Leaving for Rome & London tomorrow and I promise stories while there; thank you for the well wishes re travels…xox
Video no1 – Kitty took this while we were on Cypress Mountain waiting for the men’s aerials to begin.
Video no2 – The final few moments before Canadian girls win hockey Gold.
Video no3 -”The kind of hail that breaks your face…” (thank you, Baby Jane)
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Editor’s Note: Re the “he” of this story. Miss One Female Canuck has neither sad nor hurtful feelings toward him at this point. Today, she wishes him only the best in everything and hopes “he” finds the truest and most fulfilling of loves.
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I loved him ferociously. Otherwise, I would have never stood inside of a thorny bush to spy on him. Maybe I would have done this and thought it normal if my emotional development had been retarded at the age of eight, or if I had water on the brain, neither of which is the case (though some would argue to the contrary), and so really, I must confess that I loved him severely ferociously.
I was going to surprise him with a birthday cake and a belated gift, because he had just come back from a two week holiday during which he had his wallet stolen, and days before he left for his trip, he and I had forgotten that we were broken up and we behaved based on that forgetfulness, and so I believed that the words uttered then (“I love you and miss you”) meant “I am yours forever and, like, ever, and p.s. I have castrated myself in honor of this love”.
Lunatic that I am, I decided that I would hang the cake and gift on his front door as it was a Friday night which he usually spent kicking and smacking at his friends in a kick boxing studio.
But alas, that was not to be.
Instead, I pulled up just as an alleged girl walked up the stairs and allegedly walked into the house comfortably and naturally / allegedly, clearly having been there so very many times before. So I kept driving (to circle back), believing maybe I had mistaken him for the alleged female…that he had managed to go from very little hair to very long hair, and grow breasts since we last saw one another.
My choice was clear; pay a random stranger to knock on the door and pretend they were looking for someone (clearly not there) and then report back to me as to who was inside…or stand in the rain, inside of a bush, while my feet became muddied and as I held my breath and tried very hard not to blink because blinking was very loud.
Naturally, the “just go home” option was nowhere in sight because my mind was screaming He just got home! We were together days before he left! ERGO! He was with her when he was with me the day we forgot we were broken up! This rain is really going to fuck up my hair! He is a lying liar who lied! This rain is really going to fuck up my pedicure, too! He told me he only turned the ’special stars’ on for me! Why are bushes so leafy? Why don’t I carry binoculars? How can I short circuit the ’special stars’?
Recognize I was not at all worried about being caught because really, I mean, if someone had offered me the Invisibility Cloak, I would have rocked the shit out of that cape and perched my pathetic (and yes, on this occasion, clinically insane) ass inside of his house to confirm that I had in fact seen a woman enter.
Because I am clever, I decided to get a little closer, and so I left the bush and shimmied quickly and stealthy-like along the wall in full and plain sight, then dashed across this lawn to hide behind a tree.
Because I am clumsy, my right flip flop dashed much faster than I across this lawn and so suddenly, I wasn’t merely crazy, but rather I was also half barefoot in plain sight behind a tree 1/3 my size.
I stopped to contemplate flip flops or barefoot?, but didn’t to ponder normal or insane?. Really, I was thinking I was some Smooth Criminal and that this behavior was acceptable. (The people with whom I shared this tale never questioned my sanity either, except for one, only she doesn’t really count because she’s an adult and adults are smart like that.)
I decided to return to the trusted bush so I removed my flip flops and ran for it, as any Smooth Criminal would have done. Back in the bush, I found the perfect viewing spot for the crazy; I stood, like a torture victim water dripping on my head, legs bent at a 27 degree angle so I could look through this one perfect spot and see nothing. Because nothing was precisely what I was staring at – I was merely waiting for the body or bodies to make their way from the kitchen to the living or dining room. What I was waiting for was confirmation that I had in fact seen a second party enter the premises and this creature was of the female persuasion. I wasn’t interested in seeing them do anything or stare at them like a sad little mime as they watched television; in that moment, I just really wanted and needed confirmation. And within a few minutes, I received the confirmation. First he walked into the dining room with a plate and a glass, and then a long-haired woman followed with the same. The ’special stars’ were a romantic edge; I knew this and so had no misunderstandings about the nature of what I was seeing.
The moment I saw, I sloshed my bare feet out of the mud, and said my thank yous and good byes to the trusted bush. I walked barefoot back to my car, took out the cake and the gift and gently placed each one beneath each of the front tires of my car, and drove over them before continuing directly on to my best friend’s house sopping wet, broken flip flopped and hearted, and with terrible hairstyle and fucked up pedi.
My best friend wiped my tears, wrapped my hair in a towel, and fixed my flip flop, all the while as in shock as I about the news…the news that he was with someone, not the news that I was a crazy Smooth Criminal.
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Editor’s Note: Since the night in question, Miss One Female Canuck has neither returned to the scene of the crime nor has she attempted to bushwhack. Furthermore, she has not since driven over a baked good.
As many of you have already noted, I have not been doing much writing since December of 2009. This is not because of anything specific, but rather because I have been overwhelmed by life, work and travel. I was in Costa Rica, and then in Vancouver, and now I am preparing to travel to both Rome and London.
In the past, I used to carry my laptop with me on every single trip, something which I have foolishly stopped doing. To Rome and London my little writing friend will join me and so force me to write write write and not feel so sad that I have not been writing. So much more of the same amazing sentences as this later; no doubt you are all over the moon.
Additionally, I feel as though I must offer a shout-out to life, because this bastard has kept me from writing as often as I would like. My God, I am a supreme asshole for ‘Boo Hoo’ing because my social circle, family circle and travel circle are generally filled with amazing things that remove me from the front of a computer screen. Pardon me as I take a moment to reflect on my assholeishness.
Right. Now that that’s done, I will add that tonight is the very first night in nearly a month that I have taken to myself. I had some invites to see and visit with good people I adore and I instead said Screw you and your invitation to socialize, I’d rather make out with WordPress…only, it sounded more like I would really love to but need to go home, do a load of laundry and just chill out while doing a little writing. It’s been ages since I forced myself to do that and it’s making me sad and edgy. So thank you for the invite, but I’m going to have to take a rain check. I am rambly that way.
So here I am. And I am excited to be here and rambling away.
I have also promised myself that I would write no matter what; that even if I were tired and exhausted, I would still force myself to exercise my writing muscle. Quite possibly, this means that there will be a consortium of shorter and shittier entries. Hurrah!
This is the first of many such short and shitty entries. More to come! Enjoy.
(Note that: I am tonight organizing both my Vancouver pics, as well as my Costa Rica pics. Stories about both very soon.)
Blogger vs. WordPress?
WordPress wins.
Right. So, as with any fantastical theater production, much has to happen behind the scenes before any successfull measure of anything. My God, succesfull / sucessfull / successful is a difficult word to spell. (FYI, it is composite of a double ‘c’, double ’s’ and lone ‘l’.)
Recently, Blogger sent a really lovely ‘fuck you’ to those who use FTP something or other to publish to their own site. I don’t know much of anything about anything, let alone the sociopath to which we politely refer as ‘technology’, but I do know that what Blogger did was really rather mean and bullying.
FTP publishing, in Mahanese is simple: I used to use the software provided by Blogger – there, I would write up my little entries, press a virtual button, and Blogger would then take this entry and ‘push / publish’ it on to my onefemalecanuck.com immediately. Easy. Until they decided to delete this ‘push / publish’ heaven sent, because only .5% of their users utilize it. ‘No Blogger Left Behind’ is not Blogger’s motto, it would seem.
Over the years, I have heard from every single one of my eight friends that WordPress is the way to go; that it is much more user friendly and intuitive. Also, they don’t tend to ‘fuck you’ any writer, no matter how teeny tiny their world may be.
And so, I have moved here, and am typing this within the interface that is provided by WordPress. Already, I like it more because it’s prettier.
I owe this transition to T, who very patiently answered all of my panicked (one ‘c’ and an additional ‘k’) rambly questions and concerns. I am certain it helps our friendship a great deal that she has two very young daughters, and so the communications tricks she uses with them, she also uses with me. For those of you unfamiliar with T, or would like to contact her re her exceptional website creations, please note that you may find her here. (Thank you. Love you. Owe you.)
Blogging on the fly; pardon all shit error and spelling.
Jumped off my flight and landed at Elixir for dinner, with these two gorgeous broads.
Not surprisingly, we were asked to quiet down from one of the adjacent diners. Also, we ate an apple tartatartartine, a sweet French dessert, the name of which I have likely misheard.
Kitty had never been to Granville, and so I took her for a stroll before we ate in the market. She had a chicken butter bowl and I had Mexico’s most tasteless wrap, the name of which I have likely misheard. Note that: Kitty is snack size, smaller ever than the official Olympic mascotians.
Canada Gear 101
Dear Folks Visiting Vancouv for Olympics:
Overkill is indeed possible re how many CANADA gear clothing items you wear at one given moment.
You’re welcome.
Love, m
First sign of ‘winter snow’ was upon our arrival at Cypress (Canadians can’t spell; this you should know by now) Mountain, where we were to watch the Biggest Badasses in the History of Winter Sport; Men’s Aerial-ists Freestyle Skiing FEARLESS Foxes. Copied word for word, that is exactly what is written on the backs of each athlete’s bum. (Note: The American outfit appears to be flannel pyjamas. Canadians can’t spell; American’s can’t fashion.)
Before we watched them, though, we were forced to play with two massive and very aggressive balls which, if not careful, would smack one in the head.
And immediately before we watched them, we watched how Canadian girls do it better; a gorgeous shut-out or shut-down or something against the really terribly aggressive US female hockey-ists. 2-0 wins Canada GOLD in female hockey-ing. (Beautifully done, ladies.)
(I have a video of the last 20 seconds of the game; will upload when home.)
Finally, we watched the FOXES aerial-ing, supported by a Smurf Army.
And finished our evening eating much too much sushi…or that which pretended to be sushi but was neither good, really, nor well wrapped at The Eatery. I strongly recommend you forego this place; but if you must, then only go for a very light and not-so-good meal, and just to enjoy the fantastic art creations hanging above and next to you. 
All above photos are from the berry; once home, I will complete the circle and post nicer photos and video. xox from Vancouv. (Go Canada Go!)
Chocolate bar, regular: A mash up of cocoa and such, nearly 50% of which is sugar.
When you’re making any variety of hot chocolate from scratch, I implore you to use an already sweetened chocolate bar rather than a baking chocolate, reason being that a baking chocolate has very little sugar and you will run out of sugar trying to sweeten up the hot chocolate you’re making to the point where your guest utters incredulously, as you pour more sugar into the pot: ‘Ok, this is getting scary’, before they are nice enough to pretend they enjoyed a little bit of the hot chocolate syrup you made and to which they added an additional half a cup of milk after you’ve cooked it to within an inch of its life and you are discombobulated because you usually make a mean anything and then magically, you are the worst host in the world because you can’t make a cup of freaking hot chocolate, the taste of which stays with you over night, even though you threw out the rest the night before and flossed and brushed your teeth and doused yourself with spray Lysol to get rid of the taste and the shivers brought on by the memory.
Original Recipe (OR): Two people whose friend chemistry works extremely well.
Crush: Take the OR and wonder aloud to strangers on the street, beneath your breath at a meeting, while you’re on a bus staring at one of the aforementioned strangers, while seated on a Ferris wheel or buying the wrong variety of chocolate…what would happen if I added a few new ingredients to the OR? Maybe a little saffron, turmeric and a dash of chilli?.
Life: What happens regardless of the addition of saffron, turmeric and a dash of chilli.
Friendship: Withstands all of the above, and then some.
Thanks to Dribble UnLimited for the way…
Originally posted on 2/14/06; still makes me laugh as hard today…
.1. Do you keep forgetting that your momma and poppa are individuals before they are parents? That they had and continue to have dreams and that they may look at their lives today and wonder what happened to those dreams? How they fell through? Why they didn’t work? How life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?
Do you forget that they also have fears? That sometimes, their actions and reactions are filled with terrors that we might not recognise because we expect our parents to be fearless?
I do. Occasionally, I forget.
So, I’m asking you to take a step back with me…remind ourselves that although we sometimes believe that the actions of our parents are entirely centered around us, they are also, in great measure, centered on them as individuals before them as parents.
& if you already knew this, then you need to start a blog and start telling my ignorant ass.
(Exercise patience, please.)
.2. Dear Man Who Emailed Me Asking Me To See More Pictures Of Me Because You Think I Am Pretty:
I have your email.
I FaceBooked your email. (Something you may consider creepy, but that my friend M would call ‘crafty’.)
I noted that you are married, with children.
Please direct this sort of attention to your wife, not me.
Thank you.
- M
.3. It is astonishing how the moods and spaces of those we love affect our own. Baby J is walking through a relatively delicate and difficult situation, and I am doing my best to walk alongside her. Sometimes, I walk behind her and push her forward, other times I run ahead and drag her along. Always – I hope and I try – to behave with understanding and patience; the reality of this sentence I leave to her discretion.
Earlier this week, she experienced what I can only call an entry of toxicity into her life; a toxicity that I reacted to on an extremely visceral level, and one which I carried with me throughout the course of my day and into my night; on her behalf, because I love her, because I respect her, because I am proud of her, because I do not wish to see her hurting. Also, because – as many of my friends have noted – I have zero tolerance and react with a ferociseness (not a word, but should be) when I feel as though being taken advantage of is someone I love.
A long time ago, someone said that “dealing with a friend’s problems is like sitting around their fire and inhaling their smoke”. Although I can’t in fact remember who said that, I do recall it was said in derogatory fashion, as an indication that we shouldn’t have to deal with the problems of our friends all of the time, some of the time, part of the time.
I call bullshit on that sentiment. The true meaning of friendship is unyielding support and sensitivity to the problems of our friends all of the time, some of the time, part of the time, no matter that we may be “inhaling their smoke”.
If you don’t recognise that being invited to sit around someone’s fire is something to be cherished then you are an unworthy idiot.*****
.4. I recently took a new direction in my life (one which, literally, witnessed me throw up in a snowbank upon the decision taking & making. Sexy.); this is the reason I have been quiet. I will not write about the decision or the move, but I will only make this small mention here as a gentle reminder to myself. It is documented.
.5. Dear Sugar Plum Grape Tomatoes:
I love you.
- Maha
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*****This sentiment does not hold true for people who tend to invite everyone, including the kitchen sink, to sit at their fire. I believe these sorts of individuals tend to be exhibitionists who have a fire only for show, and are usually in and out of my life within 24 hours. I don’t want to sit at their fire because that means that I am not sitting at the fire of someone who cherishes my presence. (Even in friendship, the value we see in one another must go both ways; otherwise, one of us is a chump.)
Hi all.
This site may be experiencing some weirdness over the coming 48 hours. Your patience is appreciated. xox
