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."

double-double, toil and trouble

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

rewind ten days: café cappuccino, barrie.

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

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

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

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

and now back to translating...

assets

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

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

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

yep: always worth it!

and now back to translating...

of poppies and maple leafs

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

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

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

and now back to translating...

at the lab

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

Bunsen: what's with the monk outfit?

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

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

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

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

and now back to translating...