You know me, you know the story: my first name is the Romanized name for Wales, my last name means, well, "woman of ill repute." Thus, Welsh whore. Which has been quite the label to live up to, I'll tell you what. But it also means always having to convince cashiers and the like that yes, that's my actual name there on my checkcard. It's quite an elaborate hoax otherwise. Or possibly identity theft. Oh, okay, you got me! Here's my real card...and if you look over my shoulder, there's the camera! Gotcha!
Here's an exchange I had recently:
Me: [hands my checkcard]
Him: Woah! Lovelady! Is that, like, your real name?
Me: [slits own wrists over having to hear this question for the 9 billionth time] Yep.
Him: Lovelady! I want to party with your parents!
Which is weird, because when I talked to my mom tonight, she asked if next time she and my dad come to Austin, was there someone possibly high, possibly working in the service industry, they could party with?
Would smell as sweet.
- CL
- Austin, Texas, United States
- Believes in schadenfreude, design, grace, sesquipedality, glasnost, ambiguity, absolutism, relativism, doing unto others, frivolousness, charity, and not talking on the phone while checking out at the store.
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