Keira-anne.com

It’s been a long while since your last lurk into my bathroom. For a girl who can get ready at the start of the day in the blink of an eye, I admittedly have a lot of “stuff” with which to do so. Some of it almost never gets used, some of it only comes out for special occasions and other items I can’t live without. We’ve all got our favourites. Here are a few of mine…

I’m very particular when it comes to body moisturizers. Naturally they need to smell as though they’d taste equally delicious, but endurance is important. I require something that will keep my skin supple all day and the Body Shop’s body butter does just that. It’s not unusual for me to go through a jar each month. Brazil Nut is my pony.

Never one to give powder a chance, I always assumed it would be messy and leave unsightly residue in my hair and on my skin. Not so, and I’ve discovered Sugar Leaf powder from Barefoot Venus. Locally made and infused with red fruit, peach and vanilla essences, this subtle product is quickly becoming my daily perfume replacement.

Despite how much I love Lush’s bubble bars, $8 doesn’t go a long way. Many other drugstore bubble baths are made with far too many chemically-produced fragrances – even the supposed naturally scented ones. Thankfully some are designed for more delicate skin and are far less abrasive. Life brand from Shopper’s Drug Mart has created this lavender and chamomile bubble bath designed to lull babies to sleep at the end of the day. They must be doing something right because I too fell asleep in the tub on the weekend.

My quest for skincare seems to be an eternal one, but I somehow always end up back with my old pal, Clinique. It’s dermatological formulated and approved and never fails to leave my skin feeling clean and refreshed. You can’t top a classic.

Months ago when my hair was breaking all over my crown and sending me into a frantic panic, I wasted no time in fixing my hair – and keeping it that way. Prior to that, I’d been skimping out on my usual dousing of Bumble & bumble.’s Tonic spray. To ensure that me and my hair never again break up, this daily dose of vitamins, minerals and essential extracts is a non-negotiable.

You’ve probably heard your girlfriends mention them. Maybe you’ve even considered buying a pair of Tweezerman tweezers. Yes, they are worth it.

Anyone who has ever gone shopping with me in an attempt to purchase body wash knows first-hand how arduous I find the task each time. I do want something moisturizing but I don’t want a cleansing cream. I do want something that lathers but I don’t want a soap-based wash that strips my skin. And don’t even get me started on how many body washes overpower with their scent bouquets. I was elated to discover Neutrogena’s Rainbath Deep Moisture body wash with butters of cocoa, mango and shea.

What would I find in your bathroom?

Finally, after seemingly endless days of eating, cooking, baking, wrapping, unwrapping, smiling, drinking and running around, I’ve had a day to do nothing. It’s 4:20 p.m. and I’m in my pajamas – still. I briefly dressed myself long enough to take the dogs for a long, long walk, after which I could feel the workout in my ass and thighs. Nothing has felt tight in days, except perhaps my jeans. I love winter weight.

Lately I’ve become pitiful at taking photos of things as they happen. That’s not to say I haven’t snapped any, but this is all you get. Let’s begin with three photos of my niece intriguing herself with one of the gifts her favourite auntie bestowed upon her, shall we?

It’s a musical octopus. Each tentacle plays a different note in the music scale. The best part? It’s lightly vanilla-scented (no word of a lie).

Years ago my mom was happy to resign herself from baking and cooking duties, leaving the responsibility to myself and my sister-in-law. While Laura took care of Christmas Eve, I pulled out the stops on the big day. I like to call it my Ziggy Stardust Christmas Banquet Table. Yes, that’s gold lamé that’s blinding you.

I also managed to bake four dozen fluffy buns from scratch, roasted a turkey, chopped and cooked sinfully delicious stuffing with sides of yams, garlic red-skinned mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and roasted brussels sprouts with walnuts. You get the picture.

Kinda excessive, no?

Chillin’ with my buddy.

Each Christmas, my mom gives my brother and I an ornament that’s usually reflective of the past year. This one’s pretty self-explanatory.

This one represents my love of the ocean…

And apparently I enjoy shopping from time to time.

Anyone who knows me (and by that I mean knows me) understands the inexplicable affinity I have with First Nations culture. I have, in fact, been known to leave the First Peoples Gallery at the Royal BC Museum in tears simply because of overwhelming feelings. A few years ago my mother gave me a Haida sun from the reserve in Comox.

Daddy-O still joins us every year. I think he kind of looks like Jerry Springer.

Oma and Opa are always there too.

I’m basically obsessed with everything and anything that’s made by Wilton for baking. Sprinkles in my stocking.

My aunt bought me the last two seasons of my favourite sweaty, naked and incarcerated men. It’s HBO at its finest.

I have a plan for these…

Jordy matches everything at my mom’s house.

I really need to hurry up with this blog post so I can get moving on to more important things. I’ve opted for SNES with The Legend of Zelda.

You can’t actually tell, but the skirt of this dress was in three layers, each with a different pattern. I saved up many weeks’ allowance to buy it from Zellers. Be jealous. Be very jealous.

Guess who.

We popped open Christmas crackers with dinner and I found a blue fawn in mine. I’m thinking it’s a sign that my cake just might win the Interfaith Baking Competition.

Mom gave me a grey knit endless scarf for Christmas. I think I’m in love.

My brother and me.

This is how we roll.

Clearly I have a lot to look forward to in the next year, so I’m not filled with that dreaded “what now?” thought that usually takes over like a tryptophan nap. One thing I’ve traditionally done in January is execute a mini makeover in my home. This year I’m picking up an industrial shelving unit, storing all my cooking and baking wares on it to make more room in my too-cramped kitchen. In a few months it may be present time to me. My current lease is up at the end of March. With that, I’ve decided to stay another year in the studio I’m currently calling home before moving to a more spacious casa with a large kitchen and an actual bedroom.

It’s time to end the rambling and save the princess.

Living today – in the moment – has become my “thing” lately. I could elaborate but let’s not get boring, shall we? Anyway, if I don’t live in the moment, all the things I’m pumped about next year will be here before I know it and the little things will pass me by. In fact, so much is coming my way in 2010 that I’m already exhausted thinking about it all. Oy vey.

In no particular order…

10. No specific target date has been set, but I will be officially debt-free. Feel free to hate on me, but I’ve worked hard at it.

9. Celebrating my sweet-as-a-peach niece’s first birthday.

8. Shortly after that, celebrating one whole year with my love bug.

7. Fingers crossed that the Phoenix Suns will once again rock GM Place with another exhibition game during the pre-season, a game at which I will be screaming, yelling, cheering and jumping up and down in my jersey.

Photo: taminator on Flickr

6. TORONTO! Or, you know, a suburb-thereof. I really need to see this lady again. (Except let’s not hang with those guys, okay?)

5. Seeing John Mayer in concert on April 1 for the second time. (Don’t be surprised if I disappear for a few months after the show. It’s my hope that I’ll charm my way backstage, after which he and I will embark on a passionate and heartbreaking love affair. I suspect we will exhaust each other by summertime.)

Photo: Flickred! on Flickr

4. Love thy self: I’m one of those people who incessantly say “I want to…” and then never actually do it. I want to cook more gourmet food, drink more wine, have more parties, take more day-trips, rent a car sometimes and do anything and everything that makes me happy.

3. My first visit to New York City. I plan on leaving my heart there.

Photo: miss604 on Flickr

2. Get sporty. I don’t miss going to the gym but getting active makes my heart go ga-goong in more ways than one. I want to join a co-ed drop-in basketball league or just hit the courts with friends. Bueller?

Original Photo: Fernando Ariotti on Flickr

1. Embarking on the next decade of my life, a trip that someone special to me will also be taking this year.

Your turn: tell me what would make for your “Perfect ’10″. Feel free to make this a meme.

I bet if I took an afternoon to dig through the garage or storage room at my mom’s house, I’d probably turn up some buried treasures from across Vancouver Island that my Opa collected years ago. It’s something I’ll probably never actually get around to, but thankfully Raymi did some of it for me. Who knew Vancouver Island was so big in Ontario?

She recently snapped these photos of a very, very old pamphlet belonging to Dave that was published by the Victoria and Island Publicity Bureau. As far as I know, that entity operated out of the south Island between the 1920s and the 1960s, so that will give you an idea of just how old this is. Someone correct me if I’m wrong on those dates.

If you click this last photo to view the original size, you can clearly see that the highway connecting the eastern Island to Tofino and Ucluelet was non-existent at the time of publication.

I suddenly have the urge to hike at Mt. Beecher.

Aside from the brief afternoon snowfall, Sunday was like any other Sunday. At least it should have been. In an effort to finalize our Christmas shopping, Andrea and I planned to meet at H&M in Pacific Centre before making the somewhat insane trek to Metrotown. In order to avoid the cold, I ducked into Sears and made my way through the mall to find her.

Photo: ***roham*** on Flickr

As I emerged from the department store into the lower level, making my way to the escalator, I was keenly aware of how many people were crowded everywhere I looked. As I scanned the countless faces, one in particular nearly stopped me in my tracks. I knew him, I knew his face and how he moved. I’d seen the reconnaissance footage nearly a dozen times; in doing so I studied more about him than he knew of himself when looking in the mirror. I knew he was wanted, I knew how incredibly elusive he was and I knew the tremendous threat of sheer terror he posed to everyone in his immediate radius.

I had two choices. I could use the near-microscopic radio in what appears to be my DKNY watch to call for immediate help and report the sighting or I could disable him myself. If I went for the second option, I had to be absolutely certain I could do it. Any room for error was non-existent with this many people around.

Being nearly 100 feet behind him, I quickened my step. Anything less than 50 feet was far too risky. I closed in, my heels hitting the faux marble floor to muffle the sound of the safety release inside my jacket. Were anyone to see the Glock 27 before I was ready to fire, any chance I had would evaporate.

40 feet. Now or never.

In one fluid movement, my handgun went from my inside pocket to being gripped between both hands. In less than a blink, it fired. The Christmas shoppers screamed in chorus. Some scattered while most dropped to the ground. The breath I’d been holding escaped my lips as I surveyed my work. The man who was not a suspect – but instead a legitimate target – was sprawled face-down on the floor. One direct hit and his entire body was disabled.

I live in a fantasy world. It’s a world I’ve danced in for most of my life, a world in which I’m a federal agent. Sometimes it’s CIA, sometimes it’s FBI and sometimes I’m even an assassin. A secret life of lies, precise expertise and incredible adventure.

In truth, as I walked through Pacific Centre on Sunday afternoon, this was exactly the scenario that played on the reel of my mind. As I walked to meet Andrea, I questioned myself as to whether or not I thought I could get a clear shot off in such a crowded mall if I had to. It immediately occurred to me that if i had any hope in hell of joining the CIA, I’d first need corrective laser eye surgery.

Photos (top to bottom): Tiffany & Co.; Home Decorating Ideas/Interior Decoration/Kitchen Remodeling; Personal; MagXone Lyrics – “Assassin” by John Mayer; lonesome:cycler on Flickr; SoFeminine; Billie Hara on Flickr; Personal; ****Gretchen (FaustoyGretchen)**** on Flickr; Gucci by Robin Broadbent Photography; The Second Lunch; waferboard on Flickr

A few years ago, I was in my boss’s office when he asked me what the difference is between a website and a blog. After a brief description of each, he asked if I, in fact, had a blog. He then proceeded to pointedly ask me why anyone would be at all interested in what I have to say about anything. While he meant it mostly in jest, he also made a very good point. Why would anyone be interested in what I have to say? Half the time I’m not interested in what I have to say, so why would someone else?

Over the last eight months, my frequency of blog posting has dwindled faster than my bank account balance at the Clinique counter. While it isn’t that I don’t have anything to say, the narcissistic charm that blogging once held has been slowly fading away. Allowing perfect strangers a view to a thrill during bikini season has lost that loving feeling, while no one really needs (or should care) to know what I made for dinner, which movie I went to see or who I’ve been hanging out with these days.

My mother loves to take photos when we go for walks. This, however, normally translates to stopping every 400 metres to stage a shot. While her enthusiasm is sweet, and there’s always a time and a place for snapping photos, how can two people create memories together if they’re too busy trying to capture them on a digital memory card? I’d rather live and love my life rather than watch it pass me by because I’m too busy letting everyone else know.

Maybe Twitter has led to the demise of it all. I’ve realized that I can share my wit and wisdom in 140 characters or less, rather than dragging each of you through a large volume of mostly superfluous paragraphs just so I can hear myself speak, so to speak. (Though speaking of, doesn’t “superfluous” strike you as a bit ironic because it is, in itself, a superfluous word?)

However, that said, some people still have an insatiable need to know, some people still love to lurk and I still love to mold the English language, bending it to my will. Let me break down these days for you:

Photo: Comox Valley SPCA
Bobbi Sue 4 is available for adoption.

In recent weeks, I, like many other people around Vancouver, find myself in a painfully consistent routine each morning. It begins by hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock more than a handful of times – at minimum. Failing that, I spend my first waking moments considering any plausible excuse to stay in bed that particular morning. Once reality kicks in, I know that the sensation of being rain-slicked while my boots become a decoupage of wet leaves is a looming inevitability. This is made even worse being that I have a dog who is desperate to pee the moment he bounds out of bed and before I leave for the office.

Despite umbrellas and hoods, my hair also falls victim to the season. I ask myself each day why I bother blow-drying, but it’s something I always do anyways. It’s the routine. After the eating of breakfast and the shower and the make-up and the blow-drying and the careful choosing of matching unmentionables comes the dreaded wardrobe selection. I must attire myself appropriately for the office but what I wear must also be functional enough to be tucked into galoshes and under a raincoat. Almost none of my office apparel fits the bill in this (or any) regard, so I normally leave my apartment a complete disarray of sunshine.

As I engaged in this daily dance with myself earlier this morning, it took almost no time to suddenly realize that this time three weeks from now, I’ll instead be waking up to this…

Original Photo: Sarah Sosiak on Flickr

The only decision that then needs to be made is red bikini, blue bikini or new bikini? You decide.

As an aside, I apologize for the lack of blog posts. I really have no valid excuse that would appease you. Feel free to stalk me on Twitter in the meantime.

Author’s Foreword: This post is lovingly dedicated to my dear friend Andrea, a woman who shares many of my compulsions. Language is only one of them. Reading thesauruses may be another.

While earlier pondering this blog post, I was formulating what I thought would be the perfect opening anecdote. Upon further consideration, I realized that whether it related to my topic or not was moot, so I’ve decided to drop it altogether and cut to the chase.

“What’s the deal with language these days?”

When ICQ made its first appearance in 1996, chat speak was born. Words and phrases became abbreviated and emotions were instead expressed through cleverly strung together punctuation marks. Further still, punctuation itself was completely thrown out the window. It’s a slippery slope, my friends, and since then we’ve been inundated by way of MSN, AOL, text messaging, MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, e-mail, e-cards, blogs, webcams and smart phones.

While technology has certainly made the world a smaller place and brought people closer together (though that is still open to debate), it has also turned us into incredibly disgusting and ridiculously languid communicators.

Photo: MrPhilDog on Flickr

It can be assumed that the majority of Canadians have been taught, generally speaking, a basic education in the public school system. Many more of us have been fortunate enough to attend post-secondary institutions. The expectation concerning our quality of work only increases as we pursue higher levels of schooling. Words – both written and spoken – are arguably the strongest method of communication no matter which language one speaks.

Have I missed something along the way? I was by no means the most scholastic student in any given class. I made efforts when warranted, pulled off a consistent ‘B’ average throughout most of academia and never gave one subject more attention over another. Yet somehow I’ve still managed to walk away with an understanding of spelling, grammar and punctuation.

An alarming rate of educated adults still mix up contractions with possessive words. “A lot” has always been, and will always be, two separate words. When joining two thoughts with “and,” why use a comma? The “and” in the middle is the conjoiner. Run-on sentences are never acceptable and the only exception to this rule is if your name is Ernest Hemingway or Raymi. Though, even those two know what’s what.

The truth is that this unfortunate phenomenon is not restricted to chat windows and Facebook walls. Glaring blunders are popping up in grocery store fliers, newspapers, magazines, work-related correspondence and on billboards. I can’t help but wonder if our educations have failed us or if we simply no longer care. It’s time for the lost art of language to make a triumphant return.

I’ve been more prayerful this year. When people ask me if I consider myself religious, for some reason I take offense. No one, however, asks me if I consider myself spiritual. I consider myself spiritual. By that it can be construed that I’m deeply aware of the spiritual aspect to my whole self. It’s as much a part of me as my mental well-being, my emotional quotient and the health of my physical body.

I believe in God; yup, the supreme Allah. He’s who I pray to, who I believe in and who I share it all with. Not out of a sense of duty or of obligation. It’s born out of the simple desire to feel connected to Him and to keep my spiritual heartbeat strong because without either then… what? Exactly. I never want my life to read like a guilt-inducing slogan on the neon sign of a church. I’d rather it resemble the sensation of a breeze in a tree or the roll of a wave.