My Name Is

Thanks to Jenny the Bloggess's tweet of Saturday, I too have had a mini rant about people getting my name wrong. It's on "hello my fucking name is", (click) but if you can't access that site because of all the expletives, I have recreated it here for your delectation. Bon appetit!

My name is Sarah. It has been for over thirty years thanks to my parents. Most people have their parents to thank for their name.

However, despite this, my mother often gets it wrong. I'm the youngest of three: my brother Simon is six years my senior and Samantha (Sam) is five years older. Simon gets called Simon by our mother. Good for him. Sam gets called Si- Sam. Mum's train of thought for remembering her children's names must go chronologically. Ergo, I get called Si-Sam-Sarah. Always have done. Love you too, Mum.

Through my life, I have encountered many people who ask if my name is with a H or without. It's with. WITH! If it weren't, I’d be Sara, pronounced Sarr-rarr. Stupid people. That's a completely different name.

However, things took a surreal turn six years ago. I got a job in a call centre. I have targets to hit, partly made up of quality checks. To hit my quality scores, I have to say certain things including introducing myself. (That's pretty much common courtesy anyway.) In my time in the job, I've been called the following, by customers and colleagues alike:

Sharon – Okay. It starts with the same letter. I can cope with a little brain fart.
Amanda – Weirdly, quite a few different people call me this. I must 'look' or 'sound' like an Amanda.

I can’t work out the train of thought in these:
Tracy
Charlotte
Rebecca
Ginny
Elizabeth

Don't they listen?! I'm Sarah! SARAH! It's an easy, common name! DON'T MAKE ME HURT YOU!

Putting your foot in it

Every year my parents hold a family barbeque. This happened on the 10th August.

*cue wobbly Scooby-Doo mirage effect*

Me: Parents, dear, do you mind ever so if I extended an invite to [my best friend] and [her husband]? Mother dearest: Yes, really. It's definitely a Family Barbeque this year.
Me: No problem!
Father (entering doghouse): Oh. I meant to say, I invited [can't remember name] and his wife at [my brother]'s barbeque last week.
Mother & Me: Who?!
Father (from within doghouse): The tall chap who was there with his wife and two boys.
Mother (grinding teeth): How do you know them?
Father: From [my nephew]'s football - he goes along to watch too (my, isn't it echo-y inside this doghouse?*)
Mother (firing deathstare at Father's back): I don't know who you mean. Well [to me], you may as well invite [my best friend] and [her husband] then, Daughter.
Me (ingratiating self with Mother): Well, no, not if it's strictly a family one this year. I didn't confirm to [my best friend] she could definitely come, I said I'd ask.
Mother (impersonating Marge Simpson): Hmmmmmm
Father: [silence]

*Not actual part of conversation

I later said to my mother yesterday whether she was okay, and unsurprisingly, she wasn't. The only people who know who my father invited are.. my father, my nephew and my brother. The numbers (sans any extras) are eleven as it is, these others would've been an extra four.

End of the tale is. the were uninvited. Naughty father. The barbeque itself (which was on Saturday) went swimmingly, even if the weather could've been better. I should be thankful it didn't rain.