little ditty 'bout Tracy and Joan

now, it's been eighteen whole years since 1995. and just when you thought you'd left the sore spots of that year (whatever they might be) in the past, you find yourself in a coffee shop listening to an uncannily familiar "singing" voice:

...what if god was one of us? just a slob like one of us. just a stranger on the bus... 

nooo!

oh, yes. it's Joan Osborne. and 1995 is suddenly back with a terrible vengeance. you'd thought it at the time, and you're thinking it again: what are these lyrics?! what is that voice? what kind of a deep-thoughts poet-of-poets does this gal think she is? and, finally, why didn't we hold a referendum on the release of this song? then comes the giant rolling of eyes. (just go with it.) and -- uh-oh! -- the prolonged gagging of self with a spoon. (yikes! don't hurt yourself.)

but there's good news. you've always hoped this song would kick the proverbial bucket. and, sure enough, after a rather torturous five minutes (that you'll never, ever get back), our poetess disappears. and -- thank god! (or is that slob? or stranger?) -- here comes Tracy in her fast car. pedal to the metal, girl! you have no idea how happy i am to see you.

and now back to translating...

ps Joanie, it's "what if god were one of us."

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...