Prolific Immigrant

My first boyfriend was Libyan.  Here we are at Jabal al-Akhdar (Green Mountain) picnicking with our families.  Ever arguing over his fetish for jogging pants and how he soiled himself publically, we were doomed. 
 

 
See, my family is Palestinian though I was born in Libya and raised between there and London before mum and dad scooped me up and brought me to Canada at the age of four when I began stealing Their jobs and bedding Their men. 
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Palestinian and it is by grace alone that it has not yet been spilled because of this root.
 
Canada is my home and it’s her culture inside of which I am most comfortable and satiated.  While in Canberra last month, I walked to our embassy’s front doors and noted the etching of maple leaves throughout the stone.  To a girl who is a strong advocate for global citizenship, I found slightly alarming my deeply emotional response to these etchings; to the point of nearly crying, I was swelled with pride and sunstroke, overjoyed to find myself at the front doors of…my home. 
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Canadian and it is by grace alone that I am not a creepy conservative.
 
Though this is where my heart lives, there remains a strong mix of both Middle Eastern and North African cultural references to which I am rooted and with which I identify.  More importantly, however, is the resonance of Islam within my world as it is this Faith within which I have chosen to find my own sense of worth and integrity.
 
Islam echos within me: Your blood is Muslim and it is by grace alone that you have not yet suffered at the hands of ignorance.
 
In the last few months, I have been reading the news with an unimaginable and uncontrollable sense of loss.  I have been reading all reports of torture in Tunis, Egypt, Bahrain, Yemen, and Syria while the “Muslim” leaders responsible invoked the name of my beloved Allah when addressing the masses.  
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Tunisian, Egyptian, Bahraini, Yemeni, and Syrian and it is by grace alone that I have not suffered at the hands of such false prophets.
 
Moments ago, I watched the complete footage of Iman al-Obeidi being violently handled and threatened while trying to communicate to journalists how she was raped by 15 of Qaddafi’s men.  Her face is covered in scratches and she is — rightfully so — in a state of extreme emotional pain.  The Qaddafi regime labelled her a psychotic, a prostitute, and / or a drunk, none of which have stuck.
 
I watch the video to bear witness, because it is the only thing I have to offer Iman al-Obeidi.  In knowing her story, she is no longer isolated. 
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Libyan and it is by grace alone that it has not yet been spilled because of this root.
 
I watch as a woman in hijab is the first to yell at Iman, and is also the first to physically grab her later in the video.  A second woman, also in hijab is who throws a cover over Iman’s face in an attempt to silence her.  I can’t help but wonder why God’s mercy and compassion have not made their way through the veils of these women and into their hearts.
 
Libyan men join the struggle and shove Iman outside and into a waiting car.  She doesn’t know to where she is being taken and I hadn’t realised that I was crying or holding my breath until my requirement for oxygen kicked in and a million thoughts flooded my head, the most searing of all Allah?  SOS.

Do you remember Baden? I wrote this about him earlier: “Having decided to completely nerd out yesterday, I took The Big Bus Tour of Stanley Market and sat on the upper deck where I almost fell into a state of hypothermia, making a new friend named Baden.

My favourite part of the ride was when Baden yelled “MOON!” and pointed at the sky. He was truly lovely, and when he yawned, he finished with a flourish of “OH OHH AWWWOOOHHH’s.”

Finally then, here he is in all his adorable glory. May your bus tours be graced by the likes of he.

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Sensitivity is the heart to make peace with the most awe inspired of all for the love.

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

They have a way with English words here, and then to ensure the most awe inspired of all for the longevity, they print these lego’d words on to t-shirts. The above was one such t-shirt which I followed around for 12 minutes in order to write down the full message because calling it a ‘sentence’ seems a stretch. (In my head, the stalking seemed less offensive than taking a photo.)

I think I am in love with Taipei. On that note, I may be delirious as I have been outside since 9 am being awe inspired by…everything.

One of the things which astonished me about Hong Kong was the density of its population, with regularly seen apartment buildings stacking over 10,000 people.

To my surprise, this is not at all the case in Taipei. In fact, the areas which I visited today barely saw a dozen individuals in one given moment.

I did some research and discovered that this is because the entire population of Taipei is in fact at the Taipei Zoo. And by “I did a little research”, I mean that I decided to visit on a Sunday, the eve of a holiday. I am filled with many stellar and awe inspired ideas such as this.

Added to the list of things which I dislike? A crowd. Specifically: a crowd more than half of which are small children. I would like to tell you about my experience at the Taipei Zoo, only I am still recovering and do not wish to relive the trauma of earlier this evening. Suffice it to say that I ran out as quickly as possible, once I was told that the Panda Show (it’s a show? It’s a show!) was finished for the day.

Also the Gondola, about which everyone speaks, sits outside the Gates of Hell the Zoo, and it was to be a 4.5 hour wait before I could hang above Taipei from a string. I decided to instead come back into the city center, but not before climbing (yes. Climbing.) over women and strollers on the metro.

Upon exit to fresh air, I immediately went to my happy place since the last 24 hours: guava fruit. Guava fruit the size of lovely silicone breasts. I have been eating and drinking fresh guava at every moment possible. When guava is most awe inspired of all for the love, no one can resist.

My first guava juice I found at the Sun Yat-Sen Memorial Hall which is, like most traditional buildings here, absolutely massive; and, unlike the other buildings, populated with students practicing dance routines. Michael Jackson is popular here.

His popularity only rivaled by the Buddhist monks I watched and heard sing (is that what it is? Maybe it is prayer?) in Longshan Temple. I had thought that the Temple I saw in Hong Kong was gorgeous until I set my eyes on Longshan. I have no words to describe…wait…oh, yes I do. Longshan is most awe inspired of all for the love. Definitely.

For all intents and purposes, it is an ocular feast. While taking in the rapid explosion of colour and design of the Temple, I surely looked as though I was experiencing a seizure. I believe the only reason I didn’t was because my eyes would occasionally focus on the buffet. (Not really a buffet, but in fact tables of offerings…for Buddha? For the Temple? Do monks eat cookies and chips? Believe it or not, I am honestly asking, so feel free to email my dumb self an answer or two.)

The National Theater came next, as did the beautiful gardens surrounding the Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall and the Hall itself. This is where I spent the most considerable part of my day, enjoying the gardens, the changing of the guard and the little kiddies making peace signs ready for the cameras of their mums…

Great day overall, which only got better when I accidentally found a park of lanterns…and then even better when they all lit up as I was sitting beneath them. Truly, their lighting was most awe inspired of all for the love.

Note 1: I keep wondering why they are celebrating Easter early, but only until I remember that it’s the year of the Rabbit. Hitchcock would have had a field day had he seen the hundreds upon hundreds of faux bunny rabbits all over the city.

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Happy Chinese New Year (of the Rabbit)!

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After posters of Don Johnson, Kirk Cameron (pre fundamentalist Christianity) and Jason Bateman finally came down from my walls, it was Erté’s Girl on a Swing (a greeting card, believe it or not) which I decided to have framed and displayed as a young teenage girl.

She was also the first to be hung up on the walls of The Treehouse and she is the last to have come down.

About an hour ago, I surrendered my keys to The Treehouse; keys which I have cherished and toward which I have whispered sweet nothings these last 12 months.

The recurring commentary from my friends was that The Treehouse (nicknamed by Janey because my front porch propped us up into the tops of trees) was warm, comfortable and welcoming, trying to scoop visitors up and keep them for as long as possible within its walls.

Beautiful and warm, he was my first home on my own.

Because it was such a pivotal move for me on many levels, I am marking its now placement to rest with a thank you for the gracious past 12 months which it gave me, and also a thank you to each of the wonderful friends who shared in its space with me.

(Psst! I am now a proper home owner, and the new place is currently being built. No nickname yet, but Janey’s working on it.)

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Dear Readers,

I frequent too many a café while traveling.

Once more, I write to you from a coffee shop, only this time I am in Paris on a street off of Avenue Montaigne, where we are working these few days.

London was as always lovely, and predominantly person-based, this time around, with my having the chance to spend extreme quality time with Hann & Charlie, Sumaira and even made a new friend: EMILY. I have placed her name in all-caps as that will make her v happy.

You may see all photos from London here.

We flew in to Paris on the day Europe shut down due to 1.3 cm of snow. As a Canadian, I was a little confused by the unraveling, but did enjoy watching my colleague trip out on 4 coffees, bouncing and smiling through Heathrow, Terminal 5. She was divine.

My first ever trip alone was to Paris, and I was likely 19 years of age. I don’t remember it being this incredible; most definitely not this sexy. There really is no way to explain it; it’s not that the people are more attractive, or that the weather is hot and humid, or that you’re getting felt up as you walk down the Champs-Élysées, but rather that it simply is.

It could be all the wine consumed, or the bread and cheese; it could be that their men have fantastic thick hair (1); it could be that breakfast is served until 11 a.m., so you may lounge in bed that much longer; it could be the attention to the smallest detail (all silverware, all china, all real butter and full bodied cream); it could be that everyone wears fur and this gives rise to a sort of animalistic hunter / gatherer environment, and really? Nothing spells s.e.x.y like bow and arrow; but chances are, it is that there exists here in Paris a true sense of indulgence and excess.

That and the fact that they wear their hearts on their sleeves, even though it takes them no less than two hours to get dressed. If the street corner doesn’t have a couple (or more) nearly screwing, then it has a couple (or more) yelling at one another (right before they practically screw). It’s amazing.

I am sort of in heaven watching them not care who watches them. Especially as we are really so puritan in our approaches to public displays of any emotion in North America, where propriety trumps.

For this reason, I have decided that I would like to be engaged to be married in this City. To ensure this happens, I have devised the following list (which I will, overtime, strike through like this as appropriate):

(1) Meet man.
(2) He falls in love with me; I with him.
(3) We travel to Paris.
(4) My mother hides in the suitcase.
(5) My father is on following flight with a gun.
(6) He is detained as gun is not registered. (Father, not man to propose.)
(7) Man – to whom I am simply “woman” – takes me to (insert his own special plan) and proposes to me.
(8) I start the next French Revolution, and document it all with my handy camera, updating Facebook as required.
(9) Above mentioned man and I fight on a street corner.
(10) We almost screw on same street corner, only our puritan sensibilities trump our momentary Parisien affliction.
(11) I purchase a t-shirt which reads: “I <3 Paris”
(12) My father is released from custody; my mother escapes the suitcase; and, we all live happily ever after.

I am seated at Nude Espresso in the Brick Lane market; the weather in London Town has been crisp, bright and without rain.

Having spent my early childhood summers in this Town, and returning so often as an adult, London has become somewhat of an old neighborhood haunt for me. Yesterday, Hannah remarked how odd it was that I was so familiar with the ins and outs of London, like the average resident (if not more so, as my curiosity takes me absolutely everywhere).

Familiarity is a lovely thing for creatures of habit.
Sadly, however, I have become unfamiliar with my favourite British subject: The Male.

These men I once adored, was fascinated by, and to whom I probably always reacted in very bizarre manner. Ever, when I hear this accent, I practically fall out of my chair, my car, the bus, Lulu, topple out of yoga, slip off my skates, vault from an airplane and even a train. Wherever I may be located, I react to this accent quite bizarre-like, and I have always greatly enjoyed the reaction.

This accent, coupled with their very distinct beauty has every single time proven a deadly combination for your girl; darkish golden hair, very white skin with always pink cheeks, full ruby mouths and crystal clear blue eyes. They sound psychotic, no? Doll-like in their beauty, these men. (Blame George Michael, like I do. He’s the one who forever changed the landscape of my interest in men; lucky me, however, I still like them straight.)

Right. So, they have become unfamiliar to me because clearly gentlemen, there is far too much estrogen in your water and it has affected the size of your thighs. (All but you who stopped me to chat in the art studio and I accidentally nodded yes when you asked me if I was Spanish…because your beauty confounded me.) Obvi, I have a thing for men with strong thighs; I have accepted that this must be some sort of biological imperative in my world, that a man come with thick and solid legs. Otherwise, I see twigs and twigs do not sex appeal make.

Speaking of sex appeal, the once notoriously gin driven London Town is slowly changing its topographical landscape from pub to coffee house. Not just the random and boring coffee pimp Starbucks, but rather amazing fair trade roastery coffee houses whose main goal is top-of-the-line flavour and texture. Coffee turned art form, quality in place of quantity.

Hannah and I yesterday did a coffee house crawl, tasting the flavours of three shops in the Shoreditch / Brick Lane district, where Han & Charlie live. First stop was the usual Coffee @, which is really quite student and though would appeal to you all in black, wears relatively quickly. Ultimately, their coffee simply does not compare to those found at either Allpress Espresso Roastery (at 58 Redchurch Street) or Nude Espresso (to which only a leprechaun can direct you).

If heading out for a date, please avoid at all expense Allpress, as the lighting inside is for shit. It is florescent, and I think that about covers the ‘why’ of not going while wearing the pretty. Additionally, the seating is very quite cafeteria in its style; large wooden tables at which several parties may sit. It is, however, the perfect spot to go with your friends for an incredible cuppa, sweets and sandwiches. They warm your coffee cup with boiling water before serving it your way. Very elegant touch, this.

As for a date beginning or ended, Nude Espresso is really where you must head. Everything works, starting with the lighting (not florescent!) to the atmosphere and seating arrangements of cozy corners. The staff are particularly gorgeous, too, and the cappuccino is a must-have as they top it off with swirls of hearts.

Thing is, there are two locations of Nude Espresso, and the one I recommend is slightly off the beaten path; upon entry in to the Truman Brewery Food Hall on Brick Lane, walk out the back door, past the dumpsters and in to the parking lot. On your left, you will see the proper location of Nude Espresso. Go in and ask for Gerard, requesting he make your cappuccino if there. (Make certain to enjoy their God Spank the Queen exhibit, commissioned specifically for Coco de Mer (aside from Rigby & Peller, a must to purchase lingerie when in London Town).

We are off to an industry party this evening, as Charlie is a script writer. This will be very interesting, and will no doubt bring forth many unfortunate stories for this interWeb home.
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Re Nude Espresso photograph; aren’t I the biggest creep in the world to take a photo like this, and then not be shy about posting it? He is the owner; his name is Gerard. He has crinkly smile lines around his amazing greenish / blue eyes, all beneath a head of thick waves that were whispering “play with us, Maha” as he and I were chatting. He will also never let me back in to Nude Espresso once he finds I took this photo. (Unless, of course, a smile can get a girl a very long way in these parts.)

Artfully Disheveled is the baby of one Chris Berre and Michael Palmer; the former All American who I met in Cincinondon, the later I don’t in fact know but who gives excellent penmanship as to which the following building of the Artfully Disheveled brand attests, going from this…

…to this…

…to this, their final hot and seared brand label…

Artfully Disheveled is designed for one specific Man.
He’s the well-dressed rebel.
He’s the tailored misfit.

To that, I would add…it is also for one specific Woman…because I don’t have a man at the moment (shall we get on this, God?) and I plan on buying and rocking their ties and bow ties myself. Belt. Necklace. Hair-band. Cuff / bracelet. Garter. Blindfold. Handcuff. (‘Artfully Disheveled. For the woman who knows that her creativity is sexier than her demi-cup.’) Whatever; it’s mine. (All American, y’all best be deliverin’ to Canada. All American says they do.)

Additionally, the gentlemen at AD suggested that “The women out there buying AD for their significant others already have that innate sense of style that they wish to pass on. We’ve seen a lot of the same women create innovative ways to wear our men’s collection. There is also something very powerful about seeing a woman wearing a tie.” (And by powerful, we all understand they mean “like, wicked hot”, only thankfully these gentlemen are anything but Valley and so instead are gracious re the female state, rather than her physical appeal. Amazing; How can you not love them?)

The imaginative processes for you to bear in mind as you cruise their line, is one which usually started years back in the most inconspicuous moments, such as when visiting Shoredtich, in London, and they wrote: “Style is rooted in everyday life. From nature’s colors of the season to the hustle and grit of making it in the city. Our ties are born from our life experiences and the world around us.”

…that then influenced their design palette…

…and resulted in this gorgeous tie…

…which upon first viewing reminded me of fields of lavender and wheat.

Buy’em and bookmark’em; but only if your thighs don’t fit in to skinny jeans, men – because the Artfully Disheveled man has thighs. (Note: This reference to the male form does not come from those at AD, but rather from your webMistress who likes her men…male rather than woman, thank you.)

Now, go be the amazing consumers for which our beloved country continues to rape and pillage other parts of the world.
It’s your right.
(Once again, please note: This reference to global political / economic / social not-so-niceness does not come from those at AD, but rather from your webMistress who likes her warm and fuzzy concept of global citizenship as she is often a lunatic hippie.)

Godspeed!

P.S. Between the tie and the logo, what do you see?

I see a tailor marking each tie individually. He is behind a thick wooden door, atop stone floors, and next to a warm fire. He drives a motorcycle and lives in a penthouse in Chicago.

For realsies.

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Please note that Chris Berre will soon enough be the first guest blogger on onefemalecanuck(dot)com, writing about male / female stuffs. Don’t know precisely the what, as I am leaving that to his creativity, but if it’s anything like the imagination alive in AD, then it will be exquisite.

 
That’s the mac light which Baby Jane brought as a gift for my Treehouse.

It now sits in my bedroom window and I have decided that I shall use it as (a very large) nightlight.
 
Which reminds me of the Red Light District hookers who were waving at mama, while we were on a tour bus in Amsterdam. 
 
“Look”, she had said, “there are girls in windows!  They look like dolls!  They’re so pretty!  And they’re so nice!  They are waving at us!  Amsterdam is such a nice place full of such nice people!”
 
Her world was too pretty so I never did tell her the truth.

If she were outside my window, she would no doubt smile, wave, and maybe offer to make me a snack.
 
I have said it before and will say it again; I, cartoon, am daughter to a Muppet.

Maxwell and I met at S’s wedding two years back. He was fun and funny and gave good wedding acquaintance-ship.

Fast forward to January 2010, when Max and I stepped beyond acquaintances and started developing a friendship which began with a simple something along the lines of “Wanna hang? This is totally not a date.”

Over the course of the last four months, we have argued countless times, disagreed on much of it, laughed at the other stuff and pushed the other in the opposite direction on what was left of it. Also, we trade secrets about ourselves and our friends, and where possible, make fun of each other about said secrets out loud.

Essentially, over the course of the last four months, Max has become one of my favourite people and among the most important.

Of special interest is that he has lived with Cystic Fibrosis since the age of two, and this makes him a very different man than most men and women I know – he carries and illustrates an appreciation for everything and anything that few of us share because we are spoiled and we refuse to engage with this world in the same manner as he.

Max will tell you, flat out and under no pretense that: He “is dying”, and so I don’t need to be delicate about the following. Primarily that I really hope Max’s lifeline is a miracle. For the most selfish of reasons, I want this new friend of mine in my life for as long as possible. Basically, I only really found Max four months ago and I don’t want to lose (or loose) him too soon. (Ultimately, it’s always somehow about ME.)

Beyond a shadow of any doubt, Max lives his life true to his statement of “I’m dying!” even though sometimes, that gets him in trouble with very small animals. (1) S says that Max will outlive us all. I say “Inshallah & I don’t doubt it”.

Sunday was his 29th birthday and this is the card I gave him, along with a compass as a gift. (2)

The card read:

So that you never lose your way during the darkest of circumstance – or when you’re being really lame…or, like, totally misguided. Because sometimes? You can be really dumb.

Happy Birthday, Maxi.

& thank you for your friendship.

Ultimately, we could all use to learn from Maxi. (3)

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(1) I am lying like a (pretty) rug.
(2) My favourite photo of Max was made into a pin which I wore for his birthday extravaganza and which now sits on my wall at work. LOOK, SEE!

(3) To ensure he doesn’t get a big head, let me state the otherwise obvious: often, he’s a complete tool.