What’s In A Name?

my name is

When we are born we are given a name.  Our parents select it and we live with it for the rest of our lives.  So what’s in a name?

It’s the first thing we tell people when we meet them.  It’s printed on our business cards.  It’s on our drivers licence.  It’s how we find people on Facebook.  For our entire lives it is our identifier.

My given names are Susan Mary.  My parents are British and, as such, chose traditional names for all of their children.  My brother’s names are Andrew Paul and my sister’s names are Cynthia Helen.  Not sure how she got the exotic name.  You know your from a boring name family when “Cynthia” is considered exotic.

My mom’s name is Jane.  Just Jane.

Last week at work I had to contact some clients to follow up on their accounts.  A couple of the names I came across were Francois Chevallier and Fantasha Kassam.  I imagined Fantasha answering the phone in flowing robes surrounded by candles and exotic looking furniture.  Casbah music playing in the background and perhaps a strange animal or bird following her around.  Francois probably has his assistant answer the phone for him while he adjusts his ascot in the mirror and pours himself a goblet of red wine.  The names, for me, emote images of glamour, mystery and excitement.  I lead a fairly sheltered life.


Of course there are also those endowed with what can only be called “unfortunate” names.  When my husband lived in Memphis years ago there was a player on the local baseball team named Stubby Clap.  I would consider that unfortunate.  When I googled unfortunate names their was no shortage.  Just to name a few.  Dick Assman, Uranius Johnson, Phat Ho and Yolanda Squatpump.  I did, for a moment, wonder if some of these were fabricated.  But if they weren’t…..whoa.  The ability to legally change your name was created specifically for these people.

But maybe….they don’t mind their names.  What’s to say that they don’t look at my boring name and think. “How does she live with that name?”

Plenty of famous people who have changed their names for the sake of their careers.  Elton John was once Reginald Dwight.  Marilyn Monroe was Norma Jean Mortenson.  Faith Hill was Audrey Perry.  What do you think their parents thought about these changes.  Did they wonder why the names that they had pick for their kids weren’t good enough?  Faith Hill is a lovely name.  But so is Audrey Perry.

If you had an opportunity to change your name, would you?  To what?  Why?  I remember a friend in high school who wanted to change her name to Angie.  Who wouldn’t want Mick Jagger signing about you?

It would seem that what’s in a name is different for everybody.  The Best Thing in Life is my name.  Because it’s my name.



Being Judgemental


I saw this on a friend’s Facebook page this week and at first I thought it was cute. But then I really started to think about it and it made me a bit sad. It made me sad because it’s so true of me and how I irrationally dismiss people that I maybe don’t click with. I’ve mentioned in past posts that I can be a bit judgy, and I totally own that, but really, it’s probably not a great thing to admit. Is it?

The definition of judgement is the evaluation of evidence to make a decision.

The problem is that whole “evidence” thing. For me, the evidence is my own opinion and that isn’t always based on fact. I like to think that I’m a good judge of character but the reality is that there is most likely a whole lot that I don’t know about people and their circumstances before I judge them. I remember listening to a customer service seminar when I worked for Starbucks. They talked about how you shouldn’t rush to judge a customer as being rude because you never know what is going on in their life. Maybe their child is sick and they have been up all night looking after them. Maybe they themselves are sick. You just don’t know. Yet, we all do it. Don’t we? Is it really just me?

Take for example right now. I am sitting in the viewing area at my daughters gymnastics club as I type this. There are two women sitting beside me discussing what a poor job the interior designer did on one of their Whistler condos. A. You have a condo in Whistler. B. You have an interior designer. C. Your son is running around pushing other kids and leaving a trail of organic corn chips while you discuss this. Consider yourself judged.

Judgement, I’m guessing, has been around forever and a day. “Judge not, lest ye be judged” had to have come about because people way back then were judging right? And there’s the whole Scarlet Letter thing. I would have a huge J for judge on my chest if I had live back then. And then there’s the witches. Poor misjudged witches.
My problem is compounded by the fact that if I don’t like you, make no mistake, you will know about it. I can’t smile and make small talk with somebody that I don’t care for. No matter how hard I try. This has included (but is not limited to) co-workers, the lady at the wine store, sports teammates and random people in the school parking lot. If I could just judge people quietly in my head it might be different. Unfortunately though, I can’t, and I have been know to shoot a stink eye at those that say……park in the yellow zone. Just sayin’.

I like to think that I don’t let my judgmental nature be seen by my seven year old daughter. Okay, it’s probably slipped out a few times when I refer to the nice person in the car in front of me as incompetent for not being able to navigate a parking stall in less than six tries. Did I mention that I’m also not very patient? I don’t want her to be judgmental.

You see, being judgmental means that you, in turn, must assume that everybody else is judging you the way that you are judging them. And that creates insecurity. And that is bad.

I guess in a round about way I’m trying to say that I need to work on this aspect of my personality. Not only for my daughters sake but for mine. Oh, and for the unfortunate people who I don’t care for. LOL. The Best Thing in Life is being able to laugh at yourself.