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...

jack-o'-lanterns

entertaining and frightening sightings, with a dash of ho-hum beenthereseenthat, are the order of the day.

today's three baristas, for instance, are -- as always -- good sports, dressed up as Thing 1, Thing 2 and Rosie the Riveter. costume quality ranking: huzzah!

then, a few walk-ins. a male hippie, a male trojan warrior, and a female black cat. costume ranking: yawn. except for the fact that Kitty reminds me of Miranda's astute hallowe'en comment in the first sex-and-the-city movie. amended ranking: yawn+.

próximo: enter a woman dressed as a common prostitute. ranking: oh, wait...that's not a costume...and that's not her job.

and finally, four middle-aged parents, chatting at the neighbouring table. no costumes. but nonetheless frightening.

Scary Dad: yeah, see, in our family, our kids do well in school 'cause a B isn't good enough...according to my wife. sounds harsh. but it's all good. 

hmmm. sorry, Kids.

Scarier Dad: ...and then there's the retard class. *chuckle*

ranking: boo! good thing i packed my trusty, about-to-be-bloody knife and Psycho clip. this is, after all, the only day of the year when one can (nearly) get away with physically assaulting those son-of-a-jack-o'-lanterns who engage in verbal assault the other 364 days of the year.

and now back to translating...

survey monkeys

it's time for the randomly assigned star*ucks customer feedback survey: yee-haw! filling it out means getting a(nother) gratis hot chocolate. it also means noticing that you belong, for the first time, to the "35-49 years" checkbox. humph. it's not that i mind thirty-five. (in fact, it's a pretty great age.) but i'm none too crazy about seeing it placed directly beside that other number. c'mon -- all in due time, Survey Monkey! *furrowing brow*

luckily, with its regular hubbub of conversations, the coffee shop quickly reminds us that such trivial, self-absorbed, middle-class, survey-based musings shouldn't occupy our thoughts for too long. after all, furrowing one's brow has never helped a thirty-five-year-old look less like a forty-nine-year-old! (*gently relaxes forehead*) and, besides, the world does not revolve around me!

at my six o'clock:
fifty-year-old man's man #1: so, hey, is Darren still married? 
fifty-year-old man's man #2: well...yeah. but he's still as grumpy as ever.
*in unison*: har-dee-har-har-har

[eight o'clock]
fifty-year-old delivery guy, on his way out the door: a lotta goodlookin' girls in here... 
(yeesh. very subtle.)

[three o'clock]
barista: hello, what can i get for you today?
fifty-year-old woman: my mom's dying, so i need some caffeine.
barista: *awkward pause*

looks like forty-nine isn't what i need to be worrying about. phew!

and now back to translating...

oh my god

this is the 401 of coffeeshop line-ups: being in it is like being caught in rush-hour-toronto highway traffic, where "rush hour" is all the time. and, just like the 401, line-ups like this can test the limits of your patience and tolerance. but, on the highway, at least you're enclosed within your four-wheeled, metal capsule. so, while bumper-to-bumpering your way to work can be truly frustrating (*cue the road rage*), you're pretty comfy: the temperature's just the way you like it, you're blasting the Whitney (oh, yes you are!), you're thinking your thoughts -- even, on occasion, shouting them out (Buddy! what the [----] are you doing?!?) -- and the rainhailsleetsnow can't touch ya. ah, the freedom of the (not-so-) open road!

in this campus line-up, by contrast, there's very little separating you from your travel companions (aka your fellow hot-beverage addicts). which, of course, can be part of the charm: three cheers for friendly, spontaneous face-to-face interaction! on the other hand, the twenty-minute shuffle towards your heroin(e)-of-choice offers little in the way of protection against the elements. conversational elements, that is. (and not just the kind Lulu sprays when on her cell.) exposure to them can be about as comfortable as witnessing that long, racy sex scene in a movie you're watching with your parents. (*shiver*) today, for instance, i'm shuffling directly behind a bigenerational male duo: one thoughtful and passive sixty-year-old mentor type; one intense and dynamic nineteen-year-old Davy Jones lookalike. with two-hundred percent of the arrogance and condescension of any Jimmy Swaggart, Davy does ninety percent of the yammering...

you know, people need to look not to the wisdom of man but to the power of god.

[...]

i was speaking with this woman who said she was going to be angry for the rest of her life because she'd been confined to a wheelchair, and i told her: NO! no, you don't have to be angry your whole life. Jesus never complained! he never asked: "why, God? why did you put a mountain in my way?" he just said: "move, Mountain." [Mentor nods pensively.]

[...]

i ran into this homeless man and asked him how he was doing. he said his back was sore. and i said: "here...let me take a look." [stretches arms out in front of him, showing his healing powers.] it was amazing!

Mentor: you obviously have a gift. 
Davy: i really do.

as we (finally) reach our destination, the barista says: were you making a joke? 

as it turns out, he's talking to his co-worker about something unrelated. but it feels like poetic justice to me.

and now back to translating...

spaced out

there's a grey-speckled lululemon hoodie in front of me. and, inside it: a girl. she's preparing a "bacteria" powerpoint presentation. including a collection of gruesome images that flash before my eyes both times she asks me to mind her computer so she can have a worry-free pee. when not peeing, she enjoys using my teenytinytable as an armrest, as she contemplates (out loud) how to best explain "botulism." she also fancies backing her chair up, over and over again, into said teenytinytable. (boom!)

yes: Lulu is that person. the one who stands just a little too close to you in line at the coffee shop so that, as she's talking on her phone, her saliva flies onto your chin. (doh!) the one who, unbeknownst to her, manages to permanently block you on the sidewalk despite all your efforts to get by. (why, i'll...!) the one who transforms your trip to the grocery store from a sunshiny, everything's-coming-up-roses adventure in gastronomy (right?) into some kind of obstacle course that she has (again, utterly inadvertently) set up by leaving her cart in the middle of the aisle and then -- while trying to locate the peanut butter that's on sale -- stands wide-eyed in the centre of another part of that aisle, taking no notice whatsoever of the people lining up to get to the jam/honey/nutella or of the resulting twenty-cart pile-up. (*loudspeaker* pile-up in aisle three!)

meeeanwhile, not far from Lulu is a guy who's dressed head to toe in tweed (which doesn't actually matter -- except, how often do you see that on a thirty-year-old? and, besides, how else will you understand the name i'm about to give him?) and taking spatial awareness to a whole other level. within the span of thirty minutes, Tweed has changed teenytinytables three times. and it's unclear why. he's not just looking for a place to plug in his computer, and he doesn't appear to be too hot or too cold. but something's getting to him. it seems there can be only two possible explanations: either he's suffering from AASA (acutely acute spatial awareness) and is responding to the (apparently) negative energy of those around him (Lulu being one of them), or...it's something or other about bacteria.

and now back to translating...

10/11/12

kudos, Autumn! you've managed, once again, to finger-paint all of the park floors. and this year's work really is some of your best. so bright, charming and comforting that, were it possible, i'd hang your floorings up on the fridgedoor like a proud parent. and then, if i could get my hands on a rake (*fumbles in vain around unsuspecting neighbour's shed*), i'd rearrange the leaves into a monstrous pile for flinging myself (and any agreeable nearby children) onto. because, let's be honest, that thrill never gets old!

people, on the other hand, do. get old, i mean. and, as it happens, today marks the day when i'm exactly one year older than thirty-four. (some call it "thirty-five.") you know what that means, right? free birthday hot chocolate. point! however, having made the "self-entitled" (says Grandma Mary) decision to take today entirely off of work, i'm not following the usual routine. instead, i'm opting to temporarily take the coffee shop + hot choc (sluuurp!) abroad. first, to the streets. then, to the national art gallery café.

on the walk, i'm reconnecting with my inner flâneur. perusing the downtown streets. wiggling in and out of laneways to see the canal or major's hill park or the (ever-beastly) U.S. embassy from slightly different angles. observing the people passing by. and thinking to myself that isn't it poetic that the war memorial is situated directly between parliament (the nation's would-be brains...no comment) and the château laurier (a romantic niche), somehow symbolizing the recurring struggle between head and heart?

but, from the gallery, you can't see the memorial. in fact, through these immense windows, parliament and the château actually seem much closer to one another. and the gallery's so quiet -- more like a library (shhh...) but with wine! -- that i can easily hear my own head and heart speaking in unison: pure bliss. but not the calm, lethargic type. the thrilling kind. like the perfect (soft, messy, crunchy) dive onto the pile of leaves. and it's not just the fleeting delight of 10/11/12, with its morning run, apartment dancing to Whitney, homemade mushroom-parmesan-pasta lunch, Virginia Woolf reading, hocho, urban meanderings, art gallery blogging with glass of vino, solo dinner out at murray street, evening social in, and slew of warm well-wishes. it's the knowledge and feeling that you're exactly where you should be.

and now back to translating...

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...

the super, the postman and the barista

most days are up, and some days are down. the last few have tended downward for me, and this morning started out about the same. you know: the sluggishness, the extreme morning hunger that you have no real interest in satisfying, the apathy toward work, the resentment against those dishes that still haven't washed themselves, and the expectation that all the little things of the looming day are probably going to conspire to make you feel a whole lot worse.

so, when i cross paths with my super at the elevator this morning, i'm surprised that his usual, genuinely happy hello seems to make the teeny-tiny, dingy elevator feel rather refreshing and roomy.

then, as i'm heading past the park to the coffee shop, the postman (whom i've never seen before) calls out cheerily from across the street. there's something about a kind smile jumping out from under a bushy moustache that i find impossible not to smile back at.

and now, before i can finish placing my order, one of the familiar baristas places a mug of frothy hot chocolate on the counter in front of me. (he must have started making it as soon as i'd walked through the door.) i'm told it's on-the-house. and when i look down, i see that the chocolate syrup's been uncharacteristically swirled into the shape of two dotted eyes and one big, long smile.

within the span of ten minutes, the plan that Morning Expectation had made for me has gone seriously awry. and it's not long before i remember that today is Graham's birthday. my big brother, who passed away some seven years ago. and who's managed, ever since, to resurface in surprisingly concrete and timely ways. this time (i like to think, at least), through a superintendent, a postman and a barista. hot chocolate may never have tasted so good. happy birthday, Buddy.

and now back to translating...

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...

it's a politician! it's a Sens fan! no...it's a date!

earlier this week, i'm hunkered down and hard at work in the lap of luxury (aka seated at the long, wooden table of the Château Laurier lobby), when the man nearby -- who (wiley thing that he is!) has clearly popped by the hotel just so he can take advantage of the free copy of the Globe & Mail -- mentions that Jean and Aline Chrétien have just walked in. oooh! except i can't see them from the table, am too lazy and fearful for my computer's safety to get up, and decide to be content knowing some kind of interesting celebrity (think choke-hold / "Shawinigan Handshake") is within earshot.

this evening, as one of only four people in the café, i think i see a first date only a couple of tables over. there's even some (trivial) intrigue because of the noticeable age gap between the date candidates (candi"dates"?): the woman is probably mid-30s, the man -- judging by the colour of his hair, which is all i can really see of him -- is 60+. the would-be date proves a bit of a bust, though. first of all, they're clearly just colleagues or platonic friends of some sort. second, the only other thing that catches the eye is that, at one point, the dude's trenchcoat falls off his chair and on to the floor. i nearly go over to pick it up for him. but all in all, there's just nothing much to say about them. or so i think! as it's not long before they're getting ready to leave, and Dude turns around to grab said coat and expose himself as none other than Bob Rae.

after his departure, the café's quite empty, and the street outside the window is a sea of Senators' jerseys -- racing to get into the nearest bar with a television -- and cars -- scrambling to find parking for tonight's Game 7 against the Rangers.

and then it happens. with bated breath, and for weeks now, i have been waiting for this moment: a date. a true blue, bona fide, in-the-flesh and totally uncomfortable coffee-shop date! and this one's a doozie.

the girl arrives early. the guy arrives on time (i assume), some 20 minutes after her. he's got a kind of punk-prep thing going on. i dig his shoes. she's cute. pixie blonde, cowl-neck sweater. whatever. but -- holy mother of pearl -- Pixie's an absolute date drill sergeant! let's be clear: she's not telling him what to do. what she is doing, however, is peppering him with seriously loaded questions as though, earlier today, she'd secured a machine gun to her brain, channelled it through her mouth and is now aiming it directly at Shoes. here's a snapshot -- and i swear i haven't made any of it up:

[inhale]

doyouhaveanysiblings? whendidyoubreakupwithyourlastgirlfriend? areyouclosewithyourgrandfather? doyouwatchsoccer? i'vebeentospain -- didn'tlikebarcelona -- doyou like spain? whatareyoulookingforinapartnerrightnow? doyouwannajusthavefunwithme? ordoyouwantmore? whataboutYOU? areYOURparentsstilltogether? doyoufindottawaboring? it'sagoodplaceforraisingafamily, don'tyouthink?

and on, and on, and on...

it's in these moments that i believe in every stereotype there ever was about women who chatter on and scare men on all levels. at one point, she leaves to go to the washroom, and the guy seems to sigh from relief. truth be told, i sighed with him. poor soul. poor poor, Shoes.

and now back to translating...

traps?

hmmm, it's possible this blog will soon require some editing (read: deleting), as Professor FLQ strikes again, unofficially offering me translation work:

1. he boasts that he will "personally" ensure my name appears on the translation publications currently underway (imagine proud dad-like har-har-harring)
2. explains he will have articles about Ignatieff + separatism coming out soon -- and that, by the by, Iggy never should have said what he said yesterday!
3. i, half-jokingly, offer to translate said articles
4. he says there will indeed be some in french, so "why don't i get your contact info"
5. two thoughts simultaneously cross my mind: 1) this could be really interesting work, 2) thank goodness for cryptic university email addresses -- as, still unsure of this guy's true intentions, i'm loath to relinquish my anonymity. and, before that transaction will take place, there's gonna need to be some proof of identification on his part: i'm talking about official, university-approved business cards.

mini conclusion #1: coffee shops are, apparently, hotbeds for potentially nabbing contracts.

in other news: this starb*cks has just witnessed a bit of drama. sorry, let me rephrase: that should be "drama". there's a trapdoor in the floor among the chairs and tables, and a worker has just discreetly opened it and dipped inside the cavern, nowhere to be seen, to do something or other. enter middle-class chic-ster: 60-year-old who screams "wannabe artist", with her ginormous dark-rimmed glasses, long trenchcoat, upswept hair and flashy fashionista scarf. for some reason, the trapdoor scene makes me think of those thirty-some chilean miners trapped underground for days in 2010. however, when Artista spots the open space in the floor, she's caught off-guard, and -- without the slightest hint of irony in her voice -- exclaims: "isn't that just everyone's nightmare!"

mini conclusion #2: sometimes i'm terribly embarrassed to be middle-class white folk.

luckily, i'm quickly able to forget about our "traumatized" latte-sipping fool, as the current café playlist track is Rilo Kiley's "Silver Lining".

mini conclusion #3: art is usually what makes a day a little bit better. three cheers!

and now back to translating...

"read"-handed?

Professor FLQ's legitimacy has become even more questionable. literally thirty seconds after i post the last entry, he pops over beside me, with an all-knowing grin on his face. the conversation goes something like this:

-pro(f)lq: *enthusiastic* you look like you're a journalist! 
-me: *slightly awkward laugh* no...
-pro(f)lq: oh! i could have sworn you were just working on your column for tomorrow.
-me: *more uncomfortable laughter* my thesis advisor sure would be thrilled if i wrote something for him tomorrow! but, no, i'm translating.
-pro(f)lq: *excited* oh! traduction? at the university of ottawa? well, *encouraging tone* there's going to be a lot of work for you! and i look forward to reading your work in *uses hands to draw some impressive banner in the sky* The Translator! you are going to be great. i can tell...

the fact that he pounced so quickly, was clearly trying to be charming -- the oldest manipulation trick in the book! -- and (i can't deny it) was doing so very successfully just may suggest that he's as "undercover constable" as i'd suspected! the question now (aside from: what might he have read off my computer screen?) is: what exactly is he "undercovering"? perhaps, just like me, he's wondering why there are so many cops in the coffee shop today...

and now back to translating...

it's raining (police)men

the grey drizzle of dreary skies makes the cozy insides of coffee shops particularly alluring. this has never been more true (it seems) than for the male police officers of ottawa this morning. they are not only fulfilling everyone's favourite stereotype -- though mixing it up a bit by favouring the danish over the traditional doughnut (this is a classier bunch than you might have expected!) -- but also doing it all in impressive numbers. within less than two hours, four groups of three (or more) cops have visited. and these are just the ones in uniform! who knows if the elderly guy in the trenchcoat behind me -- the one who's loudly claiming to be a professor researching the FLQ (pfff, a likely story!) -- isn't actually an undercover constable.

and now back to translating...

it takes two: take two

speaking of Bette Midler...

one of today's barristas fancies herself a musical-theatre genius. think Showboat, Les Miz, Joseph and the Colourful Whatchamacallit. or something from a cruise ship. (go ahead, and imagine the cancan dancers.) anyway, with each song that plays (none of which could possibly be categorized as "musical theatre"), she's enjoying belting out -- no, i mean, BELTING out -- the lines. what's worse: she's delivering them some four bars ahead of time. as if to say: "um, yeah, i pretty much know every song...better than you do". 'nuff said.

in other Midler news: there is, at my one o'clock, a woman who bears a striking physical resemblance to Bette, circa 1988. similar build. same long, poofy red hair. i can't remember the last time i saw such a match. the fact that she arrived after the last blog entry was posted makes me wonder just who is puppeteering this production -- supplying far too many interrelated stories for me to concentrate on much else. all to say, if Mayim Bailik (aka young C.C. Bloom-cum-Blossom) walks through the door, my jaw will not drop.

and now back to translating...

it takes two (androgynous voices)

so, today i'm transported back to 1988. *time travel music*

remember the calgary winter olympics and the Battle of the Brians? and, in politics, the battle of the Brian (Mulroney, that is), with his second, majority win as PM? (no comment.) also, it was a decent year for movies: "Big", "Rain Man", "Naked Gun". but it's another 1988 film that comes to mind this afternoon in this downtown café...

enter the androgynous, animated, two-packs-a-day voice from three tables over. i don't even need to look. can close my eyes and see her perfectly. fifty-something. white. rotund. buxom. self-induced leathery tan. jet black hair (dyed, naturally. <-- get it?). unintentionally clownlike make-up. garish nails. chunky-cheap jewellery. and a real penchant for gossip -- generally of the "celebrity" variety. (perhaps she'll leak the news on whether Aniston is really preggers.) yes: it's Lainie Kazan as overbearing, atlantic-city mom from "Beaches". (you know this flick: with Bette Midler, Barbara Hershey, and something about wind?) well, it's her double, anyway. when i do glance over (who could resist!) and see her with her friend, it's all confirmed. i'd missed only a couple of details: the white sun visor (not just a stylish choice; also very useful when indoors) and the hint of Anjelica-Huston-as-Morticia. shiver.

an hour later, the androgynous voice s(t)ings again. strange, since "the Beaches" have already left. but, as it turns out, this is a new coffee-shop dweller: bleach blonde, wiry and, overall, far less frightening than her counterpart. what i learn -- through what is clearly becoming a compulsion to overhear neighbours talking, despite how quiet they might be -- is that this blonde belle used to be a he.

so, i start thinking: in light of Blondie, there's surely something über-important to be said here, perhaps about how sex and gender are, in many ways, just constructs (acquired, accepted or rejected constructions and reconstructions), or about how cool it is that Blondie can nonchalantly talk about her transition, in the public domain of a coffee house. maybe something or other about the Charter? celebrating 30 years? but, nah. we know this already -- after all, it's not 1988 anymore! and, to be honest, it's Atlantic-City Mama i can't stop thinking about. she's like exhibit A in a case for making something all too clear: simply that, despite all the (however necessary) hubbub over cancer, the big C really isn't the only potential outcome of a bad smoking habit and too much time spent baking in the sun. yikes!

and now back to translating...

back to the future

remember the eff-bomb from a couple of weeks ago? it's ba-ack! this time, instead of being loosely pushed around by the brazen business boy, it's exploding -- repeatedly and with force -- from the tireless mouths of my neighbouring duo of 70-year-old gents. picture "Grumpy Old Men", but with ties, groomed beards and briefcases instead of tilley hats, 5-o’clock shadows and fishing rods. and with considerably more potent and political anger. i can pretty much see the accompanying pop-up words, similar to -- though less amusing than -- those on the Batman tv series. na-na na-na, na-na na-na, eff-bomb!

"i've been working here for [some number of] years, for [BOMB]'s sake!" *ka-POW-ee!*

"[blah blah blah], so what the [BOMB]'s your problem!" *ker-SPLAT!*

luckily for all of us, these are allies, not enemies. as they get up to leave, one of them turns to me and looks down at my computer. i freeze. this is no stupid man. perhaps, in his 2.5-second glance, he might read this? and send a violent word my way? he smiles warmly, places his hat upon his shiny spalding of a head, and makes a friendly remark about my various computer gadgets. and they both walk out the door. sigh. the coffee shop is just a little less interesting without them...

and now back to translating...

a medley!

the (mostly) delightful sounds of this second visit to the westboro bridgehead:
1. Neighbourhood #1 (Arcade Fire)
2. The Other Man (Sloan)
3. You Can Go Your Own Way (Fleetwood)
4. random foot tap-tap-tapping (Mister Business Casual with ADHD)

and now back to translating...

law and order

at yesterday's coffee shop outing, i met the Law Fraternity. da boyz: three sturdy "man's men" (whatever that means) law students who are a mix of charming and repulsive. charming because their brains are alive with activity and because they're very supportive of one another -- helping each other out with complicated legal material as they prepare for their final exam (no doubt worth some 100% of the final grade. yowch!). bonus "charm" points for doing it all bilingually (*swoon*). repulsive because of the jumbling of racial slurs and sexist remarks that periodically rear their ugly heads, and because of the general frat-boy guffawing. all of which sends me right back to grade 9 and the feeling i can't quite describe that makes all 5'11" of me -- both then and now -- feel about a big as a ladybug. whatever...

so, today, they're back. sitting closer than yesterday. the loud gravelly voice of Law Dude #1 (let's call him Husky) and the harmonized har-dee-harring of the legal trio are impossible to ignore -- making translating this article very tricky and blogging about these dudes (and therefore further delaying my work) imperative.

here's what's bizarre: i find myself developing a relationship with them. uh-oh. even though we haven't said a word to each other or even acknowledged one another's presence -- er, this blog notwithstanding -- i find myself beginning to think of them as three new younger brothers: little punks who, despite all of my complaints, all of my "shut ups", all of my "dontsaythats", end up making me laugh at their jokes (the unbigoted ones, anyway) and somehow endearing themselves to me.

oh, the little brother always wins! and this surprise reflection makes me realize that my real younger brother -- whose Wookie impersonation is way better than Husky's real voice, and whose heart just might be made of gold -- is the best little punk i know.

and now back to translating...

Squawker McSquawkerson

this afternoon, i have made the long-awaited journey to the lovely (if not uppity) Westboro, where chain stores are much harder to come by, every parent (and their dog -- literally! ok...not literally) has their baby in a super-chic three-wheeling sporto-stroller, and even the St. Vincent de Paul sells antiques. (note to self: don’t miss snagging that $199 solid-wood dresser.)

the reason i’ve been meaning to venture out here is -- *drum roll* -- to discover some new coffee shops to work in. or at least to see something new when glancing out the window of familiar locales such as the bridgehead, where i am right now (with Arcade Fire featured in the background).

the food here is tops: chocolate-pecan squares and lemon bars and brownies – oh, my! sadly, however, the hot chocolate tends to be subpar. as in, bo-ring, dull, devoid of character, a total snore. by some stroke of luck, today’s is better than usual: a 7 out of 10, say. (the chocolate-syrup-swirl design helped.) this can only be a good omen! and indeed, a slew of “dates” have cropped up already.

first: the Latin Ladies. only caught the tail end of their get-together, but i immediately took to them – no doubt because they were involved in two of my favourite activities: speaking french and speaking spanish. (oh, boy. nerd alert!) the bubbly québécoise woman was practicing her spanish (¡excelente!) with the sweet hispanic-canadian woman who gently corrected mademoiselle here and there. this just in: they meet here again next week. perhaps i’ll just “happen” by and smilingly nudge my way into their conversation – a linguistic ménage à trois, no? ¡claro que sí!

cita número dos: the McSquawkersons. oy vey! you know these two already. one guy, one girl, one totally platonic friendship (between girl and guy), and two intense romances (as in, the ones each egomaniac is having with his- or herself). everything oozing from them is on a twofold mission: 1) to make sure everyone in the café can hear them –*squawk* “so how ARE you?!” *squaaaawk* (together, they could fuel the economy for at least a few new hearing-aid companies) – , and 2) to make sure everyone in the café understands that these are, without a doubt, the two coolest and “craziest” people in the world. ever. (“no, you don’t even know – sometimes i just get so crazy!” *squawk*). sigh. the bridgehead is particularly prone to hosting such characters…

and last but certainly not least: (incidental) date number three. it was the perfect scene. when I look up from my work, he’s already looking at me from across the way, through the window of the entrance. he smiles shyly. my heart skips a beat. it takes him only a few moments to move over to my side of the coffee shop. he has this sweet blond hair and a cherubic face. and, though not too bold, he’s not nearly as awkward or timid as i’d expected a 5-year-old to be! he says hello to me, puts the café’s toy back in the toybox on the ground, and then, after asking me to help him un-catch the pieces of grass (you know, the ones he’d found outside and decided to save) from under the toy, he does a couple of dance moves, smiles sweetly at me again, and takes off with his dad and two sisters. to paraphrase what my friend Rebecca has recently said about her 5-year-old son, i'm now aching to go back to kindergarten just so that i can have a crush on that little boy!

and now back to translating...

the lovers and the fighters

in one corner: the bible studies committee. leafing through the "good book". quoting so-and-so's.

in the other corner: the business dude. conducting condescending quality assessments of his peer-aged "inferiors". tossing around strategies for manipulating potential clients (aka you and me). regularly dropping the eff-bomb.

as each bomb drops, Corner One glances over at Corner Two. darts shoot quietly from their eyes. they make disapproving faces. resume their quoting. discuss how their conversions are going.

Corner Two: oblivious.

the Spectators: un-com-fortable...

and now back to translating...

spring is in the hair! (from the archives of mar 21, 2012)

oh oh oh -- you know the new season has arrived when first dates begin to "spring" up in all the coffee shops. tonight's 20-something sighting: Mr. Sufficiently-Dashing-with-Big-Hair meets Ms. Very-Long-Hair-with-Shockingly-Purple-Dress. likelihood of a match: very good. reason #1: similar hair preferences (aka big). reason #2: if that dress hasn't scared the dude away yet, their connection must be GOLD!

and now back to translating...