When my mother selected “Kearsie” as my name, I think she was on crack.
Just kidding, but dang. Can’t a girl catch a break?
I have one of those names that no one can pronounce. Or spell. Or find on a mug or a key chain or a magnet. Nope. My name is one of those bizarre unique names that make Southerners and children pause in puzzlement. Also old people.
My name is Kearsie. It’s like kah -EAR-see. Kearsie. See? Not too hard.
As you can plainly see, there is no “T”. It is not “Kearstie”. This is not to be confused with names such as Kirstie Alley or Kirsten Dunst. Similar, yes, but as similar as bologna and roast beef. Meaning, not really similar at all.
This morning, a woman came in to drop by some documents for me to work on. She addressed me as “Kearstie”. I politely corrected her, “It’s Kearsie.” She nodded, called me Kearstie again and went on with what she was saying. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t said my name like 47 times. The first 45 I could handle, even though I was getting a twitch. But by #47, I was ready to stab her with my blue pen.
Yes, just wee bit of a violent reaction. I realize this.
I have been called many many things growing up.
Yeah, you with the name I can’t pronounce.
I have complained before about my name. Immediately friends or whoever I’m ranting to will say, Oh no! I love your name! But I have also noticed that nary a one has considered “Kearsie” for their children’s names. Interesting, no?
Ok, so this is really nothing more than a mindless rant to fill my blog update quota of the week. But aren’t you proud I didn’t say “vaginal” once?