So, we were out with friends the other night. It was around 10 pm and we decided to go to a local bar after dinner that always reminds me of my mother. Bar Alquimia. It has three levels, has a kind of a dim lit dark blue-green interior, and has funky stars and moons on the walls and ceiling. A fish tank on the bar encased in what looks like a cave sits next to where the waiter gets the drinks. A funny-looking fish sits in there and stares at you threw the green algae of the tank walls. There is an eight-sided octagon on the ceiling which mom would say is good luck. There are old dusty magazines stacked on bookshelves along the walls with little round tables adding to the coziness of the place.

It’s a funky bar and with the stars and moons etc. it reminds me of my mother who had been an astrologer for over 40 years. And she had more than one fish tank in the house, that’s a story in a book I wrote about her years ago where the fish got electrocuted, well, actually  I nearly got electrocuted… but I digress. The Fixture Fixation book is life with her if you’re interested in that.

So, sitting on the 2^nd level at small round wood tables, the six of us chatted. I ordered a weird nonalcoholic drink in keeping with the theme of the place. It ended up being some kind of neon blue slushy-like thing that tasted a bit like it looked, like an experiment gone bad.

But no matter, we were happy to just be hanging. Then we got on the subject of names. Inevitably people ask me where I got my name as it’s so unusual. At a recent meet-up at a theatre, one of the ladies who I had never met before, once she heard my name said, “oh you must be French.” I of course said no, my name just sounds that way.

So, she asked if my mother was French. I said no but she wished she had been as she always decorated with flourish, hung gilded lamps and fixtures and also practiced cooking French food when I was a kid.

Now, when you’re a kid and a friend comes over for your 11th birthday you expect hamburgers and hotdogs, right? Nope, I got flaming scallops and escargot.  Needless to say, the kids went home and never visited my house again, probably wondering wtf was that weird ass food?

Of course, they wondered that, who wouldn’t? Except for my father of course. Although to this day I don’t care for hotdogs and hamburgers, but if escargot is on the menu with plenty of French bread, I’m more than happy to eat it. Friends or food? I had to choose… and oh well I guess I did because Ive eaten more weird food in my life as an adult since, but that’s another blog and yes, I do love French food.

So back to names. So, this evening when we got on the subject of names, being in Spain and having an Argentinian boyfriend the idea of having four names (or more) is always baffling and confusing to us Americans. Yet is normal for them. I mean as a nurse in Texas there were times when a nurse would call a name like Maria Hernandez and five people stood up. It was hard to get it right as we then had to add their 3 and 4^th surnames as well to identify which Maria it was, then check their birthdays and their photos on top of it as we just knew we could end up with the wrong patient so each patient was a name nightmare to us.

The thing we also talked about was how many people have the same names in Spanish/latin countries, like Javier and Jose and Marias. And even several within a single-family unit.  I work with five Annas at my school. I have to always say their last names so if I yell for one, they all don’t turn around at once.

I mentioned to my buddies what about originality? How does it feel to have the same name with so many people everywhere? Do you feel lost in the crowd?

They said it’s how it’s been done but sometimes someone gets wild hair and names their son or daughter something different. The likes of what, I can’t think of at the moment. But they explained four names represent the first two names then the father’s last name then the mother’s last name. There is no middle name per se, but a first name, and the rest are surnames. Phew is all I can say, and btw how do you fit it all on the tons of paper forms, applications, and documents the Spanish pride themselves on choking your inbox with everywhere?  “Write small,” they chuckled.

All I know is when I see a doctor here, I don’t know what to say when I greet them. Ummm “Hola Dr. Martinez Sanchez Moreno” or is it Dr. Sanchez Martinez? Do I say three surnames or two? Ide ask to clarify.

Then they just look at me disparagingly like the gringo or guiri I am, and interrupt me to just get to the reason for my appointment. So now I just say “Hola doctor.” Short sweet, generic. Whatever.

Anyway, so the origin of my name came up and I told them about my mother’s eccentric nature and love of the French. Then I told them that my mother loved an actress named Zsa Zsa Gabor.  She was Romanian I think, not French, but her name wasn’t according to my mother.

Zsa Zsa was loud, arrogant, sexy, and blond with big boobs. My mom was a bleached blond, loud, with a big shelf, and wore bright red lipstick too…. A bit of Marilyn Monroe and Zsa Zsa mixed together. You get the picture.

But when I was born, she told me she wanted to name me Chi Chi. Don’t laugh. And it was pronounced with an “SH” sound like ship not a “CH” sound like Cheek. So, think (sheee sheee).

She said a nurse talked her out of it and said it was not a real name. Thank God for that nurse otherwise people would think I was a poodle or a pole dancer.

But she came up with Chiffon instead which to this day Ive never met another in all my world travels. It’s a nice name now and people love it, but growing up with it when they had the old commercial on TV selling  “Chiffon margarine.” The commercial played a song: “if you think it’s butter, but it’s not, it’s Chiffon” made my life miserable.

Everywhere I went in school someone sang it behind my back or yelled it out of the school bus windows as it drove past me.

Then the worst of it happened in high school. The commercial advertised it another way and said “Chiffon spreads easier.” WTF? They did it because it was margarine, not real butter. As if that made a difference.

What hell that was.

I won’t tell you how many boys, in particular, asked me if I spread easier. It’s a wonder I made it through school without a certain reputation.

So, to this day I thank that nurse whoever she was 59 years ago. Maybe that’s why I became a nurse. But hey if I was a Chi Chi what would I have become? Maybe a dancer? A poodle trainer? An actress? Either way, no one would have taken me seriously.

So, when I told this story to my friends at the table, and I said I was supposed to be named Chi Chi they nearly spit out their beers wide-eyed and shocked.

Turns out in Spanish Chi Chi means Pu**sy or the other really bad word; cu**t.

Holy moly is all I could say blinking and swigging my nonalcoholic blue slushy. Well, I’ll be sure and never say it in public or mixed company in Spain!  I blurted out. God, first I find out the plumber’s here in Spain have P-traps called “sifons”(pronounced SEE-FON) in Spain which sounds dangerously close like my name (because they pronounce the I as a hard E sound.)  Now, this. So, I’m either a plumbing object or a dirty word for a female part.

Laughing their tails off over it all we ordered a 2^nd round. They all swore on their mother’s uncle they would keep my dirty name secret and never yell it out in public….. unless I deserved it.

So there you have it. Four names? Having the same name as everyone else? Or an individual name after a female part? What would you want? I ask you. I’ll wait.

 I’ll take an original one any day but….

Don’t call me Chi Chi

Thanks, mom

Somewhere in Spain