I had forgotten about this story until recently - and since there's nothing post-worthy going on with me right now, I figured I'd share it.
When I was in university, my parents moved out of my childhood home and into a house a few blocks away. My parents quickly became friendly with their new neighbours, so by the time I came back to Fort McMurray for the summer, most of the people in the cove were aware of "Joe and Marie's oldest daughter." It turns out that there were a few who were eager to have a young adult around that could be available for dog-sitting, baby-sitting, house-sitting, etc. and I was pretty happy to oblige.
I've always considered myself a fairly polite person, so when one of the neighbours saw me out in the front lawn and came over to chat, my mind quickly raced to remember what his name was. It came to me just in time - Mr. Cox! Boom. Perfect.
So as we chatted (about dog-sitting, it turns out), I was soo smug with myself and my uber politeness. "Sure thing, Mr. Cox!" I'd say. Or "Mr. Cox, would you prefer to give me the key before you leave?"
Throughout the conversation, he'd pause and look at me a little odd and I took it that either HE was a funny little man or that he just wasn't used to chatting with SUCH A POLITE 19-year old. Seriously. That's how awesome I thought I was.
So, once the dog-sitting arrangements were agreed upon, I went inside to let my parents know I'd be helping their neighbour, Mr .... I stopped dead in my tracks.
The hot flush of embarrassed horror rushed through me.
His name was not Mr. Cox.
It was Mr. Dickson.