(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...