When to leave a party

I could not have timed it any better.

At nine o'clock, I lingered in a hallway and did the inventory of my evening, counting off my achievements on my fingers. Got my hair curled. Drank wine. Savoured nibblies. Socialised with many people, most of whom I had never met before. Spoke decent French. Posed for silly pictures ("Why is my mouth open in every shot?"). Laughed at truly funny but nonetheless crude jokes ("grossier" - another French word I love). Teased The Alter Ego for being drunk on lust. Hmm...

"Can I leave now, Palanca? My feet are hurting and my teeth feel hairy after the stinky cheese and I need to wash the kohl out of my eyes (stinging, ow!)..."

I looked around. I leave most parties either lamenting the fact that I'm going too early (and thus missing the real fun), or deploring the fact that I'm leaving too late (and have too many embarrassing stories to relate). But tonight, like Goldilocks, I found the moment that was juuuust right.

The early departers were long gone, called away by babies or traffic or previous engagements. The diehards were just grinding in their heels, eyeing the waiters for a refill. The cheese platter was whittled down to the rinds and a smear of brie. A few collars were now loosened. Some ladies had already lazily slipped off a shoe, balancing on one foot as they massaged the toes of the other against the floor. And some co-workers could even be seen lazily leaning against one another for extra support.

If I had waited another 15 minutes, the crowd would have lost that drowsy charm as everyone headed en masse towards the door. But at that moment, everything and everyone was golden. So I quickly slipped on my coat and made my goodbyes, glad to leave with the memory of all these people sharing a warm space imbued with the glow of laughter and good food. 

And knowing - of course - that should anything embarrassing happen after I was gone, I left enough colleagues behind to witness every succulent moment and replay it all back for me tomorrow.

NB. Good grief! Why didn't anyone tell me about The Constantines? Although I'm very mad at you all for holding out, I will still give you a prezzie: Download the Ricky Gervais podcasts. I laughed so hard on the metro the other morning, I sprayed the almond I was eating all over the train door.

Some French words I love and why

In alphabetical order...

Bijou - because the abundance of vowels and the saucy 'j' feels as indulgent as what the word describes

Cabotin - I just really like the person who taught me what it means

Ensorceller - Onomatopoeic! It's like being hypnotised by sibilants

Farfelu - makes me think of butterflies and cowlicks and other things that flutter in the wind

Ravi - feels like the word is ravishing you, grrr!

Any other candidates?

Azucar!

Thanks to the generosity of My Cosmic Twin, I was invited to attend the grand opening of the Cuba Art exhibit at the Montréal Museum of Fine Arts. Generally, seeing an art exhibit is a meditative experience for me. I like to wander from one canvas to the other, letting each piece sink in, letting myself fall into the piece. The sheer number of people tonight, however, made it quite impossible for me to indulge in my usual pleasure.

And some stuff went right over my head... "Lex, is that canoe propped up on beer bottles?"

The photography however was outstanding. Especially those chronicling Havana as the 'all-night city'. Marlon Brando playing the bongos. Smoky-eyes temptresses dripping in ruffles, the ink of their seductive Spanish words seemingly fresh in the bottom right hand corner. Celia Cruz revealing a plunging neckline, and her wide, flat nose so white above her brilliant red mouth. Fleshy thighs, as succulent as melons, lustily shaking to a now-silenced beat.

Made me want to get as fat as an odalisk and learn how to samba.

Remember all those photos you've seen of Che Guevara? Chances are, they were probably taken by Osvaldo Salas. A few of them - especially "Tres hermanos" - left me breathless.

So go see the show. Or Google "fleshy thighs". In the meantime, I will start figuring out how to post photos.

Viva Che!

The economy of language

English is generally considered to be the most economic of Canada's two official languages. The sentence structure is lighter, paragraphs generally 25% shorter. Although the English writing style has plenty of flourish, it only really gets taken out on special occasions - kind of like your mother's best Sunday hat.

And yet, French words are often so much more succinct, encapsulating entire thoughts into one word that English has no equivalent for. For example, la releve. There is no one English word to adequately express that same thought. The OLF translates it as "crew change-off".

Has the world ever seen three more awkward words clustered into a so-called definition?

However, I have found at least two instances of a French translation being unequal to its English translation. And terribly awkward to boot.

meneuse de claque

Too many 'e's. Also, this term immediately makes me think, "bringers of rubber overshoes" or "bringers of the STD". As much as you may dislike 'cheerleader' as a notion, at least the English word embodies the perky ponytails and spangly shoelaces of the pom-pom set.

diseuse de bonne aventure

Too many bloody vowels. Yes, the bonne aventure part elicits a far more optimistic feeling than "fortune", but it has none of the mystic, exotic and dark aromas of "fortune". Fortuneteller arouses images of scarves and bejewelled fingers and dark shadows swimming in a crystal ball. Diseuse de bonne aventure makes me think of a really gossipy aunt with an overactive imagination and a propensity to lie.

If I come across any other ones, I'll let you know. Any nominations?

Alas, Canadian television

I have to give them some credit. Suffering from an inexplicable dearth of ideas (inexplicable to me because I know many talented writers and screenwriters who are withering away in anonymity), the CBC has lately turned to French Québec television for inspiration.

Last summer, they introduced Rumours, an English adaptation of the wildly popular Quebec television series, Rumeurs. The original series is remarkable for its sharply-written and crisply-paced humour - quips are delivered with the speed and efficiency of a machine gun. Look into your bowl of jello for a moment and chances are, you've missed three zingers. A little like the Maddie Hayes-Dave Addison repartee we so thoroughly relished on Moonlighting.

Problem is, if you've seen the original series, watching the English remake is a little disappointing. The pace is slower and it's got no teeth - kind of like Little Mosque on the Prairie. That is, there is so much potential for true hilarity, but the writers/producers have chosen to go the *safe* route so as not to bear the brunt of their more conservative viewership.

So this January, the CBC introduced Sophie, the English adaptation of Les hauts et les bas de Sophie Paquin.

I saw an episode of Sophie this week and developed some issues early on that I am not sure I can overcome. Namely:

• The father of Sophie's baby turns out to be a black man. However, it doesn't look like they used a black baby. It looks like a white baby with a thick - and uneven - layer of brown icing.
• Sara Botsford has the most unbelievable English accent in the history of acting.
• Natalie Brown (remember her from that Bailey's commercial?) is not a natural ham. This role requires a truly comedic actress with the ability to pull off physical, as well as verbal humour. NB can catch a drop of Bailey's on her tongue, sure, but she won't be giving Carol Burnett or Mary Tyler Moore a run for their money any time soon.
• Can the blond bombshell friend be any more two-dimensional and vapid? She could easily be replaced by a paper cut-out. No substance or unique personality to her whatsoever.
• Stereotypical gay male best friend getting his back waxed and trying to get laid by a 19-yr old. Yawwwn. See objections listed for blond bombshell character.

I haven't seen the French original yet, but I'll report back when I do. In the meantime, if you have any redeeming arguments, please do share them.

Weird things you do... or don't know that you do

I was on the metro today and I was openly staring at the woman sitting right across from me. You would have too in my place. And not because she was wearing the most hideous pair of yellow, red and orange striped corduroy pants.

As soon as she sat down in the train, she began methodically running her hand over individual strands of hair. She would stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke one handful of curls, and then move on the next handful. Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke. Next, etc. Her eyes darting around every time she changed strands, perhaps worried that she wouldn't be able to finish the required number of strokes before the metro left the station.

When the train did start moving, she turned her attention to the palm of her hand and began picking at a patch of dry skin. Pick, pick, pick, pull, eat. Her sharp white teeth deftly shredding the skin before she swallowed.

Between Berri-UQAM and Saint-Laurent metro stations, she managed to pull off and eat four small strips of skin.

It wasn't her behaviour that disturbed me so much as the thought of my behaviour.

Think about it. Isn't there something that you do that could be construed as weird? Or make you look loco in la cabeza? Not two minutes before she and I crossed paths on the metro, I had been standing on the Berri-UQAM platform repeating the Sanskrit mantra I am trying to learn (two lines down pat already, btw). I certainly wasn't chanting out loud, but I'm sure the women waiting on the opposite platform may have wondered why my lips were moving when there was obviously no music playing and I wasn't wearing earphones.

Wouldn't it be cool if you could follow yourself around for a day and get a sense of just how whimsical you are? What do you think you'd get stared at for? 

NB. The next time you throw yourself a pity party because your girlfriend made you watch a stupid smoochy chick flick or you broke the heel on your favourite pair of stilettos, remember the trapped paramedic who survived 4 days on dirt and rotting beaver.

Were you ever pinned under an ATV and forced to bundle a beaver carcass by your groin to help keep your body warm? No? Then you're fine. Really.

Overheard in an elevator

It was 5pm on Friday. Two colleagues and I were in the elevator when it stopped on the third floor to pick up some Polished Pretties*.

PP1 reaches into her purse of brushed orange and black fur and extracts an impossibly small silver phone. Her pearly pink mouth pouts as she stares inconsolable at the phone, obviously wondering why it isn't ringing. Or telling her how very pretty she is, at the very least.

PP1: "I was supposed to go to Buddha Bar tonight but I'm just not feeling it, you know."

PP2 (staring at her equally tiny pink phone, equally heartbroken): Yeah, I totally know."

Silence. Much staring at cell phones. The elevator reaches the ground floor.

PP1: Don't forget - we still have to go check out that gym.

PP2: Yeah. Maybe Monday.

The doors slide open.

PP1: Cool.

PP2: Cool.

So why did I label this "why the world is coming to an end"? It frustrates me that so many of today's women are nothing but walking clouds of perfume unable to do little more than stare blankly at their cell phones while they ignore the friends standing in front of them.

Am I the only one who would rather interact with real people than punch buttons on a shiny piece of plastic?

I get the irony - complaining about how cold human relationships have become in a blog - but this is just a small slice of my day. If someone is standing right in front of me, I want to talk, to laugh with that person.

I know. I'm just a dinosaur.

*What I call the overly-coiffed, sticky make-upped dolls that work on the third floor. Apparently, cuteness counts when they hire on the third floor.