I work at a home improvement store. The assistant flooring manager moved up, meaning we needed a person to fill the space. The only person who applied was an older lady with MANY health issues, which have caused my department to have some issues.

My name is a six-syllable name and many people ask if I have a nickname. No. I went all through school going by the shortened version of my name, and I’m done with trying to make it easy on people.

New Assistant: “Your name is too hard! Don’t you have a nickname or something? Like [First Half of my name] or [Second Half]?”

Either half could be a girl’s name.

Me: “No. My name is [My Name]. Not [First Half], not [Second Half]. Just [My Name].”

New Assistant: “But that’s too haaaarrrdddd! Too many syllables! What if I call you [My First Initial]?”

Me: “Mm… absolutely not. It’s [My Name].”

New Assistant: “ [My First Initial]?”

Me: “[My Name].”

New Assistant: “ [My First Initial]?”

Me: “You can try calling me that, but I will only ever respond to [My Name].”

And I walked away before I punched this fifty-year-old lady in the face. My name is my name. Don’t try to shorten it.

I have a common English name (like John Smith) that has led to some interesting stories over the years. To avoid confusion, and for security, I always use my middle initial when signing legal documents, i.e., John B. Smith instead of John Smith, or my full name, John [Middle Name] Smith.

Story #1: I am driving home from work and listening to the news on the radio.

Announcer: “Breaking news! John Smith who lives in [My City] has just won a groundbreaking legal decision in his favor.”

By the time I get home fifteen minutes later, I have sixteen messages on my answering machine from reporters for ABC News, NBC News, CBS News, the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, etc. I don’t respond to the messages and let them figure it out.

Story #2: I get a bill from a collection agency wanting me to pay $8,000 for some jewelry that “I” recently bought in San Francisco. I live 400 miles away in Los Angeles and haven’t been to San Francisco in two years. I ignore the bill because it is not my debt.

What follows next are more bills demanding payment and threatening phone calls from the collection agency. 

Collection Agency #1: “We know it is you, and you’d better pay us, or we will destroy your credit rating! How about we settle for $6,000?”

At one point, the agency wants me to verify my SSN (my US government ID number) with what they have in their records, BUT I have to tell them my SSN FIRST to see if it matches. (Not happening!)

Every time I tell them “No!”, the settlement price drops until it is down to $1,000. I call a lawyer to see what my options are. He tells me to just pay it or else they will ruin my credit rating.

Me: “Your advice is to just pay them the $1,000 so they will leave me alone? That sounds like extortion to me.”

I ignored my lawyer’s STUPID advice. I never gave that collection agency a dime, and my credit rating didn’t suffer.

Story #3: Another collection agency contacts me about a $20,000 bank loan that is in default. Again, this is not my debt but a fraudulent loan taken out in my very common name. My legal signature always includes my middle initial, (John B. Smith). This loan was taken out by a person using the name John Smith, who lived in a different city than me.

On the phone with the agency representative, I ask him to show me some proof that it is my signature on the loan papers. His reply makes me laugh because he acts like that’s a VERY unusual request.

Collection Agency #2: “You want to see your signature on the loan papers? I don’t have access to those documents.”

I eventually got three copies of the checks written on the loan, and you didn’t have to be a handwriting expert to figure out that they were written by three different people. Not one of them matched my writing or my signature.

I didn’t pay that agency $20,000, and my credit rating never suffered.

I have been hired by a supermarket in a department that is fairly young aside from one middle-aged colleague. She is the trainer for that department and a kind, caring, wonderful woman. Shortly after hiring, and upon asking permission, I start calling her “Work Mum” or “Mum”.

After a couple of months, I discover I work better on tills, so I move departments. A few months after this, one of the original department’s supervisors comes over to me while I’m working.

Supervisor #1: “[Coworker] is moving, so she’s getting another job. We’ve got a good luck card and such hidden in our room. Please come sign it when you’ve got the time.”

Me: “…sure?”

I don’t know why he’s telling me about a random coworker I don’t know leaving, but I guess it’s important if he made sure to ask me to sign it? Several other coworkers from my original department also tell me about this, but still, I don’t know who [Coworker] is or why everyone is making sure I know. I decide to sign the card later to be polite, but I can’t shake the phony feeling since I can’t think who this is.

Later in the day, I pass their room on my way to clock out. The only person in there is [Supervisor $2], who I’m friends with, doing paperwork, so I wave as I arrive. He notices me and leaps out of his chair.

Supervisor #2: “Oh, [My Name]! I didn’t see your name on [Coworker]’s card. I know you’d kick yourself if you didn’t sign it; you two adore each other!”

The penny drops.

Me: “Oh, God, [Coworker] is Mum’s real name! Wow, I wondered why [Supervisor #1] and everyone had told me about this!”

Supervisor #2: “Aww, you love her so much you forgot she isn’t actually your mother!”

We had a laugh, and I made sure to write in her card and chip in on a leaving present. I told her the story on her final day, and she was doubled over with laughter. She said she’d miss “her daughter”. I know I miss “my mum”.

When I was a kid, the popular item at the time was the Beanie Baby. EVERYONE had one. As we were getting closer to my birthday, my mom asked me what I wanted.

Me: “A Beanie Baby!”

Mom: “What’s that? It’s not too expensive, is it?”

We had medical bills to pay, so money was tight.

Me: “I don’t think so. It’s a small stuffed animal, about this big.” *Shows her with my hands*

Come the day of my birthday, I opened the box and found a small purple basset hound. I let out a cry of delight and picked it up excitedly.

Me: “A BEANIE BABY!”

Mom: “So, what are you going to name it?”

Me: “Oh, no. Beanie Babies come with their own names!”

I started flipping it around, trying to find the tag with the name. Looking back as an adult, I can now see the look of panic in my mom’s eyes, but I didn’t notice back then. Finally, I found the only tag on it.

Me: “Its name is…” *frowns in confusion* “…Applesauce.”

Ever since then, its name has been Applesauce. Yes, I still have it. The tag, however, did not say, “Applesauce”. It was the company’s name… “Applause”.

My father was a school superintendent and went to a conference with other school administrators. The speaker opened with one of those “super teacher helps out the kid everyone else ignored” stories. The kid in the story was named Pepe. Unfortunately, the speaker apparently didn’t know how to pronounce the name.

Speaker: “Little Pee Pee didn’t speak English very well.”

Speaker: “The other kids made fun of Pee Pee.”

Speaker: “Pee Pee would hide in the bathroom and cry.”

Not quite the encouraging message he was going for.