double-double, toil and trouble

you know the feeling of unease that lingers after a misunderstanding with a good friend? in the end, it's just a blip. but it makes you feel regretful. and temporarily casts a dull haze over your other activities. a similar feeling crept up on me at a coffee shop a couple of weekends ago.

rewind ten days: café cappuccino, barrie.

on the frost-crusted lawn of the small park across from the café, there's a middle-aged man basking (as it were) in the sun, wearing a filthy, long, santaclaus beard and a grimy, mustard-yellow coat. ten minutes earlier, he'd been on the street outside the bus terminal. he'd tramped, zombie-like, past my sister's car. hadn't responded to any of my three (eventual) excusemeSirs. turned around only upon catching a glimpse of the butter tart being presented to him. (apparently, Santa loves butter tarts.) now, he's surrounded (albeit seemingly obliviously) by a slew of running-roomers, who -- decked out in hats and mitts and rainbow-brite jackets (holy cow!) -- are gabbing and "stretching" while minding the dogs whose leashes they'd fastened, pre-run, to their waists. meeeanwhile, seated behind me, two middle-aged women from TRB (i.e. team rainbow-brite) -- one of whom unabashedly refers to her friends as "my peeps" -- are talking about: 1. Heidi (who's no longer friends with them; she's kinda been using you, one taunts the other); 2. facebook (where they've posted lots of dog stuff -- (bow-)wow! -- and reconnected with the likes of Dana, Sherry and, of course, Krista); and 3. the crazy-weird chemistry that made them cast an online vote last week for performers x and y from dancing with the stars.

at this point, Jack Johnson begins asking where all the good people have gone, and i take a sip of my hot chocolate. ears still perked to hear more about Heidi's various sins, i realize i can see my reflection in the chocolate syrup that's coating the bottom of the mug. and then, in a flash, i see the fluorescent running jacket hanging in my closet at home. see the three (other) butter tarts nestled in the depths of my tummy. (burp.) an hour's passed, and, through the window, i can still see Santa lying in his mustard-coloured coat.

fastforward to today: starb*cks, ottawa. a middle-aged woman at a nearby table triumphantly squeals to her friend: i loooove your coat! and do you love this scarf that so-and-so sent me from kosovo? 

no. it's not a blip at all. and the haze is far less temporary than you wish it were.

and now back to translating...

assets

a phenomenal ass is always worth noting. and, look, here's one now: pert, unassuming and very well shaped. so satisfying!

but there are also risks associated with having one of these beautiful behinds cross your coffeeshop path. you may, for instance, find yourself -- trance-like -- gently releasing your mug of hot liquid and reaching out to give that bum a friendly (according to you) squeeze: hey there, little guy! indeed: control is essential. especially for movemberers, who -- perpetually looking their capital-"p"-perviest -- are the least likely to be forgiven. (for anything.)

another risk is that the woman (in today's case) who's sporting that ripe rump will spot you in the act of admiration. (ah, shite!) you are decidedly embarrassed. and, in such situations, there is only one noble response: take a deep breath, nod your head slowly and humbly as if to say "guilty as charged," take one last loving look, and turn your gaze back to your beverage or crossword puzzle or thesis project outline. then, finally -- and most importantly -- take comfort in knowing that, although you could not touch that tush, the memory of its perfection will linger. possibly, and hopefully, forever.

yep: always worth it!

and now back to translating...

of poppies and maple leafs

this morning, the war memorial was very crowded. and, for the most part, silent. between the bagpipes, the speeches, the cannon shots and the o canada!, you could have heard a pin-with-a-poppy-on-it drop. for the first time, vivid images of scenes i've heard about but never seen before flashed through my mind. Grampa Frank dodging gunfire in holland. a haviland club vet finding out, at seventeen, that his best friend had been killed in overseas air raids less than a day earlier. Grandma Mary, posted in newfoundland, seeing and bandaging godknowswhatkindsof wounds and learning how to sleep (as she says) "upside down."

this evening, the coffee shop is similarly crowded. but the silence is long over. and in walks a guy, wearing a leather jacket that reads, across the back of it, in fuzzy white letters: MAPLE LEAFS. ah, yes: maple leafs on leather-backs. this hockey season, that's not unlike a poppy on a lapel. right? i mean: the warring, the mourning, the suffering!

this is when i'm interrupted by one of my laptop-loving neighbours, who points to the floor, asking: is that yours? when i look down, i see that, next to my boot, there's a poppy-with-a-pin-on-it that had dropped.

and now back to translating...

at the lab

a slight sixty-ish man, sporting a brown swooshed hoodie and a distinctly squeaky voice, walks into the coffee shop. joins his bald-headed philosopher-type friend at the table by the window.

Bunsen: what's with the monk outfit?

Beaker: it's nike! everyone's wearing it. everyone who's seen it has commented on it. *beams with pride*

Bunsen: reminds me of the snuggy. that you see on the, uh, television, after midnight. how far down does it go? *examines hoodie* maybe it's the wrong size...

Beaker: it's stylish! very stylish. as opposed to your...beret.

Bunsen: soon, i'll bring out my christmas toque.

and now back to translating...