Halvers wanted to know why the Custard Pie had sparkles.
I wanted to know why I tastes like a cupcake.
And then…
Halvers wanted to know why the Custard Pie had sparkles.
I wanted to know why I tastes like a cupcake.
And then…
I dread parking in the Salon parking lot.
There is a parking lot attendant who always creepily compliments my haircut when I pay. He makes me uncomfortable and I have a hard time understanding his thick-Somali accent. He makes me feel as if I’m in some sexual-harassment training video.
Yesterday’s video shoot did not go as planned.
I left work and got my hair fixed in Uptown. The salon was packed with gays and lesbians because everyone needed a hair-update before pride. I almost asked for a cut similar to this lesbian, but I already had a plan for the style that I wanted.
I wait for my stylist for about 30 minutes and awkwardly avoid eye contact with one of my gay professors and his partner. This professor is visibly uncomfortable interacting with gay students outside of school.
The professor is uncomfortable.
I get uncomfortable because he’s uncomfortable.
He gets more uncomfortable…so do I…and it’s just terrible.
Me: “Hi, (twitches) I was here last week about my Conlaw II grade…and I was wondering (twitch) what the status on that was…”
Infodesk guy: “Hm. I thought those were in last week. Let me call Registrarman.”
Me (still twitching, and sweating): “Thank you.”
Five minutes later, Registrarman comes out.
Registrarman: “The Conlaw grades were in over a week ago. They should be up.”
Me: “But my grade isn’t up.”
Registrarman: “That’s odd. I posted all of the Conlaw I grades last week…”
Me: “Oh, nono, but I am in Conlaw II!”
Registrarman: “OH! That’s a different course!”
Me (twitch): “Yes. It is. Sorry, I don’t want to be a pest, but, (twitch) I have had all of my other grades for a while, and this the ONLY grade I’m waiting on and…so…um like US Americans and such as…”
Registrarman: “Let me go check that one.”
He disappears for 5 more minutes.
Registrarman: “Your professor has until February 1st to turn the Conlaw II grades in. She’s not late yet.”
Me (twitching, sweating, my deoderant breaking down…): “Oh…okay…thank you…”
I then scurry off awkwardly, trying not to stumble as Registrarman cackles evilly. Womp.
We are posted in my favorite room, the video bar, which is like a gay sports bar that plays music videos instead of football.
The Ting Tings are playing when the bar tender plops these small red drinks in front of us.
I shoot the bartender a look like “What the heck?” and he says,
Bartender: “These are from the guy across the bar.”
I’m driving to work when I realize that I forgot to bring my water bottle, so I decide to pull into White Castle and order a large drink, so I had something to use as a water-cup later…brilliant right?
White Castle Employee (through the drive thru speaker): “Thank you for choosing White Castle, what are you craving today?”
Me: “Uh, may I have a large diet coke?”
Employee: “Okay.”
Me: “That’s it.”
Employee: “That’s it?!”
Me: “Yes.”
Employee: “What about a slider?”
Me: “No. Just a diet coke.”
Employee: “Fries?”
Me: “No thank you. Just a diet coke.”
Employee: “You’re not craving any food?”
Me: “Nope. “
Employee: “None at all? Onion rings?”
Me: “Uh. No. I am only craving a Diet Coke today…gotta watch my youthful figure.”
Employee: “Uh?”
Me: “Nothing. JUST THE DIET COKE PLEASE.”
Employee: “Fine. Pull up.”
Me: “Thank you.”
So I pay for a Diet Coke and a nasty glare, and then drive off to work.
Although I forgot my water bottle, I did remember to bring my coffee tumbler. So I march up to the office building, cup and tumbler in hand, in my professional Express slacks, with a briefcase stuffed full of snacks (like unsalted peanuts and apples) feeling thoroughly prepared for my day. Que bring it! Si si si!
So of course the hot mess starts in the elevator…
I’m in the elevator with three people, and I sense the small Indian woman in the corner staring at me – or rather – staring at my butt. She looks confused and shocked.
She catches me giving her the “what the hell?” look and says,
Woman: “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that your peanuts are sticking out!”
So, of course everyone in the elevator stops and gawks at the big can of peanuts that is precariously hanging out of my briefcase.
And then they all watch me awkwardly juggle my coffee tumbler and White Castle cup so I can cram my peanuts back into my food-stuffed briefcase.1 A flap on the briefcase comes open, revealing more food, and I get the “Fatty!” look from everyone.
And yes, they totally started snickering when I left the elevator. They couldn’t even wait for the doors to close.
Ugh.
1 I was wearing a shoulder strap, so the briecase was on my side, hence why it looked like she was staring at my butt. Although nice thing about working at a ginormous company is that it’s unlikely that I’ll ever see those people again since they don’t work on my floor.
I went to work today to study.1 A deserted office building is a prime study spot: There are power outlets, clean restrooms, and orthopedically correct chairs. Holler.
I swiped into the building right behind a large man wearing highwaters. Of course we shared an elevator. The elevator door closed and the awkward began:
Highwater: “Is it always this happening on Saturdays?”
Me: “Pardon me?”
Highwater: “Saturdays. Is it always this busy?”
Me: “Busy? There were only two people in the lobby.”
Highwater: “I know! It’s usually never this busy! Well, unless there’s a party going on. It’s only this busy when a party’s going on.”
Me: “Hm. Really?”
Highwater: “Yeah, maybe there’s a party going on today.”
Me: “Maybe.”
(elevator door opens, we get out, highwater starts walking away.)
Highwater: “Yeah. There was a probably a party going on. A party I wasn’t invited to. Me not being invited to a party! Hard to believe isn’t it?”
I just stood in the hallway and watched him walk off. Did that just happen?
1 Meaning, I went to the building. I’m not on the clock.
After questioning Jill for 20 minutes, Professor M tried to move on:
Professor M: “Okay, let’s go with someone else. Jack Smith?”
Jill: “He’s not here today.”
Professor M: “Hm. Okay, what about John Doe?”
(Silence)
Professor M: “Fine, what about Andy Johnson?”
(Silence, a few chuckles)
Professor M: “…erm, Sarah Patel?”
(some people start laughing)
Professor M: “What are the odds?! I mean, MOST of you are here! See what happens when you don’t show up… Okay, okay, what about John Williams?”
John: “Here!”
(class applauds)
1pm lunch rush at Taco Bell: About a dozen people waited inside the restaurant lobby for their orders. They rolled their eyes, sucked their teeth, and eventually started bitching aloud about the wait.
Taco Bells are designed so you can see the kitchen if you’re inside, so I don’t understand why people bitched about the wait when they could see the frantic pace of the workers. You try to make that many orders at once. I worked as a cook at WingZone a few summers ago, so maybe I’m more sympathetic…I don’t know.
I think bitching about a wait at lunch rush is like getting on a highway at 5pm and whining about the traffic. What do you expect?
There was another problem: the guy who brought the orders out didn’t speak English. He called out the numbers in Spanish, which, becuase we are in Miami wasn’t really a problem. The rule of thumb is to remember who is in line before you to figure out if you’re next. Seriously. It’s not that hard.
A nurse who was also waiting for her food decided to help the Kitchen Guy and called out the numbers in English when no one responded to his Spanish calls. This worked for a while.
But then came the Hick’s order.
The Kitchen Guy called out the number several times and eventually the nurse called it out in English. The Hick, a 6-foot tall, unshaven guy with the mandatory ponytail, dirty work clothes, and trucker hat, stormed to the counter and screamed, “WE ARE IN AMERICA. SPEAK ENGLISH!”
About six of us were crammed together near the soda fountain. It was a crowded, awkward space, and the Hick broke the unspoken golden rule of crowded, awkward spaces: thou shant cause drama.
We all held our breaths and mouthed “woah.”
The Hick stormed off with his tacos. Kitchen Guy looked perturbed, but he didn’t really speak enough English to really understand anything beyond that he was just bitched at. This was a good thing because Kitchen Guy looked like he could unleash all sorts of crazy.
Looks were exchanged. We all looked sympathetically at the poor unilingual Kitchen Guy, and everyone stopped their bitching about the wait, and glared at the Hick, who was still bitching at his booth.
Yes Miami is technically in America, but it’s a different kind of America than what The Hick and people like him envision: Miami is 69% Hispanic, 57.7% immigrant (foreign-born), and English is not the primary language of 76.2% of the households. Yes Kitchen Guy can do better. But at the end of the day he is Kitchen Guy, and English is not a requirement for that job.
If you want to demand that people (especially unskilled, min. wage workers) speak English then move to The Provence like everyone else.
