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...