trip music. The Pixes do too, but avoid them when waiting in border line-ups. You’ll thank me for it later.

Today, I did a whole lot of nothing. I didn’t think I’d have anything to write about, and as I type this, I still really don’t. But you’re here and I’m here and you’re already reading anyways, so let’s go with the flow, shall we?

It’s been raining in Vancouver all day. I stayed in bed until 11:00 a.m. and awoke only to do nothing. That, and listen to new wave music while eating last night’s pizza.

I ventured to Shopper’s Drug Mart, and I swear I could spend a fortune there every single day if I had the means to. I also bought my dinner for tonight. This is what it looked like before I cooked it:

And here’s the after:

The roll magically appeared. If you’re curious, I tosssed the vegetables with organic olive oil and sea salt and roasted them in the oven to maintain their nutrient value. Why the plate full of veggies?

Thursday dinner: Tandoori chicken pizza
Friday lunch: Tandoori chicken pizza
Friday dinner: Hawaiian pizza
Saturday lunch: Hawaiian pizza

Enough said.

You know what I love about rainy days? The aforementioned “doing nothing.” I’m wearing my Roots thermals (which, Jack, were made in Canada, thank you very much…unlike my Roots leg warmers which were made in China so we both win), made some hot apple cider and wrote out some more Christmas cards.

This is my Christmas card writing station:

Soon after I retired to my cozy couch for a little “keeping warm” without the heater on…

You’d be amazed at how much heat those little tealight candles can radiate.

I really want to bake cookies right now but there is no butter to be found in my apartment. Does anyone want to bring me butter?

You know what I’m excited about? This:

My hair is addicted to Tonic. The bottle on the right, which is now empty, was purchased two months ago. Bumble and Bumble had decided to change the formula for their Tonic and made it smell much less like tea tree oil. Problem for me because I adore tea tree oil. The bottle on the left I purchased on Thursday night and guess what? The old formula’s back! Yes!

I’m going to bed pretty soon because my alarm clock will be going off around 4:30. I’m leaving again at 6:00 a.m. to go to the States with Susan. I’m going to join 2005 and get some Uggs. As much as I adore my mukluks, they’ve really worn through and it’s time for some new warm winter boots. Plus they’re ridiculously cheaper at Nordstrom.

Stay tuned for tomorrow night. I will probably post a picture of myself in my new Uggs, some (maybe) new panties and…a scarf? Who knows?

——————————————————

Since I’m already in the middle of an arguably narcissistic post, I’d like to point out that my birthday is exactly two weeks from tomorrow. I’ve never been much of one for birthdays, but I’ve decided that I want mine this year to be really special. I have already bought a pretty party dress that shows off my legs that, let’s be honest, really don’t quit. I want to feel like a princess and I might even wear a tiara. I don’t want to go out and party. I want to eat a ridiculously good dinner with a whole bunch of fantastic friends. I want to drink some deliciously divine wine. I want to laugh the entire time. I want to eat a huge piece of sinful birthday cake.

You know why? I deserve it.

Dreamy Pink Balloons graciously provided by Pink Sherbert Photography on Flickr

I live in a West End high rise in downtown Vancouver. I’ve been in this exact same apartment for close to four years. Hard to believe, but it’s true. Someone once told me that the building I live in is known as the ESL building. I guess that would explain the high tenancy turn-over rate. Often there are many, many young men from Mexico living in the building, usually for only a few months at a time.

You can imagine how delightful my red bikini-clad trips to the pool are while 10-15 of these young men are lounging on the deck.

There are a lot of weird people in my building.

In the suite below me, a rather flamboyuant man likes to crank up Celine Dion at any hour of the day. Needless to say, my hand’s rapped on his door many, many times.

On my floor lives a man who sometimes dresses like the Chiquita Banana lady and almost always admires whatever handbag or pair of boots I’m rockin’ when we meet on the elevator. Though, in the few times he’s been drunk, he never can recall who I am.

A few months back, another resident from my floor moved out of the building. She was apparently a doctor who exercised obssessively. She never said anything and kept entirely to herself. That was, however, until the day I went to retrieve my laundry from the dryer and found her going through my clothing and examining each piece. “Excuse me?” I asked. She turned around, looked at me and walked right by without a word.

I could regale and amuse you with handfuls of other stories about creepy encounters, but the point of this is simple. I am of the very biased opinion that the only resident in my building who demonstrates some sense of normalcy is the same girl who’s constantly parading around in her legwarmers taking pictures of herself.

——————————————————

Tomorrow morning, bright and early, Miss604 and her mid-western hubby are heading to Iowa to celebrate U.S. Thanksgiving with John’s family. So on this, the eve of their first plane trip as husband and wife, I say to you “bon voyage!”

——————————————————

Last night I experienced a fantastic new pinot noir (well, new to me) that was so delightful on my tongue that I actually exclaimed out loud at how delicious, divine and fruity it was. I believe it was called Drummer from New Zealand. Something tells me it came from Waitiri Creek Wines, but their website makes no mention of Drummer. It’s a mystery…

——————————————————

And lastly, like clockwork, let’s have a look at how Mt. Washington is faring on this Friday afternoon…

Allow me to preface this by saying that Rebecca and I just shared a bottle of Quail’s Gate 2005 pinot noir at Moxie’s. Over the last eight or nine months, I’ve lost about 20 pounds. Man, this is hard to type out. Having lost that much weight has made me somewhat of a “lightweight.” I mean, let’s face it…I wasn’t in “the best of shape,” right? Now just two and a half glasses of rouge vino and I’m ready to go!

I needed to buy new shampoo and more Tonic spray, so after work I tripped over to The Lounge to stock up on Bumble supplies. I met Becky on the corner of Richards and Helmcken. We wanted to walk to Robson and Burrard so she could buy presents for the relatives. We walked along Granville part of the way…

“You ladies can take my virginity…”

That came from a young man, clean cut and well dressed, as we walked along Granville.

Giggles from both of us. If only he knew.

After Becky bought presents, we went to Roots. It’s “Friends & Family” week. Everything in store is 25% off, including sale items. Their remaining pairs of legwarmers were on sale for $24.99. Sooo…

Hot, hey?

Then we went to Moxie’s on Robson. Our waitress had huge boobs that were practically hypnotic and most certainly plastic. The food was good though and we ate too much and drank lots of wine.

Bye.

It’s the most lovable time of the year. I love Christmas, I love knowing that Christmas is coming and I love all the anticipation that comes with the season. Did I just make a faux pas? Perhaps to some. Sometimes when you give an inch, people will take a mile.

True, this is a season full of different holidays and celebrations; among them there’s Diwali, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah and Christmas itself. We live in a day and age of political correctness and thus the use of “Merry Christmas” has almost become taboo. Perhaps this is a tired topic, but it hasn’t been put to rest just yet.

As a young girl, wherever I went, we said “Merry Christmas” and it was often splashed across store windows in cheap poster paint. It seems as though saying so is no longer okay. While it’s one thing to wish someone “Happy Holidays” in terms of a general greeting, but to start calling a Christmas tree a holiday tree is going over the line in my personal opinion.

It’s undoubtedly important to respect and preserve any group or religion practicing and celebrating a holiday that is unique to said group’s beliefs. However, this is also true with Christmas. I would never dream of calling a menorah a candle stand, just as I feel it’s equally disrespectful to neutralize traditions that have sprung out of the Christian practice of Christmas for the sake of being politically correct.

Christianity (whether Catholic, Protestant, Baptist or whatever other denomination you can associate with the faith) was largely the practice for nuclear families decades ago. Households celebrated Christmas because it was what they believed in. This rings just as true, for example, with Hindu families that are currently celebrating Diwali. In today’s age, there are countless households that will celebrate Christmas with a tree, trimmings and everything else, though perhaps they don’t actually practice Christianity. And truth be told, that’s really okay with me. However, I am of the opinion that it’s not okay to defuse the particular holiday for those that celebrate it based on its original meaning. In doing so, you’re robbing someone of their right to celebrate what they believe.

Last week I set up my Christmas tree, soon I’ll start my Christmas baking and Christmas shopping…all as part of my preparation for Christmas on December 25th.

C U NEXT TUESDAY (or Wednesday, in this case)

You use it every single day. It opens; it closes. You can put things in it or spit them back out. Sometimes it’s loud and sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s entirely unpredictable and works before you tell it to. One thing your mouth is good for is talk. And in particular, dirty talk.

There are two facets of lewd language I want to touch down on today. The most obvious of the two would be vocal carnal exchanges between lovers, and the less obvious being the so-called coarse language in day-to-day conversation. But let’s talk about them in reverse, okay?

* Before I go any further, keep in mind that any and all words that you may find unsettling in this post are simply for exemplary purposes and are not meant to offend.*

They’re words that come up in passing each and every day, whether from your own mouth or the mouths of those around you. In the office, on the street corner, in the record store and most certainly on the television. We call people dicks, tell others to screw off, some people just plain “suck,” and there others we see walking down the street we deem to be “creamalicious.”

How is it that sexual implications have become so interlaced with the way we speak to people or address them? And keep in mind that the examples above are simply the tip of the…iceberg - but I don’t think I need to shed the spotlight on anything more than just that. Who’s to say what is deemed as apropos and what crosses the line?

As an adolescent, I’d forever be chastized for rolling my eyes, groaning and saying “oh maaaaan, that sucks!” My father told me it wasn’t appropriate and that I wasn’t allowed to say that when I didn’t like something. Little did 13-year-old me know the origins of that lament.

How do you feel about the melding of sex and slang?

Okay, we’re a little warmed up so how about slipping under the sheets with me? In fact, how about talking dirty to me? Metaphorically speaking, of course.