Day: Tuesday
Brew: Sumatra
Mood: Pretty Good (including a few ups and downs)
I recently started working morning shifts again, and this is bad because it means waking up at 5 a.m. (boo) and good because it means good tips during the busiest time of the day. There are two highlights of my morning, and they bookend the shift: the end, when I count my plentiful tips, and the beginning, when our breakfast tacos are delivered.
Now some of you unfortunate souls may not know what breakfast tacos are because you are not from Texas. (Get ready to thank me.) Actually, I grew up in Texas but had never heard of these "breakfast tacos" until I moved from North Texas to the great city of Austin. Apparently, Dallas-Fort Worth is too far from Mexico to know what breakfast tacos are. Either that, or breakfast tacos are an invention from the southern half of Texas. (Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing such things when I visited Mexico.) Anyway, these heavenly creations are breakfast items--eggs, potato, bacon, chorizo, sausage, cheese, whatever--rolled up in a tasty tortilla. Now, I can eat breakfast food all day and all night, and tacos with so many goodies rolled up in 'em are a treat so good that--once I found them--I mourned the eighteen years I'd spent oblivious to their existence. No, ignorance is NOT bliss. Breakfast tacos are bliss. Especially the ones we sell: They are delivered piping hot at 6:15 a.m. and sell out by about 8:15 in the morning. You snooze, you lose, suckas.
Now our tacos are delivered by a taco delivery guy, and the guy who has recently been delivering tacos to me is new. And flirtatious. And gay. That's right. (I'm a chick, by the way.) Somehow, he manages to be simultaneously extremely flirtatious with me and extremely gay. It boggles my mind. Now, straight, gay, whatever, this delivery guy put me off from the beginning. First, he sashays in (yes, truly sashays) behind my counter, calls me "darlin'" and starts to poke through my unopened pastry delivery for an oatmeal cookie--his favorite, he tells me. No strange guy just calls me "darlin'". And no one goes through my pastry delivery box except me. I know that last one might seem petty, but, when you're in the service industry, you stake out your territory and hold fast to it...it's one of the few ways to resist feeling completely at the mercy of the jerks we serve. So those were Strikes One and Two. He strikes Three when he prepares to leave and goes in for a hug and KISS on my cheek...BUH and DOUBLE BUH! And this is the first time I've ever seen the guy! Of course, I denied him the kiss or even a cheek rub: it turns into a sideways half-hug (on his half) with me straining to pull my head away from his face while he pretends not to notice how awkward this was. Ick.
The next time, I'm cranky (sooo not a morning person) and behave icily toward him as a result of our last encounter. His solution? To tell me "you're beautiful" so "don't something-something" I don't even know what the rest was. I muster an "eh-heh" half-laugh, and he thinks we're pals now. So, now he calls me "sweetie" and gives me side hugs and cracks "jokes". The trade off (cuz I can tell this guy is not going to change his ways, and I oughtta try to get along b/c I depend on him for my heavenly tacos), is that I allow him to side-hug me and call me "sweetie", occasionally acknowledge his "jokes", and even toss in a "have a good day" now and then. But he knows a) he is never to go through my pastry box again, and b) he is to keep his lusty lips away from me.
Come to think of it, I think the next time he goes in for a hug, I'm gonna have to put my foot down. I shouldn't have to take unwelcome physical contact (often known as harrassment?) from anybody, not even a gay guy.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Splatterings from Across the Coffee Bar
You might say "Ew." You might say "Oooh!" Whatever hot milk blisters evoke in your mind, it doesn't matter. Because this is my bitchfest slash playground, inspired by the dubiously distinctive experience of working as a barista at a coffee bar in a county hospital. (Yeah, sounds weird to me, too.) Props to my homegirl (foamgirl?) Trixie, who loves alliteration. Any alliteration here--intended or otherwise--is a shoutout to Trixie, commiserator in crime.
Despite my tough exterior, I'll be pleased to no end if you find common experiences or interesting tidbits here that engage you for all of 30 seconds. 20 seconds even.
So, let's get things started with the stamp...
Day: Monday
Brew: Mexican Altura
Mood: Good
It feels good to finally be starting this blog, considering that I've been, well, considering it for many months. I'm sure my boyfriend, Slow Rain, feels good about it, too: I finally will cease a) bitching to him nightly about my shift, and b) asking him what to call this blog. Theoretically, 1) he can read my musings on this site (or not, more likely), and 2) I will continue to ask him what to call this blog, because--for a highly opinionated person--I'm woefully indecisive. And self-important, I guess, because I think that it matters what this blog is called. But I suppose there must be a fair amount of overlap between the opinionated and the self-important. (movingon...movingon...)
Until a moment ago, I didn't have a story for today. That's all changed. I will relay to you Pet Peeve #1 of my job: Being expected by a customer to speak something other than English. Usually, the something is Spanish because I a) live in Texas, b) work in a county hospital with lots of Mexican immigrant patients who are Spanish-speaking-only, and c) am brown. Specifically, I am Indian American (dots, not feathers), and I get mistaken for everything from Filipina to Hawaiian to Indonesian. I often get mistaken for Mexican (this even happened IN Mexico), and this happens a lot here at the hospital.
What doesn't happen a lot is my being mistaken for Pakistani, which is what happened today, and which actually is far closer to the mark. In this case, a middle-aged Pakistani gentleman was hoping--nay, expecting--that I speak Urdu. I do not. I told him I'm from Bengal (meaning that my parents are, but that's the short version), and he asked me a few more times in disbelief whether I spoke Urdu. I still didn't. Amazed and wide-eyed, he said "Pakistan and Bangladesh are equal countries..." Well, that may be, but my family's from West Bengal (the part in India). He asked if I speak Hindi, which wouldn't be out of the question. But I don't--I just speak Bengali, and poorly. I would have felt bad for the guy except that his English was actually just fine, and except for his insistence that I must speak Urdu, which pissed me off. Doesn't anybody remember that, before India was partitioned, there was a Bengal that is larger than present-day Bangladesh? And not all Bengalis or Bengali-speakers live in Bangladesh? I would at least expect a South Asian to know this. And do most Bangladeshis even speak Urdu? I thought they spoke Bengali, and with a pronounced accent!
Here's the part more of you might relate to. Now, I'm not against speaking multiple languages: As I said, I speak some Bengali and a little French, enough to kind of get by on a couple of visits to France. And I can understand a few words of Spanish and Italian and would love to learn more languages. But in situations similar to the one today (or usually when people are openly disapproving when I reveal I can't speak Spanish) I start to feel quite the Ronnie Dobbs: "Speak English, motherfucker!" When I was in Mexico or Buenos Aires, I didn't just walk up to people and start speaking English to them. I'd ask them, in Spanish, whether they spoke English. And depending on the answer, I'd proceed accordingly. Sometimes, I wouldn't even ask if they spoke English...I'd try to use my 8 or 10 Spanish words and the service person would take pity on me or be so offended by my Spanish (or some combo thereof) that they'd take the helm in darn good English. But at least I tried to speak the language of the country. And what gets me, too, is that most of these folks who expect to conduct business with me in Spanish are not tourists, as I was in Mexico or Argentina. They live here! Many, illegally and newly arrived. Now, doesn't it seem like it would behoove them to learn English, and fast?
Despite my tough exterior, I'll be pleased to no end if you find common experiences or interesting tidbits here that engage you for all of 30 seconds. 20 seconds even.
So, let's get things started with the stamp...
Day: Monday
Brew: Mexican Altura
Mood: Good
It feels good to finally be starting this blog, considering that I've been, well, considering it for many months. I'm sure my boyfriend, Slow Rain, feels good about it, too: I finally will cease a) bitching to him nightly about my shift, and b) asking him what to call this blog. Theoretically, 1) he can read my musings on this site (or not, more likely), and 2) I will continue to ask him what to call this blog, because--for a highly opinionated person--I'm woefully indecisive. And self-important, I guess, because I think that it matters what this blog is called. But I suppose there must be a fair amount of overlap between the opinionated and the self-important. (movingon...movingon...)
Until a moment ago, I didn't have a story for today. That's all changed. I will relay to you Pet Peeve #1 of my job: Being expected by a customer to speak something other than English. Usually, the something is Spanish because I a) live in Texas, b) work in a county hospital with lots of Mexican immigrant patients who are Spanish-speaking-only, and c) am brown. Specifically, I am Indian American (dots, not feathers), and I get mistaken for everything from Filipina to Hawaiian to Indonesian. I often get mistaken for Mexican (this even happened IN Mexico), and this happens a lot here at the hospital.
What doesn't happen a lot is my being mistaken for Pakistani, which is what happened today, and which actually is far closer to the mark. In this case, a middle-aged Pakistani gentleman was hoping--nay, expecting--that I speak Urdu. I do not. I told him I'm from Bengal (meaning that my parents are, but that's the short version), and he asked me a few more times in disbelief whether I spoke Urdu. I still didn't. Amazed and wide-eyed, he said "Pakistan and Bangladesh are equal countries..." Well, that may be, but my family's from West Bengal (the part in India). He asked if I speak Hindi, which wouldn't be out of the question. But I don't--I just speak Bengali, and poorly. I would have felt bad for the guy except that his English was actually just fine, and except for his insistence that I must speak Urdu, which pissed me off. Doesn't anybody remember that, before India was partitioned, there was a Bengal that is larger than present-day Bangladesh? And not all Bengalis or Bengali-speakers live in Bangladesh? I would at least expect a South Asian to know this. And do most Bangladeshis even speak Urdu? I thought they spoke Bengali, and with a pronounced accent!
Here's the part more of you might relate to. Now, I'm not against speaking multiple languages: As I said, I speak some Bengali and a little French, enough to kind of get by on a couple of visits to France. And I can understand a few words of Spanish and Italian and would love to learn more languages. But in situations similar to the one today (or usually when people are openly disapproving when I reveal I can't speak Spanish) I start to feel quite the Ronnie Dobbs: "Speak English, motherfucker!" When I was in Mexico or Buenos Aires, I didn't just walk up to people and start speaking English to them. I'd ask them, in Spanish, whether they spoke English. And depending on the answer, I'd proceed accordingly. Sometimes, I wouldn't even ask if they spoke English...I'd try to use my 8 or 10 Spanish words and the service person would take pity on me or be so offended by my Spanish (or some combo thereof) that they'd take the helm in darn good English. But at least I tried to speak the language of the country. And what gets me, too, is that most of these folks who expect to conduct business with me in Spanish are not tourists, as I was in Mexico or Argentina. They live here! Many, illegally and newly arrived. Now, doesn't it seem like it would behoove them to learn English, and fast?
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