Dumber and Dumberer

You know how you can go years and years thinking you are doing or saying something the right way, and then one day someone drops a bomb on you and says, “Hey, her name isn’t Jennifer!”

After years and years of calling some blond woman what you thought was her name, you find you are in absolute error. And the sweet victim, an Angela perhaps, was just too polite to ever let you know. But is assuredly glad you now know so she no longer has to turn around whenever she hears someone say, "Hey, Jennifer!"

Well, we all do things like that. In fact, the older I get, the more I seem to do things exactly like that.

The most recent display of my profound dumbness surfaced yesterday. When I learned that “Cedarholm” was a person, not a place.

That’s right. I believed the honorable Dr. Cedarholm of Maranatha fame was actually a place.

Obviously I didn’t know about the “Dr.” part.

I think I must have confused it with Cedarville, Iowa, which is actually a place and home to one semi-famous Christian college. I merged the two in my mind, and subconsciously, whenever I heard someone say “Cedarholm” (how DID I miss all those “Dr.’s”?) I would think, “How nice! They’re going to Iowa to visit Cedarholm!” Thinking, of course, of a city, not a person.

My dear friend Jeanette, who is a sweet and gentle person, laughed so long and hard at this when she unknowingly exposed my idiocy the other night that she almost passed out.

It’s not new. I’ve done it before.

Growing up with a hyphenated name was not always easy. I was in the definite minority, and people never knew how to spell or say my name.

People automatically thought I had two names, like some kind of hillbilly, or that Marie was my middle name, and I was a pretentious snob to insist people use “all” my names.

So, it was a relief when I met my husband’s (my boyfriend at the time) friend, John James, in college. John James was introduced to me, and I felt like I had found an instant friend who could feel my “two name” pain.

I saw John James a lot on campus and would always wave to him. “Hi, John James!” I’d yell across the terrace.

John James was a kind, sweet, and absolutely genteel Southern boy. He’d look up, give a nod and say, “Hi, Ann-Marie. How are you?” In that soft Southern drawl of his.

I was SO happy for John James the day he got married. Brett and I attended the wedding. It was then I discovered true humiliation as the preacher proudly announced to the crowd, “Will you please join me in welcoming Mr. and Mrs. John and Melissa James!”

I blushed down to the tip of my toes. James was his LAST name. I had called someone by his entire Christian name for THREE WHOLE YEARS! No wonder he’d always given me that quizzical look when I talked to him. I’d chalked it up to his shyness, but it turned out that he was just wondering what was wrong with me.

Just imagine how annoying it would be if someone called you your first and last names EVERY SINGLE TIME THEY TALKED TO YOU.

He must have dreaded our chance meetings.

Thankfully, I can chalk my d’oh! moments up to genetics. Recently, my mom, who is in her 60’s, discovered she has been spelling my cousin Candice’s name wrong (she spelled it Candace) for Candice’s entire life!

“I just figured it would be embarrassing to tell her NOW,” said Candice when I finally broke the bad news to Mom. Mom was still recovering from the shock when she discovered yet another mistake.

Someone commented on how “cute” it was that Mom wished a graduate well by signing “Congradulations” on their card.

“What?” Mom was indignant. “That’s how I’ve always spelled it. That’s how it’s spelled right?”

Nope. Sorry, Mom.

Maybe that's how they spell it in Cedarholm.