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I love baths. I’ve always loved baths. I love taking baths in this particular tub. I’ve always loved taking baths in this particular tub. Lately, however, it has become something of a night routine, rather than simply a weekly ritual.

As I start to run the water, I being to spin one of two CDs Phaedra made for me, comprised of ocean waves, classical or tribal music and whale calls. They provide ample relaxation for me and through-and-through tranquilization for Benji and Casey. In fact, one would think I’d have shot them with a dart gun. Not so.

The best part of the bath is the visitors I receive. Like clockwork, Benji perches his tiny paws on the edge of the tub and strives as hard as he can to peer over just to see what’s up. Once he’s satisfied that the situation is under control, he proceeds to “nest” into my bathrobe and keep it warm for me as I bathe. I like to think he’s guarding me.

All rest and no play makes Casey a dull boy. Despite the fact that it’s rest time for all three of us, he’s still somewhat insistent on having me throw his football (I’d be chastised for referring to it as simply a soccer ball) for him. Needless to say, he’s dropped it in the tub once or twice before giving me the chance to grab it.

Nag Champa is a must. The smell is divine.

Aside from knowing the right sounds to tune into, Phaedra has also concocted an amazing mixture of epsom salts, dried lavender from the lady’s yard and essential oils such as ylang ylang, bergamot and orange. What can I say? She knows baths!

By the time I’m finished, I have lavender clinging to me and all throughout my hair. I like it. Oh and my toenails are pink.

And now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to pull on my legwarmers and hop into bed B, C and V(ogue).

As I sit here awkwardly and gently typing, I am happy to say that my hand is much more neatly bandaged this evening. While I would’ve preferred to avoid a visit to the walk-in clinic, and the potential of stitches altogether, upon arriving at the office this morning, my boss insisted I have the gash taken care of right away. He even gave me money for breakfast and coffee.

I skipped a block down Burrard Street to the Stein Medical Clinic in Bentall 5 and was absolutely impressed. The wait was short and the staff was entirely professional and proficient. My doctor, a sweet woman with what I think to be a South African accent, was on the ball and definitely knew what she was doing. Due to the location and type of gash, actual stitches would’ve been next to impossible. So instead, I was given a thorough wound cleaning, butterfly stitch bandages, a topical antibacterial cream, a protective gauze bandage, extra dressings to last me a week (the duration for which my hand must remain bandaged) and a tetanus shot on my way out the door.

That being said, next time you require medical attention, I most definitely recommend this clinic. I may even dare to say that the experience was better and more thorough than a visit to my regular GP.

That took care of problem number one. Problem number two involved having the door and handle to the apartment fixed. Thankfully, I heard from Jack as soon as he regained consciousness, and it was the first time during either ordeal that I actually started to cry. He was totally awesome, told me not to worry and that he’d take care of everything. Aside from having his mom and best friend call to keep an eye on me and make sure I had whatever I needed, he made a couple phone calls to ensure that everything would be fixed by the time I got home from work. And wouldn’t you know it, but Dave was just finishing sanding down the top of the door as I entered the building.

I’m blown away at how awesome everyone’s been. I can handle my own in a crisis situation, but I’d really prefer not to. Knowing how bummed out the events of the last 24 hours left me, it was Becky to the rescue!

I adore flowers, and ironically enough, she brought me narcissists. Really, that’s what they’re called. We both had a chuckle over that one.

I added them to my slowly-dying bouquet of pink tulips.

Being that we were hungry girls, we ordered Indian food and I really did pick it up this time. She had the butter chicken, and I finally got to savour my lamb roganjosh.

And of course, what impromptu girls’ evening would be complete without perfect puppy pics?

Someone had his eyes on Becky’s samosas.

If Casey isn’t playing with his football, he’s waiting for it to be thrown for him.

And so now, with my tummy full of Indian food, perhaps I can finally make the pajama-clad crawl into bed with the puppies and Deadwood.

Goodnight, and good luck.

I am one of those rare people who thought that Zooropa was a gem of a record. One particular track is entitled “Some Days Are Better Than Others.” Preach it, Bono.

Sunday Night’s Plan: Feed the dogs at 6pm, shower, dress in clean and cozy pajamas, order Indian take-out and be in bed by 7pm to watched two hours of Deadwood before Amy arrives at 9pm to retrieve her beloved Peanut.

Here’s what really happened…

6pm: I set out three dishes, one for each pup. As usual, I proceeded to scoop out some wet food into each of the bowls. Suddenly I was hit with a sharp and cold feeling, figuring I’d knicked the can. I looked down at my hand, staring with interest, and realized that my knuckle was rockin’ an exquisite gash.

Instinctively, I ran my hand under cold water in preparation for paper towel and mega pressure. As the first bit of blood washed down the sink, I said to myself “hey, that kinda looks like bone.” I soon realized that the can lid went up and into the fleshy part covering my knuckle.

I first tried to get ahold of Rod in hopes he may have some gauze - no luck there. “This is bleeding pretty steadily…” I typed to Jen on Adium. I proceeded to actually sit on my hand in an attempt to apply enough pressure to stop the trickle.

7pm: One hour later and still bleeding a bit. Jen insisted on coming over with first aid supplies, and at this point, I didn’t argue. A three-hour wait in emergency for stitches sounded less than appealing.

Less than 45 minutes later, my Angel of Gauze appeared, and in no time at all I had cleaned the wound, sprayed the hell out of it with Bactine (a god-send, really; it’s a household must) and dressed it in gauze and medical tape. Finally, with my hand wrapped in a plastic shopping bag (save the lecture), I was able to shower.

8pm: Being that Amy would be over in an hour, and her and Jen had never met, I suggested that we get Indian together while we wait. Jen agreed in the splendidness of such an idea, and so we set towards the door in an effort to pick it up (along with a couple Diet Pepsis).

“Oh my god!” she exclaimed from the front door of the apartment. I looked over and saw that Jen was holding the actual door handle in her hand.

It was no surprise to me: the door in this apartment has long been too big for its frame, and getting it open takes a great deal of pulling and yanking. It was only a matter of time before the handle broke off. Except this time, the metal itself shattered.

8:30pm: You’d think that it would be as simple as removing the pins and opening the door, but as I stated above, the problem is the door itself. The mechanism was technically open, but the door was jammed so tight in the frame, that the only way to free us was by way of a good push from the outside.

I tried calling Rod again, I tried calling the front desk, I tried calling Jack. Rod was in Richmond, no one was “manning” the front desk and Jack wasn’t answering his phone. Awesome. Being that our only hope was Rod’s arrival back in the neighbourhood around 10pm (to catch the keycard from the 5th storey window), what else could two girls do? We put out a plea for help by slipping a note under the door.

9:30pm By this time, the Indian restaurant had already called three times, and a fourth on a different line, wondering if I was coming for my lamb roganjosh. I was hungry, frustrated and felt totally bad when I knew all Jen really wanted to do was go home and watch Oz. Really, I couldn’t blame her.

In a last-ditch effort, I tried the front desk again for the 10th time at about 9:45pm, and minutes later, we were free. Finally someone responsible came on shift. And so now, as it’s nearing my bedtime, this is as good as a closed door as I’m going to get tonight…

I can look at the broken handle on the dining table and the bloody gauze on my hand now and laugh. Events like this are hugely character-building and form unique bonds. I’m so grateful I had someone to share in the hilarity of it all. Whenever I am here, taking care of my two favourite furry boys, something always inevitably goes wrong. I’m just glad the predictable headache is over and done with and out of the way so early into my undertaking.

I think I’ll go order some Indian takeout now…

The City of Vancouver is making it much tougher for you to be lazy when it comes to taking care of your community (and your planet). As of January 1, 2008, new garbage restrictions in Metro Vancouver will limit what you can stack at the curb or toss into the garbage bins behind your apartment.

Photo courtesy of unity.project on Flickr

The following items are strictly banned when it comes to tossing it in the trash:

For more information, please visit the City of Vancouver’s website.

I still have yet to find a composting solution for downtown living aside from worm composting. If anyone has any ideas, solutions or knows of a downtown location at which to rid of compost materials, please e-mail me at keira at keira-anne dot com or leave a message in the comments.

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.

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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!”

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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…

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

Oh yes I did. Since my trip to the U.S. is most definitely happening on Sunday, I unscrewed my bottle of Saturna Island Vineyards‘ 2006 Pinot Noir (in adhering to 100-Mile ideals), poured myself a big glass and hauled the decorations out of my storage locker. Frank Sinatra’s “A Jolly Christmas” started spinning on my stereo and the prettifying commenced. Is that even a word? It is now.

But can you blame me? You cannot say that this doesn’t look like the coziest apartment in the West End, because it does and it is!