“Hey, Stinky.”
“What up, Stumpy?”
I’ve called Mary early this morning – too early, apparently, for us to be concerned with calling each other by our real names.
It is one my personal downfalls – an area where I have the opportunity for growth, some might say – being quite bad with names. I blame it on the number of times we moved as children.
My brother, too, has this hole in his social education. We hear/remember what we deem to be important and leave the rest.
“Hey! Pearl! I saw that guy again the other day.”
“What guy?”
“Oh, you know. What’s-his-lips. The guy with the teeth.”
“And the finger?”
“Yep.”
The best part of that conversation, of course, is that I could repeat it to my sister and she’d say, “Oh, yeah! DuWayne! How’s he doin’?”
DuWayne, by the way, is doing fine; and while he’s still missing that finger, he’s thinking of getting front teeth.
And so while I am very good at remembering faces/dance moves/musical preferences, I’m pretty bad at names.
I’m not alone.
Mary’s Jon refers to anyone he can’t remember as “Fuzzy”.
“Mary! Did Fuzzy call?”
Heavy sigh from Mary. She suffers, this one. “Which Fuzzy?”
“Fuzzy Number One. The big Fuzzy.”
She rolls her eyes at me, a smile on her lips. She shakes her head ever so slightly. “Jon, so help me, I’m gonna come over there…”
He winks at me. “Fuzzy! The Fuzzy with the 2002 Chrysler Sebring bumper cover in our living room.”
Jon, a man in blurring, dizzying motion, has hijacked their tiny living room with a replacement bumper cover for one of his many automotive-repair clients.
Mary manages to laugh and threaten him at the same time. “Oh, my God, Jon, I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna kill you, then I’m gonna make you supper, and then I’m gonna kill you again.”
Jon laughs.
And you can almost hear him thinking:
What’d she just say about supper?
“What up, Stumpy?”
I’ve called Mary early this morning – too early, apparently, for us to be concerned with calling each other by our real names.
It is one my personal downfalls – an area where I have the opportunity for growth, some might say – being quite bad with names. I blame it on the number of times we moved as children.
My brother, too, has this hole in his social education. We hear/remember what we deem to be important and leave the rest.
“Hey! Pearl! I saw that guy again the other day.”
“What guy?”
“Oh, you know. What’s-his-lips. The guy with the teeth.”
“And the finger?”
“Yep.”
The best part of that conversation, of course, is that I could repeat it to my sister and she’d say, “Oh, yeah! DuWayne! How’s he doin’?”
DuWayne, by the way, is doing fine; and while he’s still missing that finger, he’s thinking of getting front teeth.
And so while I am very good at remembering faces/dance moves/musical preferences, I’m pretty bad at names.
I’m not alone.
Mary’s Jon refers to anyone he can’t remember as “Fuzzy”.
“Mary! Did Fuzzy call?”
Heavy sigh from Mary. She suffers, this one. “Which Fuzzy?”
“Fuzzy Number One. The big Fuzzy.”
She rolls her eyes at me, a smile on her lips. She shakes her head ever so slightly. “Jon, so help me, I’m gonna come over there…”
He winks at me. “Fuzzy! The Fuzzy with the 2002 Chrysler Sebring bumper cover in our living room.”
Jon, a man in blurring, dizzying motion, has hijacked their tiny living room with a replacement bumper cover for one of his many automotive-repair clients.
Mary manages to laugh and threaten him at the same time. “Oh, my God, Jon, I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna kill you, then I’m gonna make you supper, and then I’m gonna kill you again.”
Jon laughs.
And you can almost hear him thinking:
What’d she just say about supper?
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16 comments:
Sebring bumper covers and supper. Life is good.
I wondered for a moment if Jon is related to my husband. Though he wouldn't think hijacking my living room worth mention.
Once I had three children, it took me a few years to memorise all their names and calling them by the right one was impossible. So I called my youngest 'Thing' for quite some time. He seemed ok about it.
That's called siphoning what's important out of the conversation. I swear when I talk to the hubs he hears "blub blub coffee blub blub sandwich blub blub blub tv blub."
I don't know whether it's worse to forget someone's name or call them the wrong one. My personal worst was the time I called one of my kids by my own name. Sheesh.
I often refer to "my good friend whats-her-name". Funny how my memory goes for walks without me.
Daisy's Barbara, Daisy just stares at the wall and ignores everything except food.
I'm terrible with names too. When someone introduces themselves and says their name I'll have forgotten it five seconds later. In my defense, I'm probably too busy judging them in my head to remember their name.
The one with the teeth and the finger? I totally understand this. Thanks for the giggle!
Hari OM
It's just as well your name is written all over the place here or I'd be all at sea... YAM xx
Whatshisface is the term here. Without gender prejudice.
jenny o, even I'e never done that. I'm seriously impressed.
"We hear/remember what we deem to be important and leave the rest." I have this skill DOWN PAT and I never moved around as a child.
I imagine people called Happy Pants aren't nervous about remembering names either. They just want freedom. Geo. Washington preferred to be addressed as Happy Pants.
I call my kid's the wrong names all the time- most times they're called the cat's name or the pet bird's names and sometimes it's just 'hey you kid' :)
My child answers to butthead. He also does a most excellent Beavis impersonation
Hey...yeah. I know that guy. He had the hair and pants next to the place where they do that thing. Yeah, I went to school with him...
Someone mentioned supper?
and will there be dessert?
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