There are many horror stories about the Italian mail service, but there are exceptions.
A friend of my father lives in a city with 100,000 inhabitants and ten post offices. In those days when mail was sorted by hand and area codes were unheard of, he received a postcard that did not have his name or street address.
What it did have — the only identifying information it had — was a drawing of his nickname: an ice-pick.
My new boyfriend has been married before, as have I. He has a beautiful tattoo on his shoulder of a scrollwork cross with his former wife’s first initial in flowing script. One day, we are just sitting and talking, and the tattoo comes up, since I want to get one eventually.
He looks down and speaks quietly.
Boyfriend: “I guess I should get that removed, right?”
Me: “Of course not! It’s a beautiful work of art and represents an important part of your life.”
Boyfriend: “But every time you see it, you’ll be reminded of her.”
Me: *Gently but grinning* “Honey… what’s my first initial?”
He thinks for a moment and then remembers it’s the same and laughs.
Boyfriend: “So, instead of [Ex-Wife] it can stand for [My Name]!”
We had a good laugh, but the weird part came later. I was talking with a friend who knows about [Boyfriend]’s tattoo. Even after I explained the coincidence, she actually argued with me that I should make him remove it to “prove his love” to me. I suddenly had somewhere very important to be and we’ve barely spoken since.
Me: “Thank you for calling [Tech Company]! My name is Katrina. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with today?”
Customer: “How dare you say hello to me with that fake name, sixteen years after the hurricane, when I’m dealing with one right now?! You’re probably not even American. I demand to speak to your supervisor!”
My name tag says “Front End.” A couple comes into my line.
Man: “’Front End’? Who goes in the rear end?”
Woman: “[Man]!” *To me* “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
Man: “Sorry.”
I work at a quick-service restaurant. I am training a new coworker on the front register. A gentleman comes in wearing a uniform and a name tag with his full name. He orders a particular salad. I know this could end VERY badly, but I need to ask anyway.
Me: “Sir, I promise I’m not judging based on your last name, but I do need to ask, is bacon okay for you?”
He stares at me for a minute, then starts laughing.
Customer: “Yes, bacon is fine. Thank you for checking. Actually, if it was my grandmother, she couldn’t have bacon. But me, I love bacon!”
Very relieved, I finish the transaction. After he walks to the waiting area, my coworker turns to me.
Coworker: “What was that about?”
Me: “His last name was very Indian. A lot of Indians are Hindu, but some are Muslim. And if they’re Muslim, they can’t eat pork. I needed to check if he was okay with it, but I’m so glad he thought it was funny rather than being angry!”
