BeautyMark: Canada’s Premier Beauty Boutique for Makeup, Skincare, Fashion and so much more.

BeautyMark: Canada’s Premier Beauty Boutique for Makeup, Skincare, Fashion and so much more.

Weather Forecast: Maple Ridge, British Columbia - The Weather Network#ltermfx#ltermfx

Weather Forecast: Maple Ridge, British Columbia - The Weather Network#ltermfx#ltermfx

What's It Like to Win a Freakin' Condo

A local radio station held the kind of contest that makes you listen to them 24/7. They were giving away 200 keys, one of which would (sort of) eventually open a door to a Vancouver condo decked out with a Mac station, a home entertainment system, a really expensive BBQ and a Harley, all worth a whopping $350,000. The biggest radio give away 'ever', they said. Might be right, I never checked.
To have a chance at winning a key you had to sign up for the radio's online club, fill out a form, checking of slots of time when you might be listening and then wait for them to say your name during one of those times. Then you phone the radio station within an allotted time ( 10 minutes and 10 seconds) to win one of the keys.
This was our way out of the economic slump (dump). My husband immediately signed up, made me do it as well, spread portable radios throughout the house and instructed us all to listen at all times. And now we all waited with bated breath for one of our names to be called. After all this was destiny. We would win this condo.
We dreamt of the bike, the good times we will have with the BBQ and what would we do with the condo, once it was ours. Obviously, we would rent it out for the Olympics and make unnatural amount of money. Then we would simply rent it out to tourist (after all it was fully furnished), and use it ourselves during visits to the city.
I daydreamed about the furniture:would I like it, could I use it? I daydreamed about the sophistication of owning a city apartment. Aah, it was meant to be.
First 100 keys was given away, but none to us.
Did we miss it? Did they say our name and we due to some bodily function missed it? Doubt began to nag me.
130 keys gone.
Oh well, I began to argued with myself, maybe it really was not destiny and I began to slack in my condo-winning efforts. But my husband kept listening. (Driving me crazy was more accurate).
150 keys gone.
OK, that's it I am not listening anymore, this is b&*($%%t! And I am really getting sick of this m$%^&&**^%#%^g music!
180 keys.
I stopped paying attention. What contest?
"Honey!" the sound seeped up from the kitchen, bit strangled, somewhat hard to hear. But I knew. They called his name. They will give him a 189th m$%^&#$%^&*g key. If he manages to dial the phone. On a fourth try my husband got through ( I got through).
It truly was a glorious day in our house. It was destiny! Now, we just had to wait for the rest of unlucky-won't-get-you-a-freakin'-condo keys to be given away. 11 more keys to go.
And then...
500 hundred of enthralled key holders and their loved ones gathered on a wet Friday to finally realize their dream. The radio station thought up a wicked plan to make sure the first contestant didn't open the condo door and ruin the show scheduled to air for the entire afternoon. All would pick a key off a wall and one by one they would attempt to unlock a door leading to the 'coffee room'. Only lucky 50 would get in. And I mean lucky, because it was freakin' cold outside. These victors would then repeat the entire production with the hopes that 15 of them would unlock the door to the 'VIP room'. Out of these lucky chumps, two would emerge as finalists with the chance to open one of the three last doors:the condo door, the one that wins it all.
But, wait it does not end there, don't go home yet. You have the chance to win until the last freakin' minute.
The lucky key holders that got weeded out and joined the unlucky key holders twittering under the sopping tarps. They all hoped until the last minute (all 3 hours worth of wet minutes) that their name would be the last name called to join the two finalist and possibly be the one to open the winning door. If they could hold the key in their water logged fingers, that is.
A wicked plan indeed.
We did not pick a lucky key that advanced us into the cozy 'coffee room'. We did not get the chance to pick the key for the 'VIP room' either. Nor did we get to be one of the two finalists.But, really, did I want to win a key to a lukewarm room or the winning key to the resplendent condo? I was willing to suffer for it. I believed. We tottered under the tarps, positive and smiley, socializing with the rest of the hopefuls. For 3 hours.
Then, the moment came for the third finalist to be called. I knew this was our moment.
"Julia something or other from White Rock, come on down!"
What?? That's not us! They didn't pick us, we didn't win, it wasn't destiny.
So, what do you wanna know, I am sopping wet, can't feel my toes and I don't know what its like to win a freakin condo!

Playing with Style

The Book of Swine and Illness
Kundera Style Public Announcement

The Greek word for “suffering” is Algos. The mutating strain that is Swine flu causes human suffering. The flu season, a constant in our autumn lives, the repetition in the yearly cycle, it comes again with new worries. It is a yearly kitsch of fear that invades our lives. The mother worries for her children; the son for the health of his elderly mother, the fear of loss permeates daily existence. The flu comes again and always it is different. Germans are familiar with it, Mexicans feel it, and the Americans with their health care longings suffer through it. In each language “fear” has a different semantic nuance. In Catalan enyorar is derived from the Latin word ignorare (be unaware of, not know, not experience; to lack or miss). Ignorance, this familiar way of being, they know is not easily corrected state. Should they trust the regime, with its propaganda and its collaboration with pharmaceutical companies, or the chicken littles that are spreading fear across the Internet? Should they choose to vaccinate their fragile loved ones and take a risk, of possibly living through a repeat of the 1978 swine flu fiasco in America? In that light the fear is contagious more than the flu, the kitsch that grips the masses.

Finally Sephora

Recently and finally, the beauty giant Sephora has opened its doors in the Western-most Canada.

After years of hunting down Sephora stores while traveling or endlessly waiting for online orders to arrive (Sephora can take as long as three weeks), I have the option of simply walking in and choosing from a number of cult favourites and otherwise hard to come by products. Hooray!! Two stores have opened in Lower Mainland, one in Coquitlam Centre and one in Pacific Centre on July 10^th. Metrotown will be opening one in the fall. All who know me also know of my addiction to the store.

They would be surprised that I was not standing in the line up downtown Vancouver at 9 am, July 10^th; you know the one that snaked out of the mall's doors and around the corner of the building. The one, beautiful Vancouverites--girls and boys alike-- braved for two hours just to get into Sephora's door. I waited until the next day, Saturday, so that I may experience this historic moment with my best friend. Fully worth it, we were third in line, half an hour before the store opened. Three hours later, spent and happily carrying bags full of new goodies, we exited the store.

Sephora offers plethora of brands such as Ole Henriksen, Ojon, Fresh, my personal favourite Korres, and many others. The beauty experts, fully trained, are waiting to help you choose the right product or offer a makeover. Many of the brands they carry were previously available to us only online. Keep in mind that the stores still only carry a small percentage of what is available through their website www.sephora.com . Sephora' conveniently located stores now offer me quick access to my favourite things, without the travel or wait. Have you checked it out yet?

As local beauty junkies fully know, Sephora is not the first beauty shop in Vancouver to carry some these lines. Beauty Mark in Yaletown has been operating for years and is still worth the gander. Aside from carrying almost the full line of Ole Henriksen, John Masters and Stila--which has recently been pulled from the Holt Renfrew shelves-- among others, they offer an array of funky jewellery, under things, bags, etc. Another store, Beauty Bar, similarly operates in Kits on West 4^th. Both of these have been my haunts for the unusual and the effective for many years. But I live outside of Vancouver and so in order to shop there I had to travel of over an hour each way. With two and a half kids, a husband and school work, some days that was an impossible task.

With Coquitlam Sephora, new age has dawned.

Ministry of Environment - Golden Ears Provincial Park - Hiking Trails

Ministry of Environment - Golden Ears Provincial Park - Hiking Trails

Old Vancouver

I love history. Herzog exhibition at the Art Gallery downtown Vancouvers couple of years ago was amazing. I dragged my children to see it. As a matter of fact we have been to about every museum and heritage site in Lower Mainland. When we go on holidays, our initiary includes ruin and museum visits. To my husband's dismay. Discussing an upcoming trip with my eldest and our possible visit to the B.C museum, he mentioned and old Vancouver footage from the 1920' he watched in school. The eternal geek that I am, logically I deduced I might find it on You Tube. And I did. Very interesting snipet of a life long gone:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JpPhg9AG_H4

Just finished the third semester of the two year (five semester) program. Yeah! Somewhat bittersweet, as the class said goodbye in the usual manner, with a pub night. All misty eyed we hugged with assurances that we will see each other very soon. No doubt, because five weeks goes by really fast and before we know it, we'll be squirming under the preasure of of full-time, full work-load fall semester. But that is what makes this so interesting. As this is more or less my first college experience, having been to busy wasting my youth, the bonding in times of misery that happens between classmates is an unforgetable experience. That is not to say that we, or some of us, at times do not retard to bad behaviours, worthy of high schoolers. But I miss them already, my smart, creative classmates who teach me so much. Have a great August! Here we come Diana!

Music on the Wharf | Maple Ridge - VCM | Tourism BC - Official Site

Music on the Wharf Maple Ridge - VCM Tourism BC - Official Site

One Way

The teacher walked down the hall with small furtive steps. His worn jeans slid down slightly, barely held up by a belt on his thin body. His chequered shirt worn and faded hung on his rounded shoulders and tucked into his jeans low below his slight paunch. He sported a full beard which got messy when he ate and forced his habit of sporadically running his fingers through it in search of lost bits of food. His hair was thinning on top and curled a bit too long at his collar. His nose was large and puffy like that of heavy drinkers, but lacked some of the purple tinge. As he turned into his classroom, the deep-in-thought look in his eye quickly changed to one of engagement. Some of the students chattered, paying no attention to his entrance, while others anxiously watched his every move. His eyes scanned their faces and he brought their attention to himself. There was a new student in his class. Her agitated eyes fluttered over the classroom. He always felt sorry for the fresh ones, so lost, expectant and awkward. Like him, in some way. He moved slightly towards her and introduced her to the class, which like one whole organism turned to look at her. She blushed as the corners of her mouth twitched with a nervous smile and she kept her eyes on the teacher as if he was her life line.
“How much English can you speak?” the teacher asked his new student.
In a panic the student looked back at a classmate, the one from the same country as her, seeking help.
“Book, boy” she replied apologetically, her fingers making the symbol for little.
The teacher continued to question her, as he did with all the new ones, regardless of their ability to understand. That was his method, talk to them, get their brains working, press them to learn and figure it out. He was good at teaching ESL and felt at home with these kids who did not fit in well, at least not yet, whose friend he always became, who needed him to help them with their first tentative steps in their adoptive country.
He was driving in his beat up Honda , approaching the always-jammed bridge, to his home in West Vancouver. Making his way out of the West End his thoughts were on his daughter. She was coming this weekend. He would need to pick her up from her mother’s across town. Seeing his ex-wife was something he always dreaded, for more often than not, bitter words would be exchanged. His daughter looked like her mother, with jet black hair, pale skin and amazing green eyes, but had his disposition. Easily hurt and sensitive, she was often quiet and withdrawn. He worried about her, not wanting her to go down his path. That reminded him, tonight was the meeting and he had to go.
Once over the bridge, he did not stop at Caper’s as he would when he was expecting company for dinner, usually one of his students when they were lonely and in need of social interaction. With no one to cook for but himself it did not seem worth the trouble. He would just make a sandwich or grab something on his way to the hall. At home the teacher was greeted by his family, the two large black cats and his loving black retriever. All three had long hair running wild like his and owned names, which resonated with his past, like Tequila and Bo’ jangles. He fixed them their dinner and went out to the garden, his pride and joy, to check on the fall harvest. His garden was lush and in full September splendour. It was what he loved and requested all his students to love it too. He was really a lucky man when he thought about it, standing there in his garden awash in the late autumn sun. The teacher had lived here for a long time. His landlord who lived next door, out of loyalty or sympathy he did not know which, never raised his rent. He paid the same sum as he did 20 years ago, and so he lavished in one of Vancouver’s most exclusive neighbourhoods on a teacher’s salary.
Sure a lucky man, to be alive, to be breathing. But every day was a fight.
The teacher entered the ramshackle building, walked through the musty, dimly lit hall and turned through the double doors into the old auditorium. Up front, people were getting ready, putting the head table on the stage and hanging the last of the banners up. The podium stood to the side, lonely and expecting.
A year ago his doctor had told him to quit or he would be dead inside of 6 months. After losing everything, including his family, this grain of truth struck home, and he quit. Now his little frame ascended the two steps leading up to the podium and took his place at it. To the right of him, his cake sat on a table decorated with a congratulatory phrase and purple icing flowers. A one year candle crowned the lettering. The teacher adjusted the microphone and looked out into the sea of faces, men and women looking up at him, all like him in one way.
“Hi, my name is Robbie and I am an alcoholic...”

OMG! Shut up about Twitter already - Technotica- msnbc.com

OMG! Shut up about Twitter already - Technotica- msnbc.com

College blues

I am 37 and a college student. Now I completely understand that it is not unusual for people of all ages to go to school. However, where I come from, back in the day this was not an option. You did your studying when you were young. There was no going back once you were an adult with responsibilities. And never you mind changing your mind about your career half way through your life! No no no! You did what you learned, for the rest of your life.

My father laid cobble stones for over 50 years. And he hated every minute of it. He wanted to be a marine biologist. Hard thing to do in a land locked country, with a mother set on you inheriting the family business. My father's father died when my dad was an infant, he never knew him. You do not break your mother's heart a second time. SO my father became a cobble stone layer, and never inherited the family business. The communists confiscated it until 1989, and then it was too late for my dad.

This of course all took place in the 'old country'. There is no such a thinking here, and so I am in school. But I have to wonder, do I really want to be? I have kids, a husband, and a house to look after, and I do not mind telling you, I was not doing such a good job before I was in school, and I am sure not doing a good one now. I am swamped with homework, overwhelmed by assignments that are over my head and I am terrified out of my mind that I will fail, and my dream of not being stupid will evaporate into thin air. So I have to question my decision here, and wonder am I out of my league?

Education of Romana O.

School.
For years I have struggled with my identity. My path, my choices, took me in directions ( and yes I say directions, for more convoluted mind you have not seen) which were, to say the least, udesirable.
I realized that some form of training is absolutely necessary, not just to meet the "food and shelter" need, but for my own sense of accomplishment, self-actualization if you will. But a lack of trust in my own abilities forced me to undertake studies which were not as fulfilling as one hoped, even if they provided me with a self-esteem boost.
So, I took a good, long , painful look at myself, realized I knew nothing and let God make my decisions. As simple as that, one foot in front of the other, I found myself registering for a two year program, that simply scared the %^&* out of me, without much research into it or other programs like it, simply on the trust in God.
And off I went. My first class, first week, even I think the whole first semester, I spend doubting myself, and dreading the day when I will be unmasked and revealed for the fraud that I am. I mean after all, who do I think I am? I enrolled in a professional writing program(very technical, something I would not have chosen had I been making the decision as I prefer by far all things creative) and with a grade ten education and seventeen years between me and high school I took on a task which seemed beyond my capabilities.
Immense amount of pressure and self-doubt plagued me daily.
But, to my utter surprise, I managed. I met deadlines, I passed test and assignments were returned favourably marked. What kind of a Mickey Mouse school was this anyway? Do they just let anyone in these days? Do the teachers mark papers with their eyes closed? What are their qualifications anyway?
And then the ultimate accolade. One of my articles was picked up by a magazine and just like that I was published. My esteem shot through the roof. People liked what I wrote.
Regardless, finishing the first semester was a murderous accomplishment.
I enter my second with a different attitude, some say it is a cocky attitude, but I say it is a confident attitude and a matter of trust and Faith. I am where I am suppose to be, I am okay the way I am (improvements are to follow) and I will manage to survive this semester as well. And perhaps, who knows, great things will be learned, greater things accomplished.