a tale of truisms

in music, silences are key to notes that play.
in dance, stillnesses shift shapes into being.
in translation, unrendered words have lots to say.
in coffee shops, empty mugs menace meaning.

and now back to translating...

puppy love (or dog daze) (or wedding balls?)

i absolutely, most definitely have too much work to be blogging right now. but, sometimes, real-life situations impose themselves in such a way that our plans -- to work, to clean, to call, to eat, to sleep, ... -- get thwarted. (like when you're already running late for a really pressing work thing and, as you bend over to pick up the keys you've just dropped on the sidewalk halfway to the office, the seam in your pant crotch splits in no uncertain terms, completely exposing your everything to the world, forcing you to head back home to change, making you embarrassingly late for the meeting, and ultimately leading to myriads of unfortunate professional consequences. oh, eff!)

today's (now abnormal) weekend adventures in coffeeshopping involve, on my not-so-distant left, a very loud, wiry, lispy, rather-desperately-in-need-of-attention, forty-something, self-proclaimed-expert, wedding planner/photographer who is telling the late-thirties prenuptialists how things'll be done. 

my ears perk up when i overhear how the couple announced their engagement (via facebook, of course), the proclamation involving posting a pic of their dog -- apparently, a purebred french bulldog (eighteen or nineteen pounds -- with not an ounce of fat on 'er, though!) -- with a sign placed in front of her: “my daddy just asked my mommy to marry him.”

i have just groaned quietly to myself (the kind of groan that would otherwise be accompanied by dragon mist shooting outta my ears and the sound of a steam train whistle). and, in my mind, i've also aggressively rolled my eyes in every which way (which, truth be told, begins to hurt after a short while). but Expert is getting paid for her interactions with the happy couple, so y'know, her response is a touch different than mine: the dog thing is SO cute! (oh, woof!)

then, things get worse. because, obviously, ThirtySomethingOne and ThirtySomethingTwo want to incorporate Lolita (yes, that's the dog's name) in the wedding day. thus begin discussions of the logistics of how to manage Lolita for the photo shoot, intermingled with every pet owner's dream -- i.e., the opportunity to describe the nitty-gritty of their pet's ever-idiosyncratic personality:

oh, if she [aka the planner's assistant] holds the ball, Lolita'll watch the ball! (TSOne and TSTwo glance over at each other, with proud, knowing, saccharine smiles that scream "honey, aren't we blessed to have such a perfect pup!') she'll just sit there for hoooours watching her ball. that ball's her nemesis. *insert chuckling over the hilariously weird ways of the dog-cum-prize-child*

shortly before wrapping up their meeting, Expert announces with great satisfaction: well, i find your ideas surprisingly cohesive! 

if "cohesive" means "dogful", i'm not sure anyone could disagree. and, y'know, a good wedding is nothing if not cohesive.

and now back to translating...

saved

steering clear of hot chocolates when it's not monday has been going well. i've been managing to save up my change as well as my cravings. but this morning calls for an exception to be made (admittedly, partly thanks to a little birthday money in my mailbox this week).

as i walk up to the counter, i see that one of my favourite baristas is prepping to take my order. there's just no topping her smile. as warm and perfect as my forthcoming drink.

and then, for the first time, i notice her name tag: Saviour. no kidding!

and now back to translating...

a case of the mondays

[monday, september 8]

when money floweth into one's bank account, so doth hot chocolate into one's tummy. and during such free-flowing times (are you picturing willowy, sixties-style, drug-enhanced, flower-power folk frolicking about a forest glade?), ye olde coffee shop represents a safe space. a welcoming haven. a cozy nook where "sufficiently social" meets "sufficiently anonymous" and where work meets comfort. *swoon*

when the purse strings are tight, on the other hand, the coffee shop betrays you. like a slap in the face. (yow!) suddenly -- before your very eyes, before your psyche, before your bursting-at-the-seams salivary glands, before your wallet (gulp!) -- it transforms into a looming, always-in-the-back(orfront)-of-your-mind threat...into the most vivid of (what's-that-across-the-street?!) mirages and the ultimate of tests: can you go the whole day without a hot chocolate? 

sound the alarm bells!

i have tried to resist before. to abstain from that exquisite frothy-topped warm beverage. to restrict the number of mugfuls ingested per week. all in the name of Financial Responsibility. and, each time, i have failed; efforts flopping left, right and centre.

yet, this time -- having reached into the bowels of the bowels of Self-Discipline and Free Will (those bastards!) -- i've somehow managed to skip not only last thursday's mugging but also friday's. and saturday's. and -- hold onto your hats! -- sunday's, too. and lo and behold it's monday, and it's official (well, as official as these things get): something has shifted.

while a small, glorious death will always accompany a hot chocolate, the visceral pull towards those café seats and sounds and flavours is not nearly as fierce now. (some people, i think, refer to this as...moderation?) so, today, for the first time since i can remember, i've arrived at the coffee shop as part of a plan (vs out of happy habit). yes! from now on, monday is the day: Day of the Hot Chocolate. the visit fits in before my evening class begins, kinda like another class would: a scheduled, forty-five-minute period that follows a bout of solo researching and precedes group seminaring; a time set aside for personal writing and reading, for overhearing others' (delightful, messed-up, intriguing, hilarious, etc.) conversations, for blogging...and for -- thanks be to gawd! -- enjoying the luxury that is that one weekly mugful. sssluuurp!

and now back to translating...

ode to the biggest, fattest hot chocolate out there

venti venti bo-benti,
banana-fana fo-fenti,
fee-fi-mo-menti --
venti!

and now back to translating...

no such thing as a stupid question

Customer: will there be any mango in my orange-mango smoothie?

and now back to translating...

(alarm) bell(e)s and whistles

[for sunday, july 27]

in downtown ottawa (not unlike many other communities), Summertime Saturday sees its streets, parks and canal walkways exploding with poofywhite gowns (ka-BOOM!) and parading penguin suits and a bevy of other costumes. and, regardless of whether an ornamental envelope made its way into our mailboxes months ago, we're all invited to the wedding party: just try passing the national arts centre or strolling through major's hill park without intercepting a pose or -- in the process of, say, ogling a dapper groomsman -- unwittingly striking one yourself (thereby becoming an extra in someone else's wedding album...you know: that unrecognizable person the couple's eventual offspring enquires about several years down the road: who's that, Mommy?).

yep: here come the brides!

and Summertime Sunday (the coffee shop whispers to me) can be quite similar. after all, it is -- figuratively, if not actually -- Day One in the lead-up to the coming week's saturday, as per three tables over: a beaming hetero duo and their perky wedding planner, meeting for the first time. (ps is it legal to plot others' nuptial to-dos when you're twenty-five tender years old?) the late-twenties bride-to-be has a big warm toothy smile (think Jennifer Garner, caricaturized). her sweet, gangly, concave-chested partner in crime wears a stupendously purple (think Barney the Dinosaur) tee. amid lots of giggling, the couple explains that the ceremony'll be in rockcliffe park (it'd be great if at least one photo were like [insert dream moment]!) and begins to tell Perky their story of luv -- something about CaricaJen going to med school and meeting Barney Tee there, in newfoundland. (at this point, i begin to seriously hope their wedding plans will include 1) the officiant announcing: you may now kiss the (cartoon) cod! and 2) the open bar exclusively wetting guests' whistles with screech.)

alas! Summertime Sunday is also Day Eight in last week's wedding run. it's the "wedding hangover," as per my morning mission (enveloped in the wintry chill of this über-air-conditioned starbucks): translating my forty-something friend's marriage deed into english so he can move forward with his long-awaited divorce.

cue the (fascinating) documentary "112 weddings." cue, also, the current café playlist song:

...keeps me searchin' for a heart of gold,
and i'm gettin' old.

few understand like young neil.

and now back to translating...