craft dad

it's funny how certain things that remain crystal clear for one person can completely fall by the wayside for others, and vice versa.

case in point: the craft dad.

i recently found out that my friends don't remember him at all. for me, however, he remains a vivid caricature that we not only devised but also referenced throughout (and after) our creatively uninhibited middle-school years, during downtime between fart jokes, fort building, Capture the Flag, and conversations about some unattainable boy we had a crush on.

basically, a "craft dad" was a guy, typically of "dad" age (according to ten year-olds), who was exaggeratedly soft-spoken and passive -- typing an exclamation mark, even to express joy, would overstimulate his senses -- and therefore limited in terms of the potential activities he could engage in with his kids. there could be no movies or toboganning or board games, for instance. (stop the insanity. no exclamation mark.) instead, he might be able to carefully prepare a peanut-butter sandwich on Weston white bread for them. (mind you, this was in the 80s, before peanuts represented a threat to civilization.) or read them a relaxing bedtime story. (kindly keep your distance, Robert Munsch.) mostly, though, he could handle, and even calmly enjoy, sitting at a table in the rec room and -- that's right -- doing crafts with his kids. gently reminding them, of course, that they should never run with scissors. (no exclamation mark.)

anyway, i bring all of this up because, this afternoon, i find myself in Westboro Village, in a café-meets-culinary-hotspot. to be fair, the food here is outstanding, and i've just noticed that the music playing off in the distance seems to be a jig (hold on to your hats). but otherwise, things seem just a bit too serene. and there's definitely something missing when i hear people around me appreciating their food: "oh, that's spicy," they mutter. and "mmm, delicious."

i dunno. but i think i can smell the glue.

and now back to translating...

open-book barista

the earbuds are in as i'm rediscovering the soundtrack to 500 days of summer ("oh reckless abandon, like no one's watching you") while quietly fine-tuning a translation. but, don't worry, i can still hear her lunchbreak phone call with Dad.

the multisyllabic syndrome she thinks she's been diagnosed with. (detailed twice, cause Dad didn't catch it the first time round.)

how many funds she's entitled to.

when her next shift is.

getting a better picture -- literally: Dad, please text one, stat! -- of the insurance policy. (maybe she'll get her eyes checked out today. plus, she'll need to see the dentist soon.)

how suchandsuch payments got cancelled, and as a result: bouncing cheques.

oh -- and how the stove needs to get fixed soon. 'cause, um, i'd like to use the stove!

thankfully, she's gone over everything with Carmela, so things seem to be ok now. (oh, phew!)

*briefest pause to mow down on her Green Rebel roughage-in-a-box*

and then an "i'm sorry, Dad, i just needed to rub [somethingorother] in and be bitter about the [somethingorother] for a moment. k, i luv you, gotta go."

and yes, of course -- and as i like to think you've already deduced -- uptalk was at FULL throttle.

and now back to translating...

unlike the others

i have just sat down in the lord elgin starbucks. have just taken my first sip of hot chocolate. have just contributed my latest to a heartfelt correspondence with a wonderful old friend of my mom's. have just received a text message confirmation from one of my colleague friends saying she won't be able to join me for this afternoon's café work session. have just opened up my notepad and jotted down the goals for the next few hours.

in sum, i've just completed one variation of a routine first five minutes of being in the coffee shop before resuming thesis work.

far less routine, however, is the line-up to my right. unbeknownst to this string of customers, they are all performing in a classic game of "one of these things is not like the other." (best of luck getting that jingle out of your head.) and we are the contestants.

here's what's the same: seven of the eight customers are behaving like a buncha lazy, boring, normal people, standing there facing the eventual baristas. some are quietly talking to each other. (yawn.) others are alone and checking their phones. (snore.) some clutch a purse or a briefcase...others are trailing a little beetle of a roller-suitcase behind them. (weak.) most look moderately out of it (it is, after all, 3:30pm -- aka the witching hour of the nine-to-five workday).

but they can't fool us. mostly because the second-last guy in line (who's clearly never played this game before and who has no idea what "lazy," "boring" or "normal" entails) immediately gives himself away. we all watch (a hush falls over the crowd, so you can barely hear my commentator's voice) as he sets his sights on the tee, takes the time to line everything up juuust right, and then -- really putting his business-suited, forty-seven-year-old hips into it -- suh-WINGS, following all the way through with his arms.

"fooooooore!"

if you could only see the pride stretch across his face as he watches that ball fly all the way down the fairway until it's time to place his order.

and now back to translating...

hot air

a trio of very happy undergrad girls enter the campus coffee shop. one of them is holding a long hot-pink ribbon that extends high into the air and eventually explodes into a black helium-filled balloon that has two special features:
1) hot-pink letters that spell out "princess grad"; and
2) a pink and silver tiara on top (as in, a tiara made of balloonery).

witnessing the scene firsthand, i can't deny that, while their celebratory spirit is kinda contagious, it all looks pretty precious, pretty pretentious and, honestly, rather ridiculous -- not unlike the way princesses (or the drunken bachelorette-party-goers these girls currently resemble) tend to seem.

then again... remember the fairy tale about kissing a frog and finding a prince? well, now it seems you complete your exams and (poof!) become a princess. both narratives could use some tweaking, i'd say. but the direction of this shift in plot ain't half bad. stay tuned!

and now back to translating...

some things are not open for interpretation

me: hi there. may i please have a grande, half-sweet, no-whip hot chocolate?

barista: sure!

me: thanks.

barista: would you like whip cream on that?

if only this were a one-off kinda response.

and now back to translating...

#nailsonachalkboard #wheresmybazooka

next to me in the coffee shop:

bright, friendly grade-twelvers are, one by one, consulting with a bright, friendly Cornell graduate (not Andy from The Office, much to my dismay), to find out more about the oh-là-là ithaca school they're crossing their fingers to be accepted to later this year. among the positive and negative takeaways from overhearing the lengthy conversations is one that's especially threatening. one that screams out for attention. one that states, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that we (anglophones, at least) live in an Unstoppably Uptalking World. it's not just the kelly taylors, the alicia-silverstones-as-stacey-dash, the kim kardashians. it's also boys. it's grown women. it's grown men. it's ivyleaguers.

i'm clearly in the minority on this one. and inevitably i'm ageing myself by thinking such thoughts (let alone writing them down to share with others). but here it is: i don't want the spoken world around us to sound like this, g%ddammit! when i don't know the answer to something, i will ask about it. when i'm confused or hesitant, i will allow (and at times urge) myself to say as much. but i refuse to hand my thoughts and feelings over to the netherworld of statements-formulated-as-questions. and so, for now, the struggle towards acceptance in this matter is a closed, closed door. locked nice and tight. with the key thrown away.

and now back to translating...

the izz and izznt of coffee shops

a coffee shop is:
a space for [insert any number of activities that you already know a coffee shop is intended or useful or enjoyable for].

a coffee shop ain't:
a space for watching youtube (or lubetube or facebook or netflix or home recording) clips (of a hilarious cat or a most recent sexual partner or your kid's birthday party or a bit by Jimmy Fallon (gawdlovehim!) or your most favouritest TEDtalk or a tragic scene from last night's news) at a volume that any other human can detect with their ears, as though your phone were the television (or radio or computer or morse code transmitter) in your home living room (or bedroom or basement or bathroom...*flush*).

we've been here before. (remember the nail clipper? and Little Miss Dora the Explorer?) yet dogma seems necessary when it's motivated by a reverence for common courtesy.

while we're at it, we might as well cover a few other activites that just aren't ok in a coffee shop, since (apparently) nothing is too obvious. so, you heard it here first, folks: the coffee shop is, unfortunately, also not a space where you can:
-let your dog lift its leg for just a quick pee
-run an up-and-coming clown training program
-have sex
-pedal drugs (though orchestrating pyramid schemes -- provided they're cleverly disguised as self-confidence-boosting small-business ventures -- regularly proves to be a kosher practice)
-can preserves so you can enjoy peach slices or pickled eggs or strawberry-rhubarb jam all year round
-draw chalk outlines on the floor, as though the coffee shop were a crime scene
-hurl doughnuts (whether fresh or stale) or cranberry-bliss bars at someone seated across the room
-use a sharpie to draw movember moustaches on the faces of strangers' babies, claiming it's all in the name of prostate cancer awareness

the list goes on, of course. feel free to contribute your own.

and now back to translating...