Alright, This Could Be True... But Then...Why, On Earth, Am I In Medicine?

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

If I Were A Rock, I'd Be, Like, A Diamond?!

Your Personality is Very Rare (IITJ)

Your personality type is logical, uncompromising, independent, and nonconformist. Only about 3% of all people have your personality, including 2% of all women and 4% of all men. You are Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, and Judging.

How Rare Is Your Personality?

Mommy

God looked around His Garden and found an empty place.
He then looked down upon His earth and saw your loving face.
He put His arms around you and lifted you to rest.
His Garden must be beautiful, He always takes the best.
He knew that you were suffering, He knew you were in pain.
And knew that you would never get well on earth again.
He saw your path was difficult, He closed your tired eyes,
He whispered to you "Peace be thine," and gave you wings to fly.
When we saw you sleeping so calm and free of pain,
We would not wish you back to earth to suffer once again.
You’ve left us precious memories, your love will be our guide,
You live on through your children, you’re always by our side.
It broke our hearts to lose you, but you did not go alone.
For part of us went with you on the day God called you home.

- Anonymous

I lost my mom two days before her 66th birthday... Just saying these words is very cathartic for me. For the past four years, our family had to deal with a lot of fear and uncertainty over my mom’s frail health. I clearly remember that day, four years ago… My mom had been in and out of the hospital many times. She even had to spend her 62nd birthday in the admitting unit for what my dad and sister thought was a usual pulmonary infection. I was on duty in another hospital in Manila, taking care of patients I hardly even knew from Adam while my mom was being cared for by another doctor. I got the text message from my sister telling me mom was admitted for pneumonia. That text message baffled me because, other than hypertension which had been plaguing her since she was in her mid-40’s, there had never been a reason for her to be rushed to the hospital, much less for a pulmonary condition. So I told my sister I’d try to wrap up my rounds at soon as I could and go home immediately. I even got to talk to her and my mom on my mobile phone. Mom assured me that it was nothing, that she just felt a little under the weather, and that the doctors just wanted to be sure that’s why they had her admitted. But I knew her so well. I knew then that what she was feeling troubled her in a way only a son could sense. She was a nurse, and being medically-oriented herself, when it came to health conditions, she was the kind of person who saw a glass as half-empty rather than half-full. But after spending four days in the hospital, she was given a clean bill of health and was sent home. I was about to complete my training as a physician in a few days so after her discharge, I went back to my usual routine, shuttling from Laguna to Manila every single day, thinking mom was already fine. March came, I became a full-fledged Nephrologist, and mom went into the hospital again, her second admission in less than a month. This time, she stayed much longer, and had to undergo biopsy of a lump that grew right above her left collar bone. When she first told me about it, I panicked. Supraclavicular lymphadenopathy. To an ordinary person, it probably was gibberish. But to a doctor like my self, it sent shivers down my spine. My mom had supraclavicular lymphadenopathy. I wanted her to have it biopsied immediately. My older sister flew in from the United Kingdom where she was based to be with my oldest niece, her daughter, for her 12th birthday, and also to check on mom who, by then, was feeling much better. Mom was sent home a few days after her biopsy was done. And for less than a week, with my older sister back, everything was all roses for us. Everyone was happy. And in that brief period, there was contentment. As it turned out, it was the calm before the storm. The day came. We attended my niece’s graduation ceremony, spent a good part of that Saturday morning having fun, enjoying being a whole family again. I would throw knowing glances at my mom, who mustered enough strength to look fine, even when I had a feeling she was still not a hundred percent alright. She smiled back at me, trying to assuage the fear she probably knew was welling in my heart. Her biopsy result would come out that same day, in the afternoon. I can only imagine what it must have felt like for her. The proverbial last meal before the execution. We all headed for home right after lunch, and waited for word from my older brother who had to stay behind in the hospital because my sister-in-law, who was then on the family way, was admitted herself. When we got home, mom and dad went straight to their room, while my sisters, nieces and I watched Saturday afternoon television. Then at half-past-three in the afternoon, my mobile phone rang. It was my brother. Dreading the worst, I turned it on. My brother’s voice sounded tentative and confused. He already had mom’s biopsy result. I couldn’t remember exactly what his exact words were, nor could I even remember most of what he said. He read “metastatic adenocarcinoma,” and upon hearing those words, I broke down. My mom had cancer. Although I knew it even before the diagnosis was confirmed, I guess I was on denial. A part of me believed that God wouldn’t strike my mom that way, she being the epitome of goodness and God’s grace to every person who had been fortunate enough to have known her. No, it would be unfair for Him to bring her down like that, not after all the good she had done for a lot of people. And yet, the evidence stared at me the first time she asked me to feel that hard lump on the base of her neck. Time stood still for a few seconds and I couldn’t move. How could I tell my sisters? How could I break the news to them without shocking them as a hot prong would a herd of cattle? I sat on my bed. Everything seemed surreal. My older sister walked past my room and saw me through the half-open door. She could sense something was wrong, and all she needed was to look into my forlorn and worried eyes and she started to cry. Pretty soon, most everyone in the house, with the exception of my nieces and the maid, already knew about mom’s illness. We didn’t know how to tell her. We had always known her to be a strong woman, steadfast in her faith, and firm in her convictions. But how were we to tell her to brace herself for the greatest battle she had to fight?

That day marked the end of innocence for me. I was in my mid-20’s, but in every aspect, I was a child. My mom had always been my wellspring of strength and comfort. I knew that even if the world around me fell apart, I would always have her for my shelter. I was a child, forever looking up to her as the parent who would make everything all right. She could fix anything, from the tiniest booboos on my pinky finger, to the most devastated and shattered heart. The roles had now been reversed. I knew I had to be the man who would fight for her and fight with her. I had to be the strong arms that would carry her just as she carried me, gently and tenderly for most of my childhood years. The grief that enveloped me was a testament to the love she had so generously showered on me, sans conditions. Her fight was our fight. Her triumphs elated us. Her setbacks broke our hearts in a million pieces. For the next four years, I would be her strength. For the next four years, I would cry with her, comfort her, and be her source of inspiration, even when I myself wasn’t certain about what the future held for her. I was desperately lost, a beacon of light standing on a very fragile harbor. And yet, in those four years, she drew strength from me, just as my own faith was replenished by the hope and love I saw every time I looked into her eyes. Mom had always been a beautiful, regal woman, but I had never seen her look more beautiful than when she would sadly look at my face and, with eyes full of affection, gently reassure me that God would be watching over her just as I had been taking care of her. We would talk about years past, when she would fight with me and I with her over the most trivial and petty matters, and how we’d make up soon after as if nothing happened at all. She always had a lot of patience when it came to me. She taught me never to compromise my values. From her I learned the value of standing up for myself, and never allowing anyone to mock or ridicule my convictions. It was this same feistiness that brought the two of us into frequent clashes with each other. She was very democratic, and yet I knew where the boundary was. She was still my mother, and I was still her son. We would laugh at the times I would refuse to talk to her, and the times I would snuggle up to her. She could read me like a book. With her, I never had to pretend. We reminisced about the “good ol’ days” as if we were trying to conjure the times when everything could be solved by a popsicle and a sticky wet kiss on the cheek. I guess, maybe, there was the need for her to reconnect with the past to forget, even fleetingly, the uncertainties of tomorrow. We had the present and she knew how to savor every second of it. I saw her on her good and bad days, as she went on to fight the greatest battle she ever fought in her life. And during those times, her spirit was at its strongest, even when her body was at its frailest. I was so proud of her. She was the strongest, bravest, greatest woman I have ever known in my life. The tragedy that her illness was, proved to be a blessing… I was blessed with the chance to come full circle and give back to her what she had given me. The four years I spent taking care of her were not wasted years. They were golden, precious and priceless. She gave me a chance to be the man she had envisioned me to be. The man who had to make a choice, and, I knew then as I know now, the choices I made were the ones I could live with and the ones that made her proud. She raised me well.

Mom left us too soon. She would have turned 66 on the 22nd of February. But two days before that, she graciously ascended to a place where pain and suffering would never hound her anymore. And while we, her family and friends, paid our respects and offered her our prayers, those who lovingly remembered her for her humanity and generosity of spirit celebrated her birthday in simple ceremonies that left most everyone speechless. The tribute accorded to my mom was grand in its simplicity, and it left everyone, including myself, reduced to tears... Tears of grief, for we lost the very reason why waking up everyday had been a blessing for everyone in our family. Yet, they were also tears of gratitude at the outpouring of love and support from thousands of people who had been touched by mom's magnanimity. I remember saying thank you to everyone who grieved with us. I also remember saying how grief-stricken I was at the loss of my anchor and my inspiration. There are a lot of things I realize now I should have said then, but just as the mouth speaks out of the fullness of the heart, so can tears convey what the lips are incapable of expressing. I just wished those present that afternoon understood that I was not just a son who lost his mother. I was speaking as a man who lost the very essence of his life... My mom had been a central figure in my life. Much of who I am, much of who I want to be was anchored on her. She was my sound board when all I needed was someone who would just sit back and listen to me whine. She was my echo, magnifying my thoughts and actions until I appeared bigger and stronger than I actually was. She was my cushion, bravely absorbing life's unfair blows for me with a smile, and nary a complaint. She was the nagging voice in my head, always reminding me to follow the right path, no matter how difficult or narrow it seemed to be. She was the ray of light that shone on me in my triumphs, the very same ray of light that warmed my soul in my failure and despair. I was the moon, she was the sun... And if I shone brightly, I was simply basking on reflected glory, the glory that emanated from her. She was everything to me, and she made me feel that I was everything to her as well.

Mom, mommy, I will truly miss you. And in solitude, in the quiet comfort of a home that has lost its warmth, I shall always look back with sad fondness to the days when I could freely walk into your room and spill everything, for you allowed me to open my floodgates of emotion without judgment or ridicule. I will look at the rocking chair where you usually spent your mornings reading the paper, and wish for just one more chance to see you smiling back at me while we talk about anything and everything over a glass of milk and a bowl of breakfast cereals. I will sit on the computer chair, and still feel the warmth of a woman who spent hours writing, and playing solitaire, free cell or hearts. The vacant seat on the dining table will always carry the memory of a mother who loved so much and gave so much. But in these moments of sweet, silent thoughts, I shall look inside me, in my heart, for the love you so generously showered on me will live and shine brightly long after you're gone. You are always here inside me. I am a better man because of you. The legacy you left will live on through me. I love you, mommy. Sleep well and rest in God's loving embrace. I love you. I love you. I love you...

* The photo is of a framed cross-stitched patch painstakingly and lovingly crafted by Mom for my 25th birthday... It will always remain on the wall of my bedroom...

"Good bye, Mom..."

It would turn out to be the saddest day in four years... The sun was setting over the horizon. Picture-perfect. The longest drive would take us to the chapel where mom was peacefully waiting, slumbering in God's Heavenly embrace...

"I Guess Raquel Was Right All Along..."

It's so funny. Just a few months ago, I got this really awkward sms from one of the regulars in my inbox, and she said I gave off this Ross-from-Friends aura. Then I ran into this cool site. Just see for yourself. I guess she was right all along! Haha!

"Hindi Ako Nagda-drugs!"

“Javier, Alexander Gunab!!!”

“Ma’am, present!”

“Jovellanos, Dennis Francisco!!!”
“Ma’am, present!”

“Khan, Derrick Alan Chua!!!”

“Present!”

“Leveriza, Alberto Tan!!!”

“Present”

“Maderazo, William James!!!”

“Ma’am, present!”

“Magallanes, Carlo Alfonso Hizon!!!”

“Ma’am, here!”

“MAGdamo, Arni AGAWIN!!!!!!!”
(snicker, snicker)

“MAGdamo, Arni AGAWIN!!!!!!!!!!!”
(Inulit na, nilakasan pa! Bwiseeeet!)

“Ma’am, present...” (Sabay yuko sa desk…)

I sometimes think about how my family got its name. I mean, I know all about the Spanish decree that forced our ancestors to choose from a list of suggested surnames posted on a board in the plaza to keep track of all Filipino citizens during the colonial years. We studied that in grade school Social Studies. And I know that’s the reason why most Filipinos have surnames that aren’t very much unlike those in Latin American countries, and even in Mother Spain. Of course, there were obvious favorites, often with references to our Christian (or rather Catholic as majority of Filipinos were and are right now) background, like dela Cruz (“of the cross”), delos Reyes (“of the kings”, apparently in reference to the three magi), de Dios (“of God”), del Rosario (“of the rosary”), Cruz (“cross”), Reyes (“king”), Santos (“saint”). Just flip open the PLDT directory and look for people surnamed Cruz. I’d bet the listing would run several pages. Filipinos back then, as they still are now, were prolly status-conscious, and bearing a Spanish surname somehow seemed to erase, at least in their eyes, the brown complexion of the Malay race. Some of them, my ancestors included, were born of interracial hanky-panky, some legitimate, others illicit. The fiercely patriotic Filipinos must've thought it best to go for distinctly Filipino-sounding names, usually chosen from words that were derived from among the many dialects that dotted the linguistic landscape of the islands. For instance, we have Magbanua (from a Visayan word, I think), Manalo (Tagalog, “to win”), and many others like Masilungan (“to provide shade”), Liwanag (“rays of light”) and Casunuran (if I’m not mistaken, it has something to do with “following” or something akin to that). Then, of course, we have the Chinese invasion by way of trade, which brought us surnames like Sy, Lee, Tee, Chan, Chiu (Kim, the object of many pubertal and adolescent guys’ fantasies…), Tan, Gan, Mah, Pang, Peng, Ping, Pong, Pung, Pa, Pe, Pi, Po, Pu… Basta. If it sounds like something only a bell could produce, (Ping!) or prolly lifted from one of them old Batman comic books (Bang!), bet your balls on it, the person prolly is of Chinese descent. Let’s not forget the Americans and their half-a-century’s worth of occupation of our islands. These pink conquerors from the land of WalMart, plus sizes, and Spam were also known for their fondness for everything exotic. Including women. I had classmates before with surnames like Brown, Smith (although I’m thinking Smith is more of Anglo-Saxon origin), Roberts and Anderson. And I used to envy them for their really cool names.

I used to hate my surname. Magdamo. Most Tagalogs pronounce it with the accent on the first syllable. MAG-damo. If you’re not from Luzon, you wouldn’t mind this mild butchering of my surname. But Magdamo, pronounced the Tagalog way, is unflattering. Damo is a Tagalog slang for weed. Or jute. Or marijuana. So MAGdamo could mean “to smoke marijuana.” Now, if you’re a child of the 60’s or the 70’s, that could actually be pretty cool. Flower power! Righteous! Kewlness! Awesome! Yeah, baby! But I’m a child of the 80’s and the 90’s. And I didn’t find (I still don’t… neither do my friends and family) smoking marijuana (or smoking for that matter) “kewl.” I’ve had to deal with a lot of teasing from my classmates and friends every time someone mispronounces my surname. It should be pronounced with the accent on the second syllable. Mag-DA-mo. As if that wasn’t bad enough, imagine having “Agawin” for a middle name. Agawin. Tagalog for “to take forcibly.” I think in the US, the middle name refers to the second name. But in our culture, the middle name is the mom’s maiden name. And my mom’s maiden name is as icky as my dad’s surname. Arni Agawin Magdamo. Eeeewwwwkkk. Blech. And the irony of it all is, my folks’ names have rather unflattering Tagalog connotations, but their families are from the Visayas and Mindanao regions. Weird.

I actually asked my paternal lola where the name Magdamo came from. But after finding out about the origin of our surname, I felt worse. Magdamo, according to Lola Titang, is an old Visayan word which means “to multiply.” My dad was born, and grew up, in the island province of Aklan. Yep, The Aklan. Boracay. But theirs is only a branch of a clan that originated from, and still calls as its home, Davao del Sur in Mindanao. Now, as the story goes, during the Spanish occupation, a fugitive wanted by the Spanish authorities for some unspecified crime, bore the old name of the clan, even though he wasn’t in any way related to our family. To protect the family against Spanish persecution, our ancestors opted to change our surname to “Magdamo” apparently as an allusion to the growing clan. To multiply. Syempre, I had to ask what our original surname was. And she said it was… Dyaran! Carpio. Carpio! CARPIO! Dammit! Why didn’t they just stick with Carpio?! I’m sure the Spanish weren’t all that bad. I mean, they married into the family for Pete’s sake! Arni Carpio. Now that sounds really nice.
Lola Titang, on the other hand, got stuck with Magdamo by choice. She wasn’t related by blood to the Magdamos. But she married my Lolo Badong, and the rest is history. She’s a Spanish beauty. All her sisters were: Dolores, Enriqueta (Lola Titang), Virginia and Raquel. My Lola Raquel (we called her Lola Baby Pig coz she had a pig pen with lots of piglets), we were told, used to bathe in milk. I dunno if it was just one of those old wives’ tales. And Lola Titang, when she was alive, washed her clothes with and bathed in Heno de Pravia. She always smelled so good. But she was extremely austere, and we feared her a lot especially when she was younger. She had distinctly Spanish features: aquiline nose, deep set eyes. My dad looked a lot like her, except for his chinky eyes which he got from my lolo's side which was peppered with a bit of Chinese. When my lola would argue with dad, they’d burst into a litany of mixed Aklanon and Spanish. Going through her side of our family tree, the names Gomez, Regalado, Altubar and Yturriaga pop out. Nice Spanish names. Helluva lot better than Magdamo. I wonder… Wouldn’t it be nice to change my surname back into one of our family’s older surnames? Hmmm…

Arni Gomez <-- Now this one's nice

Arni Regalado <-- Okaaay! Kaso, it sounds like areglado.

Arni Altubar <-- Hmmm… pwede na! Plus, my name will always be on top of an alphabetized list.

Arni Yturriaga <-- Awesome! Only down side is, my name will end up last on the class list.

But my relatives, especially those from Davao, are rabidly loyal to the Magdamo surname. Who wouldn’t be? Despite the seemingly indecent Tagalog meaning of the surname, the uber talented and insanely (and I mean that in a good way) prodigious members of our family made Magdamo “sound” better, at least in the academic and music field. I got to experience this first-hand when I somehow ended up in Dumaguete a few months ago. When people found out I carry the surname, they immediately drowned me with stories about how Silliman University, one of the top universities in this country, was built with the Magdamos figuring prominently in its ascent to the top. My mom, although not really a Magdamo, as she only wedded into the family, I would like to think, is well-respected in her field, and she’s the dean now of a nursing school. Talk about academic. And it’s quite ironic that the surname I hated so much when I was younger turned out to be one of my tickets to where I am now. I mean, if it weren’t for it, I would have ended up practicing law, and prolly quite unhappy and disillusioned. When I went to my interview at the UP College of Medicine (for admission to the Intarmed program), I was fortunate enough to have as members of the panel doctors who knew my grand aunt, at least by reputation:

Panel: So, you’re Arni Magdamo… Are you in any way related to Priscilla Magdamo?
Me: Yes, sir. I haven’t met her personally, but she’s my grand aunt.
Panel: Really? She was with the UP College of Music before.
Me: Yes, sir, I’ve been told.
Panel: So, does that mean you also sing? She’s an excellent soprano.
Me: Sing, sir? Not even if my life depended on it. No, sir… I do sing, but only in the privacy of my shower.
Panel: Ahhh, that’s too bad. The Magdamos are a musical family. Do you play any musical instrument.
Me: Yes, sir.
Panel: What instrument do you play?
Me: The piano, since I was four. And also the violin and guitar.
Panel: Ahhh, Magdamo ka nga! (laughter)

Awww, I love being a Magdamo.

What's In A Name?

Your Sexy Brazilian Name is:

Henrique Sarahyba

What's Your Sexy Brazilian Name?

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.