Don’t call me Pat!

There are two kinds of people in the world.

There are people who, when you meet them, ask your name, listen to what you say and perhaps ask, “What do you like to be called?” Then you can tell them that you answer to Trish or Trisha, or Shitfer as in Shitferbrains or Moonflower Dancing Unicorn or whatever. And they call you what you prefer to be called and you ask them the same question and it’s all lovely.

And then there are the other people.

These people hear you say “Patricia” and then they arbitrarily decide to call you something different, like Pat. I don’t know why they do this, but they do. They don’t ask, they assume they know what your nickname is and they just say something like “Well Pat, what a lovely day it is…”

And I am left with a quandary. Because I hate being called Pat and I always have, ever since the day at school when the Religious teacher (are you there, Miss Coleman) said, “You don’t mind being called Pat, do you?” and at 11 I was too wet and shy to say, “Yes, I mind.”

Not that it would have done a lot of good because if you say to a person who has just arbitrarily renamed you something different, they get very shirty about it. They’re usually insulted, in fact.

Again, I don’t understand this but it’s true. They act as if you’d just spat in their face. “Oh,” they say, in shocked surprise, “Ok, sorry,” And they say it in that huffy way that you know means you will to them forever be a stuck up bitch and they’ll tell everybody else how rude you were to them.

If they’re completely clueless they’ll say, “Oh, don’t you like Pat then?”

If I say, “no, I don’t,” they’ll roll their eyes at this fussy irrationality. If I explain about Miss Coleman and all, sometimes they laugh and even say sorry. Then they continue to call me Pat. Next time they meet me, they’ll call me Pat. It doesn’t matter how many times I beseech them to call me Trisha, I’m forever Pat to them.

You can’t win this game. If you don’t protest, you’re stuck with a name that you hate because to you it denotes a tennis-playing redhead  with a quacking voice like a duck (long story). If you do protest, some kind of weird lock happens to their memory and you still get stuck with a name that you hate because etc.

Sometimes they get so indignant because they’re calling you Pat on the phone and you’re trying to explain you don’t like being called Pat, that they put the phone down on you for the wicked insult of you not liking the name they’ve randomly chosen for you without your permission. And then they sulk.

I call them Random Renamers. If I can, once I’ve found out what they like to be called, I call them something else. You know, like theý’ve just done to me. Sometimes this works. But not often.