Keira-anne.com

I’m a quality girl, I enjoy quality products. I have long been a firm believer in the idea that you get what you pay for. I won’t shell out a lot of cash for things like flip flops, socks and even sometimes panties (those H&M booty shorts are 3 for $10 and super cute). Then there are those items which deserve more than a few pennies tossed their way. For this girl, jeans, hair care and skin care rank in the top three.

I’ve been a consistent user of Bumble & bumble. for a few years now, and never bat an eyelash at the price tag. Sure it’s pricier than your average drugstore brands of hair care, but the results are worth it. It’s as simple as that. Duh.

A few months ago I received a suspicious text message from Becky during one of her south-of-the-border shopping trips. She was shopping at everyone’s favourite “fun find” store, Target, and spotted my beloved Bb. on the shelves. “Hmmm…” I thought to myself. Something wasn’t right, if only because I knew how exclusively Bb. sold their products.

Then again this morning, Jenny mentioned that she saw a few of Bb.’s products in the London Drugs on Davie Street. Naturally, I marched straight there to see the proof in the pudding. And there it was…a few bottles from their Seaweed, Alojoba and Creme de Coco collections.

I thought that Bb. products are only sold in salons, but I saw them in a drugstore, what gives?
We only sell our products through the Bb. Network which is comprised of exclusive salons and apothecaries throughout the world. We have no relationship with any mass market chains and none is authorized to sell Bb. products (and we hate it when they do). The only way to guarantee the efficacy of our products (so you know they’re the real deal) is to buy them from a member of our Network ( see Salon Locator ) or directly from Bumble and bumble. [source]

It was never my intent to dive into a diatribe on retailers who illegally sell products in their stores, but my point is that it’s completely important to have a bit of awareness as a consumer. This morning, as I unscrewed the caps from the “Bb.” I found at London Drugs, my nose was instantly invaded with a sharp stinging sensation - clue no. 1 that it wasn’t a genuine Bb. product. Major retailers, such as London Drugs and Target, are known to carry products obtained through a third party distributor, and the products themselves are often diluted or altered in an attempt to save money. In fact, when Jenny went to New York to attend the actual Bb. academy, she spotted Bb. products in corner stores around Manhattan.

How can you be more aware and support ethical consumerism? Here’s some easy steps:

1. Smell the Product. As I mentioned, the stuff spotted this morning smelled markedly different than genuine Bb. products.

2. Check Your Surroundings. I picked up my favourite perfume a few months back, knowing not many would have it since not even the Bay nor Sears carried it. Imagine my surprise when I spotted a stack of Marc Jacobs gift sets in Courtenay at the Shopper’s Drug Mart. Not only were there just a few available, the fragrance wasn’t available in an individual bottle. If a store genuinely carries a name, such as Marc Jacobs (which SDM doesn’t), a variety of that product will be available.

3. Look At the Label. The first thing I noticed about this morning’s “Bb.” discovery was the bottle of Seaweed. The design had been manipulated and looked nothing like those found in salons.

4. Check the Website. Most major brands are aware of their products being sold on the black market to third parties who then pass them on to chain stores. Usually you can find a disclaimer on any given website verifying this, and also informing you where you can legitimately purchase a product.

5. If It Seems To Good to Be True… it probably is. That DC hoodie you purchased for $20 at Army & Navy probably shouldn’t have been on the rack in the first place.

Enough said.

Tonight marks the opening night of Vancouver’s Celebration of Light, sparking over the waters of English Bay. It’s the annual event at which, over four nights, 1.4 million Greater Vancouver residents cozy up together to take in fireworks displays from around the world. This year’s competition boasts colourful presentations from Canada (July 23), the United States (July 26) and China (July 30) with a grand finale on August 2.

Photo: Duane Storey on Flickr

I will not be one of those 1.4 million. While the fireworks themselves can be a marvel to see, I can’t say that 500,000 people invading my neighbourhood each night, police helicopters circling overhead, dump trucks full of littered garbage and suburban jackasses getting into street fights are overly appealing factors.

“But Keira, you chose to live in the West End.” Sure, and I can also choose to leave the West End on the nights in question. If the City of Vancouver were to, say, move the event to the shores near Point Grey, you can be damned sure the locals would cause an up-roar. It’s my quiet little neighbourhood. That being said, after work and a half hour of laying in the sun (fingers crossed), I’m grabbing sushi from my favourite joint and venturing across town to hunker down in Gastown for the night.

All’s not lost on fireworks evenings. Last year I had the pleasure of spending one such evening in the company of lovely friends, such as Rebecca, and meeting new ones, like Tony. And oh my, the fun we had that night!

Today, as I stepped onto the elevator upon arriving at work, one of my co-workers asked me why I was coming from a different direction than usual. I said that I still lived in the West End but that I’m dogsitting in Gastown. He then asked me if all the “drug addicts” bothered me in a rather admonishing tone. I was a bit floored by the question and didn’t know how to answer.

Flustered, I stuttered out “er, no…those people are just part of the neighbourhood.” The truth is, I was downright enraged that anyone would even presume my feelings on the subject. Because, in reality, to me those so-called “drug addicts” are people, first and foremost, who suffer from substance abuse problems (possibly among other sufferings).

Oh and I almost became splattered roadkill while crossing a sidewalk yesterday. Yup, I had a walk signal, but perhaps Mr. Police Officer should’ve been paying less attention to the computer in his squad car and more attention to the road on which he was driving.

/rant

I’m really surprised this isn’t something that occurs more often in downtown Vancouver:

Photo: melodrama.ca on Flickr

As I made my way to work in the early hours of this morning, dazed in my New Radicals stupor, I came to the intersection at Hornby and Dunsmuir like I always do. However, I was soon snapped out of my trance by the sight of a now-compact car smushed into the back end of a garbage truck. The front end had been squeezed all the way up to the windshield, steamed poured from what was left of the engine and neon yellow fluid started streaming onto the pavement. A man sat on the curb, his head in his hands in an attempt to hide his obvious sobs, while the woman that he was with held him.

What astonished me is that not one single damn person stopped. No one asked if they were okay or if 911 had been called. The garbage truck driver and his partner were conversing in the cab of their truck and everyone around continued on their merry way. I’d like to think that I’m a responsible citizen; that being the case, I stopped to offer any assistance I could before emergency vehicles arrived mere moments later. To ensure I didn’t get in the way, I carried on once I realized that there wasn’t anything I could do to help that hadn’t already been done. Police, fire and ambulance personnel were on the scene.

Not only did no one stop to help, those that were in the area tried to run across the street or speed through the intersection before the emergency vehicles were “in their way.”

Photo: John Bollwitt on Flickr

I simply shook my head in disgust. It never ceases to amaze me the number of blatantly ignorant people there are on the road. Were the City of Vancouver to hold a referendum in an attempt to eliminate vehicular traffic altogether in the downtown core, you can rest assured I’d mark a giant check mark in the “Yes” box.

As a pedestrian in this city, drivers continually anger me. As a sometimes driver in this city, pedestrians continually anger me. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder where some people obtain their drivers’ licenses. Just Monday, a young lady lurched right out onto the crosswalk to make a right-hand turn as myself and a handful of others were proceeding on a walk signal. I gave the bumper end of her car one giant and swift slap with the palm of my hand in an effort to make her more aware. Perhaps it was a bit excessive, but better my hand on the back of her car to teach her a lesson than her car mowing into the lot of us. Oddly enough, it was she who shouted expletives at me as I continued to walk for up to half a block. “How dare you f*$%ing hit my car?!”

Classy.

Yes, drivers and walkers, it is time we all wake up. Driving is not only a huge responsibility, but it is also a privilege. If you’re a Translink driver or taxi driver, then this Bud’s particularly for you. Daily commutes would be a hell of a lot more enjoyable - and safe - if we all opened our eyes a little bit and showed one another respect.

And please, for the love of god, when you see flashing lights and hear a siren, it doesn’t indicate that you should speed up.

I have one simple question for you all:

Where have all the gentlemen disappeared to?

I hate to generalize on such a large scale, but I’ve recently become rather appalled (and almost insulted) at the lack of manners in men I encounter on a daily basis in the downtown core. There seems to be a large and gaping hole where courtesies, open doors and a “ladies first” policy once dwelled.

Photo: iandavid on Flickr

I’ve long been a champion of traditionalism in its various forms - though not to be confused with blatant sexism. Oddly enough, I find it to be a topic I keep returning to, incarnated somewhat differently each time. That is, however, besides my point.

Sure, I am capable of opening the door to my office building, but sometimes it would be nice if the man who enters it before me could, at the very least, hold it open for yours truly also.

And while we all ride the elevator and get to the ground floor at the same time, it would be nice if the random men I ride it with would offer me the option of walking out first (particularly if they get on after I do). Oddly enough, the only men who do seem to remember these common, basic courtesies are the 60+ crowd.

As I said, it’s wrong of me to pidgeonhole 21st-century men in such a way. To prove me wrong, I challenge my more chivalrous male readers to tell me who they are and take a stand against those who…aren’t.

Normally I’m a very calm-spirited person. My usually mellow demeanor rarely ever gets rocked (except on the days at the office on which I want to, quite literally, rip my hair out) because I seem to have an uncanny knack for letting things roll off my back. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to truly not sweat the small stuff and, more importantly, I’ve learned how to pick my battles. There is one instance, however, that causes my impatience to rear its not-so-pretty head: getting from point ‘A’ to point ‘B’ in downtown Vancouver.

Photo: dejahthoris on Flickr

I love to walk and normally would do so, but at nighttime, that’s a different story. Last night I waited for the #6 Downtown bus to haul me over to Gastown. According to Translink’s website, the #6 should ideally come by at regular intervals, sometimes only four minutes apart. The trip from Davie and Bute to Cordova and Seymour is scheduled to take 15 minutes in the early evening. The trip took me 45 minutes. By the time I arrived at my transfer point to take me down Cordova street, I was frustratedly drumming my fingertips, only to see two middle-aged men imitating me. If looks could kill, the glare I shot them surely would’ve knocked them down dead in a nanosecond.

For those of you who live in the West End, you have probably noticed the gaggles of bus drivers who pull their buses to the curb, shut off their engines and “shoot the shit” with other drivers at English Bay. Want to know a little known fact? They aren’t allowed to do this! I questioned someone I know who’s rather high up with our local transit authority and he confirmed this; unfortunately, there’s really not much the company can do to stop their drivers from slacking off. This probably explains why your bus and my bus always comes late.

Photo: fnord prefect on Flickr

Fortunately for me, hybrid taxis are most definitely an option. The truth is, 9 times out of 10, I grab a cab. Once in a while I decide to take a chance on the bus system, only to always end up disappointed. And when you look at constantly rising transit costs, when the cross-town trip costs me $2.50 on a bus or $7.50 in cab fare, the extra five bucks is worth the half hour in travel time saved.

Now that I’ve ended my rant, you tell me: what’s your preferred method of transport downtown?

Yesterday, amid running around to various places such as HMV and Urban Fare, I also stopped in at my usual hair salon being that I was critically low on my three key Bumble and Bumble products. I decided to switch it up and try a new shampoo/conditioner combo, in addition to the Tonic spray. This morning I showered, and my hair felt better than it has in weeks. It was thick, full and luscious…not to mention smelling amazing.

Being that the rain has been holding off, I decided to walk a friend’s dogs and hit the park again. Less than half a block away, I was reaffirming to myself how great my hair felt and how fantastic of a hair day I was having. I would even dare to say it was stellar. And then it hit me…

Photo: andrew k on Flickr

A fucking crow shat on me. Some pesky bird decided to have a heyday with my fabulous hair, and even mess with my jacket a little bit (yes, Becky, it was the Ellabee). I spun on my heel and headed straight for the first shower I could find, huffing, puffing and uttering expletives under my breath the entire way.

I’ve heard before that to have such a thing happen is good luck. At least, this is what is believed in many countries around the world. Now, I’m not saying I wouldn’t mind holding the winning ticket for this Wednesday’s 6/49 draw, but if you ask me, that bird can keep its good luck and stuff it.

This is my knee at 7:13 p.m. This is only the tip of the iceberg that I crashed into all week.

I’ve had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week which ended with today - a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Let me preface this by saying that I know full well that there are more people than I could count whose day-to-day circumstances are far worse than my own, but we all have days and weeks that go down in the Shithole Hall of Fame, and this was one of them for me.

Work was hard this week - very hard. I won’t get into the nitty gritty of it because, professionally speaking, I don’t think that it’s appropriate to do so. Aside from red wine, hot baths and hours of South Park, one of the only things that got me through the week was knowing that I’d be riding at my favourite mountain all weekend, in particular for the Ski For MS fundraiser on Sunday.

Today was my first day riding on my new set-up. My friend Jared tied my boots - tight! For whatever reason, carving was a near-impossibility. I tried chalking it up to the icy snow and new board, but I was simply getting frustrated. It was raining f-words.

You skiers are damn bullies. Between the middle-aged woman who was constantly scraping over my board in the lift line to the snow sprays behind two planks and a final cumulation of some woman actually “stabbing” the deck of my board with her pole, I’d had enough. I finally called a name to her face; she kept skiing past.

My lunch was cold, I thrashed my knee so badly that I can hardly walk on it (and am thus completely disappointed that I can’t participate tomorrow and I feel like I’ve let people down), my second $20 ski lock in two days got cut and stolen but for some reason my board wasn’t snagged and on and on and on.

I continuously got frustrated as the day continued, and I feel entirely discouraged. Part of me says “Why do I have to be good at snowboarding? Why don’t I just stick to things I know and am good at, such as dinner parties, baking cookies and…eating hot dogs?”

Although, blinking through tears as I drove down the mountain parkway, I realized that I’m not quite as cynical as I’d like to believe. Perhaps today was so horrible to divert me from riding tomorrow. Maybe it was divine intervention. Maybe if I had gone up, I would’ve snapped my leg and given myself a wicked bad concussion.

I’m signing off for now…time to ice the knee.

On work days, my morning routine is rather specific. I arrive at the office at 8:00 a.m., give or take a few minutes. I start by checking my e-mail and calendar to see what, if anything, is happening that day. Sometimes there is application material to prepare, sometimes not.

Somewhere in the window between 8:45 a.m. and 9:30 a.m., I walk to my favourite Starbucks location. The girls there all know me by drink and name and are the friendliest part of my mornings. En route, it’s inevitably necessary always to pass through the southwest corner of Robson and Hornby streets. On that corner stands a man.

This man, in his dark ballcap and orange smock, lies in wait for me each and every morning. The pocket of his smock is filled with copies of a cheap daily, his hand clutching a copy to wave in my face. We’ve done this “dance” for more than two years now and he’s not willing to let go.

Photo: Saxifrage on Flickr

It began the summer that three separate dailies decided to begin publishing in Vancouver, hocking their rags on street corners by way of people in aprons with stacks of papers to get rid of. The man was stationed on the northwest corner of Burrard and Nelson, so avoiding him on my way to work was easier.

In the beginning, I politely declined a copy. Before long, it became a game for him, and frustrated at the fact that he’d still ask me to take a copy each morning, I dropped the kindness routine and turned to ignoring. Knowing full well I didn’t want a copy, he’d proceed to quickly flutter a copy inches from my nose without saying a word as I walked by simply to irritate.

And now, as I walk the unavoidable path to Starbucks each morning, the game continues. He was re-stationed to my coffee route. Please tell me I’m not the only one that the 24Hours people have a hit out on…