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."