| Your Sexy Brazilian Name is: |
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It was 10:15am. While munching on my Apple Jacks in front of the TV, the phone rings (to the tune of Edelweiss… how cheesy can you get?), temporarily breaking the mid-morning silence (uh, not really, coz Martin Mystery was airing on the Disney Channel, and the Boogeyman was chasing after Java the Caveman and Diana Lombard as she made one of her trademark shrill, ear-splitting shrieks… but that’s another story). I lifted the handset:
Me: Hello?
Lady Caller: Good morning, sir! This is (insert girl’s name) from, (insert bank’s name). Can (sic) I talk to MISS Arni Magdamo?
Me: Huh? (drops the TV remote) Hang on a sec. (picks up the remote and the torn bits and pieces of my masculinity from the floor)
Me: I’m sorry. I might’ve misheard you. You were saying?
Lady Caller: Yes, sir. This is ______ from _________. I would like to talk to MISS Arni Magdamo if SHE’S there.
Me: Uhm, this is Dr. Magdamo.
Lady Caller: Yes, sir. Is MISS Magdamo at home?
Me: I’m sorry. You don’t get it. This is Arni Magdamo.
Lady Caller: (sounding confused) Ma’am? Uh, sir? Uh, MISS Magdamo?
Me: (pissed, and bewildered how such a pretty voice from a possibly pretty girl could have come from a head that’s obviously helium-filled) Listen, lady. It’s 10am. I just did a 48-hour at the hospital. I haven’t slept, I haven’t shaved, I haven’t taken a bath. I’m groggy, scruffy, filthy and hungry. And the only sugar I had that’s keeping my brain from short circuiting and preventing me from going to that God-forsaken and neuron-deficient place you’re calling me from and snapping your neck in two places was three-spoonfuls of Apple Jacks…
(Okay, I didn’t actually say that, although God knows how much I wanted to. But the Dr. Jekyll in me was much stronger than the Mr. Hyde hiding in my subconscious, so this is what I actually said):
Me: Ma’am, this is MISTER Arni Magdamo (at that point, I didn’t think mentioning the word “doctor” was gonna do me any good).
Lady Caller: I’m sorry, po, sir. Sir, I’m calling because (insert bank’s name) is celebrating its nth anniversary and you have been pre-selected to receive a prize of…
Me: (interrupting Anna Nicole Smith’s monologue) I’m sorry. I’m not interested.
Lady Caller: Sayang naman, sir… May I know…
Me: (interrupting Ethel Booba again in mid-sentence) I really am sorry. Try someone else. Bye. *click*
First of all, lemme just say that she started to get on my nerves when she asked if she COULD talk to me. I’m pretty sure she CAN. After all, she’s obviously got functional glottis, a tongue and a mouth. All speech-producing organs. But I’m quite certain that if I had my way, and if I were to betray my Jesuit education, I would’ve said “No, you MAY not!”
Secondly, I’m also positive that nobody, and I mean NOBODY, in the right frame of mind, with fully operational cerebral hemispheres, could mistake my deep, rich, baritone voice for a girl’s.
And finally, everyone knows that nobody should come between me and Disney Channel. That just ain’t right.
But Anna-slash-Booba-slash-Lady caller did have a point. “Arni” can easily be mistaken for a girl’s name. That wasn’t the first time that “Miss” came right before it. I dunno. Some people do find my name a bit whimsical. Prolly in the same league as Kitty, Lily, Dolly, Patty or Timmy. And my name’s been mutilated many times by people from all walks of life. I hafta say that the carcass I hate most would be the version “Arnie”. Yep, Arni with an extra “E”. It doesn’t sit well with me. Aside from having one too many vowels in it, and the “E” at the end doesn’t add much to the name’s value, it kinda brings to mind the Filipino’s unique way of adding panache to an otherwise drab name by putting in an “H”. Like BHoyet. Or LeaH. Or the ridiculous BHadHetH! I swear. A kid I grew up with had that name, and she was awfully proud of it. I say, good for her. But for me, I like my name simple. No extra vowel please.
Now, Starbucks is a common crime scene of many a name’s massacre. So far, only one – yeah, count that, ONE – barista got my name right without needing to ask me how I spell it. His name’s Gail from Shell Mamplasan Starbucks. Yep, HE. Maybe we’re kindred spirits. Brothers in “mutilated names’ paradise”. I mean, having gone through childhood with a name like that, he prolly knew how important it was to get my name’s spelling right. But what’s more impressive about Gail was that he was our barista on more than one occasion and he got my name right. ALL. THE. TIME. Now, THAT’S service. But of course, my name’s been tortured by many of the other baristas. One wrote “Marni” on my cup. Another girl’s name. It didn’t matter to him that the guy standing in front of him was all of 6-feet with a five o’clock shadow. Marni. Crazy. Then there’s “Barney.” My good friend, Ricky, would teasingly call me that when I act dorky (which usually happens when I’m “toxic”), but that’s a private joke among friends. That barista wasn’t a friend at all, and I seriously doubt he’ll be one of mine. Certainly not after that “Barney” boo-boo. Or how about that girl from Starbucks Madrigal who called me “Army.”
“One tall non-fat café mocha with sugar free vanilla for an Army!”
That certainly would be enough to fray everyone’s nerves and send them flying out the door. Imagine an army invading Madrigal. Or how about the one in Corte de las Palmas:
“One grande café americano for Diego, one tall decaf cappuccino for Moi, and one tall hazelnut mocha for… (pauses for a few seconds)… Carmi?”
Good grief. But this one tops ‘em all:
(Starbucks Petron, the one along the southbound portion of South Expressway)
Me: I’ll have a tall hot non-fat mocha, non-fat milk, with sugar-free vanilla. Hold off on the whipped cream and chocolate syrup, please.
Girl barista: Okay, sir. And what name should I put on the cup?
Me: Arni.
Girl barista: Is that short for Arnold?
Me: No, just Arni.
Girl barista: Alright, sir. Besides, you don’t look like an Arnold.
Me: (smells something flirty… activate flirt mode level 1…2…3…4) Oh, yeah? And what name would you give me?
Girl barista: (smiling… I didn’t notice it when I got in, but girl barista was actually very pretty… Donita Rose pretty) Arni’s a cute name.
Me: (flirt mode level 5) Well, remind me to thank my mom for that.
Girl barista: (still smiling) You should. Would you like to try any of our pastries?
Me: (flirt mode level infinity) Alright, I’ll have that one (points to a chocolate cake-like thing, but with yellow stuff)
Lesson No. 1: When in flirt mode, buy. Just buy anything.
Girl barista: One tiramisu?
Me: Is that what it’s called?
Girl barista: Yes, Arni.
Me: (she called me by my first name!) Okay, one tirumisu, tirrasu, whatever.
Girl barista: Okay, here’s your change, Arni.
Me: Thanks… uh (looks at the name plate)… Thanks ______ (Haha! You really think I’ll tell you who she was? No way! She’s mine! Haha!)
After five minutes…
Guy barista: One tall non-fat café mocha with sugar-free vanilla, no whipped cream… for ARNIIIIIIII!!!
Me: Thanks!
Guy barista: Enjoy your drink sir…
Me: (looks at the paper cup where Donita Rose lovingly wrote my name… and saw….A-R-N-E-E!!!)
Pretty barista lady called me ARNEE. Flirt mode infinity…5…4…3…2…1…pffffft… The girl couldn’t spell. Darn.
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