All in a name

My whole life I’ve gotten flack for my name. People can’t seem to figure out how someone’s name could possibly be spelled phonetically. My name is Lora pronounced Lore-uh.  It’s not Laura, Lori, Dora, Cora, Loren, or any other combination or derivative of the name Lora. I’ve always thought it was pretty simple, but apparently, I stand alone on a segregated island surrounded by a confused, angry and unaccepting world. When I was younger especially, people would call me Laura. Or maybe they still do just as frequently but I just don’t notice anymore. Come on though, I don’t call someone named Jack, “Jock” or someone named Jeff, “Jiff”. I mean really people, it’s an entirely different vowel sound. Recently, it’s seemed to have become more of a problem as far as the spelling, not just the pronunciation, with people saying how my name is weird or it’s spelled weird or I’m weird. My name is Lora. Is that really so difficult? So I was answering someone’s email who doesn’t know me and I signed the email with my name, which was written above my work email signature that has my full name written again underneath the first name that I typed in. Got it? It was written twice. Not to mention that this is the third time I’d corresponded with this person, so he’d seem it a total of SIX TIMES. Anyway, he responds back, “Laura, blah blah blah, blah.” I was indeed appalled. No sir, I assure you that I did not misspell my name in the past three emails. I’ve never misspelled my name except one time when I wrote Lora Smith on a paper at school, which is my best friend’s name (see, other people spell their name Lora whose names are Lora). A short-lived identity crisis which I immediately corrected. At any rate, I know I have a true friend when they can get my name right.

On a lighter note, yesterday I was stopped at a red light and this young woman wobbles across the cross walk with her towering high heels, cut-off butt shorts, long blond extensions and bubbling cleavage. I watched her, afraid she may fall over, and then I looked around and noticed that I wasn’t the only one concerned for her well-being. Three men parked at the same light were following her pathway, harmoniously inching their heads further and further to the right as she crossed, then turning them completely as she turned to walk down the street, following her with their eyes and heads until she was too far away that their necks would have broken to keep looking, which I’m kind of surprised they didn’t keep it up. At that point, all three men settled back into position, looking straight-ahead, apparently rest-assured that she would be okay and could indeed walk in those heals and cross the road safely. I’m so glad there are so many considerate and concerned men in the world.

The interesting happenings of my driving path are endless. The other week I saw Mario walking down the street. He was straight from the Mushroom Kingdom, with a round belly pugding out of his red jacket, a black mustache and a red hat.  Neh neh neh neh neh neh (you know what I mean) started playing in the background as I drove past him. I wish I could have snapped a photo.

I did, however, snap a photo of this dumpster that says, “Sometimes we don’t know where we’re going...” I wasn’t sure how to take that exactly but decided it can’t be a great thing in the context. You decide.