I have this next-door neighbor who will (God willing) be moving shortly. She and her kids moved in a couple of years ago, then she got a boyfriend and they all moved out for awhile, then moved back in, then out, and now the house is up for sale again. (Great house, by the way, and as a bonus, you’d get me for a neighbor!)
But, here’s the thing. The woman has called me “Nancy” ever since she’s moved in. Nancy? Do I even look like a “Nancy”? The last time she moved back in – supposedly absolutely breaking it off with the boyfriend – she said, “Hey, Nancy, I’m back!” I said, “I see that. And, my name is Michelle, Idiot.” Okay, I didn’t call her an idiot, but I said it in my mind. Believe me. She then said, “Oh. That’s right, your daughter’s name is Nancy.”
Me: No. It’s not. It’s Karen.
Idiot: Oh. Then why did I think your name was Nancy? Who is Nancy?
And she started looking around as if someone named Nancy was going to pop out and say, “I AM! Fooled ya!”
Yesterday, she and her boyfriend came back to the house to fix up the yard and get it ready to show. She calls out, “Hey, Nancy! When does the trash come?” (I wanted to say, “You are already here,” but that would have just been outright rude.) I said, “Tomorrow.” Then, I got in the car. I told my mom, “You know, if she were going to live here, I’d start calling her Frieda. But, since she’s moving, I’ll let it go.”
I mean, seriously. How wrapped up in yourself can you be, that you can’t even remember someone’s name that’s lived next door to you? Nancy? Really? There are plenty of other stories that I could tell you about how I’ve come to the conclusion that it is not a case of her just forgetting my name, but of just not caring enough to know my name. But, that would be a blog of many, many pages. And, you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.
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