Going Back To Knight School

, , , , , , | | Related | May 18, 2019

(When I’m in junior high school, my mother cannot, by any stretch, get my Language Arts teacher’s name right. For the sake of exemplifying how she butchers it, we’re going to say my teacher’s name is Ms. Knightly, and she always says, “Ms. Kin-ig-hit-ly.” The hyphens are just for show; she says it at a normal pace. After the first report cards and the subsequent Parent-Teacher night to discuss students’ progress, this conversation follows.)

Mom: “Ms. Kin-ig-hit-ly had nothing but praise for you.”

Me: “Knightly, Mom. Her name is Ms. Knightly.”

Mom: “Oh, okay. Yeah…” *goes on about my other teachers* “…but Ms. Kin-ig-hit-ly adores you.”

(Different versions of this story play out almost daily following this meeting, with no change ever being made. I figure the inevitable reality is she is never going to get it right, so I stop caring so much once she realizes she should never address my teacher by name if she sees her. Later that same year, my grandmother dies. We make funeral arrangements, and this happens:)

Mom: “The closest funeral home to her church and the cemetery would be Knightly Funeral Parlor.”

Me: “Where?”

Mom: “Knightly Funeral Parlor.”

Me: “What’s my teacher’s name again?”

Mom: “Ms. Kin-ig-hit-ly.”

Me: “Mom, it’s the same as the funeral parlor, down to the spelling. You just pronounced that perfectly.”

Mom: “Really? Huh.”

Me: “So, what’s my Language Arts teacher’s name?”

Mom: “Kin-ig-hit-ly.”

(No, she wasn’t screwing with me. So, some form of the first conversation continued until I transferred schools and no longer had Ms. Knightly. And it continues to this day when my mother decides to reminisce about my school life and comes to my year with Ms. Knightly.)

Someone Has To Be Princess Peach

, , , , , , | | Learning | May 13, 2019

(I’m beginning a Spanish class for first- and second-graders. I give them a list of Spanish first names for them to choose from, typical for a foreign language class. Two minutes later:)

Me: “No, you can’t all be called Mario!”

Saying, “Heidi Ho!” At Work

, , , , , , | Working | May 11, 2019

(My first job out of college is working as a front desk/helpdesk engineer for a third-party IT company. For some reason, my boss can’t remember my name.)

Boss: “Heidi, can you come in here for a minute?”

(My name is not Heidi or anything close to it. In fact, my name starts with a C. I am the only female who works at the company at the moment, so I get up and walk into his office with a frown.)

Me: “Um, were you looking for me?”

Boss: “Of course. I called for you.”

Me: “Yeah, but, uh… My name isn’t Heidi.”

Boss: *hesitates* “Are you sure?”

Me: “Well, if it is, then the last twenty-some-odd years I’ve been using the wrong one.”

Boss: *laughs* “Right, makes sense. So—“

(He went into what he’d wanted to ask me. Afterward, he still called me Heidi and I corrected him a few times, and then I realized he was doing it on purpose because he thought he was being funny. I’d mostly yell back, “Not Heidi!” while doing whatever he’d asked. It would be funny when we got new techs because they’d always get these really confused looks on their faces as I’d get up, and they’d lean over and ask, “Who the f*** is Heidi?”)

Not A Rewarding Name

, , , , , | Working | May 9, 2019

(There is a specific store where I usually go to buy rabbit food. They have some sort of rewards program, and this exchange happens every time I check out. Note that my name is unusual and the spelling and pronunciation do not match particularly well.)

Cashier: “Do you have a rewards account? We can look it up by your phone number.”  

Me: “Yes, I do. It’s [number].”  

Cashier: *punches it in* “Okay, that’s [Mispronounced Name]?”  

Me: *sigh* “[Correct Pronunciation].”  

Cashier: “Oh, did we spell it wrong?”  

Me: *perhaps internally* “No, my parents did. Just ring up the rabbit food.”

We Tire Of Online Names

, , , , , | | Right | May 9, 2019

(The place where I work has a business model based on the following facts. The first is that many companies will not ship to Canada, or charge a massive fee to do so. The second is that we are a hop and a skip from the US/Canadian border. Normally, when our customers come in for their packages, it’s just a matter of verifying their ID and making sure that they are properly registered in our system. There’s a fair bit of paperwork involved, but everything tends to run smoothly. On this particular day, which is busy due to the holiday season, a customer comes in demanding a set of tires. My boss looks up his account, and I overhear some of what goes on.)

Boss: “I don’t see any tires under your name.”

Customer: “It came under [Wildly Different Name].”

Boss: “If it came to [Different Name], then they’re [Different Name]’s tires. He has to come to pick them up.”

Customer: “No, they’re my tires! [Different Name] is my eBay account; everyone knows that!”

Boss: “We don’t know that! We don’t know who the heck [Different Name] is! Do you think we hire what’s-her-name, the psychic lady?”

Customer: “[Different Name] is my eBay account! They’re my tires!”

(After some back-and-forth, my boss has had enough.)

Boss: “[Coworker], could you take care of Mr. [Different Name]?”

(My coworker came and got the guy’s information, and they eventually settled the matter and headed outside to give the guy his tires. When my coworker came back, we learned that the guy announced that not only would he be leaving and taking sixty friends with him — we doubt he has six friends, let alone sixty — but he also claimed he’d get Toronto’s senator to shut us down. Buddy, we’re on the USA side of the border; I doubt you could do much if you WERE a Toronto senator, and given how popular we are with the rest of our customers, trying to shut us down would be political suicide.)

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