hand in glove
At the Mexican empanada place where Ana and I sometimes eat, there's a certain woman behind the counter who is always bitchy toward us, and we're pretty sure it's because she doesn't like seeing one of her own consorting with a gringo. I used to catch the same shit from the head of the student Filipino association back at Oberlin, who regarded me as some kind of colonial invader -- he once went so far as to kick me out of the lunch room where they were having a meeting, claiming my unobtrusive boyfriendly presence made him "uncomfortable." (Word along the grapevine was that he was known to suffer from certain, er, "masculine troubles" in the bedroom, so it didn't bother me too much.) Usually I derive a certain satisfaction from flaunting my pasty ass, but then sometimes I just want my damn empanada.