My wife did not take my name when we got married. She chose the more commonplace Hughes over the more infuriatingly Germanic Gummert. We both agreed that it had done enough emotional and psychological damage in MY life that there was no use knowingly inflicting it on someone who has a choice in the matter.
This has been only an occasional source of frustration for the two of us. Most commonly it is when my grandmother addresses mail to Chris and Jen Gummert or Mr. and Mrs. Gummert or Whats-His-Face and The Other One. But more often than not it is a endlessly amusing to us that people refer to us by the wrong name, especially when they refer to me as Mr. Hughes.
Once Jen fainted at a movie (Jen swears she doesn't think Jennifer Aniston's acting is THAT bad, but apparently her body disagrees!) and we went to the emergency room. She was fine, but the doctor wrote me a note to stay home from work and watch her the next day just to make sure that she didn't pass out again. He wrote the note for "Chris Hughes."
Today I got a phone call from a telemarketer. This is a fairly common occurrence since we've moved and haven't had the time to circulate our new number among our friends. Frankly, I don't know why I even answer if the phone number doesn't show up on caller ID.
"Hello?"
No response. Dead air.
"Hello?"
"Hello?" comes the answer, almost like she didn't expect anyone to answer at all.
"Hi."
"May I speak to Mr. Huge?"
I was certain I didn't hear that right so I asked her to repeat her question.
"May I speak to Mr. Huge?" she asked with the utmost confidence in her pronunciation.
Mr Huge? Really? How did she know my nickname? Clearly those internet ads were working!
"This is Mr. Huge and let me assure that it's not just a clever name. So before you ask any further questions, let me assure you that all the rumors are true...although I suspect that donkey had a weak heart to begin with! I'm not surprised you called. Mr. Huge is a legend. A man among men and a God among ladies. Mr. Huge is a state of mind, a way of life, a journey to the edge of insanity and back again on a pink, pulsating, pleasure raft. Those who see it never recover from the shock. People run away screaming at the mere mention of it. Others choose to just set up camp in the ample shade it provides. In fact a small Guatemalan family has taken up residence near the tip in a smart-looking bungalow. It's THAT big! Suffice it to say I don't buy pants off the rack anymore.'"
Then out loud I said, "There's no one here by that name."
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haaa... chris's penis is funny.