The almost-fight for bunk no. 6.

So, earlier: I wanted to grab a quick nap during my lunch break. I registered for the nap room and was assigned to bunk #2.

It was occupied when I got in; some guy who couldn’t bother following simple numbered assignment. So I went to an empty bunk, #6.

Almost as I was about to doze off, some guy came in, woke me up, and said he’s supposed to take bunk #6.

Oh boy. I said, in a reasonable voice (I hope), “I was assigned #2 but it’s occupied. So I took #6.”

“But I’m assigned #6,” he said, with the nasal twang of a queen ready for a bitch fit. I got off, carried my shoes, and climbed to one of the upper bunks.

When I got there, I realized I left my phone in bunk #6.

“Excuse me,” I said in a bored drawl. ” Can you pass me my phone?” It was under a pillow, I pointed out, without bothering to go down and help. I merely stretched my arm a little to get my phone.


But after lying down again, I realized I will be able to get some sleep because some rude queen decided he’ll get his bunk like some privileged princess. I stood up and left to return to the production.

Woke up like shit


I later had to apologize to my trainees for being extra snappish after lunch break. They certainly didn’t deserve that.

But really. Don’t wake people in a nap room just so you can get a bunk. That’s horribly rude at hindi mo yan ikinaganda, teh.

Hotel Arizona.

Today in random Americana:

The city where the office I report to is located is a nice, laid-back Arizona city, Gilbert. The place is clean, the people friendly, and the area looks as harmless as a sleeping puppy. Except for the hotel right across the street.

After the department director spoke to the training class, there was a mild distraction when one of the employees excitedly mentioned that there was a shout-out at the hotel.

“Now you know why we didn’t put you there,” the trainer told my colleague and me. Apparently, that hotel occasionally has these violent incidents every couple of months.

Liberty Tax

“You’d see SWAT there sometimes,” another employee gleefully joined in. “The rest of the city is nice, but that place is so ghetto.”

#30DayWritingChallenge: A friend.

Day Twelve: A friend.

Some of the fondest memories I have of Mumbai were of going out of the office at two in the morning to get a small cup of chai from a street vendor from across the street. Harry was pleased to learn that the Filipino trainer sent to their team liked tea.

And beer. Indians and Filipinos would get along fine as long as there is beer. It helps that the local beer in Mumbai is good and that we have similar habits when it comes to drinking: Drinking is best shared with friends. Drinking is a time to unwind and bond. Food and beer go well together.

Tea breaks and after-work drinking were times for talking about things outside work. And Harry has a lot of stories to share. Life while growing up. Family and children. Music listened to. Fishing. Many of the things I learned about India, I learned from Harry.

Harry Singh

Harry left Sitel on the day I left Mumbai to return to Manila. Like him, I was also about to leave Sitel a few weeks after that training. We were both old timers among the outsourced employees of our account, lasting longer than many of the in-house employees, and many of the managers were reluctant to see us go.

It wasn’t strange that we got along quite well. But it was lucky that I met and worked with him when I did.

One black “I

One of my co-workers, Kiko, recently went to Hong Kong and bought shirts for co-workers as gifts. He asked me what my shirt size was and I told him I’m either a Medium or (more likely) Large. Kiko said he doesn’t have any medium-sized shirts anymore and suggested I try one of the small ones.

“As much as I like to believe otherwise, Kek,” I told him, “I’m no longer ‘small’. It’s sad how my old shirts no longer fit me.”

About two years ago, Kiko shared the apartment with me and knew how big (or small) my shirts were. There was a time before that when I could even fit into an extra-small. I tried one of the large shirts Kiko has, and it fits just right. A large shirt.

“Worse is how I can’t fit in some of my pants now.”

“I could relate to that,” he told me. If one looks at our photos from four or five years ago, it’s hard to believe how skinny we were not long ago.


Such faith in the supposed efficiency of energy drinks.

It doesn’t do anything for me, really, but I still bought a bottle of Cobra Smart energy drink. This is going to be a long night.

Due to several instances of miscommunication leading to a scheduling mix-up, I got off work at 11am this morning only to report again for my new shift at 8pm. The same day. Good thing my apartment was just a few miles away from Ortigas. I was able to take the news calmly and with an air of detached resignation, instead of going ballistic.

I could write a detailed analysis of how events led to the sudden schedule change dropping on me, but it would look dull when written down. And really, I had known of worse things that happened in other people, so I shouldn’t complain much. I only lost 6 hours of time alloted to travel, lunch, shower, house chores and sleep. It wasn’t like I ended up working 20 hours straight.

It was when I have very little time left for sleep that the universe will conspire to interrupt me in my slumber. I was asleep for an hour or so, when Bern tapped our bedroom window so I could open the frontdoor and let him in (he didn’t have his keys). To be fair, he had his share of problems at work which caused him to be home early.

It took me a few more minutes to get back to sleep only to wake up nearly an hour before the time I set my alarm to. I could hear the noise coming from the other units in the building: a mixture of hysterical laughter, children screaming, and too loud conversations echoing across the corridors, into my ears, and rousing me earlier than I wanted. But not too early that I could still go back to sleep without the likelihood of oversleeping.

So I decided I might as well get up and prepare for work.