unto others (part III)

[saturday december 14]

when it's -31˚c with the windch-ch-chill, even the five-minute walk between one's apartment and the coffee shop -- in spite of the scarf-hat-mitts, the chapsticked lips, the canadian upbringing, and the personal resolve to brave the elements *triumphant horns* -- is painfully long. and then, even the insides of the coffee shop require said scarf to remain snugly in place.

so it seems especially lucky that today (unlike yesterday, with its "friday" and its "13th") should be one of the days that knox church hosts its out-of-the-cold dinner, serving up pork roast, herbed potatoes and glazed carrots to anyone who might need refuge from the hurts-when-you-inhale air.

it's also a lucky day because, once the veggies and cheddar have been cut up and the crackers, pickles and dip have been put out, Joan -- the cheery woman who's been at the helm of this to-do for nearly two decades (as compared to my mere two months) -- turns to me and asks, perfectly innocently: would you like to be in charge of the hot chocolate? HA! eleven litres of boiling water, four litres of milk, and a costco-sized container of chocolate powder that shimmers like gold dust, like snow in the night light? seventy-six servings' worth of warm liquid chocolate, bubbling frothily in a giant metallic cylinder? all at the mercy of my ginormous witchcrafting whisk? the answer is yes. yes, Joan, i would like to be in charge of the hot chocolate. and the sublime pleasure of brewing the drink is only amplified -- some seventy-six-fold, i daresay -- when one of the guests enquires with is there any hot chocolate tonight? and i'm able to immediately plunk down two filled-to-the-brim pitchers for the pouring. few things warm the heart (or the stomach) like sharing hot chocolate does. but here are twelve more, to round out this month of five-dollar donations:

dec 20: nelson house, in honour of abused women and children. (hats off to friend Annick for this recommendation.)
dec 21: rideau addiction and family services, in support of those dealing with addiction in whatever capacity.
dec 22 (a twofer): 1) last chance horse and pony rescue, in honour of cousin Kate, her love of horses, and her big heart; 2) ref4rett, as per cousin Carlee's special birthday request. (happy birthday, C!)
dec 23: JUMP math, in support of education, in honour of Mom (who got me involved in this program once upon a life in toronto), and in honour of an acquaintance who regularly -- and rightly -- proclaims that math is everywhere.
dec 24: ACORN canada, in support of low- to moderate-income households, with a shout-out to my legal-eagle friend Jena.
dec 25: ottawa food bank, in support of empty stomachs on xmasday.
dec 26: canadian association for disabled skiing, in honour of friend Creed's birthday and his many years of volunteering with CADS.
dec 27: windreach farms (centre for inclusion and personal achievement for people of all abilities), in honour of Dad and brother Greg, whose dutch masters construction services built their facilities and has supported their programs.
dec 28: united way st. catharines, in honour of Uncle Joe's birthday.
dec 29: youth services bureau, in honour of friend Craig.
dec 30: matthew house, in support of refugees who come from all over the world to make canada their new home.
dec 31: translators without borders, in honour of (duh!) translation, because "access to information is critical," and "language barriers [can] cost lives." hear! hear!

happiest of ho-ho-holidays, and ho-ho-hottest of chocolates to you!

and now back to translating...

unto others (part II)

not only have several people joined me in donating to one or more of the not-for-profit organizations named in last week's post (i'm raising a mega-mug of hot chocolate to Jenna, Renée, and Rory!) but i've also received a number of suggestions for additional not-for-profits to give to. here's the next installation (*drum roll*):

dec 9: the canadian skin cancer foundation, in memory of friend Scott's father.
dec 10: sick kids foundation, in honour of all kids, who -- as cousin Erin rightly reminded me -- are a fundamental part of the wonder and joy of xmas.
dec 11: the canadian red cross, in honour and memory of all those affected by typhoon haiyan.
dec 12: the ottawa humane society, in honour of friend Jenna's cat (Oliver) and our dog (Willow).
dec 13: the salvation army, in honour of Santaclaus (from late last november) and others deserving of dignity they aren't receiving.
dec 14: colon cancer canada, in memory of friend (and blog devotee) Sherry's mom.
dec 15: the arthritis society, in honour of both of my grandmas.
dec 16: canadian contemporary dance theatre, in honour of the art of dance -- one of the loves of my life. in particular, dance among young people who, in this case (versus those where wee ones are smothered in make-up and phony smiles, and encouraged to perform like robot-princes or -princesses *cringe*), bring heart, soul, skill, range and magic to the stage.
dec 17: danny grossman dance company, in honour of the pioneering dance giants, who set the stage decades ago and still forge on.
dec 18: the learning disabilities association of ontario, in honour of friends and family members who have become well-acquainted with adhd, dyslexia, etc.
dec 19: big brothers and sisters, in honour of good friend Alison and her clan, who still prove that "family" is also defined beyond blood ties.

kindly keep your recommendations coming and your generosity flowing.

and now back to translating…

unto others

not unlike many people of my generation and subsequent cohorts, i have a certain disdain for organized religion. the roots and ramifications of this societal trend have been debated elsewhere with more oomph and insight than i could ever hope to offer, so let's not get into (all of) them here. what's nagging at me this december is that this discomfort (to put it more lightly) with churches, synagogues, mosques, etc., and with the various figure(head)s and tenets they house and espouse, can lead to the misconception that religion isn't still informing our day-to-day lives, our worldviews, our decision-making.

after all, for many of us there are certain biographical truths that can't be denied. i, for one, am a caucasian of dutch-irish descent, who was born in canada in the late seventies, attended a french catholic elementary school (despite never being baptized *gasp*) and has always been enthusiastically involved in december's decorated evergreens, "silent nights" and after-eights (*licking of lips*). add to that the fact that Mom and Dad repeated and put into very regular practice mantras like don't take your luck or luxuries for granted and do unto others as you'd have done unto you. suddenly, claiming that religion (and christianity, more particularly) hasn't been shaping me since the womb becomes awfully asinine.

(i can hear you now: blah blah blah! this has nothing to do with coffeeshopping. well, just hold your horses!)

with xmas fast approaching and my visits to the coffee shop generally intact, i've been thinking more than usual about luxuries and luck and Others.

it began last week when i realized i hadn't seen Cherub -- the older man who, on three separate occasions, gave me a gift in honour of his february birthday -- in a long while, and subsequently learned from the café manager that he has very likely passed away (the result of his rather massive brain tumour, chances are). the unhappy absence of Cherub made me think of Paco, whose whereabouts remain unknown, if only to me. which made me think of Luigi, whom i haven't seen since the spring. remembering Luigi's trembling fingers then made me think of Frances's quaking walk and of a couple of other regulars who seem to face more than their fair share of challenges.

it's not shocking that you then perceive your own set of circumstances in a differently coloured light. among the numerous luxuries, big and small, in my life is an almost-daily hot chocolate. absolutely delicious and -- for reasons i don't pretend to understand -- motivating! but it's $3.60 a day. hardly chump change, especially when you multiply it over the course of a month, not to mention a couple of years. indeed, my admirably-if-not-aggravatingly frugal mother is surely rolling in her grave over this (even if i like to think she's simultaneously smiling because she sees how far those delicious frothy mugs go in propelling my work)! my point: if a $3.60 hot chocolate can make it into my daily budget, there must be a little extra cash to spare for other, less self-indulgent purposes. and, despite my disdain (please see above), i don't mind one bit if Religion-Infused December feels like an important time (vs the only time, let's be clear) to share.

so, for the duration of the month, i'm instating a second daily ritual. in addition to a hocho, every day will include a $5 donation to a different not-for-profit organization, each of which is inspired by a particular individual. the line-up thus far:

dec 1: the brain tumour foundation of canada, in honour/memory of Cherub.
dec 2: the parkinson society of canada, in honour of Frances.
dec 3: the alzheimer society of canada, in honour of the gentle, elderly italian man who regularly wanders rather lost through the coffee shop, repeatedly showing off photos of his grandchildren and asking people to help him use his cell phone.
dec 4: out of the cold, in honour of Paco.
dec 5: the post-traumatic stress disorder association, in honour of Luigi.
dec 6: simcoe community services, in memory of my brother Graham.
dec 7: the breast cancer society of canada, in memory of Mom and Aunt Linda, and in honour of Aunt Tricia.
dec 8: wikipedia, in honour of anyone (laypersons and academics alike) anywhere doing research about anything at all.

i'm accepting recommendations and requests for the remaining days of december and will report back throughout the month. you are also welcome to partake, in whatever capacity suits your own budget and/or heart strings.

and now back to translating…

play time

i don't pretend to know much of anything about video games -- two notable exceptions being the ever-popular commodore 64 classics, burger time and maniac mansion (circa 1989). and, no doubt owing to the fact that my phone's about as un-fancy as they get (sorry, did you say you wanted to send me a photo? *bewilderment*), this ignorance extends to all cell phone gaming as well. all of this may explain how i ended up very inaccurately assessing the wild gesticulations of the smoker-voiced, leather-faced, sixty-something woman seated beside me this morning.

when i glance in her direction, it becomes clear that she's playing a game on the phone she's holding over her lap. but, just moments earlier -- while i'm engrossed in reading about canada's official languages and can see her only out of the corner of my eye -- what i eventually come to understand as a vigorous index-finger-led manual assault on her telephone screen (fastfurious and relentless, like a woodpecker on crack) initially seems a hell of a lot more like, er, an entirely other kind of desperation-infused solo act. (her sixty-odd years have generated some mad skills.) yikes! apparently, she just couldn't sit still while her husband was off fetching their drinks.

in the end, her (fr)antics remind me that there's a third video game i (somehow) knew as a pre-teen: leisure suit larry in the land of lounge lizards.

and now back to translating…

what's in a name?

when you place your drink order, and the barista asks for your name so s/he can write it on your to-go cup, s/he has a very clear practical objective in mind: to easily distinguish your drink from someone else's. (calling all rocket scientists!) but don't be fooled: there's some sleight of hand at play here. indeed, this is manipulation at its simplest, at its best. Bill Shakes, via a star-crossed lover, once asked: what's in a name? well, i'll tell ya: your entire identity! the whole of your ego(mania). wrapped up -- quickly, succinctly -- in a single word. a single, glorious word. surely, your most favourite of all words out there, in fact. so, when the barista calls that name (grande no-whip hocho for T!) and then has the gall to use it beyond the cup (have a great day, T!) -- with a sincere smile to boot, as though s/he really knows you, as if s/he really cares -- there's a sudden zing of wow-i-feel-awfully-special that charges through your core, zips jaw-to-temples up both sides of your face, and culminates in an electric fiesta on top of your head (¡arriba!), right above the spot that was dangerously soft when you were a newborn.

thing is, you can't quite be sure that, before uttering the magic word, s/he'd actually said have a great day. it mighta been: geez, your hair's pretty grey, or gawd, you look rough today. you've been had by the zing-zip-fiesta! that's what's in a name. and it's how you know that -- even though you're the one forking up the change -- you're also actually at the fragile mercy of the one who's collecting it. the cup's to go, but you're coming back.

and now back to translating…

waking up and smelling the coffee (shopper)

every now and then, you find yourself downwind of…well...wind. borborygmus emissions. gas. flatus. flatulence. so potent that the aroma of the boldest of bold blends permeating the coffee shop cannot overpower it.

but even the intestinal unloading of a passer-by offers something of a silver lining (don't think about that for too long): yes, after the shock, after the wheezing, after the questioning (is it real? is this actually happening?), there is the humour. and the jolt that such laughter pumps into the day (y'know, via the nostrils) has gotta be better than the jumpstart that comes from any caffeinated beverage.

and now (*cough*) back to translating…

coffinity

working in a coffee shop when you're tackling a thesis becomes particularly tricky as you reach the pivotal stage where your writing and research have you boomeranging (*boing boing*) between not only your computer screen (where you're making "historic" observations…er…) and the extra monitor you've set up (to simultaneously view excel spreadsheets you pretend to have mastered) but also a wide range of books and journals and human sources that -- when you were peanutbuttering your toast this morning -- you had no idea you were going to need to consult this afternoon. at this point in your process, you've also reached your 75-book limit at the university library (aaah!), which means that, in order to take out that new book you (so desperately) need, you're first going to have to return one of the texts that's spent so many months on your desk you've practically come to regard it as an integral member of your family. (which reminds you: you really should call home again one day.)


in short, this is the moment when it dawns on you: in spite of your truly inspired pipe-dream of hauling all nearly fourscore books around town with you in a trusty granny-grocery-cart (which you've seriously considered purchasing from the dollar store with some of your scholarship funds), you simply cannot tote every one of your "what if i need to consult you today?" books to the coffee shop. and you're nothing without those books. no-thing! so, much to your own chagrin, and after trying to stave off reality, you find yourself beshackled to your "real" office. the one that never hosts first dates for eavesdropping on; the one that only occasionally welcomes a visit from Professor FLQ; the one that, most prominently, features a desk piling high with some books you now refer to as "bibles" and others you wink at on the regular, as if to say: don't you worry, Little Guy, i will read you one day! (um, this just in: no, you won't.)

worst of all, Real Office features a perpetual, head-on attack by that rat bastard named Silence. bang. bang. bang. under these conditions, how can you possibly concentrate on the pure genius stirring about in your brain! grrr. you decidedly miss the coffee shop. but what can you do?!

enter the bee's knees! (which, incidentally, is the name of a coffee shop near calgary.)

yes, in this age of "there's an app for everything," you can still satisfy your affinity with cafés and nourish your coffeeshop creativity -- thanks to coffitivity! more than sharing your philosophy on ambient noise, it's a timely answer to your prayers. aaaand you won't smell like java when you head home. point! *sigh of relief*

and NOW back to translating…

scandals

the ubiquitous senate expenses scandal (which the sixty-something brady b(r)unchers beside me are currently debating) began roughly a year ago. right around the start of that other scandal: the NHL lockout. and right around the start of my acquaintanceship with Paco, a tiny mediterranean man in his thirties who'd frequented this coffeeshop until he was permanently kicked out on account of being routinely disruptive. he and i had met months before he got the boot: at the grocery store just a few doors down from the café, Paco had been standing by the avocados when he made eye contact with me at the checkout and declared: hey, Bella, you're an aquarius, aren't you! after he failed twice more at "Name That Zodiac Sign" (and after i immediately identified him as a leo -- huzzah!), we regularly ran into each other at the coffee shop and on the neighbourhood's main drag. i would listen while he -- fully flamboyant, perpetually mid-sentence, and equal parts endearing and belligerent -- would tell a tale or two about the xmas gifts he'd picked out for his mom or about having a bottle hurled against his apartment door during a fiery episode with his landlady or boyfriend the night before.

one evening a week or so ago, while passing the park that faces the coffee shop, i noticed someone lying curled up at the base of one of the trees. Paco. he had a torn blanket and a skinny excuse for a pillow underneath him, and there was an empty tim hortons cup nearby. my friend and i (on our way to the coffee shop) stopped to talk with him, and he told us the story of getting kicked out of a few different homes, including his mother's. an hour later, we dropped off a banana and a yogourt (Grandma says you should eat one of each, every day), a hot coffee and, shortly after that, an intact pillow.

on this chilly, drizzly ottawa morning, the coffee shop and its many mugs are full. the park, meanwhile, is decidedly empty. and it feels even emptier when, perusing today's globe and mail, i come across an article about Harley Lawrence -- "the only homeless man" in berwick, nova scotia -- who "mysteriously" passed away on wednesday. a fiery episode, seemingly involving two teenagers, some gasoline and a bus shelter. ah, la vida es una mierda maravillosa; sometimes, life is one marvellous piece of sh*t.

and now back to translating...

the whip

i'm a grande-no-whip-hot-chocolate kinda gal. less than a grande is too little, more is almost always too much, and -- while i couldn't truthfully say i don't like whip cream (it is undeniably delightful) -- i don't love the flavour enough to want to consume all those calories or all that extra sugar on a daily (*gulp*) basis. (plus, sticking with this regimen makes whip cream all the tastier when, in about a week's time, it shows up in giant-homemade-dollop form atop a spectacular slice of Grandma's pumpkin pie. *salivating*)

but, this morning, the campus baristas goofed: missed the "no whip" component of my order. it happens. and it's no problem. on the contrary, i'm of the opinion that goofing (whether "up" or "around") usually serves a constructive purpose. and so i'm inclined to embrace the blunder and wonder what it all might mean. (i know: how new-age!) indeed, it seems that, today, the whip isn't just the sweet, white, foamy mass of fantastic fat it would have us believe it is. no, no. it's a disguised kick in the ass. a lactose-rich hat tip to the key political figure by the same name -- the one "charged with ensuring party discipline among members of the caucus." riiiiiight...discipline. parliament -- having once again been prorogued -- isn't the only one seemingly lacking it lately. just a ten-minute walk southeast of the hill, some of those attempting to produce a thoughtful and coherent thesis proposal are, unfortunately, also in need of just such a whipping. in the words of another ottawa figure: wuh-PAH!

and, so, now back to translating a whole lot of readings and scribblings into some semblance of a thesis proposal...

sh*t people say

lately, the coffee shops have been witnessing a lot of verbal diarrhea. in the world of translation -- as any good translator or translation scholar will tell you -- context is everything: unless you're specifically setting out to be perverse, no word or chapter or idea can be "properly" translated out of context. in the recent world of cafés, however, context has been doing little to offer insight into the aforementioned feces (which, incidentally -- as any good grad student will tell you -- rhymes with theses). so, we'll just let the perverse stench speak for itself.

conversational bathroom I: ottawa. starbucks. 
two girls in their early twenties, doctoring their drinks.
Girl 1, proudly: i saved up enough money for rent this month.
Girl 2: i'm so jealous -- i haven't worked all summer! *proceeds to slurp giant-sized latte*

CB II: toronto. second cup. 
platonic guy-girl couple in their early twenties, catching up, very very loudly.
Guy, laughingly referring to a girl he used to date: her vagina's all stretched out!

CB III: ottawa. starbucks. 

a gaggle of guys and girls in their mid-twenties.
Guy 1, joining the rest of the group: you know what i shoulda done? i was in the bathroom, and i shoulda just taken my sh*t and smooshed it aaaaall over the wall.

merde! [translation: "sh*t!" or "good luck!"...y'know, depending on the context.]

and now back to translating...

a catch

while Mother Nature typically has a knack for matching up people who are physically comparable, there are always anomalies. for instance: the Sexy Lady + Unattractive Man cliché. even less common, though, is the opposite pairing. yet here's just such a mash-up now! a married couple consisting of one objectively dashing gentleman -- all talldarkand chisel-smiled, and free of any pretension-induced swagger -- and one humble-looking (shall we say) woman. both fortyish. both upbeat. and both clearly very taken with each other. they're so sweet i can barely pry my eyes or smile away from them. but i digress and repeat: he's really something of a specimen. which, of course, shouldn't matter in the least (the hormones of certain onlookers -- ahem -- notwithstanding). it's just that the physical disparity between them is so unusual that i can't help wondering what's behind this unorthodox equation...

one possibility is that Ma Nature -- ever the wiley one! -- is just trying to keep us on our toes. (a-ha! this couple'll surely stump 'em!)

then again, perhaps there's a lesson to be learned from the relationship logic of Mr. and Mrs. Cliché (referenced above). after all, The Clichés make perfect sense together once we factor in two other convenient -- and nauseating -- stereotypes whereby Sexy's a gold-digger and Unattractive is an arm-candy fiend; thus, he gets the catch, she gets the cash, and bob's your uncle! if times they really are a-changin', then our forty-somethings may just be one example of a twenty-first-century, gender-bending variation on this theme: maybe Humble's middle name is Moneybags and she's bent on parading Specimen around; and maybe he's the one jonesing for a larger disposable income.

then again (again), maybe this theory's all a buncha hooey. because the more i stare at our duo (this hobby is truly shameless at times...), the more i realize they are, without a doubt, among the more delightful coffee-shop couples i've seen in a long time. the only remaining cause for suspicion then? well, they just make it look so easy.

and now back to translating...

the ministry

holiday monday, august 5

for all its breathtaking scenery (imagine gazing northbound from the corktown pedestrian bridge at sunset), ottawa is especially notorious for its bureaucrats: gaggles of nine-to-fiving, pulp-and-paper-pushing civil servants who work for one of the country's gazillion federal Departments and Ministries.

for better or for worse, the mythology surrounding bureaucratic life tends to twist my stomach into uncomfortable knots, calling to mind the sentiment of pink floyd's "money" (it's a gas; grab that cash with both hands and make a stash... *cha-ching*) and the image of a cubicle-shaped vice-grip tightening around the "autonomy" and "imagination" chambers of the brain.

but that perspective has suddenly (if only slightly) shifted, 'cause there's a new ministry in town: the ministry of coffee. a new elgin-street café, where the hot chocolate (still in its experimental stages, according to one of the kindly owners) already dazzles the taste buds and is -- be still my heart! -- scheduled to undergo some kind of nutella-based transformation come wintertime. brrr-illiant!

and that ain't all. there are yummy chicken/cranberry/walnut wraps and suzie q doughnuts waiting impatiently at the counter; kickass, artful photographs suspended from the walls; and van morrison b-sides humming on the speakers.

but how does one really know this place is groovy? by checking in with one of the harshest critics (of anything at all) around, of course. and looky who's here: BRF! (with her foxy beau in tow.) true to form, her resting face is as foul as ever. p.u.! uncharacteristically, however, her mug wavers now and then, revealing a telling expression. yep: that there is a smile! and particularly since she's choosing to be here on a stat holiday -- when all other ministries are temporary dust bowls of activity -- it seems clear that this ministry isn't just the newest of the bunch.

and now back to translating...

couples

a few nights ago, i arrive home to find a small, padded, canada-post envelope leaning up against my apartment door. as if the delightful bubbles of the packaging aren't gift enough -- *p-p-p-pop* -- the envelope contains a handful of items. among them, a gift card for the bridgehead coffee shop and a note from the friend who'd sent the goods: "y'know, fuel for blogging, thesis-writing and whatever else you like to do at bridgehead." hmmm, could this be a reminder to hop to it on the thesis front? pfff! that can't be right. surely it's more of a written nudge from the coffee-shop gods -- with my friend acting as the trusty conduit -- urging me to get back to blogging (or at least bloggery) after well over a month of neglect. (tsk tsk.) and since, as chance would have it, the past couple of weeks have proven to be quite the bonanza of café-based activity, here goes...

sunday july 13: the blues
it's the day after my very first bluesfest experience. Stars, on a sunny outdoor stage: outstanding! equally outstanding -- though far less predictably so -- is being at my usual caffeine-obsessed hangout today and spotting the couple who'd stood right in front of us (amid the sea of rather unfortunate back tattoos) at last night's concert. the guy's a spark plug of a Matthew Fox lookalike (hubba hubba!) and, therefore, decidedly memorable. but it's the girl i especially recall, namely thanks to the persistent ailment she seems to be suffering from: b*tchy resting face. ugh! when BRF's in the room, the festival of blues apparently never ends...

monday july 14: the heat
holy jeebus: it's hotter than hades, plus a helluva lotta humid! yet somehow i find myself working on the rooftop patio of a westboro second cup. and, not surprisingly, it's deserted. except, of course, for my new love interest and me. which raises the profound philosophical question: if a couple engages in public displays of affection on a coffee shop patio and no one's around to see it, are such displays still "public"?

wednesday july 16: the game
some great ideas are only "just fair" in practice. evidence suggests that -- despite the creative genius of its name -- monopolatte (ottawa's one and only board game café) is a case in point. first and foremost, their hot chocolate blows: wa wa waaa! second of all, since players need to concentrate on their moves, there's no background music playing. this is doubly problematic. any potential for ambience has been essentially nixed. (the space almost immediately feels clinical.) plus, you can hear everything the other groups of players are saying. if you've ever wondered what sound "ridiculous" might make, you need only overhear two people delving -- in absolute seriousness -- into the rules and objectives of a complex board game they've never played before. at one table: the player with a pig in his field will score x number of points for his city. at another: similar jibber jabber about how to play -- wait for it! -- zombicide. nuff said. nonetheless, there's hope for success over the long term, and i'll certainly be back in the near future, since, c'mon, who doesn't love board games! but today's rating = no dice.

saturday july 20: the nerve
thanks to the recent opportunity to complete an online starbucks survey, today has granted me a freebie hot chocolate. pure bliss! except that, as we all know, nothing's actually free. in this case, the not-free fee is enduring mother-daughter quality time in which thirty-something Mom -- who's rather preoccupied with the state of her hair and otherwise appears to be caught in the headlights, like a well-known antlered creature -- ignores her eight-year-old daughter, while Daughter bonds (via ipad) with Dora the Explorer. y'know, at top volume. as though this were their living room. in times like these, i wish i had the proverbial balls to walk over to their table and hand them my set of earphones. then again, i'm not quite sure Mom would understand what to do with them.

tuesday july 23: the boy
this morning, a duo of baristas are all a-tizzy over Kate and William's new bundle of joy.
barista 1, exasperated: it's just another baby!
barista 2, swooning: yeah, but Kate looks amazing!
as it happens, John Lennon's "beautiful boy" is playing in the background. could this be prophetic? despite the genetic influence of William's increasingly enormous forehead and horse-jawed mouth, Baby Royal really does stand a chance of being a looker -- which is, after all, the most important of royal duties. and yet such hopes are dashed only a day later when we find out what they've named him. forsooth, the parent who giveth his or her child a horrendous name sentenceth said child to ugly-dom! oh, boy George! if only your middle name were Costanza. then, at least, you'd be a contender for court jester.

friday july 26: the heart
this evening, for the first time in a while, i'm at the coffee shop alone. there are lots of other people here, actually; it's just that i don't recognize them. with the exception of one person. a guy with a charming smile and demeanour. the close friend of the man i'm now no longer seeing. i notice Friend only as he's exiting the coffee shop and passing by the large window on my right. what i want to do is hurry over to him, just to say hello and talk about nothing much at all. some brief friendly banter that allows me to reconnect vicariously with our mutual friend. but he doesn't seem to see me and, more importantly, probably wouldn't want to. fair enough. so i remain still in my seat, suddenly and once again wondering a number of things. like how it can be that even very short relationships can leave an indelible mark, compelling you to feel and learn so surprisingly much. or how it can be that, despite knowing a decision is right, you still don't have answers to all sorts of legitimate questions. my mom, i suspect, would tell me to start with some smaller, more manageable pieces of the puzzle. those that have simple, constructive solutions. so i'm starting with comfort: wrapping one hand around a venti mug of hot chocolate and using the other to begin writing; one of my very favourite couplings. sometimes, hot chocolate really is a hot date.

and now back to translating...

dada

some dads speak and act like their adolescent offspring. like latte-loving Roger Sterling over here on my left, chatting with his 19-year-old shorty-shorts-blonde-bombshell of a daughter about binge drinking, tossing in the occasional yeah, like, seriously! (*hair flip*). but i say: kudos, Rog'. because mastering this particular gift of the gab requires some serious dedication. (i mean, c'mon: being up to speed on the latest "hangover" movie quotes when you're nearly sixty? that ain't no easy task, man.) and because, in addition to responding to his rather desperate need to assert his supercoolness, this dedication mostly signals Roger's interest in connecting with his daughter. and, to his credit, it seems to be working: she's opening up to him like a disgruntled canadian on cross country check-up (oh, Rex...you do have a way with people...). besides, particularly once you've encountered truly disastrous father types, you know that such attempts are ultimately what matter. (even despite your discomfort in overhearing this wannabe silver fox refer to one of Shorty's friends as smokin' hot. i'm sure he hadn't quite intended it to come out that way. but, ew -- keep it in yer pants, Daddio!)

at the same time, people get used to what they know. and then, at least sometimes, come to believe that what they know is also what's best. so you'll forgive me for thinking that my dad kicks Roger's sweet little behind. sure, maybe Rog' can correctly use "then" and "than." (show-off!) and he probably doesn't inadvertently crush his opponent's (aka brother's, niece's, neighbour's) fingers when offering a friendly handshake. (yowch!) but Dad VB manages to redefine "cool." so that even his kids eventually buy into and feel liberated by it all. he's the guy belting out repeated, loud Bob and Doug McKenzie calls during our ball tournaments. KOO-rookookoo-kookoo-kookoooo! busting out shamelessly large step-touch/step-touch moves on the dance floor, accompanied by overhead hand-clapping and an ear-to-ear smile blazing across his face. designing marble games and shuffle boards for us with bits and pieces of wood and felt that were lying around the garage. telling elaborate bedtime stories about the ooooold (fictional) woman in moncton who was buried alive and could be heard clawing at the lid of her six-feet-under coffin with her long gnarly nails. spontaneously picking up and driving non-stop from toronto to thunder bay: more than twenty-four hours, with that same grin still ablaze.

once in a while, i picture in my mind the day (still quite far down the road) when i will defend my thesis. a very formal event, full of anxieties and expectation. Shorty's dad would, no doubt, arrive perfectly pressed, polite and poised. mine, on the other hand, will be the guy in the back of the room with his thumbs perched conspicuously on his temples, doing an antler hand dance, and waggling his tongue out as far as thunder bay. mark my words: i will want to kill him. yet, at the exact same time that i'm plotting his demise, i'll know he's awfully proud of me. and i'll be thinking to myself: damn, he's cool!

and now back to translating...

cheers!

coffeeshopping has taken a temporary hit since a few weeks ago when Luigi and Creepy descended on my usual haunt. (*shiver*) it's seemed like a good idea to keep away from there for a little while. so, in addition to working more frequently at home and in the office (what a concept!), i've been travelling around a bit. sometimes to places relatively far from home. today's feature off-site office, for instance, is aaaaall the way over on the other side of the ottawa river, in the main lobby of the canadian museum of civilization, in gatineau, québec. there's a café in here, actually. but lingering apprehensions keep me at its outskirts, several metres away from the glass wall that separates the smell of java from the aroma of artefacts and hand sanitizer that otherwise pervades the museum air.

still, from this table, the view of the espresso machine is crystal clear. and, before long -- despite my continued lobbying -- i'm ordering a chocolat chaud. and then the phone rings. guess who? it's the Professor, of course. jovial as ever. checking in from our coffee shop headquarters with the usual set of questions -- are you happy? are you working hard? -- and a less usual comment: the nice man who does the crossword puzzle tells me you haven't been here for a while. learning that i'm across the border for the day, he launches into a game of outlandish and hilarious guesses as to my general whereabouts and activities. the last of which particularly hits home: i'll bet you're out on a giant boat, sailing with Jasper! holy Hannah: has he really remembered that (fictitious) character's name? and then, with a kind smile in his voice, he adds: now promise me you're wearing a life jacket.

it's good to have been away. but equally good is knowing when to return home, where everybody -- or at least a handful of baristas and your good friend the Professor -- knows your name. see you in the morning!

and now back to translating...

the jitters

thursday, may 9.

it all takes place at the usual hangout. i'm anticipating a catch-up with Professor FLQ, who's been snowbirding in florida since november. shortly after arriving, he -- who useth not computers -- launches us into a(nother) debate about technology. tell me, tvb, do you think facebook is good or bad? yada yada. i'm with the people who think Steve Jobs has contributed to the destruction of civilization. blah blah blah. people die because of the internet. etc. as i attempt to temper his rather black-and-white take on the world wide web, we are suddenly interrupted. hollering from the wobbly table in the corner is a middle-aged pot-bellied figure, whose sagging man-breasts are toppling out either side of his loose, white, sleeveless shirt, his nipples pointing towards the behemoth tattoos on his darkly tanned arms. his hair is electric; his eyes are alarming; his raspy laugh immediately sends chills up my spine and then right back down again. if you don't mind, i couldn't help overhearing what yous were talking about, and i wanted to put my two cents in. the monologue that ensues is, for the most part, unintelligible, and -- what's this! -- even the Professor can't get a word in edgewise. but the initial bit is perfectly clear: a tale about how, thanks to technology (there's the link!), the cops had hunted him down when he was (not so long ago) on the run, and how -- when he finally "let" them find him -- he flipped them the bird. at this point in the story, wearing a cheshire grin, he proceeds to recreate the moment for us, using one hand to crank the middle finger on the other hand slowly toward the sky. this is when i notice that his fingers are trembling. and that there's relatively fresh blood lining the edges of his raw digits. then, more raspy laughter.

after gingerly removing ourselves from the café, the Professor and i are unsure whether Luigi (he'd introduced himself) is under the influence of alcohol, narcotics or perhaps ptsd. meanwhile, my mind is wandering off, though maybe just down an offshoot of the day's technology path. i'm flashing back to a brief incident from shortly before Luigi's and the Professor's arrivals. when a thirty-something man -- whom i vaguely recognize from previous visits to the coffee shop but definitely have never spoken with -- sat at the table beside me and, just before leaving (roughly twenty minutes later), uttered, kind of under his breath: "did you finish your phd?"

and now back to translating...

i see london, i see france

i see Cougar's underpants.

and now back to translating...

tout à coup

maybe my perception's just skewed by recent readings about the 1973 chilean coup (when Pinochet's military regime, in cahoots with the u.s. government, overthrew the democratically elected president Allende) and by the movie "no" (about the 1988 chilean referendum that finally sent Señor P packing), but it seems increasingly clear that we have something of a small-scale dictator on our coffeeshop hands.

he's the grouchy-gruff fifty-year-old whose face is knotted up in deep creases that puzzlepiece together a permanent grimace. he's the guy whose rare laugh reeks of maliciousness. the guy who loves to engage in "conversations" that see him barking at his table-mate about what is/shouldbe/shouldntbe, and ignoring his compatriot's (prescriptively meagre) contributions altogether. except, of course, when opportunities for ridicule arise: well, i don't know the answer to that -- "Smart-A**" is implicit -- so why don't yooooou tell me! 

Grouchy Gruff also decides where they sit -- sit, Ubu sit! good dog! -- and when they leave. abruptly, practically mid-sentence: let's go outside. Ubu, who'd just been about to meagrely contribute, pauses. bewildered. very tentatively he asks: why? (it's for another smoke break. but Ubu isn't dignified with a response.) Ubu follows. not like an eager, bright-eyed, panting pup. more like an oppressed pooch who knows better than to think he has much of a choice in the matter.

just then, a man who looks remarkably like Stephen Harper (with shades and a bit more of a gut) walks in.

and now back to translating...

fools

why hello there, April! your timing's impeccable given that, today in particular, the coffee shop is reminiscent of your mascot and my favourite tarot card: The Fool.

look at that sun shining big and bright. the warm yellow background. the figure's upward, outbound gaze. off he goes on his journey, with his traveller's bag in tow, a rose betwixt his fingers, and a colourful top draping his torso. he's a fearless romantic spirit, full of innocence, adventure and joy! and yet...he's also reckless and oblivious: perched on the edge of the cliff, deaf to that little dog's cautionary barking, unaware that -- as things stand -- his next step will send him plummeting into the abyss below(...ow...ow).

downtown ottawa is similarly shiny-bright and warm (albeit windy) today. people are journeying in and out of the coffee shop, a purse or satchel slung over one shoulder, a coffee cup pressed into the other palm, and vibrant hues springing (if you will) off of their clothes. all in all, a happy lot! (even the two curmudgeonly older men to my left have tossed a good dose of laughter into their bickering banter. hurrah!) but the dogs are here, too. leashed up outside. so no one inside can hear them yelping.

what are they barking about, you ask? now, i'm no dog whisperer...but it might be about how the room is currently populated by an unprecedented number of "fashion" (vs sport-related) stretch pants. indeed, something like what The Fool wears. but black, of course. (ps are those...*squinting*...yellow uggs®? such a trendsetter!) and with nothing else covering their behinds. so we're suddenly floating in a sea of puckered flesh, camel toes, underwear seams and -- where commandos and, especially, thin-skinned pants are concerned -- lines of many other kinds. and that's just what's seen from a distance. my neighbour, meanwhile, insists on also providing me with an up-close and personal experience. (*begins feeling nauseated*) so, as she shimmies back and forth between our tables to go to the washroom, and then grab some napkins, and then order a scone (and then...and then...), her back end is (re)positioned directly in front of my face. for the record, she's "got it going on" (please imagine air quotes and a robotic voice). and i suppose i'm grateful she hasn't opted to face the other way when passing by, since that would make me privy to an altogether different recurring view. but neither of these facts makes any of it ok, particularly since she has -- presumably unbeknownst to her -- fallen victim to The Stretch Pant Classic, whereby her butt has footlong hairs, a colony of dust bunnies, aaand basicallyawholefieldoftumbleweed stuck to and/or dangling from it.

mayday! (hmmm..."aprilday" just doesn't have the same ring to it.) m'aidez! enter the (symbolic) cliff. (The Fool is, after all and in part, a warning card.) what if this trend continues? makers of tunics and the swiffer® alike will surely go out of business. and we'll no longer need binge drinking or imaginations -- except, of course, for drinking and imagining away most of what we will have seen. but i guess the joke's on me, since i'm clearly and increasingly outnumbered. still, even a fool knows you should cover your a** before heading out.

and now back to translating...

professor FLQ

he's ba-ack!

and now back to translating...

the (w)rite of spring

this blog was born just a little over a year ago. right around the time Spring had pleasantly surprised us with its very early and uncharacteristic balminess: on march 21/12, ottawa -- as in, the city that's home to the world's largest skating rink -- was some 27˚C! a far cry from spring 2013, which has included one sizeable snowfall and, more recently, midday temperatures hovering somewhere around 6˚. this return to climatic normalcy should probably offer some comfort on the global warming front (*fingers crossed*). yet it seems the contrast between this year and last has some people very, very confused about what to wear. or so says a quick scan of this here coffee shop...

on the one hand, there's the bare-legged young woman in line sporting the increasingly familiar itsy-bitsy black stretch-skirt, which does indeed reveal almost all of her "its" and "bits". meanwhile, there's february's birthday boy, who's now leaving the premises wearing a big fluffy red toque. but it's while watching Birthday walk away that i notice today's most memorable character: a dapper fifty-year-old man, standing by the door in full business attire. dress pants. suit jacket. fancy schmancy shiny shoes. posh purple tie. shades. and just the right amount of 'tude. the fact that there's no sign of a coat or gloves (or a toque, for that matter) isn't particularly shocking. what is startling, however, is that he's got one hand in his pocket, and the other one is -- nope, not hailing a taxi cab (though he does seem to be waiting for one), or wielding a briefcase, or even clutching a cup of coffee. (pfff -- those would all be too obvious!) no, the other hand is holding...a pair of cross-country skis.

poof! just like that -- and just like spring -- the coffee shop has once again proved it's completely unpredictable. "ski suit" will never mean the same thing again.

and now back to translating...

ode to (a venti no-whip) hot chocolate

when Work is drab, and Brain is dumb;
when Sun is grey, and Sidewalk's glum;
when Spring's astray, and Jays are few;
when Music's dim, and Sight's askew;
when Foot's asleep, and Nothing's new...
i thank the stars that i have You!

and now back to translating...

father of the pride

there's no doubt that coffee shops are microcosms of the broader public, corralling the student and the professor; the baby and the gen-zed; the wobbly-bodied and the festive-minded; the artsy, the angry and the assertive; the religious and the romantic and the rich and famous. and today, very unfortunately, the victim of domestic abuse. as well as her a**hole father.

Father's ignorance initially rears its (butt-ugly) head when he begins pontificating about muslims: they should follow the rules in canada and all become catholic! (uh-oh! i haven't been baptized yet...) and then: they must be drunk or on drugs to believe [something-er-other about honour killings]. when Daughter responds that tons of muslims don't believe in honour killings and that, by the by, most muslims don't drink, Father concludes that it must be drugs then.

my insides really tense up, though, when Daughter reveals some solemn news: i don't feel safe with him at this point. "him," it quickly becomes clear, is her boyfriend. during an argument a few nights ago, he'd hit her. hard. across the face. now, she's thinking of getting a restraining order. and, while she seems to have nearly made up her mind, she clearly wants Father's validation. clearly wants him to say something like: i think the restraining order is a good idea. and probably: i'm so sorry, Honey. maybe even: what's wrong with that pr*ck?!

instead, having learned that this is "only" the first time Boyfriend has behaved this way, Father calmly and ever-so-logically offers: i'm not picking sides, but...you know, you were fighting. and he just snapped. what makes you think he'd do it again? (i suddenly feel transported back to a decade -- or century or millenium -- i've never had the privilege of living in. to a time before the cycle of violence became very common knowledge.) he continues: my role here is to protect the family and keep it together. and, sometimes, that means overlooking your needs. 

there's a brief pause. then Daughter begins silently sobbing. i'm scared even to be near him, she says. Father grows impatient, embarrassed and abrupt. don't get upset. don't get upset! we're done this conversation now, he decides. she buries her head in her hands for a few moments. then bursts out of the coffee shop, with Father trailing a bit behind. sure is a good thing he's managed to stay so far away from all that honour business.

and now back to translating...

teeter-totters

for many months -- or maybe for ever? -- this coffee shop has housed a round wooden table that, when provoked, tips so far one way that your hot chocolate spills all over the floor. and usually onto your neighbour's pant leg. (hmmm, sorry...) but it never tips so far as to actually fall down. despite the havoc the table regularly wreaks, the staff hasn't seemed to want to get rid of or replace it. instead, someone one day decided to stick a yellow post-it to the tabletop: careful -- very wobbly! the table proceeded to migrate conspicuously around the room, as people borrowed and rejected it to accommodate their fluctuating needs, (mis)understanding just how wibbly "wobbly" was. eventually, Wobbles was given a permanent home in the far corner. near the vigilant baristas. just below the rotating artwork. there, as long as the table's turned the right way, it can't tip. can't spill any milk. can't send any cookies a-crumbling.

around the same time that the yellow note surfaced, so did a newbie regular. an elderly woman who, without the slightest provocation, perpetually teeters baaack and forth. manoeuvring her cane as best she can. struggling to walk in a straight line. and uncontrollably making contact with every object and person in her path between the coffee shop entrance, the dessert display case, and whichever available table she opts to sit down at. once she's seated, a barista delivers the food she's ordered: here you go, Frances. and, in no time, the coffee goes flying like from the dashboard of a moving, off-road vehicle. and the muffin explodes like sweeps from Mary Poppins chimneys. throughout, Frances -- "free one" (and the first woman in the u.s. cabinet!) -- is absorbed in the newspaper, its pages trembling like pre-storm leaves in her hands.

while she's here, you get the feeling that the rest of the coffee shop is a very tight pair of lungs. (and you can hear a cavernous heartbeat in the background: guh-GUNG...guh-GUNG...) eventually and slowly, Franny lifts herself up and totters out the door, into the taxi she's asked the barista to call. her impromptu dance routine -- complete with props, sound effects, fireworks, and a very attentive audience -- is unorthodox and utterly unapologetic. and, somehow, she never falls down. thank goodness nobody puts Frances in the corner.

and now back to translating...

third time's a charm

four days ago, shortly after i've plunked my stuff down on the coffee shop table, Cherub cracks open a large plastic container (that i recognize from the grocery store) and hands me one of a dozen shortbread cookies covered with thick red icing and sprinkles galore. the flavour's a bit off, actually. but the cookie's sweet all the same. and, besides, when else do you receive not one, not two, but three gifts from someone in honour of their birthday? that hasn't happened since waaay back in the era of birthday party loot bags -- when necklaces were made of froot loops (god bless edible jewellery!), and a lucky charm was merely something you found in an "irish" cereal box. plus, whereas the promise of the loot bag was sometimes the reason you decided to go to the party at all (be honest, now!), each of Cherub's foil-wrapped or icing-sprinkled goodies is a complete and delightful surprise.

before he manages to deliver his gift, i (finally) give him a birthday card. it's eight days late. but right on time for valentine's. since we don't know each other very well, the message inside is brief and, though friendly, no doubt a bit distant. but, if you read between the lines, you make out, loud and clear: thanks for making february 2013 pretty special.

and now back to translating...

double-pierced

early this morning, Cherub strikes again. this time, delivering a red-wrapped hershey's kiss. since you're always working so hard..., he says. and hobbles gently back to his table. it's officially time to pick up a birthday card for my new friend.

and now back to translating...

piercings

maybe cupid comes in a number of forms. and maybe he makes his cherubic entrance -- aw, look at that sweet-little, naked wiggler of a cartoon bum! -- a few days earlier than Mr. Calendar (*cough* Mr. Capitalism) had intended.

it's hard to deny the heart-melting powers of that wide-eyed golden retriever waiting in the bright sun on the other side of the window. and i find myself getting a wee weepy (oh, brother...) because of this morning's soundtrack: can hear Mom in Joni Mitchell's complicated voice and can picture my sister barrel-of-laughtering when Tom Waits begins murmurring. but it's a few moments later that cupid really sets his bow and arrow in motion.

a fellow coffee-shop regular starts slowly shuffling over. we've talked only once or twice before, and only ever briefly. he's a quiet, older man who's always engrossed in his newspaper and, especially, in the crossword puzzle. (a man after mine own heart!) when he reaches my table, he rather tentatively holds out his hand and opens his palm. in it, there's a small, red-foil-wrapped chocolate heart. it's my birthday month, he slowly and sweetly explains, so i like to give these out.

dear Heart: consider yourself pierced. and this shot's gonna leave a mark.

and now back to translating...

reviews

some days, all you wanna do is blog. you wanna log insignificant moments. like this assertive law school grad -- who is (she keeps reminding us) from niagara: you don't need to tell me about the realities of niagara falls! (huh?) -- giving oodles of (largely unsolicited) advice to her friend, the law school applicant. about the girl with the reeeally long hair beside me who, having just arrived, is prepping to settle into her seat and has just flashed me a contagiously friendly smile. about the endearing, pudgy, bearded, lumberjack boy in the bright-red mcgill shirt who (in)conspicuously turns around to get a load of Law Grad. about the bob marley hat that Jovial Barista is sporting. about the chocolate-chip-cookie embers floating around in my mug of mint tea (who can resist dunking?). about all ninety centimetres of that still-falling, dusty snow outside.

but none of it matters, of course. surely, what's more important, more pressing, is keeping on with the book review i'm in the middle of writing. surely.

and now back to translating...

tables have turned

sure, attitudes are changing. but no matter how, or how often, people try to say otherwise, the stigma associated with online dating reins supreme. even those who "own it" -- i think i hear some i-don't-take-no-sh*t-from-nobody, snappy-snap fingers somewhere (calm down, girlfriend!) -- do so with a good dose of hedging. first, there's the inevitable groan and the deepdowndiaphragm sigh that makes listeners feel like they're suddenly caught in an urban wind tunnel. then there's the rationalizing: i know...i KNOW! it's terrible, but it's not like i wanna pick up at the bar! and what's the big deal! i know lots of people who've met online. and it's all just a numbers game, anyway. and if i'm on there, then surely other cool people must be too. i mean, they can't all be nutbars...can they? indeed: nothing's ever sounded more like an exercise in trying to convince yourself of something.

so, it's with this same apologetic sheepishness that i fess up to recent lewd, crude and booed behaviour. after at least five solid years of disdainful resistance, mockery, and -- let's be honest -- sheer horror at the thought that meeting people "naturally" (whatever that exactly means) may be trickier nowadays than we'd anticipated once upon a time (cue the defunct Cinderella music), i find myself falling in line with the online. sheep-ish indeed: baaa(h)!

what this means, of course, is that coffee-shop meet-ups suddenly take on new significance. because the reality is that meeting somewhere other than at a coffee shop for that first conversation (*cough* initial quality assessment) is potentially dangerous (e.g. chez vous), essentially pointless (e.g. the movies -- where you can't even see each other, let alone learn about So-And-So's take on black licorice, John Baird, feng shui, or where to find the best curry on the planet), or inevitably awkward (e.g. that arts performance featuring lots of naked people waxing poetic).

and so, suddenly, while gearing up for the first forays into "unnatural" dating, i feel my own eyes watching me (who knew that could be so creepy!). and i'm wary of other, similarly motivated, coffee-shop-dwelling bloggers, who will witness and somehow capture handfuls of dull silences or how my date and i react to the predictable "doesn't look as good as in the photos" conundrum.

and yet, as it turns out, when these Mr. Dates (who, by the way, are -- at least so far -- as good-looking as they'd seemed!) have fantastic personalities, and the conversation floweth, you realize you don't care at all that some observers might be taking it all in. just maybe, you even like the idea. so, where are those blog posts anyway? because i definitely wanna read them.

and now back to translating...

-40˚C with the windchill

yes. it's even freezing cold inside the coffee shop.

and now b-b-b-back to tuh-tuh-tuh-translating-g-g...

theories of relativity

while some things are bad only by comparison (like your grade-eight heart-throb in relation to Daniel Craig or to Rachel McAdams, depending on which way your heart throbs), other things are horrific in the absolute. like genocide. or Fran Drescher. or witnessing first-date flops in coffee shops. despite making for good write-ups (far be it for me to look a gift horse in the mouth!), the latter are brutal to behold. each physical mismatch, bad joke, ho-hum expression and conversational lag twists an onlooker's kidneys, liver and pancreas into distorted and temporarily dysfunctional knots. only slightly less painful -- as i'm discovering today for the first time -- is overhearing some peoples' accounts of their recent dates.

case in point: the two thirty-something women beside me, discussing the first date one of them went on last night. the downside was that the guy surprised Lady Lover -- who apparently, and unbeknownst to him (poor thing!), hates chinese cuisine -- by taking her to his favourite (chinese) restaurant. the upside is that she thinks he's trendy -- he wore these cute boots that *i* would've picked out for him! (ah, girls who long to dress "their" man... *cringe*) -- and that it's sweet that Cute Boots proceeded to get plastered because he was so nervous. particularly agonizing, though, is Lady's friend. (how's about we call her Buffy.) in addition to repeatedly sharing her wildexplosion-ofa-highpitched cackle and offering up some arguably misguided theories (such as the reason Boots drank himself silly), Buffy periodically refers to herself in the third person -- Buffy completely understands! (*flashback to related Seinfeld episode*) -- and continues to inform Lady of what she (i.e. Lady) thinks about the whole situation, even at Lady's insistence that she actually sees things differently. (with friends like this, who needs a working mind of one's own!)

as our female tag-team departs, many pressing questions remain unanswered. is there a second date on the horizon? will Lady confess her distaste for the culinary asian invasion? will Boots pull off sobriety next time? and, most importantly, when will Lady and Buffy return for more post-date deliberations? (at that time, i'll be sure to have a prior engagement with reruns of The Nanny.)

and now back to translating...

public displays of something something

maybe it's just because i once did a stint in france -- where park benches, cafés and the hallways of lycées are teeming with people sucking face -- but i'm a big fan of the PDA. there are limits, of course. public intercourse, for instance. obviously revolting (er, not to mention illegal). and the whole hands-in-eachother's-back-pockets thing is truly a trashy tradition. (what kind of contortionist couple can comfortably pull that off anyway?) but there's something liberating -- albeit perhaps also intimidating, at least at first -- about witnessing people act according to the way they feel. this is perhaps especially true for those of us who've sprung from the comparably prudish loins of canada (or the united states, for that matter), where self-righteously belting out get a room! at the mere sight of a handholding couple is a rite of passage. but, if ottawa coffee shops are any indication, we may soon see our park benches used for more than a wild love affair with the (degenerating) globe and mail.

shortly before christmas, i pop into my favourite locale for an evening of work. there's only one table left, and it's right beside an early-thirties couple who, evidence suggests, are basking in the first three months of their relationship (aka the sacred and edenic Land of La-La). not only does the guy give me the hairy eyeball for invading their very private space (which a more seasoned couple would never be so protective of) but they're engrossed in the act of reading a book together. that's right. and not just any book. a literary classic! namely, the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. so, basically they're playing out my (nerdy) romantic fantasy. *gush* (except mine involves a young Christopher Plummer...possibly toting his naval whistle.) at the end of each paragraph that he reads aloud, she chimes in to say something relevant about symbolism or irony. or how that part of the story makes her think of something from last night's newscast or a trend in pop culture. chuckling now and then, they chat about this for a while before he resumes. from time to time throughout, he rests his elbow on the table and takes hold of her hand. and, as the reading continues, their fingers get all tangled up and move slooowly around each other so you can hear the gentle sound of their gliding skin. between sentences, she kisses one of his knuckles. and the way they look at each other during conversations conjures up at least one of many (gloriously) corny eighties tunes. the whole episode is, somehow, endearing rather than pretentious or nauseating.

later that week, i'm visiting a different café. across the room, there's a slim, early-fifties couple perched at a small table. for some twenty minutes, they're leaning in towards each other, their behinds practically hovering over their seats, and only five millimetres separating their quivering nostrils and lips. (calling all altoids!) academic onlookers have little chance of being productive (blogs aside) when these two seem determined -- despite their age -- to be reproductive. suddenly, a shift in the (limited) air between them. then an indescribable, though very familiar, grin crosses each face. a split-second pause follows in which i seriously suspect they're gonna try for a quickie in the bathroom. however well-informed, this proves merely a pipe dream (for them, for me). instead -- already perfectly in synch and randier than a nineteen-year-old-guy/thirty-five-year-old-gal pairing -- they stand up, toss on their coats and jetset home. (presumably to rip everything off again.)

this week, things are a tad tamer. only two sightings of a new pair of love-sick gigglepusses. it's sweet enough, though nothing too distracting or endearing. but, perhaps particularly with valentine's just around the corner, i'm more optimistic than ever that affection and its various public displays are in the air. maybe for good. and that this unassuming country of ours just might have a fresh slogan coming its way. canada: where we ca-na-do it (right in front of you).

and now back to translating...

little ditty 'bout Tracy and Joan

now, it's been eighteen whole years since 1995. and just when you thought you'd left the sore spots of that year (whatever they might be) in the past, you find yourself in a coffee shop listening to an uncannily familiar "singing" voice:

...what if god was one of us? just a slob like one of us. just a stranger on the bus... 

nooo!

oh, yes. it's Joan Osborne. and 1995 is suddenly back with a terrible vengeance. you'd thought it at the time, and you're thinking it again: what are these lyrics?! what is that voice? what kind of a deep-thoughts poet-of-poets does this gal think she is? and, finally, why didn't we hold a referendum on the release of this song? then comes the giant rolling of eyes. (just go with it.) and -- uh-oh! -- the prolonged gagging of self with a spoon. (yikes! don't hurt yourself.)

but there's good news. you've always hoped this song would kick the proverbial bucket. and, sure enough, after a rather torturous five minutes (that you'll never, ever get back), our poetess disappears. and -- thank god! (or is that slob? or stranger?) -- here comes Tracy in her fast car. pedal to the metal, girl! you have no idea how happy i am to see you.

and now back to translating...

ps Joanie, it's "what if god were one of us."