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...