what not to do

i went on a first date at a coffee shop when i was sixteen. the outing was complete with honey cruller, handsome chap and (obviously) hot chocolate. and, as luck would have it, that date turned into a great relationship that lasted several years.

but, in terms of romantic café-ing, that’s it for me. hardly a firsthand expert! on the other hand, there’s something to be said for witnessing others at play -- or at work, depending on how well (or not) the date is going. and the past several weeks have offered up a number of at-times-pleasant-but-usually-painful romantic antics – “romantics”? – for my eavesdropping ears/eyes to feast on. the incidents are nothing much on their own. but, when pieced together, they point to the beginnings of a “do” and “don’t” list – which i’ll endeavour to beef up as examples surface.

what NOT to do

1. pick your nose. 

that’s right: just when you thought some things didn’t need to be said, there’s that guy on his phone, distracted by what he’s hearing, and forgetting that we (including his date) can still see him. whatever. we all do it. but no one – especially the person who might otherwise have been interested in indulging in a first kiss with you – wants to see it in action.

2. wear so much cologne.

if there’s a chance your date will believe the coffee shop manager has hired you to fumigate the place, then think twice before leaving home. take a second shower to quell the smell. then try again, with approximately 1% of the liquid and gusto you put into it the first time.

3. talk about “the [insert adjective] things” your pet does.

this lady’s cat is so smart and has such personality that she just has to share every detail about her beloved – and practically human, dontcha know! – feline. alas! her date can’t get a word in edgewise and is learning more about kitty litter than about the person he’s actually out with. enjoy your pet, and share this joy with the person who may become your significant other. but – for the love of god – not yet. not on the first date. because you know that, if you start talking about Patches, you won’t be able to stop. and Date #2 will be a movie and some Fancy Feast with Mittens.

4. snort/hork.

doubletriplequadruple ew! no way. no how. not even when you’re holding that tissue in front of your face, Mister. we can still hear all of it. the rolling of the mucus-cum-phlegm from your nose into the back, cavernous regions of your throat. the heavy glob-drop down your esophageal tube. or, if you’ve opted to spit instead of swallow (no comment), the “discreet” gathering of the liquid mass into your mouth – so you can’t talk anymore – for eventual disposal. in any case, this is not kosher first-date behaviour.

on deck: the beginnings of the what to do list.

and now back to translating…

myth busters

scene of the propagating myths:
two thirty-something women beside me are complaining about some apparently harebrained guy who doesn't seem to understand something-or-other that (according to the girls) is so obvious! one of their complaints -- accompanied by a tone of utter disbelief -- goes something like this: this guy's working on his ph.d....he's so smart but can't understand that!?

*fanfare* enter The Myth Buster!

i'm not going to get into whether or not this guy "could've" or "should've" known whatever it is they wish he had. (these gals seem pretty hip to the jive, so i'm guessing they're right about the boneheadedness of his behaviour.) instead, i'm interested in busting up two myths:

myth I: a person who's doing or who has a ph.d. is necessarily really smart.
myth II: a ph.d. student or recipient is smart at everything. (more or less.)

bust-up I: if you're doing doctoral work, you're probably not a total moron. (though -- alas! -- some emphasis should be placed on "probably.") and, indeed, many doc students and profs are brilliant! (which, by the by, contributes quite nicely to the fact that their colleagues ritually suffer from the "impostor syndrome.") but, truth be told, it's not mostly about smarts at all. getting a ph.d. depends much more on two other factors: 1) really wanting to get your hands on that degree (for whatever reason -- including getting a job, learning more about topic X, impressing Dad, or dealing with that nagging inferiority complex...dammit!), and 2) figuring out how to actually make that happen: learning how to research and write according to specific standards and otherwise disciplining yourself to work, and to work hard. (insert guilt-ridden comment about blogging instead of thesis-ing.) incidentally, these factors help explain why many people don't finish the ph.d. they started...despite being smarty-pantses.

bust-up II: no one's smart at everything. few people are even smart at lots of things. if you have a ph.d., you're basically just supposed to know one or two things particularly well. in other words, don't expect that prof who really gets rocket science to necessarily also understand how to make a real good grilled-cheese sandwich (oh, wow -- just realized how hungry i am!) or fix a toilet or sew on a button or put together a realistic budget or know about the mating patterns of coyotes or what the relationship between old norse and old english is or who Martha Graham is or how to communicate effectively with Mom or what electrolytes or that scene from When Harry Met Sally are all about.

and now back to my inferiority complex...

star bucks: the next generation

this is how it always goes: you learn a new word (like "percipient"), and suddenly everyone's using it; you discover an actor you'd never heard of before (e.g. Jessica Chastain) and, out of nowhere, she's in every new release (and gets to kiss Brad Pitt); you hear some interesting new tidbit of trivia (it's a little-known fact that...) only to realize, shortly thereafter, that everyone already knew that and didn't you hear so-and-so saying that last week? and where have you been all this time?

yep: the world's conspiring against you. and you'll never know why it's choosing to do it in this particular (aka inconsequential) way.

anyway, it's according to this logic that, having witnessed the first arrival of Generation Z to the coffee shop only a week ago, i of course now hear a gaggle of barely-twenty-year-olds galumph into the café. the lead girl -- in sheer wide-eyed wonderment -- shouts out to her friends: hey, guys! it smells like coffee in here! wow. very percipient.

and now back to translating...

ch-ch-changes

settling back into the neighbourhood coffee shop, after being on the road for a couple of weeks (woo-hoo!) and sick in bed for a couple of days (doh!), reminds me that lots can change in a short period of time. oh, sure, some things stay the same: this no-whip hot chocolate still rocks (even in 35˚C heat), and Tumbleweed -- currently sporting the disturbingly popular white knee-high + brown sandal ensemble -- is still kicking around. but some other familiar things are noticeably different.

take the art on the back wall, for instance. whether featuring close-ups of peeved cockatoos or watercolours of trees on distant hillsides (*cue the violin*), the rotating artwork is consistently pretty. that's "pretty," as pronounced by a five-year-old girl who worships pink (the colour, not the "artist"). by contrast, this week's works are a series of distorted, abstract images. on the upside, perhaps they suggest that this clientèle isn't as mainstream as i'd thought! on the downside, nobody should quit their day job: this stuff's "pretty" ugly.

next: get a load of these Regulars! shouldn't they, by definition, remain unchanged? instead, they're over there behaving irregularly. for one, there are three of them here right now. (i've hardly seen even two in the coffee shop at the same time before. and, ps, would it have killed them to invite Professor FLQ and me to their little convention?) but far more notable is that each member of today's all-male cast has the same yellow short-sleeved golf shirt on. atypical, to be sure. plus, it's giving me painful flashbacks to a very bad date (not unlike an evening with the Snore Sisters...though with fewer opportunities to escape) with a guy whose own yellow golf shirt basically summed up his personality. (eek!) luckily, the shock of this "what not to wear" episode is tempered, albeit only slightly, by the fact that yellow is my favourite colour. (phew!)

finally, there is a definite shift in demographics: three mini-muscled, american eagle, swaggering twenty-year-olds have just descended upon the table next to me. ta-da! it's the coffee shop début of generation z! and -- oh, goodie! -- it's a double feature: a few minutes later, two of their female peers bounce in and over to the same spot. but the scene that follows proves more perplexing than entertaining:

Girl 1 giggles over to Boy 1, clearly signalling that they're "together" in some way. (Girl 2 looks on, mostly silent, occasionally giggling, and just a tad jealous...like any good sidekick.) B1's response -- some slapdash kiss -- indicates more or less the same togetherness. however, he's focused more on not looking like some kind of a "wuss" in front of his (awkward, chuckling) friends than on being sweet with G1. within moments, B1 and G1 have made vague plans to talk later on, and the Giggle Girls depart. as soon as the duo are out of sight, the trio morph into a 21st-century skater version of the wannabe boys from Madmen (aka Pete Campbell & co.): they begin roaring with laughter and, with broad smirks still in tow, rolling their eyes at G1 and taunting Pete.

as it turns out, Pete is totally uninterested in Giggles. as it also turns out, he can't let her in on this bit of information. why's he so tongue-tied? well, he's just in short supply of two round objects that would normally be found dangling loosely from his nether regions. ah, yes. unfortunately, current dating experiences of women of all ages keep pointing to a recurring phenomenon: that, regardless of the girl, many "grown" men are just as "mad" as young Pete. these are the cute/sweet/bright/down-to-earth/original thirty-one -- or forty-one or fifty-nine or seventy-six -- year-old guys who've spent three and a half weeks dating a woman, have initiated plans with her for two months down the road, and have then left for a work weekend in victoria, never to be heard from again. she's disappointed when it doesn't work out, i suppose. (though losing Mr. "Original" can hardly be considered a big deal.) but no notice? no short-and-sweet straight-talk? *sigh*

i guess, hot chocolate and Tumbleweed aren't the only things that endure the test of time, after all.

and now back to translating...

loonie bin

you know that busker-type who stands frozen on the sidewalk for what seem like eons and moves only after someone tosses a couple of loonies into the upside-down, gold-glitter-spraypainted top hat on the ground in front of him? well, imagine that, instead of one busker, there are two. and instead of standing in crisply held mime-shapes on the streetside, they're sitting face-to-face lethargic right next to you in a coffee shop. and instead of surprising you by mr. roboto-ing when you drop loonies into the hat (which, of course, doesn't actually exist in this scenario), they talk. and instead of enchanting you with their impressive stillness and concentration, they bore you stiff (causing you to begin inadvertently resembling the mid-freeze busker) with their debilitatingly dull topics of conversation. and, even though you've stopped throwing your "loonies" into the "hat" (truth be told, you've yet to throw even one because you'd never been all that interested to begin with), they always find something else to say (usually monotonously) after their long pauses, so you can never make it stop or make them go away.

well, this is pretty much what's happening here right now. these two 50+ sisters (i guess?) launch into something about how lipstick melts. (long pause. would-be loonie toss.) then, on to how chemicals break down the spandex in bathing suits. (pause. loonie.) later, it comes up that some mutual friend named Marla has lots of stuff. gripping. even their rants (so-called) are a snore: you know what i hate? kitchen stuff. (what that could possibly mean, i will never know.) or how about: you know flip flops? that thing between the toes? i can't wear those. they're not realistic for walking. on a scale of boring to BO-RING, this is a bazillion times worse than any bridgehead hot chocolate. i'm on the verge of falling into a very deep coma. and of gouging one of my own eyes out. possibly with a loonie.

forty-five minutes into the Snore Sisters' conversation, a glimmer of hope. Sister 1: do we need to get going? i mean, what time's our show at again? (oh, if ever there were a god...) but then, Sister 2: 7:30. current time: 5:45. oh, eff.

some time later, at the same table -- now occupied by a 20-something woman who's wearing her black Jackie O sunglasses indoors (which i understand about as well as i get "hating kitchen stuff") -- there's another freeze-busker moment. a 30-something man-on-a-mission enters the coffee shop and makes a beeline for Indoor Jackie. he kind of reminds me of the stapler guy (aka Milton) from office space, except thinner, with darker hair and less ridiculous eyewear. anyway, he stands behind the chair that's facing Jackie and remains there, completely still, mute and erect (no, not like that) for a solid sixty seconds. it's awkward. Jackie's very busy texting, and (reminder) she's wearing sunglasses. indoors. so, this whole time, she doesn't seem to see him. when her eagle eye finally does spot him, she throws a question (instead of a loonie) dryly his way: are you looking for someone? he doesn't even answer. instead, realizing Jackie's clearly not the blind date he's come here to meet up with, he does a 180˚ (like they do in the military) and takes a seat at a neighbouring table to wait for his real date. frozen again for an indefinite amount of time. until the next loonie drops.

and now back to translating...

girl, interrupted

over the past few days, spring has sprung me out of the coffee shops -- er, and away from work -- and into the parks for tossing around the softball and renewing an annual addiction to lilacs, nectarine blossoms, and (a whole festival of) tulips. so, being back at work today means being a bit out of sorts: not quite in the groove yet, and distracted by all kinds of things.

let's pause here and rightfully call "spring" (Glorious) Interruption Number One.

next is music. it's a mostly Marley kind of day here. at one point, though, "everybody wants to rule the world" chimes in. 80s junkies know this song's by brit band tears for fears. but, for some reason, i've mistaken them for aussie group inxs -- as in, the original; not the one partially constructed via reality tv (pfff!) -- and so my mind wanders 25 years back in time and 600 kilometres southwest of here to the giant inxs posters on my cousin Erin's bedroom walls, to that big beautiful creaky-floored waterfront house, to the backyard volleyball net, to that (now defunct?) supercool suspended wicker chair in the quasi-patio, to --

bah! ok, back to academic analyses already.

except that then the creepiest guys -- ever -- arrive. three 30- and 40-somethings who are brand-named to the max, have their hair gelled and waxed to a shiny-stiff mass, and always sit cocky in the café for hours, barely talking. instead, they text (i'm pretty sure they're spies) and deliberately turn their chairs away from each other in order to ogle any and all female guests. yikes -- avoid all eye contact and pray they sit nowhere near you! but what's this? they're opting for the patio today. (i guess they'll want to soak up the direct sunlight to optimize their "hair glare.") *sigh of relief*

return to readings on migration flows.

what next distracts is a full-on boob. (the Oglers should've stuck around.) it's not necessarily what you'd call a sexy b(r)east: it's a large, heavy number, with the nipple pointing 45˚ downward. but it is absolute perfection. Mom lifts the right side of her blouse, and Baby instantly becomes a happy-latcher. very likely looking like a pervert, i'm completely entranced -- loving (admiring, even) how she's lifted her shirt and exposed her entire, giant mammary without ever glancing around the room to see who might care. and i also think of all the (riveting!) controversy over Elisabeth Badinter's recent writings on "modern motherhood" and, in particular, on the repercussions (for moms, dads and kids alike) of current pressures on women to breastfeed. i'm intellectually titillated! (that's right: i went there.)

now playing: radiohead's high and dry... but i digress. where'd that quote about exile get to?

it's at this moment that an increasingly familiar figure enters: professor FLQ. and here's where "interruption" takes on a capital "i." after the initial delight of running into each other again (i can't deny it: i was also happy), he engages me in a 60-minute dialogue on various hot topics: the quebec referenda (of course!); prime ministers who have made a difference, "good" or "bad"; feminism and abortion (male profs who teach courses on feminism, like i did, are hard to come by! -- at which point i remark to him on how humble he is); Pierre vs. Justin Trudeau; fund management and left-wing politics at the CBC, ... it was all such a whirlwind that, were it not for the charisma and momentum of his upbeat personality and for his great conversational skills, i might have felt like the victim of a Pixie drill! interspersed between these back-and-forths, he explains that he feels like we're interviewing each other. evidently, this is something like xmas for him, as the mere idea of an interview sends this small-framed man into hearty Santa-like laughter. who's your favourite interviewer? mine's Diane Sawyer. i feel like you're Diane Sawyer!

and then onto psychology. after mentioning he has an oncology appointment in a few hours, he declares that -- insert important hear ye, hear ye voice -- attitude is the key to life: never once during my career did i wake up and say to myself: 'i don't want to go to work today!' then he pauses and begins his analysis. you know what i want you to do? look at yourself in the mirror everyday and say to yourself: "TVB, i like the woman i've become." the guy to the left of the Professor has been witnessing the whole interaction. he cannot wipe the smirk off his face. and particularly enjoys what follows: promise me one thing, says Professor, promise me that i get to make a speech at your wedding. i point out that, in order for that to happen, i'd have to 1) have a wedding (insert something-or-other about how the average canadian wedding costs $23,000 -- oh! and about how i'm single) and 2) still know him whenever said wedding occurs. these strike him as insignificant details, and he proceeds to foretell the future: his name will be Jasper; the wedding will be 2014. mark my words! and now, i've taken up enough of your time. get back to work.

and now back to translating...

(oh, who'm i kidding! this day is shot.)

nightmare on elgin street (or "csi ottawa")

one über groovy, ultra popular toronto coffee shop is the (in)famous Jet Fuel. the pastries -- think buttery, pear-and-chocolate danishes (now pause to drool) -- and ho-cho are the only things that are sweet there. the music's loud, hard rock. the staff are irreverent. and, yes, the coffee (so i'm told) is powerful enough to fuel a large aircraft.

right now i'm in a familiar golden-triangle chain café where, by contrast, everything tends to be über status quo: the music's mainstream (unfortunately including a few jazz standards -- how did Diana Krall not come up in earlier discussions about androgynous voices?), the staff are bubbly (remember Musical-Theatre Genius?), and the coffee is, i assume, as addictive as most others. yet, today, the brew here must be at least as powerful as at the Jet, because what else could be fuelling all this palpable, out-of-character frustration?

crime scene #1
act I: two 60-something regulars -- one: a tall, spry man, bald like a friar; the other: a pale and dreary mr. potato head, sporting salt-and-pepper tumbleweed for hair -- gab for more than twenty minutes and exit the coffee shop, leaving paper cups and thickly strewn newsprint behind.

act II: some five minutes later, another man -- an elongated kind of Jerry Seinfeld -- enters and, after surveying the room to be sure no one's occupying the only available table, quietly clears away the newspapery mess, sets down his things (keys, pen and paper, etc.) and gets in line to order a shot of caffeine.

act III: suddenly, Tumbleweed returns. (uh-oh.) he's solo. sees new look of table. flicker of red rage through the eyes. begins grumbling. low, intense: i was sitting here! who moved my stuff?! aggressively pushes keys-etc off "his" table. Jerry walks over. gentle, sincere: sorry, i didn't know anyone was sitting here. shifts things to newly available table. Tumbleweed growls at Jerry once, twice. Jerry, shocked but calm and firm: hey, take it easy! Tumbleweed growls a third time. loud. crowd on edge. Jerry slinks over to new table. wants to leave. but will not be bullied out of the café. five more minutes of Tumbleweed thrashing about. barking at staff. (what'd you do with my newspapers? where's my bic pen?) glaring at Jerry.

tick...

crime scene #2 
an hour later, exasperated 50-year-old woman and her silent, feeble mother are getting ready to leave. very audibly, Daughter says to Mother: well...(*heavy sigh*)...i guess ya better go to the washroom now so we can get in at least a FEW hours in the car without having to stop...

tick...

crime scene #3
sitting at the table next to me, 10 minutes later, is a 30-something woman wearing -- get ready! -- pink patent-pleather platform shoes. (that's at least three inches of "formed plat.") this is a very bossy ladder-climber who -- not to quote from the zodiac or anything, but... -- must have her sun, moon or something else in Leo, as per its "loud/proud/be-the-focus-of-the-crowd" qualities: she spends thirty minutes talking on the phone at top volume with a contractor-colleague, barking orders at him à la Tumbleweed and -- due to a bad phone connection -- routinely bellowing "speak up!"

Pinky's the only one who doesn't notice that every other java sipper is ready to pounce on her and pummel 'er to a patent-leather pulp.

tick...

crime scene #4
Pinky and the friendly young guy at the table next to her realize they both need to use the outlet near him to recharge their computers. as it turns out, her battery is much lower than his. and, besides, successfully saying "no" to this lady is about as likely as Daughter managing to mind Mother's dignity. still, when Friendly yields the outlet to Pinky, i think to myself: aw, how nice! that is, until he throws in: ladies first. nothing against Friendly. obviously, he's still very nice. but how is it that this "ladies first" thing endures? Pinky has a vulva; ergo, she goes first? bogus logic, on all imaginable levels. no, this tagline and all it represents need to go. let's make a deal, Mister: you don't have to open the door for me because my genitals go in and yours go out. instead, you could do it because you get there first, i happen to be walking through the same door right after you, and it's a nice (not to mention really easy) thing to do. and these are the exact reasons why i could, should and will do the same for you, or any vulva-toting passer-by. yeah?

BOOM!

(and i don't even drink coffee.)

and now back to translating...