form and content

hear the two ladies sitting at that nearby table? they're twenty-eight or so and haven't seen each other in a while. so it's loud, rapid-speed shrieks and giggles and omigods galore. more notable, however, is the healthy dose of uptalk, vocal fry and the ever-prolific like. and by "healthy" i mean "mortifying." making statements sound like questions -- i'm neeervous about the interview? but, like, i'm not superworried? -- contributes nicely to narrowing the gap between women/gay men and the Triple-S (shallow-stupid-spoiled) stereotypes associated with the likes (get it?) of Miss America competitors, Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield, and Paris Hilton. (apparently, hetero-identified guys also use these speech tactics. guess i've just never heard it.)

here's the surprise twist, though: as the two women continue talking, i learn that one of them is a UC berkeley grad student and the other's clerking at the supreme court of canada. *rimshot* please see previous discussions about the unfairness of jumping to certain conclusions, but people in these positions don't tend to be dipsticks. and, indeed, the content of their conversation seems to indicate that they're very bright. so what's with the way they talk? i guess "legally blonde" has effectively jumped off the movie screen and into the real-life courtroom (among other workplaces). yikes! who would want to hire Clerky as their lawyer? as far as professional credibility goes, if she's gonna talk like that, she might as well show up to court wearing jogging pants. or -- what the hell -- a bustier (BOO-stee-yay)! after all, what could possibly go better with those gravelly vocal tones than well-presented cleavage?

















and now back to translating...

nothing, nada, zilch.

it's official: for the first time since i began this blog, there's absolutely nothing of interest going on in the coffee shop. 

how can this be? i'm in downtown toronto, and this location is crawling with a host of people. a very friendly, young mega-hippie. a congregation of bright (and only slightly perky) legal professionals. an unusual grouping of strangers sitting around a looooong table. workers, gabbers, hermits, sloths; they're all here, and in all colours, shapes and sizes. plus, tiff's on, and i'm right down the street from cbc. so i'm just poised for a celebrity sighting. Ryan Gosling, Jian Ghomeshi, Javier Bardem...where in heck are you guys?

but...nope. with the exception of the shockingly large umbrellas so many people are ludicrously wielding outside (they're like the volkswagen beetles of rain protective gear: you could squeeze twenty clowns under those things), there's nothing of note.

thankfully, however, i'm accompanied by aretha franklin and otis redding. even as we launch into this playlist for the fifth time, they make this café a very groovy place to be. and, as a bonus, there's the rain. the good kind. so, instead of giving you a headache or making you aware of the fact that you're beginning to suffer from arthritis (oh, lord! i'm getting old...), it makes you wanna be doing one of three things -- two of which are reading a good book in bed, and lounging in a coffee shop. but i digress...

so, basically, everything here is just hunky-dory. *sigh* this only reminds me of how terribly dull "hunky-dory" can be. which is why the current social obsession with the "be happy" tagline makes me crazy. i don't want to strive for 24/7 happiness! never mind the fact that being told to be happy seems to shove aside whatever legitimate reasons there might be for feeling differently, there's also that whole relativity thing: if we were happy all the time, i'm pretty sure we'd be as good as dead. nope: i wanna feel all of it. confusion and sadness; anger and empathy and pride and humiliation; disappointment, discomfort and ecstasy; love and heartache and loss. and i want to think about as much as i can, without having my head explode. i want to watch the news (even the so-called bad stuff). i want heated debates. i want to question myself so that i have to change my mind sometimes.

and, obviously, i also want to be happy. so, actually, easing into this aretha/hippie/hocho groove is a cinch. and a pleasure! but it had better not last too long.

and now back to translating...

all the world's a stage

...and all the men and women merely players:

two days ago, an elderly woman, dressed head-to-toe in emerald-city green (egad!), bursts onto the scene barking at one of the customers for leaving her puppy outside (for two and a half minutes) to die a gruelling -- *cough* fictional -- death in the sweltering heat. after shouting fatty! at the dog owner (the entire coffee shop gasps), Esmeralda is dismissed from the premises by one of the baristas. (imagine a very angry vaudeville hook.) and the crowd goes wild!

taking centre stage yesterday: three new Gen Zeds -- one guy, two girls. he's a mute wallflower and blends in well with the current conversational wasteland. but the girls -- one PippiLongstocking-meets-SideshowBob; one SinéadO'Connor-circa-nothingcompares2u -- are in a perpetual state of wigging out. it's loud-speaker voices, oversharing, and exclamation marks absolutely everywhere. a sampling... Redhead Zed: my mom was engaged seven times before she got married! Skinhead Zed: i'm trying to be seductive, but it's not working! Deadhead Zed: ...  (shhh, i think he's sleeping. zzz...) eventually, heckling from the peanut gallery (aka the forty-year-old ordering his mocha somethingsomething): HEL-LO!? but the Zeds are oblivious. and, since the show must go on, the audience learns that Red's dad was forty-two and had braces when she was born, and that...

today, it's a one-man show, starring my favourite character, Professor FLQ, who's popped by for a "brief" (it's never brief) chat. today's monologue revolves around the flying squirrel, the 1972 munich massacre (how had i not known about this? *crawls out from under rock*), his ride-along with the ottawa police, his love of country music, his aversion to all things internet. then, he offers to set me up with a sixty-five-year-old man. excuse me? upon recovering from the initial shock, i threaten to defriend him altogether if he does this. and to leave him sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. he promptly changes the subject.

and now back to translating...

holy trinity

[from the archives of thursday july 19]

hocho lovers unite! today, i'm on location in trinity-bellwoods, toronto, and -- *drum roll* -- i've just stumbled upon the most divine hot chocolate. ever. you're gonna wanna checkthisout/ writethisdown/ committhistomemory: nadège. at queen and gore vale. (in case you forget: sounds like dean and door nail. or green and lore mail.) what you're probably thinking now is: hey, what does nadège mean in english, anyway? well, i'm glad you've asked. it's french for no matter where you currently find yourself, make the pilgrimage to see us immediately! (a good example of how, sometimes, a word in one language is tantamount to a whole sentence in another.)

upon arrival, my friend and i learn that it will take them some ten minutes to make the drinks. the staff seem concerned that we might not want to stick around that long. on the contrary! any hot chocolate that's had ten glorious minutes of TLC (uh-oh! cue an unrelated song...) is something well worth waiting for.

through the large window that separates the eating area from the kitchen, we can see the pastry chefs in full smock-and-toque (yes: toque) garb as they prep the pastries and -- more importantly -- the chocolatey beverages. twelve minutes later, two little white ceramic mugs on two little white ceramic plates, accompanied by two not-so-little pink homemade mallows, are placed before us. the mugs are full of thick dark velvet, and -- omigod! -- there's a halo hovering over the liquid. ok, no: that last part's a lie. but one sip says that this is heaven. amen!

and now back to translating...

(no way) know how

currently working alongside a group of business students, who are discussing a group project. they're talking mission statements and taglines and growth strategies. it's all good. until the leader of the pack -- like a (twenty-two-year-old) priest attempting to empower a parishioner -- says to one of her colleagues:

you are becoming the CEO of your knowledge.

a fifteen-letter word comes to mind: gagmewithaspoon.

and now back to translating...

where is the love?

a good friend regularly reminds me that it's good to make changes now and then. like switching up your morning routine: maybe starting with the other leg when you put your pants on. or taking a new route to work: say, going through -- instead of around -- the experimental farm. and, indeed, you find you pay closer attention to your habits (sleeping on this side of the bed feels so weird...) and surroundings (whoa, nelly! has that house on island park drive always been yellow?).

so, over the past week or so, for good measure, i've been introducing some small-scale changes: plugging lane swims and modern dance (back) into the weekly schedule; periodically drinking black tea or lemonade, instead of only hot chocolate; and, now, testing out a new coffee shop.

what's great about this spot -- located smack dab in the heart of downtown ottawa, among the bustle (well, it's really more of a drone) of nine-to-fiving public servants -- is the music: a string of omaha and wanna be startin' somethin' and brandy alexander. with every loop back to august and everything after -- aka my grade-eleven soundtrack -- i feel increasingly in the groove (which, incidentally, is no small miracle lately).

and yet something significant is missing. the staff manages the cash transaction just fine, and their delivery of the goods is in check. but their howareyoutodays are completely vacant. what?! where is the love? perhaps it's been sucked from their very souls, by virtue of the hours they've spent having bureaucrats bark eleven-adjectives-long orders at them (gimme a no-whip, extra-foam, super-skinny, soy XYZ with a double shot of ABC, lots of DEF, and, um, do you have something that will remove the wrinkles from my left knee? 'cause i'll take three shots of that) while carrying on with their fellow chatty-cathy suits.

there's no doubt about it. the love i'm looking for is right where i left it: at the other end of this long street, back home at my usual neighbourhood coffee shop. where they have extra whip cream and all the wrinkles a left knee warrants. and where the faces of baristas, regulars and newbies alike are not just very familiar; they're friendly and funny and frank.

so my friend's right (as he usually is). these changes are good. in this case, not because i necessarily expect to warm up to this new place. (some things are just too hard. and i'm not ready yet.) but because it makes me realize how spoiled i've been back home. and, what can i say: that's a good feeling.

and now back to translating...

placenta

i love babies. their sweet smell, ginomous eyes, thunder thighs and smooth skin. (even the ugly ones fit the bill.) i also love great moms -- who do bazillions of selfless things just to keep their kids alive!

so i'm currently feeling a bit conflicted. because there's a threesome of moms (excuse me?) coffee-ing two tables and one stroller over, and all i can think -- despite being charmed by the wee one and wanting to one day join the ranks of motherhood myself -- is: lord help me if i one day have to be part of conversations like that on a regular basis! soother brands and teething and "tummy time" and "poopie pants" and an endless array of (really annoying) baby voices and -- worst of all -- laughing at things that just. aren't. funny. (at all.)

so, i'm thinking of popping over to the fancy paper shoppe. and picking up a couple of cards. one, for the momsome: sorry about your sense of humour. (maybe it goes out in the placenta?) the other, for Future Me. the envelope will read: for when your water breaks. and on the inside of the card: don't forget to eat the placenta.

and now back to translating...