Me:  “Hello?”

 

Telemarketer:  “Yes, ma'am, is Mr... Leparez there?”

 

Me:  “I'm not a ma'am.”

 

Telemarketer:  “I'm sorry, Miss.”

 

Me:  “I'm not a Miss either.”

 

Telemarketer:  “Sir?”

 

Me:  “Yes. And he's not here right now. Can I take a message?”

 

Okay, so the time when I actually answered the phone at my father's house is long gone--pre-pubescent, really.  Nowadays, I just let the answering machine take it, and if it's someone who wants to talk to me on the machine, I pick up the phone.  Pretty standard.  And I know that telemarketers are notoriously bad at names.  I've heard of people getting names like Smythe from Smith.  The strangest I've ever gotten (I'll attempt to write it out the best I can) was “Lepahzahree.”  How you get that from “Lepiarz” is beyond me.  But even on the first day of any class, I'm always ready to correct the teacher the moment they say my name. "John Andrew Lepiairz?”  "It's Jack Lepiarz, please," I say with a smile.

 

Lepiairz, Leparezz, Leepiarz, Lepiarts, Lepeers, Leprousy… (Okay, that's how Microsoft Word sees my name, but you get the picture.)   Imagine my surprise when a teacher actually said my name correctly.

 

 

"Good job.  And it's Jack, by the way."

 

It's odd, because if you look at my name, it's not difficult to figure out how to say it, simply by sounding it out. The “Lep” part is easy.  Then “ee.”  Then “cars” without the “c.”  “Lep-ee-ars.”  And even that's too difficult for people to say, sometimes.  I've stood, trying to explain how to say my name to one man, for five minutes before.  "Lep-ee-ars." I told him.

 

 

I guess this is what I get for growing up in an predominantly Italian town.  People always think the “z” in my name is pronounced like the “z” in pizza.  Fortunately, my father's discovered a good way to teach our name to people.  It's very simple, he told me.  Just tell them that your name is “Lep-Yars,” and when they say your name at a normal speed, it'll come out at “Lepiarz.”