John Doe, Joe Schmoe & What’s His Name

Jason is bad with names. Terrible. Atrocious. He called me Derby (my maiden name) for the first few years we dated and I always secretly wondered if he knew my first name is actually Nicole. Or if he did think my name was Derby, what did he think my last name was? Maybe he was so enamored by me that he thought I was really cool like Prince or Madonna. A one-name-only kind of gal.

We were at dinner with Danielle and Carlo, friends we’ve known for 19 years. We’ve been on vacations with them. We’ve shared countless memories together. Jason pats Carlo on the back after dinner and says, “Ah, my good friend Carlos. It was great to see you.” Carlo smiled and said, “It’s Carlo. No S.”

We were at another friend’s house. People we’ve known for at least 20 years. We’ve spent holidays together. They’ve babysat our children and our dog. They’ve stayed at our house hundreds of times. They are like family. Jason kept insisting that the kids say thank you to Mr. Ken. “Grady, what do you say to Mr. Ken for making you that hot dog? Annie Bea, did you ask Mr. Ken before you opened those toys? Mr. Ken, Mr. Ken, Mr. Ken…” Finally, Mr. RICK said, “I’m sorry but who is Ken?”

And just last week at Easter mass, Jason asked one of our closest friends in Miami where her husband Magnus was. Carli politely replied, “Magnus is Chelsea’s husband. I’m Carli. Richard is my husband.” Jason nodded in agreement but I know it wasn’t sinking in.

Well, I think Grady may have caught the mixing-up-names gene. I swear he named his fish Taco when he got it. But last night he said goodnight to Spiderman and tonight he wished Bendy sweet dreams.

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