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Now that September is closing in on us and my summer holidays are behind me, I’m looking for things to do with the sunny days remaining. Last week, Rebecca posted about the upcoming 2nd Annual West End Dog Show in one of Vancouver’s quaintest neighbourhood (and my old stomping grounds).

Photo: DCMatt on Flickr

Dogs and their owners will be getting together this Saturday, August 22nd between 11:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. at Nelson Park to celebrate the unique bonds we share with our furry friends.

The day will feature a doggy fashion show, a tail-wagging contest, softest dog contest, vendors, animal hospital representatives on hand to answer your questions, treats for the pooches and much, much more. As usual, the off-leash dog park will be open and the adjacent farmers’ market on Comox Street will be buzzing with local produce, baked goods and specialty items. For more information, please visit the 2nd Annual West End Dog Show’s website.

If a dog show isn’t enough, throw a meet-up into the mix. I can’t explain it, but dogs seems to know and be drawn to others of their own breed. Jordy couldn’t care much one way or the other for other dogs, but when a pomeranian catches his eye, mommy no long exists.

Photo madabandon on Flickr

That said, one of me and Jordy’s favourite doggy shops, Bow Wow Haus, is holding their first-ever pomeranian meet-up on Friday, September 4 at 6:30 p.m. at their store (1340 Davie Street [map], between Jervis and Boughton). It’s an opportunity to meet other pomeranians and their owners and allow your dog the socialization they need. Make sure to follow Bow Wow Haus on Twitter to stay in the loop about this and other doggy meet-ups.

Someone asked me the other day to explain why I am happy living in Yaletown. I said that if he’d lived in the West End for five years, he’d understand. However, that sounds rather loveless for the West End, so allow me to elaborate.

Downtown Vancouver’s oldest neighbourhood is not without its charm. Friendly and familiar faces, quaint walk-ups, beach views from almost every balcony and more ethnic food eateries to choose from than there are in the colours of the rainbows that adorn the West End’s streets. When I first moved to a high-rise just south of Davie Street in the late spring of 2004, I soaked everything up and couldn’t get enough of the place that I called home. The West End also lacks a sense of pretension, so there’s comfort in that.

Photo: TylerIngram on Flickr

After several years, I began failing at seeing the charm. Maybe it was because I had changed or maybe it was because nothing was new and nothing surprised me anymore. We all have our breaking points, and after the emotional t-bone collision I was smacked by earlier this year, change became inevitable. Never before did I envision myself moving out of the West End (let alone into Yaletown), but I did.

Photo: John Bollwitt on Flickr

While Yaletown has long had a reputation for being the opposite (read: pretentious) of the West End, I’ve found a sort of peace here that I never expected. I could never buy into the notoriety of labels and lust that has become synonymous with those who avoid Yaletown at all costs, and I certainly enjoy making a playful mockery of it all. While being off of work last week, I would walk Jordy in the mornings with thrashed hair, massive mascara caked under my eyes and baggy sweats. Young men in their impeccably-tailored business suits would walk by without so much as a glance and I loved it.

Photo: miss604 on Flickr

I suppose you could say that life in the West End was like living with ADD; life in Yaletown has found me feeling more more balanced, calm and sure-footed. There’s something harmonious about my new neighbourhood that I felt lacked in my life in the West End. We may all be characters in our own books and stories here, but at least I feel I’m on the same page as everyone else around me.

I’m so tired of reading, writing and chatting about being empowered, mental health, awareness and emotional well-being. I think if I see the words “self care” together one more time, my head might explode. I’ll blog about my therapy sessions, sure, but I’m so tired of dwelling on that bullshit instead of having narcissistic fun.

I’ve been packing up my apartment and loving every minute of doing so. The only problem with that, however, is that the mess it’s making totally grosses me out.

Two weeks ago I went tanning and asked the girl to set the bed for 12 minutes – she misunderstood me and punched in 20, so my girls were blushing for days afterwards. The girl at the tanning salon felt so bad that, next time I showed, up, she had purple tulips for me.

How’d she know my favourite colour du jour was purple?

I love flowers on the inside best.

My nightstand is missing. I went all Martha on it after my mom’s incessant complaints about how nasty and waterstained it was looking. It used to belong to my Opa, so I decided to show it some TLC instead of getting rid of it.

I spent time sanding, painting and varnishing it this afternoon, much to the annoyance of the queens in the suite below mine. About half an hour after they complained to me that I was bothering other tenants, they were out on their balcony coughing through their cloud of pot smoke. I think that’s the pot calling the kettle green, no? Stay classy, 1109.

Why didn’t I do this sooner? It’s looking pretty tasty.

There are only two things I’ll miss about this apartment: the view and the sound of the seagulls flying around my balcony.

Once these are in my new place, they’ll be hidden by some fancy new furniture and storage units.

Get a good look now because once I’m in my new apartment, you won’t even recognize it as my home. I’m having a vegan couch delivered on move-in day, picking up a bunch of new furniture to replace my college dorm jokes and keeping my fingers crossed – tightly – that the world’s best auntie really will replace my archaic TV like she’s been hinting at.

Another thing I’m chucking is my old suitcase with the busted-ass handle. I have to fly to Dawson Creek for a week in April and busted-ass handles just won’t do.

It’s nice having friends – aka Jenny – that work for Roxy, Quiksilver (note there is no c in Quiksilver) and DC.

I can assure you that I did not pay that… or anything close to that.

The first doggy item is clean and ready to go – but the question still remains…

…who’s it gonna be? I’m leaning towards a cute, cuddly, fluffy, loving, affectionate pomeranian more than anything right now.

The mess practically makes me ill.

But I bought a new shower curtain that I love-love-love and it’s made of fabric so I’ll no longer get pissed off that it’s sticking to my leg every single time I have a shower.

That’s the problem with concrete walls – everything needs to be hung with double-sided tape, so I’m going to have so much fun cleaning off the stickiness. I pray to Yahweh that my new apartment has gyproc.

Free to a good home.

Seriously… none of it will match my new place.

I have no clue where this hat came from, but I can assure you it cannot possibly belong to any of my exes for reasons other than just the fact that it’s hideous.

Ready for some more fun? It’s Sunday, it’s sunny and I’m stretched out on my big, comfy bed, so what else could a girl ask for on a day like today? Plenty. Lust with me, why don’t you?

You know, in case you’ve forgotten what a real man looks like.

Prisoner number 98K514. Convicted June 16, 1998 – Felony murder, two counts of attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon (in his pants), driving under the influence, reckless endangerment and being irresponsibly sexiful.

I ripped all those photos off Google and was far too lazy to link them.

(Hey, at least I’m honest.)

Photo: ahhyeah on Flickr

Change is big and scary and sometimes horrible but also sometimes great. I’ve been living in the West End for close to five years, and the consistent issues I have with my building have reached their peak. Today at lunch I went to look at a newer apartment (less than five years old) on the border between downtown and Yaletown. I was approved and I accepted.

I can say goodbye to hiked rent for an apartment that features, well, not a lot. And instead, I can say hello to in-suite laundry, key-fob entry, a 3,600 square-foot elite fitness centre and – best of all – a place in which I can bring home a dog! I’m nervous and excited and don’t know what to expect but I’m looking forward to what this new place may bring into my life.

That being said, does anyone have any input and advice into which dogs are most suitable for apartment living? I’m leaning more towards either a pomeranian or a scruffy chihuahua/terrier cross. While I adore big dogs, mine will need to be small enough to fit into a cloth carrier to be brought on public transit and the ferries.

Since the summer of 2004, I have lived in a 12th-floor apartment in Vancouver’s West End – a slice of home that lets in a lot of sunshine and warmth.

Though the apartment holds as much charm as it does memories, like most places, it’s not without its ghosts. The building itself has a high turn-over rate of partiers, poor management and far too many residents who enjoy playing Cher’s music at high volumes. The kitchen is as tiny as an office cubicle and the entire building is zoned “NO PETS!”

Last night I surfed the internet seeking apartments for rent in the West End that were decent, were of reasonable rent and allowed for pets. I came across this…

This afternoon on my lunch break, I went to have a look at the place. The square footage is roughly the same size as my current place, but there’s no balcony, no view and it’s on the second floor of a three-storey walk-up. The flat’s recently been gutted with new everything in the kitchen, which includes stainless steel appliances and a dishwasher. The bedroom nook is very Carrie-esque, and even though the bathroom isn’t the most desirable one I’ve ever seen, it is definitely a suite that can be lived in. And best of all: it allows pets! The price tag, however, is nearly $200 above what I pay now.

I am willing to get rid of cable TV, and the hydro is apparently a bit less than I pay now, but I can get a dog of my very own! Eek! The building is also a mere four blocks from my office, which hugely adds to the convenience factor. My problem is that I don’t know if I’m scared of an apartment that is very different from what I am so used to living in, or if I’m just scared of such a huge change after almost five years.

Any kind of input and insight from you, o’ my readers, would be most helpful!

As is seemingly the norm in Vancouver’s West End, when you need a taxi, one can never be found; when you don’t need a taxi, they’re everywhere.

A few nights ago in an attempt to make my way to Gastown, I flagged down a yellow car, hopped in and gave the driver the address. “Oh you made my night – you are such a coyote!”

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“Oops, my bad. I mean cutie – I always get those mixed up. I’m just so happy to have a coyote in my cab…ah I mean cutie!”

He then asked me where I worked; I told him at a law firm. He asked if I was a lawyer and I responded in the negative. He informed me that I should “give a big tip” then because he is putting his son through law school. He asked if I would get his son a job as an articled student at my firm.

All highly inappropriate comments to make.

Photo: 09traveler on Flickr

As he inched his way down Davie to Burrard, he asked which street I’d like to take to Cordova. I told him it didn’t matter, as long as he took the fastest route. “No, ma’am, you’re the passenger so it’s your choice.”

“I really don’t care. Take Burrard then.” He ticked his finger no, pointed at the clock and informed me that it was 5:57 p.m. so it would be an illegal turn. But he did it anyways.

Traffic wasn’t bad, so for no apparent reason, he decided to resume the 27 km/hr speed he clocked on Davie Street. “Uh, can you go a little faster, please?” He refused, insisting that this was a safe speed. “Sure, but I’m the one paying for the cab ride and I’d like to go the speed limit.”

“Oh, no ma’am I can’t do that. But I will get you to Gastown.”

“Fine, but I only have $13 in my wallet so don’t say I didn’t warn you if the metre runs over.”

“Oh $13? I’ll turn the metre off and you just give me that money now and I’ll get you there.” Turning the metre off is illegal, by the way.

“Absolutely not! It may not take that much money to get there so I’ll pay what the metre says I owe. Keep the metre running please.” I was starting to feel quite angry.

In an attempt to keep the peace and put a lid on the conversation, I flipped open my phone and called my mom. As we chatted away, the cab driver piped up in a loud voice, informing me that he still refused to go any faster. I had to firmly inform him that I was on the phone.

Over the remainder of the journey, I stayed on the phone, pausing only to remind him to pick up the pace a little bit. As the cab arrived at my destination, the driver actually began to lecture me on safe driving rules. I managed to zone out as I gathered my belongings from the seat and politely informed him that someone driving well below the speed limit is nearly just as hazardous as one who drives over it.

Does anybody else have any horrific taxi stories to share with the class?

It’s my dirty little secret, but I love Pamela Anderson. She is what she is and makes no excuses for it, and that’s an attitude I can admire in people. Pamela is also my hometown girl, being that we both grew up in Comox and attended Highland Secondary School. I am quite sure there is still a yearbook photo of her on our library wall, brunette tresses and boobless.

Much to my disappointment, I missed the chance at shakin’ the lady’s hand. She was photographed outside of the KFC on Davie Street – half a block from my apartment – on Monday. Pamela was appearing on behalf of PETA, trying out the new “faux chicken sandwich.”

Photo: George Pimintel/WireImage for People

No word on whether the faux meat was finger lickin’ good or not.

P.S. It’s my dirty little secret, but I love Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Anyone who is truly from Vancouver Island can affirm how painful an endeavour it can be to return to Vancouver after time spent at home. After six near magical days on la isla bonita, I have returned to the city in which I reside, but it will never truly be home. Yesterday marked my four year anniversary in the city, living in the same apartment on the same street. My dwelling is the only thing that’s remained constant in my time here. The faces and experiences that have come and gone in these years are more than I can count.

Photo: tempest_kat on Flickr

I find myself becoming more and more cynical towards this place, its people, the events and the general attitude. Why that is, I’m not sure. The bitterness, however, is starting to take its toll on me and it’s really quite pointless. I think that the time is right for a shift in thinking.

Photo: I am I.A.M. on Flickr

When I was a little girl, my giddiness and anticipation for family trips to Vancouver was uncontainable. It was, in fact, somewhat amusing to my parents. The first major trip I can recall was to Expo ’86 at the ripe age of 5 and on the verge of beginning kindergarten. It was a quick whirlwind mini vacay, but I still have a vivid memory dotted with fireworks, the monorail, Expo Ernie, glittering high-rises and a kaleidoscope of colour.

Once I entered my mid-teens, with my coming of age came a fresh dose of independence. At 16, I was allowed to take my first trip across the Georgia Straight with a friend. Our plan was to hit the all ages Spacehog/Everclear double bill at the Vogue, but upon its subsequent cancellation, Nadia and I found ourselves at the historic Capitol 6 on Granville to see Trainspotting. (My parents saw the film once it was released on video and were rather adamant that, had they known what it was about, I never would have been allowed to see it at the time.)

Long before I actually made the move to Vancouver, I dreamed about the day when I’d finally live sky high in one of those concrete towers I’d so admired as a child. When I was younger, the city and its ideals held enchantment for me. On every ferry ride over, I’d sit at the front of the passenger lounge, skip ahead to Underworld’s “Born Slippy” on my Sony Discman and watch the distant city skyline as the ship pulled nearer to Horseshoe Bay. The anticipation I felt in my belly was intoxicating, and the excitement that struck me at 5 still held strongly at 16 and beyond.

Now that I have spent the better part of half a decade (yikes!) living in downtown Vancouver, the anticipation has dissipated, the magic has faded and the glitter of gleaming towers has grown dull. As I learn more about the world in which I live, the people with which I interact and the true state of humanity, my disillusions of city living have been nearly entirely wiped out.

What I have realized as of late, however, is that focusing on these shortcomings and pitfalls of the city are a wasted effort.

Instead of lamenting how disheartened I am to be back amongst the noise, pollution, yelling, smells and traffic of downtown Vancouver, perhaps it would be more helpful and make more sense to consider the ways in which living in Vancouver has fulfilled me and instead enriched the person that I am.

It is time to make an attempt at re-capturing the beauty I once saw here with innocent eyes.

Thank you, Vancouver, for being home to some truly amazing people that I am blessed to call my friends.

Thank you, Vancouver, for being the backdrop of experiences that have taught me invaluable lessons in life and love.

Though my square, concrete balcony in the West End can’t compare to the lush, green gardens at my true Merville home on the Island, it boasts a killer view that – both literally and figuratively – gives me a much needed perspective on a different side of our world. Vancouver Island will always be home, but I suppose this place isn’t as bad as I try to make it out to be.

Photo: Incognitocanuck on Flickr

P.S. High five to anyone who “gets” the post title.

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?

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…