I have a really unusual double name; it’s like Anne-Marie, except it’s so unusual that I have never encountered another person with my name. Let’s say, for the story’s sake, that it’s Mary-Ellen. My name is way more unusual, but it has the same amount of syllables and, like Mary-Ellen, it is made up of two very common girl’s names, without any unusual spelling.

The story behind it is that when I was born, my parents initially couldn’t decide on a name. My dad liked “Mary” and my mom liked “Ellen”. Instead of choosing between the two, my dad suggested combining them. There was no question of saving one name for a future kid, because it was a minor miracle my parents even had me, and there would be no other kids; my parents had been told they couldn’t have kids because of my mom’s health issues. My last name is prosaic in comparison — a common, profession-based surname, easy to remember and spell. Let’s say it’s Baker.

I like my name; I think it’s pretty, I like the story behind it, and to me, it represents both of my parents, whom I adore. My mom passed away when I was ten, and the second part of my name feels like a reminder of her. These are all reasons why I always go by my full name, not part of it or a nickname. I used to go by the first part of my name when I was very young and it was hard for my classmates to say my full name, but when I got older, my father insisted I go by my full name and I honestly agreed. (My father is a name-purist. He’s the only one — in a family where half the men have the same name — to go by his full name instead of a nickname, and he’s also the only one to call my stepmother, who has quite an unusual, difficult-to-pronounce name for the area she grew up in, by her full name and not the nickname everybody else uses.)

However, for some reason, maybe because it is so unusual, people always cut my name in half when they first encounter it. Especially in high school, whenever a new teacher, teaching assistant, or substitute teacher showed up, which happened every couple of months, they would mangle my name on the first roll call. This was really annoying to me, even more so because I was not the only person in my class with a double name; the others were just more common.

At one point, there were three other people with double names in my class — two boys and a girl — but my name was the ONLY one the teachers would mess up. Every. Single. Time. I had to correct them so many times that it became a full-on Thing in our class.

Whenever we had a new adult doing roll call, the following interaction would take place.

New Teacher: “Anne-Marie Smith?”

Anne-Marie: *Raising her hand* “Present!”

New Teacher: “John-William Jones?”

John-William: *Raising his hand* “Present!”

New Teacher: “Mary Baker?”

I’d raise my hand, slightly annoyed that this was happening AGAIN.

Me: “My name is Mary-Ellen, sir/ma’am.”

The rest of the class would then say, as one:

Rest Of The Class: “Present!”

This happened so many times that the teacher who handed me my diploma upon graduating high school made a joke about it in his little speech. Thankfully, every teacher I had was willing to use my full name after I mentioned it, though they did occasionally need reminding.

I’m at the register line, and a mother and her adult daughter are in front of me unloading a full cart of groceries. It’s the only line open at the moment, so I patiently wait behind them.

Suddenly, a man shows up with one single can of beer and assumes he can cut in line before these ladies. He doesn’t even ask, “Can I go first?” He just declares, “I’m going ahead of you,” and does so with a wink and a very self-centred smirk.

Mother: “I don’t think so, pal. The self-scan is right there. You can use that.”

The man smirks even more, muttering some things and suddenly pretending he doesn’t understand Dutch. He keeps hovering around the mother and daughter. The cashier is too busy scanning their many items to notice anything.

Another employee does notice, and she opens the register next to us. The man’s smirk becomes even wider as he struts to the front of that line, making sure he looks around to look down upon everyone like he’s the king who just got a red carpet rolled out for him.

The second cashier doesn’t give him the satisfaction of even talking to him and makes the transaction as quick and blunt as possible, giving the rest of us patrons an apologetic glance. The man takes his can of beer and even has the gall to bow to us as he leaves the store.

A lady behind me saw the whole exchange and locks eyes with me.

Lady: “Did you see that? I think I found the winner for the ‘stuck-up b*****d of the week’ award.”

In 2010, my mom and I attend a concert in Amsterdam. We don’t live close to the city, we don’t have a car, and public transport back home late at night is non-existent, so we opt to share a room at a cheap hotel near the venue. 

The man checking us in is friendly, though his smile has a bit of an Uncanny Valley vibe. We chat a bit and disclose that we’re in town for a concert.

We dump our stuff in the room, leave for the gig, and return sometime just after midnight, and we are greeted by the same man. Somehow, he manages to crank his freaky smile up to 100 as he asks if we enjoyed the concert and bids us to “sleep tight”, also giving me a wink. 

A bit unsettled, though tired enough to not give it further thought, we hit the sack. 

Early the next morning, my groggy mind somehow registers the word “rhino”. Pulling myself from a deep sleep, I am surprised to wake up to a room TV that’s turned on and showing a nature documentary about — you guessed it — rhinos. 

Still half asleep, I reach for the remote on the nightstand, turn off the TV, and go straight back to sleep. A mere couple of minutes later, my mom’s phone alarm goes off, signaling that it is 8:00 am and waking us both properly. 

I’m still not sure if I dreamed that the TV was on or not. I reach for the remote and turn it on again to check. 

Mom: “What are you putting the TV on for?” 

Me: “Rhinos.”

Mom: “…what?”

Me: “I thought I dreamt that the TV went on and showed me rhinos. Apparently, I didn’t dream it.”

I point at the TV, which still has the documentary on and is now showing rhinos galloping across an African desert. 

Mom: “How is it possible that the TV turned on by itself?”

Me: “Beats me.”

Now sincerely puzzled, we get dressed and head down for breakfast. There is a self-service breakfast bar, so I make myself a plate and sit down. 

Uncanny Valley Hotel Clerk is back. He still smirks at me like something out of a horror movie. I’m halfway done with my breakfast when the man comes slithering up to our table, leans over REAL CLOSE, and asks in the most terrifying, slimy tone: 

Demon Hotel Clerk: “Would the little miss like for me to make her a grilled cheese?” 

The “little miss” is in their early twenties here, FYI.

Me: “Eh… no… No, thank you. I’m good.” 

He slithered away to a back room. Mom and I exchanged a glance that translated to, “Eat the rest of our breakfast as fast as possible, and let’s get the h*** out.”

Thankful that we had paid in advance, we did exactly that, giving the man nothing more than a brief “we’regoingthanksfortheservicebye” in passing to signal our leaving.

My father-in-law remarried when his sons were adults, and the sons refused to call his new wife their stepmother. I always wondered why they disliked her so much because she was very cordial the two or three times I had met her thus far.

During Christmas, the family came together. My brother-in-law was about to become a second-time father and proudly announced:

Brother-In-Law: “Yesterday, we received the news: it’s going to be a girl this time!”

We all rejoiced, except for [Father-In-Law]’s wife.

Father-In-Law’s Wife: “A girl? Are you sure? The doctor must be mistaken.”

Brother-In-Law: “I’d like to think this woman knows what she is talking about.”

Father-In-Law’s Wife: “Impossible. Men in our family only have sons!”

Our family? You married into this one!

My Husband: “Eh… what about Aunt [Father-In-Law’s Sister]?”

Father-In-Law’s Wife: “Just a fluke. And she looks like a man, anyway. So, mark my words, it’s going to be a boy! Otherwise, you should get a paternity test.”

Everyone stared at each other, lost for words. In hindsight, [Brother-In-Law] should have gotten up and left, or someone should have spoken up, but we were just too stunned to do or say anything. 

[Father-In-Law] passed away a few months after his last grandchild’s birth — she was indeed a girl — and it seems only I can remain civil to her, so I am her main source of contact concerning the testament and will. I completely understand why my husband’s family doesn’t want to talk to her at all.

I recently had a very… interesting experience with a postal service.

Having a sudden inspiration for my wife’s birthday present, I ordered an item from a webshop. I received an email that the item would be delivered the next evening. So far, so good.

The next day, a Thursday, I received an email with the timeslot. My package was to be delivered between 5:30 pm and 10:30 pm. In other words, “somewhere in the evening”. Yeah, it’s a big timeslot and I was not too happy with that, especially since 10:30 pm is the time I want to go to sleep. On the other hand, a big timeslot usually means it arrives earlier than the final minute, so I was not too worried.

By 8:00 pm, however, I received another email. It said that the timeslot had changed to “between 8:05 pm and 10:30 pm”. Wow, breaking news… I mean, the passing of time would imply that you’re not going to make it IN THE PAST. So, what is the point of this email?

10:30 rolled by. Still nothing. My wife and I decided to go to sleep, pondering whether we would open the door if they came in late. But nothing happened.

The next morning, I saw another email from the postal service. Apparently, they hadn’t “managed” to deliver it. No explanation why or how, but at least they didn’t claim delivery while this wasn’t the case. (You often hear these horror stories.) Now they were gonna try again this evening, same d*** timeslot. Sigh!

Friday evening, same scenario, except with no email for the shorter timeslot at 8:00. So again, nothing. Grmbl… Now, I’m getting really annoyed.

Saturday morning. Another email, now from the webshop. Apparently, the postal service had still “failed to deliver” and now they had sent the package back to the webshop. As soon as the return was processed, I would receive my money back.

Not showing up two nights in a row is probably something logistic, but what really bugs me is that this resulted in them just giving up on the delivery so quickly — no attempt to send it to a nearby package point, either. Just… nothing. All of this was just a complete waste of time for me and a waste of time, energy, and fuel to them. All for a small package.

Although I considered complaining to them, I soon realised that their websites are designed to make this difficult, with stupid chatbots instead of real people, etcetera, which would only make the situation more frustrating to me. Instead, I’d better just take my hands off the situation and find a different present somewhere else — preferably not from a webshop, and certainly not this one. I don’t want to risk any of them working with this same dreadful delivery service.