Sports Fan-Attic

It’s hard to say exactly when my mother became a die-hard football fan.  Sports were noticeably absent from my childhood; participation in school team sports was neither prohibited nor encouraged, therefore, we remained uninterested due to its uncontroversial nature.  Sports were for different families with different goals.  Growing up in New Orleans definitely played a factor—to be a Saints fan was more of a testament to urban solidarity and less a tribute to the overwhelming success of the team.

A quick rundown:

Age 8:  I joined the softball team at my local playground, and was too young to understand what “bench” meant, but only knew I sat on it for a considerable amount of time.  I was put so far into left field that I doubted it was even a viable position, but it gave me time to myself, since no 8-year-old had ever been known to hit a softball 487 feet from the home plate.

Age 10:  I tried karate.  My instructor used to make us lie down in a row while he walked from one end of middle-school bodies to the other using our stomachs as a bridge.  He insisted it was an exercise to teach us muscle strength.  I believe that’s when I uttered my first cuss word, and it was “Screw this.”

Age 11:  Much to the chagrin of my classmates, kickball was a required sport for anyone in the 7^th grade P.E. class, which meant I was always going to have to be on someone’s team.  That term, “Picked last for kickball?”  Not just in the movies.

Age 14:  Soccer.  I was on the junior high team.  We had no uniforms.  We smoked cigarettes in the locker room.  We never played another team.  I was the goalie.  I still don’t know what that meant, since no one was ever trying to score against my team, since they were ON my team.

Age 15:  While losing a game of HORSE against my sports-fanatic neighbor, he asked me what my favorite NFL team was.  I answered with the only one I knew the name of, other than the Saints, because I wasn’t entirely sure they were part of the NFL.  “The Cowboys,” I said, because they’d just won the eighty-ninth Superbowl or something and their logo was all over my Taco Bell bag.  He proceeded to scream at me and say he’d been a fan “since the beginning,” (he was 16) and that I was only “jumping on the bandwagon” since they’d just won the big one.  I was mortified, I cried, I kicked the air in his general direction, aimed the basketball at his snotty head, and got nothin’ but air.

Age 16:  Intramural Volleyball.  I was the Captain.  We named our team after the pig I was dissecting in Biology class.  I had no idea that “Intramural” meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, but I should have guessed as much when I realized that we only played during lunchtime.  I could really serve, I really could.  On an Intramural team.

My life up until 2005 was considerably, happily, sports-free.  That was the year I moved to Chapel Hill, NC, possibly the most basketball-crazed city on Earth.  When I arrived close to the start of the ’05 NCAA season, the town was awash in broskis wearing my least favorite shade of blue, doing chestbumps in jerseys emblazoned with what looked to me like the silhouette of a foot that had just stepped in a large pile of shit.  Everyone said it was just a matter of time before I became a Tarheel too, but they said that about my impending crossover to ultra-liberalism, as well, and that hasn’t even happened yet.  When my parents moved to Raleigh two years ago, they treated the UNC sports epidemic with the same amount of disdain I did, and that made me feel okay.

The darkness started seeping in last season when my mother, desperate to carve out a happy life for herself in a state she’d never be caught dead living in pre-Katrina, decided the only vestige of New Orleans she was going to hold onto was the Saints.  While my dad dreamed of a life back home in the Faubourg Marigny, eating ham biscuits from Mother’s and strolling along Royal Street during the open studio tour and shopping for VooDoo dolls in the French Market, my mom was busy setting up a satellite dish so she could catch the Monday games.  Though she’d acquired season passes to the Hornets games back home, that was after I had moved away for college, so I could comfortably ignore it and know in my heart that I had no idea what sport she was even talking about.  I still don’t know.

But the fact that I live so close to her now has afforded her the luxury of seamlessly transferring our Sunday Dinners at Mom and Dad’s to the Cleveland Drafthouse in Garner come football season.  The first time I accompanied her, I sat in a packed pub at a high, straight-backed chair with no cushion, facing a beer I hated and a family platter of fried pickles.  There were seven different games on the Drafthouse’s many super-cable-equipped, flat screen TVs, and I couldn’t follow anything except when my mom started screaming at one TV in particular, dashing up from the table to smack the heads of large, strange men in offending jerseys, her Blue Moon sloshing over the rim of her pint glass.  Something had happened, and I could never tell if it was good or bad.  I only knew it disturbed my crossword puzzle.

And my dad, my poor dad.  NEVER a sports fan, but frantic to keep up with the firecracker he’d married and whose hobbies were taking a most sinister form, he’s always by her side at every game, making sounds at the appropriate times and scowling at the cigarette dangling from mom’s lips while any one of fifty random, giant, oily men lights it for her.  She’s not a smoker, by the way.  Only during the games.

My dad called my brother and I to meet him at the mall under the pretense of taking us out to lunch some weeks ago. We arrived, and when we found him, he marched us to a storefront wedged in between a Bath and Body Works and a Great American Cookie Company.  The sign read Sports Fan-Attic, and its double doors yawned widely into a gruesome scene full of jerseys, hats, and keychains for every conceivable team and player from the NBA to the WPGA.  My brother and I were stunned, automatically clutching each other in a simultaneous grip of fear and disgust.  Why had Father brought us to the twentieth level of Hell?  Had we been bad?  Well, I don’t know, but we’d definitely been had.

“We need to get Mom a jersey, a Saints jersey,” he said, looking just as distraught as his children.

I had to get out of that room.  While my dad and brother peddled around, trying to make sense of the sea of shiny colors and roaring endorsements, I made a beeline for the front desk.

“Saints jersey.  Black, not white.  Child size,” was all I could manage, and it stunned me that I could even remember at that moment that my mom was 5’0 and 105 pounds soaking wet.  It took us three grueling minutes to finish the transaction, and not one of us had any idea how much those fucking things cost.  We know now.

Eager for the next game and an opportunity to show off her new favorite nightgown (seriously, she’s really tiny), my mom invited us to Sunset Grill the following Sunday to watch the Saints vs. Dolphins, a game she couldn’t catch with her mediocre cable subscription.  My brother, his pregnant wife, my dad, Rockey and I all gathered around a table and tucked into some obligatory bar food while my mom proceeded to befriend everyone in the bar wearing black and gold and to shun everyone who was not.  After she made a comment about her family not being as into the game as she was, my dad tried his hand at cheering by bellowing at a rare quiet moment, “I SAY FOOTBALL YOU SAY SAINTS!!!!”

That’s all he said.

He didn’t follow it up with the much-needed prompt of “FOOTBALL,” as per his own instruction, so when no one said, “SAINTS,” he was mortified.  A couple of people came up and tried to explain his gaffe to him, but it was too late.  His wife had not helped, his children were charmed, but he was embarrassed and so resigned himself to a life just outside the sports spotlight, which was very bright and constantly trained on the tiny woman next to him whose fists would slam on the table after every fumble, sending our precious waffle fries to ground with a soft, defeated “thump.”

Fistful of Naan.

Dear J Waves,

I just got back from a delightful meal at the India Dreams Lunch Buffet.  “Lunch Buffet” isn’t included in the name of the restaurant, just the name of my meal.  I am proud to report that I was not fooled by the raita this time; the first six times I graced the India Dreams with my presence, I spent all eight of my buffet dollars on six bowls of rice pudding and maybe a cube of cheese from the saag paneer.  I think the staff was onto me, though, because on my seventh visit, blinded by my desire for rice pudding, I immediately made a beeline for it without looking at the nametag, which clearly read “Raita”.  I piled up my plate with the shit and took a giant bite of. . .cucumber tzatziki.

They fooled me.

This is rice pudding:

This is Raita:

And it was in the same place on the buffet line.  I HATE raita.  That’s the India Dreams staff’s idea of a practical joke, I’m pretty sure.  I deserved it.  I was eating them out of house and rice pudding home.

On my way to lunch, I stopped at La Potosina for a MexiCoke, which we all know tastes better than AmeriCoke because of the cane sugar.  On my way out the door, I ran into Pedro, the Carrburritos grill cook.  Pedro gets very startled and shy whenever he sees one of his American coworkers in the Real World.  He stopped short and looked at me, then at the door to La Potosina, then at me again with a bewildered expression.

“Ho- Hola?” he said.

And I replied, loudly, “Oh-law, Pay-drow!” like the white bitch I am.

“Don’t. . .don-don’t you know dees ees Mexican?” Pedro asked, pointing to the door.  Why in the world would I be going to a Mexican grocery store?

“Necesito Coca Cola,” I replied, holding up my half-empty bottle.

He just stared at me and giggled nervously.  “A-Adios,” and with that, he was gone.

I made it to India Dreams, met up with Aaron, and bypassed the Riddle Me Raita for some chicken curry.  We were in a booth adjacent to one occupied by a ginormous fifty-something man I used to work with.  His normal breathing patterns mimic those of a guy who smoked a pack of Lucky Strikes during a marathon.  He had food all over his shirt, his mouth, and his cheeks, and there was a glob of tomato sauce about to complete a frantic surge to the carpeted floor via the outside of his left pants leg.  He had two empty plates in front of him when Aaron and I got there and he made no less than four additional trips to the buffet during our twenty minute lunch.

I used his frequent absences to fill Aaron in on who he was and why he was gross.  He got up for his fifth trip since our arrival and in order to do so, he heaved himself to the edge of the seat and, building momentum, managed to ROCK himself out of the booth and stagger over to the buffet line.

I took a giant bite of food just in time to see him come back to his seat, not with a plate of food but instead clutching a BARE FISTFUL OF NAAN.  I lost my shit.  I laughed all the rice right out of my mouth.  I clapped my hands to my face and ended up with a palm full of palak paneer.  I thought I was going to die.

On our way out, I stopped to say hey to Naan Fist, which was a mistake. It only took an, “Oh, hey,” from him for him to launch a chunk of prechewed chicken out of his mouth where it rested serenely on his upper lip.  It stayed there for the entirety of our five-minute conversation and stared its angry chicken stare at me as I inched my way backwards out the door and onto the snow-covered sidewalk, my whole rice-puddingless lunch threatening to reintroduce itself in front of the bus stop.

What’d you eat today?

Love,
Mandey

Wobots in the Thousands!

Dear Billy, love of my internet life,

What the fuck is up with Self-Checkout?  It terrifies me.  I know it’s supposed to be “convenient” and it’s supposed to cut labor costs by putting octogenarian cashiers out of work in Wal-Marts everywhere, which is, um, helpful?  But seriously.  I can’t get shit done at them.

I walk up to my friendly Harris Teeter self check-out about once a week only to have it scream, politely, “WELCOME TO HARRIS TEETER PARA ESPANOL, MARCA DE LA ESTRELLA,” to which I respond with a blank stare, not noting any Spanish or English stars anywhere on the apparatus.  Once we overcome our language barrier, I rest easy knowing that every item I scan will beep at a reassuring decibel level of four million twenty six, except for every third-and-a-half thing which will result in the SCO wobot yelling, “PLEASE SEE CASHIER FOR ASSISTANCE.”

Look.

I don’t want assistance with my box of Playtex Super-Flo tampons, okay?  The UPC is large, flat, quite visible, and, in my opinion, secretly outfitted with a code on certain items such as tampons, condoms, and other  embarrassing personal hygiene items to result in an absolute technological meltdown just so all the fratboys behind me can giggle at my ineptness and/or private needs.

When my items have all been scanned to the best of my ability, minus the ones I have discarded into the rack of chewing gum and emergency keychain flashlights because I do not want to risk certain things being broadcast to my fellow shoppers, wobot starts yelling again.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY ITEMS UNDER YOUR CART?”

“No,” I press, since I and everyone else know that you’re not even supposed to go through SCO with a WHOLE SHOPPING CART OF SHIT BECAUSE THAT’S NOT WHAT IT IS FOR, THAT IS WHAT HUMAN CASHIERS ARE FOR.

And then, “DO YOU HAVE ANY COUPONS?”

Which is also worthless, because I have tried inserting coupons and every time I get directed to a human cashier for assistance, thus rendering the offer, and the SCO, moot on all accounts, so again I press, “No.”

And riddle me this.  The easiest part should be paying, right?  Wrong.  For some cosmic reason, some karma-influenced reason, I ALWAYS get the machine that is out of money for change.  I don’t own any credit or debit cards, and writing checks is a sure way to get scoffed at in any major retailer nowadays if you don’t have a current driver’s license, a birth certificate, a snapshot of your latest police lineup, and the results from your most recent MMPI personality test on hand for confirmation your citizenship and resulting qualification to purchase 2% milk and a giant jar of pickles.

And most of the time, the “cashier assistants” aren’t much help either.  The last time I was in a SCO line, I was behind a very frail old man who could not get his debit card to work.  No matter how many times he punched in 1-0-0-3, his PIN simply would not register.  The gangly teenaged cashier sauntered over to the old man and asked what the problem was.

“My PIN won’t work.”

The cashier sighed with impatience and said, “Look, let me try.  What’s your PIN?”

“One thousand three,” the old man responded, handing over his card.

The cashier, assuming a false sense of superiority, shook his head with an amused grin on his little rat face.

“Well, sir, there’s your problem, obviously.  This machine doesn’t HAVE a ‘thousand’ key.”

Check THAT out, Billy dear.

Love always,
Mandey

Fuck a Sears.

Dear Billy:

I have tried to call you multiple times but no dice.  Santa accidentally sent one of your presents to my haus and I would like to forward it to you but I have no address.  This is because I am careless and I have lost it.

What has been going on here?  Not much of shit.  I am boycotting Sears.  I was wondering if you’d like to help.

See, yesterday, Lackey and I went to Sears in search of the following things:

One (1) ShopVac
One (1) Record Player with USB port
Two (2) BreadBoards for building circuits

We walk into Sears and I ask “Trellis” at the Customer Service Desk if they have record players.  “I dunno,” she says.

Thanks.

We walk over to the CD Players and I spy a lanky teenager with a Sears nametag and things like Xbox on his mind.  His nametag says “Winter.”

“Do you guys have record players?”  He just stares at me.  “I don’t really know,” he says.

How do you “not really know” if you have record players? Do you or do you not have record players?  We walk away.

We spy the tool section, and By Jove, it is glorious.  Walls and walls of miter saws, bench sanders, cordless lithium drills, acetylene tanks, concrete bits, and not a single fucking ShopVac in sight.

Also not in sight?  A single goddamn Sears employee.  So I start yelling loudly.

“TOOLMAN!  SEARS TOOL DEPARTMENT LADY!?  TOOLS?  ANYBODY WORK IN TOOLS??”

No response except now some Mexican dudes are staring at me and Lackey’s kind of laughing and I think he may be a little embarrassed.

So we wander over to the Tool Department Check-Out and there are four employees standing there doing zero things.  One of them comes up to us and says hello, do we need any help?

“Yes, um,” (I look at his nametag), “Danish!”  (Danish?) “We need a circuit building board and a ShopVac!”

Danish hesitates.  “A circuitbuilding board?”

“Yeah, they’re called ‘breadboards,’” Lackey offers.  Danish is stumped, so he turns to a fifty-something dude with a Sears nametag who is fucking around on the employee computer.

“John, do we have breadboards?”

John looks at Danish disdainfully, then sizes us up and decides we’re not going to help his commission before saying, “I’m off the clock.  I was supposed to leave an hour ago.”

Wait.  WHAT?  You mean to tell me we waded through Trellises, Winters, and Danishes to finally reach a John who turns out to be a load his mother should have swallowed?

This cold response does not deter Lackey, however, and he says to John, “Well can you just answer yes or no if you have breadboards?”

John rolls his eyes and says, “Like you eat bread off of?  Try kitchen appliances.”  And with that, he walks away.

Wow.  Well maybe Danish can help us with the ShopVac?  But when I turn to Danish, he’s helping a family of five pick out a reciprocating saw.

Okay, this is the point where I channel my mother and turn to yet another retard with a Sears tag on and say, “That guy John?  Sort of an ASSHOLE, huh?”

“Weslya” (it’s a WHITE DUDE) tells me that’s a strong word to use in the delicate Tool department.  I concur without apology, and begin to complain about John’s “I’m off the clock” attitude.  Weslya explains that John technically could not answer my question because since he was off the clock, it would be a liability for Sears.

“THEN TELL HIM TO GO THE FUCK HOME!”  I say, maybe too loudly.  The Reciprocating Saw family glances up as one.  I do not care.  Weslya asks if I need help.  I tell him it is too late.

On our way out, I stop again at the Customer Service Desk and ask Trellis if she’s got any customer comment forms.  She heaves her massive bosom over to the counter and leans across it so she can rest from the two-foot walk and says, “Oh no, we don’t do dat.  You got ta go online.  Oh, gimme a sec and I’ll write the website down for you.”

“IS IT SEARS.COM FOR FUCK’S SAKE?  I think I can handle it, thanks,” I say over my shoulder on my way out.

Fuck a Sears, dude.  Like I said, I’m boycotting.  You in?

Love Always,
Mandey, Danish, Winter, Trellis, Weslya, and boring old John.

Every Rich Boy Thinks I’m Gross.

Dear Billy:

I am out and about town!  I just finished a five-dollar bowl of microwaved cheese grits (I heard the beeper go off so I know they were microwaved) and although I like it here at this tiny red-walled cafe with its blotchy free internets and debilitating quiet and outdated “Look I’m A Hipster” playlists (read: Neutral Milk Hotel and “vintage” Radiohead AKA “The Bends” album), I can’t help but lament the loss of 3Cups, which moved months ago all the way ‘cross town.

At 3Cups, you’d order a press pot of exotic coffee and they’d give you a little stainless steel sand timer so you’d know when to press the plunger down.  You could set up shop in the corner with your MacBook and your press pot of something you couldn’t pronounce, and watch boys in Independent sweatshirts and Burberry scarves and chain wallets pretend to read alarmingly difficult and thick books, their covers turned up enough to give the general public a chance to be impressed.  Their iPods would be blasting Dave Matthews or Grateful Dead, and they’d hover over, but not quite sit on, their barstools with all their things spread around neatly as if to prove that they are available on a moment’s notice if their Bluetooth buzzes with an important call.  Their eyelashes were long and they were used to girls looking at them, and at 3Cups they were always presented with a bit of a challenge, because all the baristas had tattoos and mutton chops and derby hats, and were always slightly cooler and more inaccessible than the patrons they prepared press pots for.

The 3Cups baristas’ hands were never idle, though their minds may have been.  There were paper mache airplanes falling into nosedives from the ceiling, and burlap coffee sacks on the walls, and old wagon wheels and backless leather booths pushed up against exposed brick, and there were never any available outlets for your laptop.  Which was unfortunate.

One day I was busy being the most underdressed, dirtiest person at 3Cups.  My hair was plastered against my forehead and littered with little skull-and-crossbones bobby pins, and my skull socks were cemented to my feet with nastiness, and I had a rip in my messenger bag (the one with the little metal skull studs). That rip made me look untidy, I thought, as if my appearance hadn’t take care of that already.

The nearest long-lashed Burberry kept shaking his head at me in disgust. I wondered absentmindedly whether he thought I had too many skull accessories.  Probably I did.  Then he abruptly gathered all his crap, and since he was already standing, hovering above, but not sitting on, his barstool, he was able to make a graceful exit.  At the door he turns around, chin-up, and addressing the entire (seated) clientele at 3Cups, proclaims, “I’m out,” and turns around and glides out the door.  No one looked up.

Two seconds later, he was back to retrieve his forgotten messenger bag, and there it was, sitting on his table, dejected and free of rips and full of books he’ll never really read.  So much for theatrics.

I followed him outside to see where he was going and upon losing him around a corner, I lit up a cigarette and sat down.  A little boy, maybe four years old, plodded up to me and screamed.  He looked up at his dad, who was rich- and divorced-looking and wearing a Burberry scarf, and said, “Daddy, that girl is ugly!”  And I figured the dad would tell his son to apologize to me, that it was rude to insult people, but instead he bent down and said, “I know, son, but remember!  We don’t say everything we feel!  Come on let’s go.”  He never made eye contact.

Sometimes I’d locate an outlet across the room with a foreign exchange student barricading it from my adapter plug.  Her books and pens and mittens would be strewn all over the table, so I’d sit, hating her because she’s not even using an outlet; she has no computer, nothing electronic, and I’d secretly hate her for terrifying me with her language barrier—I knew I’d never approach her for fear she’d not be able to comprehend my words, when I knew she actually probably spoke better English than me.  I’d just sit with my back not touching the exposed brick, and I’d only have 13% battery left and I’d have already exhausted my press pot and I’d have already spent eighteen dollars since I walked in the door, partly because I’d asked what Mutton Chop’s favorite coffee was, and of course he’d picked the most expensive press pot they had on the “Specials” board, and I’m not one to back down from a challenge.

But now that 3Cups is gone, I’ll settle for overpriced cheese grits and this particular view of downtown Carrboro, the one that proves the traffic pattern was constructed by Bjork’s wild sugarglider on an acid trip.

Gotta go to work.
Mandey

Alpenstock Barack

Dear Asshole who hit me with an Obama Pole:

An hour ago I was at Le Cafe drinking some coffee between jobs.  You walked in brandishing a wooden stick to which you had affixed red and blue plastic plates spelling out the word “OBAMA.” You asked me if I had voted for Obama yet and I said it was none of your beeswax.  The second time you asked me, I told you I wasn’t going to vote.  The third time you approached me, I told you to fuck off.  You said you felt sorry for me.

O RLY?  Yeah, ass.  I feel sorry for me too.  All I wanted to do was come in here and drink some damn coffee before my second job but no, I have to tell skinny kids with a blind agenda where they can shove their ten-foot-tall Obama wavy-pole.  Last week you were an “Anarchist,” remember?  I feel sorry for me too, buddy.

On your way out of the café, after you had harassed several other patrons, you “accidentally” swung your Obama Pole into my shoulder.  Then you walked out, pretending you hadn’t noticed.

Okay.

The OLD Mandey, say, the Mandey I was this morning, would have beaten your sorry ass to a goddamn pulp right in the parking lot in the intersection of Main and Fuck You.  But the NEW Mandey packed up her things, walked in the rain to her assigned polling place, and wrote in Nader.

That’s right, I voted.  Not that it counted for shit.  But I’ve been voting Nader for years.

Look.  If you gave me a choice between:
A.    consuming draperies till I die
B.    being beaten to death by tiny plastic mallets
or
C.    neither

I would choose neither, until you wielded your stupid Giant Votey-Baton at me.  DO YOU GET IT???  I’m not ashamed of the fact that I wasn’t going to/barely didn’t vote.  A few of the recruiter weirdos around here have adopted me as their personal project.  There is one girl who stopped by Carrburritos every day just to ask me if I had voted yet.  I eventually had to tell her it was none of her business, to which she, of course, replied, “Oh but it is.”  Suck my balls.

Today at work I wore a sign on my shirt that said, “TALK TO ME ABOUT SALSA, NOT POLITICS.”

Two people asked me “What kind of salsa would Obama like?”  I told them he’d want to change the whole list.  They didn’t tip.

Bottom line?  I simply do not like either of the candidates.

If you want the truth, I suppose I’d want for McCain to win, then kick the bucket within the next year, in which case Palin will have to take over.  I would LOVE for Sarah Palin to be in charge.  Why?  Because Saturday Night Live would be SO FUCKING FUNNY for the next four years.

We’re doomed either way.  Now take your Barack Alpenstock and throw yourself in front of a Hope Truck.

Mandey.

Chip. Oat. Lay.

Dear people of Carrboro,

It is said by many educators and parents and, well, people with common sense, that a great way to teach children to speak correctly is by speaking correctly to them.  They will repeat what they hear.  For instance, if you are out of Doritos, and your child asks you, “You ain’t got no Doritos no more?” the correct response is, “No, I do not have any more Doritos.”  If they say, “Can I have biskettis tonight?” you should not say, “No.”  You should say, “No, you may not have spaghetti tonight.”  It’s a nice, easy way to indirectly tell them they are stupid and useless.  Hopefully they will eventually learn how to use grammar and pronounce things correctly thanks to your example.  Children’s minds are malleable and they have no feelings, so it’s fine to use this tactic.  Montessoris do it all the time.

Why, then, WHYWHYWHY, after a solid six months of positive repetition and patient, passive aggressive instruction, am I STILL failing to teach the adults of Carrboro how to correctly pronounce the fucking word CHIPOTLE?

It’s not hard.  It’s not weird.  There are three syllables and there are no silent letters.

Chip.

Oat.

Lay.

Yes, I understand that the “e” is tough.  It’s an “ay” sound.  Some of you want to say “Chip-oat-ell.”  And while that’s incredibly ignorant and extremely annoying, it’s understandable.  What I don’t get is you goddamn Mensa rejects who say “Chip-ol-tay.”

C.    H.  I.  P.  O.  T.  L.  E.

What would posses you to switch the “T” and the
“L” anyway?  “Chip-ol-tay?”  What IS that?  If I transposed two different letters and said “Chip-tow-lay” you’d look at me funny.  If your name is “Steven” and I pronounced it “Sveeten” you’d think I was dumb.  Why can’t you just read the damn word and say what you see?

If I have my shitty fast food restaurants right, I’m pretty sure there’s an entire McDonald’s-owned burrito chain called “Chipotle.”  How the FUCK do you pronounce it?  Do you say it wrong every time?  That’s like my grandma who has said “Super Wal-Mark” for twenty years.  But she’s 88, you guys!

It is so bad that I have taken to inscribing the top of my hand with the words “CHIP.  OAT.  LAY.” with permanent marker every time I work.  Seriously, I might get five people a NIGHT who pronounce it correctly.

I suppose in the grand scheme of things it’s not that bad.  If that’s my biggest gripe about work, I guess I’m lucky.  I’m just amazed at people’s ignorance sometimes, the way normal dudes can take a perfectly phonetic word and put an imaginary one in its place.

Part of me wants to launch into a rant about those people who think that since they’re in a Mexican place they feel the need to pronounce everything, even the word “Mastercard,” with a fake  Mexican accent, loudly, and then look around the room to see who is impressed at their cultural sensitivity.  If they want to speak fake-Spanish, they can start with the word “Chipotle.”  But that’s a blog all by itself.  Don’t worry, it’s coming.

Love,
Mandey