The delicate flower what's her name

Had a guy come up to ask a question. I could see him, but he couldn’t see me. He asked to see Boss, who was out that day. He says, “Oh, well where’s….. that girl?” Alrighty then. Never mind that I’ve been here six months. It’s shocking how often people don’t use my name. Just now a guy walked up to my office, and asked someone else if “she” is here. Just take two more steps forward. I’m right here at my desk. My name is not hard to remember or pronounce, and I am not Voldemort. I am the only one with my name in the building. Not that hard.

I don't necessarily mind when people call me nicknames, or even pet names. I live in the South, (and it sounds better if you exaggerate the accent on south) so it's something I'm used to, and everyone that does it is always very respectful. It's not rare that I go through a day with a few dears, the occasional sweetheart or hon, and one guy calls me pretty lady. These people are almost all my father's age or older, and I think half of them feel like I'm their kid, because I'm the same age as their children.

What I do have a problem with, though, is the what's her names, the "that girl"s, and the she/her. I have a name, it's there for you to use. If you forget for some reason, you can glance at my business cards that are right there on the desk in front of you.

Some days, I'm not sure the guy across the hall knows my name. Logically, I'm sure he does. I share a name with one of his daughters. He often calls me sunshine, which is nice. I am the age of his daughters, so it's not weird. However. He's called me the wrong name twice now. He keeps calling me Carrie. My name is not Carrie. There is a Carrie that comes sometimes. She and I look nothing alike. At all. The first time, he kept talking and made his way into my office. Which was good. Cause I was wondering if Carrie had come in and I missed it. The second time, I just ignored it, and he sorted himself out. I don't think he knows that he's called me by the wrong name. 

One possible consequence of people feeling sort of like I'm everyone's kid (I'm well into my mid 20's but have been reliably informed by at least two seperate people on seperate occasions that I look about 17) is that they feel like I'm delicate. I don't mind people doing things for me, opening doors, offering to carry obviously heavy packages, all helpful. Where it turns, though, is when they take it too far.  

For example, one day shortly after I started, there was a little puddle of grease in the hallway. It was about the size if my hand, a different color than the floor, and in the middle. Someone came through to wipe it up, which I appreciated, but his reasoning was that he didn't want me to trip.

Another time, I was borrowing a cart from the stockroom. It was empty. The guy that works in the stockroom told one of the mechanics that I needed help pushing it up to the front. The guy immediately agreed. Which was nice, but super unnecessary. 

Last week, I was bent over at the waist to cut one of those ties off a box of paper. Not to pick it up. Just to snip that tie thing, whatever it's called. My boss came through and told me to be careful, I was going to hurt myself. Like, what? I'm sorry. If I hurt myself by bending over, I think I need to just go straight to the hospital. I'm not 80. I mean, I act like it sometimes, but still. I was fine.




P.S.
I finally got around to picking names for my coworkers, and you can find that page labeled The Cast by clicking the hyperlink, and also in the menu on the right. I finished it after I wrote this week's posts, so I'll start using those names Friday and going forward.