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...