For 44 years, and through two practice husbands, my name has been City Jones. My father was Big City Jones, his father was Grandpa Jones. My people are Joneses. I am a Jones.
Believe it or not, Jones is an uncommon name in this part of the country. What can I say? It's Welsh.
Hubster's last name is Johnson. There are at least one hundred Johnsons in this ZIP code, including two with the first name "City."
When Hubster and I married I did plan to hyphenate my name. But after a few years of procrastinating, we decided that I should just stick with Jones. I'm a modern woman with a unique name, in a town with little surname variety. I like my name, and becoming The Latest City Johnson held zero appeal. Most importantly, Hubster was, and continues to be, FINE with it.
Apparently, not everyone in town is fine with it, not that it's anyone's goddamnedbusiness.
A few weeks ago we were at a charity thing. We don't usually go to Things. Normally, we get an invitation, we send a check, and we don't attend The Thing. But this was a Good Thing, a seemingly enjoyable Thing for a good cause.
And it seems that I've been hit in the head with an anvil since the last Thing, erasing the bad memories of Things Past and clouding my judgement. So off we went to the Thing.
Once there we ran into a lot of people we like very much but rarely see, which was lovely, and we fell in love a small, beautiful object being sold as part of the fundraising effort.
Hub ran into a friend so I excused myself to execute the purchase. As I was...transacting... with the very nice Volunteer Lady, Small Town Debutante (cue the fugue) whom I do not know well, and who I didn't even recognize the last time we ran into each other - took over the conversation.
STD: "Here, let *me* give you the information, Volunteer Lady. This (points at me) is City Johnson, although she says her name is City Jones."
"That's because my name IS City Jones." I told Volunteer Lady, trying to ignore STD.
"Oh, that's right," she touched me and continued directing Volunteer Lady, "She HY-phenates it. But, as you can see, there's not enough room on that little ticket for the whole, unusual name, so just write Johnson."
I turned my attention to STD, "My name *is* Jones, not Johnson or Jones-Johnson."
"Oh, honey, don't be offended, it's just such a funny name." Stop. Touching. Me.
Volunteer Lady whispered, "I think it's a pretty name."
Aaaand the spell was broken. I thanked Volunteer Lady and walked off to fish Hub out of the crowd.
"We need to go before I punch STD in the face. Why did we come to this Thing?"
"STD? Really? Well, she does owe you. Remember you ripped off her head and shit down her neck 11 years ago when she wanted you to sign her petition to color-coordinate all the landscaping in the neighborhood."
And there it was. I had to own it. I did, indeed, overreact to the petition that would have allowed her and a select group of Taste Mavens to tell me what color flowers I could plant. And as Karma dictates, I had it coming. Fair enough.
It took her a long-ass time to get around to it, but she got back at me. Damn, I wish I had that kind of patience and memory and time....
Wait a minute. How did she even recognize me when, just a month ago, I had no idea who she was? This, truth be told, probably offended her more than the Pantone Pansies incident.
And not only does she knows who I am, but she knows the entire story of my name (to hyphenate, not to hyphenate) AND she pronounced it correctly, which is no small feat.
How much time and energy has this woman put into thinking about me?
So now, instead of being offended by her drunken attempt at putting me in my place, I'm a little creeped out.
Is this her hobby? Does she keep dossiers on the women in town who don't go along with her program?
Maybe she has voodoo dolls of us Pansy Mavericks...That certainly would explain this pain in my ass.
Comments