ode to (a venti no-whip) hot chocolate

when Work is drab, and Brain is dumb;
when Sun is grey, and Sidewalk's glum;
when Spring's astray, and Jays are few;
when Music's dim, and Sight's askew;
when Foot's asleep, and Nothing's new...
i thank the stars that i have You!

and now back to translating...

father of the pride

there's no doubt that coffee shops are microcosms of the broader public, corralling the student and the professor; the baby and the gen-zed; the wobbly-bodied and the festive-minded; the artsy, the angry and the assertive; the religious and the romantic and the rich and famous. and today, very unfortunately, the victim of domestic abuse. as well as her a**hole father.

Father's ignorance initially rears its (butt-ugly) head when he begins pontificating about muslims: they should follow the rules in canada and all become catholic! (uh-oh! i haven't been baptized yet...) and then: they must be drunk or on drugs to believe [something-er-other about honour killings]. when Daughter responds that tons of muslims don't believe in honour killings and that, by the by, most muslims don't drink, Father concludes that it must be drugs then.

my insides really tense up, though, when Daughter reveals some solemn news: i don't feel safe with him at this point. "him," it quickly becomes clear, is her boyfriend. during an argument a few nights ago, he'd hit her. hard. across the face. now, she's thinking of getting a restraining order. and, while she seems to have nearly made up her mind, she clearly wants Father's validation. clearly wants him to say something like: i think the restraining order is a good idea. and probably: i'm so sorry, Honey. maybe even: what's wrong with that pr*ck?!

instead, having learned that this is "only" the first time Boyfriend has behaved this way, Father calmly and ever-so-logically offers: i'm not picking sides, but...you know, you were fighting. and he just snapped. what makes you think he'd do it again? (i suddenly feel transported back to a decade -- or century or millenium -- i've never had the privilege of living in. to a time before the cycle of violence became very common knowledge.) he continues: my role here is to protect the family and keep it together. and, sometimes, that means overlooking your needs. 

there's a brief pause. then Daughter begins silently sobbing. i'm scared even to be near him, she says. Father grows impatient, embarrassed and abrupt. don't get upset. don't get upset! we're done this conversation now, he decides. she buries her head in her hands for a few moments. then bursts out of the coffee shop, with Father trailing a bit behind. sure is a good thing he's managed to stay so far away from all that honour business.

and now back to translating...

teeter-totters

for many months -- or maybe for ever? -- this coffee shop has housed a round wooden table that, when provoked, tips so far one way that your hot chocolate spills all over the floor. and usually onto your neighbour's pant leg. (hmmm, sorry...) but it never tips so far as to actually fall down. despite the havoc the table regularly wreaks, the staff hasn't seemed to want to get rid of or replace it. instead, someone one day decided to stick a yellow post-it to the tabletop: careful -- very wobbly! the table proceeded to migrate conspicuously around the room, as people borrowed and rejected it to accommodate their fluctuating needs, (mis)understanding just how wibbly "wobbly" was. eventually, Wobbles was given a permanent home in the far corner. near the vigilant baristas. just below the rotating artwork. there, as long as the table's turned the right way, it can't tip. can't spill any milk. can't send any cookies a-crumbling.

around the same time that the yellow note surfaced, so did a newbie regular. an elderly woman who, without the slightest provocation, perpetually teeters baaack and forth. manoeuvring her cane as best she can. struggling to walk in a straight line. and uncontrollably making contact with every object and person in her path between the coffee shop entrance, the dessert display case, and whichever available table she opts to sit down at. once she's seated, a barista delivers the food she's ordered: here you go, Frances. and, in no time, the coffee goes flying like from the dashboard of a moving, off-road vehicle. and the muffin explodes like sweeps from Mary Poppins chimneys. throughout, Frances -- "free one" (and the first woman in the u.s. cabinet!) -- is absorbed in the newspaper, its pages trembling like pre-storm leaves in her hands.

while she's here, you get the feeling that the rest of the coffee shop is a very tight pair of lungs. (and you can hear a cavernous heartbeat in the background: guh-GUNG...guh-GUNG...) eventually and slowly, Franny lifts herself up and totters out the door, into the taxi she's asked the barista to call. her impromptu dance routine -- complete with props, sound effects, fireworks, and a very attentive audience -- is unorthodox and utterly unapologetic. and, somehow, she never falls down. thank goodness nobody puts Frances in the corner.

and now back to translating...

third time's a charm

four days ago, shortly after i've plunked my stuff down on the coffee shop table, Cherub cracks open a large plastic container (that i recognize from the grocery store) and hands me one of a dozen shortbread cookies covered with thick red icing and sprinkles galore. the flavour's a bit off, actually. but the cookie's sweet all the same. and, besides, when else do you receive not one, not two, but three gifts from someone in honour of their birthday? that hasn't happened since waaay back in the era of birthday party loot bags -- when necklaces were made of froot loops (god bless edible jewellery!), and a lucky charm was merely something you found in an "irish" cereal box. plus, whereas the promise of the loot bag was sometimes the reason you decided to go to the party at all (be honest, now!), each of Cherub's foil-wrapped or icing-sprinkled goodies is a complete and delightful surprise.

before he manages to deliver his gift, i (finally) give him a birthday card. it's eight days late. but right on time for valentine's. since we don't know each other very well, the message inside is brief and, though friendly, no doubt a bit distant. but, if you read between the lines, you make out, loud and clear: thanks for making february 2013 pretty special.

and now back to translating...

double-pierced

early this morning, Cherub strikes again. this time, delivering a red-wrapped hershey's kiss. since you're always working so hard..., he says. and hobbles gently back to his table. it's officially time to pick up a birthday card for my new friend.

and now back to translating...

piercings

maybe cupid comes in a number of forms. and maybe he makes his cherubic entrance -- aw, look at that sweet-little, naked wiggler of a cartoon bum! -- a few days earlier than Mr. Calendar (*cough* Mr. Capitalism) had intended.

it's hard to deny the heart-melting powers of that wide-eyed golden retriever waiting in the bright sun on the other side of the window. and i find myself getting a wee weepy (oh, brother...) because of this morning's soundtrack: can hear Mom in Joni Mitchell's complicated voice and can picture my sister barrel-of-laughtering when Tom Waits begins murmurring. but it's a few moments later that cupid really sets his bow and arrow in motion.

a fellow coffee-shop regular starts slowly shuffling over. we've talked only once or twice before, and only ever briefly. he's a quiet, older man who's always engrossed in his newspaper and, especially, in the crossword puzzle. (a man after mine own heart!) when he reaches my table, he rather tentatively holds out his hand and opens his palm. in it, there's a small, red-foil-wrapped chocolate heart. it's my birthday month, he slowly and sweetly explains, so i like to give these out.

dear Heart: consider yourself pierced. and this shot's gonna leave a mark.

and now back to translating...

reviews

some days, all you wanna do is blog. you wanna log insignificant moments. like this assertive law school grad -- who is (she keeps reminding us) from niagara: you don't need to tell me about the realities of niagara falls! (huh?) -- giving oodles of (largely unsolicited) advice to her friend, the law school applicant. about the girl with the reeeally long hair beside me who, having just arrived, is prepping to settle into her seat and has just flashed me a contagiously friendly smile. about the endearing, pudgy, bearded, lumberjack boy in the bright-red mcgill shirt who (in)conspicuously turns around to get a load of Law Grad. about the bob marley hat that Jovial Barista is sporting. about the chocolate-chip-cookie embers floating around in my mug of mint tea (who can resist dunking?). about all ninety centimetres of that still-falling, dusty snow outside.

but none of it matters, of course. surely, what's more important, more pressing, is keeping on with the book review i'm in the middle of writing. surely.

and now back to translating...