I don’t mind so much that my mother never got my name right the first time. I was the youngest, so she’d go down the list. Even if she never got mine right, I knew I’d better answer sooner or later.
She knew where I lived.
The Captain never uses my name. He calls me whatever comes to mind and I answer with equal enthusiasm to Hey You (he wants me to answer the phone) or Baby Doll (he wants me to hold a nail he plans to hammer with a monkey wrench). We’ve been married long enough to know it’s the thought that counts.
Countries have gone to war over less.
I’m a bit miffed, though, to discover that my drugstore doesn’t remember me.
Today I got an email from them and they called me by another woman’s name.
I don’t even look like a Bridget. Bridgets are thin and perky.
Wrong on both counts.
So I’m voicing a plea to CVS to remember the last minute allergy medication and moisturizer runs we've had together.
How could you forget our all-nighter after the TexMex buffet and the oldies movie marathon and how you shared the Pepto-Bismol from aisle 5?
That was an Affair to Remember.
And that time I got the red lipstick, but forgot and left it in the car all afternoon? In the South. In August.
I looked like the Joker at a Mary Kay party.
Chocolate heals all wounds.
We’re an item. I have your Smart Card on my key ring. You know my phone number, which is more than I can say for myself.
Now you’ve called me by another shopper’s name.
And offered Bridget $3 in coupons.
So we’re through. I’ll do my 11pm Kleenex and candy bar run somewhere else.
Unless I can use these coupons myself. Because, really, what’s in a name.
Just call me Bridget.