(My husband and I are visiting our very good friends and messing with each other. My friend has been complaining that her husband has been annoying her all day. I am sitting near her husband with their baby in between us. My friend is speaking about a familial situation and mentions a name.)

Friend: “Ray-mon.”

Me: “Raymon?”

Friend: “Raymon.”

Me: *so confused* “Raymond or Raymon?”

Friend: “Yes.”

Me: “…” *looks at her husband*

Friend’s Husband: *spells it* “R-A-Y-M-O-N-D.”

Me: “Oh, Raymond! You keep saying Raymon!”

Friend: “Yeah, Raymon!”

(I just stare at her at his point, confused beyond belief, and she and her husband begin to bicker about it.)

Me: “Look, you keep saying Raymon, not Raymond! You are leaving off the D!”

Friend’s Husband: “Yeah, she’s saving it for later!”

(Everything dissolved. I took the baby out of the way as my friend screeched at me to flee and proceeded to launch herself at her husband while he and I hysterically laughed.)

(My name, while common, uses one of the more uncommon spellings — for my area at least. For sake of ease, let’s say it’s Kathryn instead of Catherine. They did the same with my middle name. My dad has decided to write me a check while we’re sitting in the bank parking lot. He pauses partway through writing the check, looking at me somewhat ashamed.)

Dad: “How did we spell your name again?”

Me: *jokingly* “You had twenty years to learn this, Dad. K-A-T-H-R-Y-N.”

Dad: *laughing along as he finishes out the check* “Good thing I don’t have to put your middle name on here; I’d get that wrong, too!”

(Thanks, guys.)

(I’ve just opened my register when a customer walks up with some cookies and other items.)

Me: “Hi, how are you? Do you have a [Store] card?”

Customer: “Yes, and some coupons. Hold on.”

(As she goes through her purse, I start ringing up her items.)

Customer: *looking at my name tag* “Your name is [My Name], huh? Funny way of spelling it.”

(My name is not an uncommon Irish name, and it happens to have the most oft-used spelling. I am multiracial, though, with more of my other ancestry prominent than my name would suggest.)

Me: “Ah, yup, that’s my name.”

Customer: “What’s your last name?”

Me: “Oh… Sorry, I don’t give that out.”

Customer: *huffy* “Well, I was only asking.”

(My coworker is signaling me for assistance in her transaction, but I sense that my customer won’t like me walking away from her, so I decide to finish her transaction first. My cashier and her customer, therefore, hear the rest of the increasingly bizarre conversation.)

Customer: “Do you know what my name is?”

Me: “Uh… No, can’t say I do. Sorry?”

Customer: “Oh, you’ll know it. Do you want to know why?”

Me: “Um, okay, sure.”

Customer: *a moment of silence* “That’s why.”

Me: “Sorry?”

Customer: *abruptly* “Where do you want to go?”

Me: “Go? I don’t follow.”

Customer: “What jail would you like to go to?”

Me: “Uh, no jail, actually, thanks?”

Customer: “Oh, well, I was just giving you a choice. Because that is not your name. That cannot be your name. Just you wait; you’ll be hearing from the authorities later today!” *storms out*

(I walk over to my coworker and her customer, a regular.)

Me: “Sorry for the wait.”

Coworker: “What was that?”

Me: “Apparently, my name wasn’t foreign enough for her? Really glad I didn’t give her my last name now!”

(I work on the switchboard for a major hospital. We take a lot of calls, have a lot of options to put callers to, and are, unfortunately, very used to callers giving us very little information so we have to guess the rest.)

Me: “Good afternoon, switchboard.”

Internal Caller: “Yeah, can I speak to Imogen?”

Me: “Imogen who?”

Internal Caller: “I don’t know.”

Me: “Uh, okay. Do you know what Imogen does or what department she works in?”

Internal Caller: “I don’t know; the doctor just wants a copy of an X-ray.”

Me: *light-bulb moment* “OH! You want to speak to imaging!”

(My two preschool-aged children and I are taking the bus home. Both have speech issues, so we use some sign language as well as their gradually-improving English to communicate. The speech therapist says that signing is a great way to help them out; rather than not communicating at all, they just have trouble talking, which is resolved a few years after this story happens. I’m signing to them when two young men catch my eye and start signing to me. The following conversation takes place in American Sign Language. In ASL, it’s common to have name signs to avoid spelling out a person’s name every time you need to reference it.)

Young Man #1: “You three sign? Is one of you deaf?”

Me: “No, we’re hearing, but the kids are still learning to speak, so we sign in the meantime. I learned to sign in school, so at least this way they can tell me what they need!”

Young Man #2: “Oh, I see. Good thing you sign. It’s nice to meet you; we almost never see people signing!”

(Both young men spell their names and show their name signs.)

Me: “Nice to meet you, too!”

(I introduce both of my children by spelling their names and giving their name signs, and I introduce myself by spelling my name.)

Young Man #2: “Do you have a name sign?”

Me: “Huh. No, they just call me ‘Mom.’ I haven’t needed a name sign!”

(We didn’t come up with one for me and I still don’t have a name sign, but the young men and I got a good laugh out of my neglecting to think of one.)