a case of the mondays

[monday, september 8]

when money floweth into one's bank account, so doth hot chocolate into one's tummy. and during such free-flowing times (are you picturing willowy, sixties-style, drug-enhanced, flower-power folk frolicking about a forest glade?), ye olde coffee shop represents a safe space. a welcoming haven. a cozy nook where "sufficiently social" meets "sufficiently anonymous" and where work meets comfort. *swoon*

when the purse strings are tight, on the other hand, the coffee shop betrays you. like a slap in the face. (yow!) suddenly -- before your very eyes, before your psyche, before your bursting-at-the-seams salivary glands, before your wallet (gulp!) -- it transforms into a looming, always-in-the-back(orfront)-of-your-mind threat...into the most vivid of (what's-that-across-the-street?!) mirages and the ultimate of tests: can you go the whole day without a hot chocolate? 

sound the alarm bells!

i have tried to resist before. to abstain from that exquisite frothy-topped warm beverage. to restrict the number of mugfuls ingested per week. all in the name of Financial Responsibility. and, each time, i have failed; efforts flopping left, right and centre.

yet, this time -- having reached into the bowels of the bowels of Self-Discipline and Free Will (those bastards!) -- i've somehow managed to skip not only last thursday's mugging but also friday's. and saturday's. and -- hold onto your hats! -- sunday's, too. and lo and behold it's monday, and it's official (well, as official as these things get): something has shifted.

while a small, glorious death will always accompany a hot chocolate, the visceral pull towards those café seats and sounds and flavours is not nearly as fierce now. (some people, i think, refer to this as...moderation?) so, today, for the first time since i can remember, i've arrived at the coffee shop as part of a plan (vs out of happy habit). yes! from now on, monday is the day: Day of the Hot Chocolate. the visit fits in before my evening class begins, kinda like another class would: a scheduled, forty-five-minute period that follows a bout of solo researching and precedes group seminaring; a time set aside for personal writing and reading, for overhearing others' (delightful, messed-up, intriguing, hilarious, etc.) conversations, for blogging...and for -- thanks be to gawd! -- enjoying the luxury that is that one weekly mugful. sssluuurp!

and now back to translating...

ode to the biggest, fattest hot chocolate out there

venti venti bo-benti,
banana-fana fo-fenti,
fee-fi-mo-menti --
venti!

and now back to translating...

no such thing as a stupid question

Customer: will there be any mango in my orange-mango smoothie?

and now back to translating...

(alarm) bell(e)s and whistles

[for sunday, july 27]

in downtown ottawa (not unlike many other communities), Summertime Saturday sees its streets, parks and canal walkways exploding with poofywhite gowns (ka-BOOM!) and parading penguin suits and a bevy of other costumes. and, regardless of whether an ornamental envelope made its way into our mailboxes months ago, we're all invited to the wedding party: just try passing the national arts centre or strolling through major's hill park without intercepting a pose or -- in the process of, say, ogling a dapper groomsman -- unwittingly striking one yourself (thereby becoming an extra in someone else's wedding album...you know: that unrecognizable person the couple's eventual offspring enquires about several years down the road: who's that, Mommy?).

yep: here come the brides!

and Summertime Sunday (the coffee shop whispers to me) can be quite similar. after all, it is -- figuratively, if not actually -- Day One in the lead-up to the coming week's saturday, as per three tables over: a beaming hetero duo and their perky wedding planner, meeting for the first time. (ps is it legal to plot others' nuptial to-dos when you're twenty-five tender years old?) the late-twenties bride-to-be has a big warm toothy smile (think Jennifer Garner, caricaturized). her sweet, gangly, concave-chested partner in crime wears a stupendously purple (think Barney the Dinosaur) tee. amid lots of giggling, the couple explains that the ceremony'll be in rockcliffe park (it'd be great if at least one photo were like [insert dream moment]!) and begins to tell Perky their story of luv -- something about CaricaJen going to med school and meeting Barney Tee there, in newfoundland. (at this point, i begin to seriously hope their wedding plans will include 1) the officiant announcing: you may now kiss the (cartoon) cod! and 2) the open bar exclusively wetting guests' whistles with screech.)

alas! Summertime Sunday is also Day Eight in last week's wedding run. it's the "wedding hangover," as per my morning mission (enveloped in the wintry chill of this über-air-conditioned starbucks): translating my forty-something friend's marriage deed into english so he can move forward with his long-awaited divorce.

cue the (fascinating) documentary "112 weddings." cue, also, the current café playlist song:

...keeps me searchin' for a heart of gold,
and i'm gettin' old.

few understand like young neil.

and now back to translating...

navel gazing

perhaps, one day, no one'll flinch when witnessing someone -- who's sitting in a coffee shop booth, alone, with nothing whatsoever going on -- strike a face-pose (outer eyes curled up + lips slightly pursed + counterfeited laissez-faire expression perfected), extend her arms straight out and up in front of her, and take a selfie.

for now, though, it's still very unsettling.

and now back to translating...

doppelgängers

seated across the way, near the doctor-your-drink station in one of the campus coffee shops, is a young man (maybe twenty-five years old) with bushy dark-brown hair, wearing a turquoise t-shirt. close by, on his right, is an older silver-haired woman.

it's lunch time. so they're eating. but, unlike others here, they're not eating food from the starbucks. instead -- hosting a kind of indoor picnic -- they have before them an array of tupperware containers, full of food that had been prepared at home. they have laid out piles of napkins on the tabletop. they have brought along their own metal cutlery. and as the man sits quietly in the black wheelchair, with its rounded cushioned headrest, the woman lifts forkfuls of food gently into his mouth.

these are the moments, after loved ones have left, that you ache for. the moments when you get to see ghosts. Graham and Mom used to sit together just like this. wielding metal forks and tupperware, from within their own sacred space. a sacred space that's now all mine to share in once again. from up close. from very far away.

and now back to translating...

schooling

kids go to school to fatten their spongy minds, and adults attend professional development seminars to hone their expertise in a given field. but the coffee shop, too, has all sorts of lessons for us!

today's lesson comes to us (indirectly) from Hans and Franz, the two thirtysomething guys over there to my left, sporting pinheads and authoritative pre-pubescent voices.

what we learn just from witnessing H&F is that, when you've worked out at the gym so much that you'll have to add "neck" to your next xmas wishlist (dear Santa...), you are indeed over-pumping.

and now back to translating...