Hey, Whatsyourface!
Growing up as the child of immigrants whose native language wasn’t English, meant dealing with certain truths. I had to explain a lot of words, terms, and jokes. The pronouns “he” and “she” were used randomly. I went for long periods of time thinking that I slept on a mattrix at night, and that the Sears Tower is in Chahcago. All of these I accepted. I understood that it was difficult to master a new language as an adult. But there was one thing I totally didn’t get: they would always ALWAYS call me Michael-no-Kate and my brother Kate-no-Michael.
How many times did I roll my eyes and think, “Can’t you even tell us apart? We’re your own flesh and blood! “
I mean, how could our own parents get our names mixed up? I am five years older than my brother. We have very different personalities. Heck, besides our common DNA, we are different in every way except that we both get called by first-name-hybrids.
Clearly, this was some kind of language/brain FAIL.
Of course, now I know that is not the case.
Most of the time I call out Elise or Luke’s name, it comes out stupid. Luuuu-se! Ehhhluke! Elleeke! Luke (to Elise)! Elise (to Luke!) It’s gotten to the point that if I actually call them the correct name, I’m pleasantly surprised.
It’s like a perpetual name-triggered brain fart.
It’s kind of embarrassing when I’m at a crowded playground, clearly calling out nonsense names. Especially if the Husband is there to witness it (since for all those strangers know, I do have a little girl named LuuElke). I’m sure he deposits a little more of our savings into my future dementia ward each time.
And then, the other day, I reached an all-time low. Luke was trying to electrocute himself with the electric socket again, and I yelled out the cat’s name.
“Socks!”
The Husband looked alarmed.
I told him I wanted a room with a view of the bocce courts, not the topiary gardens, and to please have the family visit me often. Wearing name tags.