I didn’t take my husband’s last name.
I didn’t think it would annoy me to be called that name anyway.
And it doesn’t annoy me in a “my feminist sensibilities are being offended sort of way” but I have to admit, it just bothers me sometimes.
Maybe because I have a name. My own name. I don’t just have it on Facebook that way for fun, that’s actually my name. I know it’s all intimidating with those vowels, but I’ll gladly tell you how to pronounce it if you need help. (Sam-Pie-Oh*)
I never really make a fuss when I get called the wrong last name. Either I suck it up or correct them. One time I corrected my son’s kindergarten teacher and she then asked me, "But what should I tell the children?" about my last name not matching my kid’s.
It was 2007. Not 1957.
I recently picked up the phone and got asked by the caller, "Is this Mrs. Your Husband and Kids' Last Name?"
Sigh. Not really but yes. It was the school nurse and I just went with the flow that time but here are some responses that crossed my mind:
1. Nope, sorry!
2. For all intents and purposes . . . sure.
3. No, would you like her (my mother-in-law's) number?
4. "That depends, who's asking?" and then launch into a song from Hamilton musical (big surprise there, huh?)
5. Or the best, and maybe my favorite, is to start belting out the Ting Tings' song: That's Not My Name!!
*and, see, I already did change something about my last name once. I grew up using the Anglicized pronunciation of my last name and switched it to the Portuguese way when I went to school. And then I stuck with it.