Flashback

I was sitting outside yesterday, while Anna was playing with her sand table and, I don't know if it was the heat, the hum of the locusts or the feel of itchy, mosquito-infested grass tickling my ankles, but I got a flashbulb memory of high school band camp ("and this one time, at band camp").

We had a tiny little, Napoleon-esque, (Napoleon Bonaparte, not Napoleon Dynamite) Hispanic band director, whom everyone called Feliz. Even though he was maybe 5' 4" on a good day, he was a daunting figure. He could yell like no one I'd ever encountered and his yells were always peppered with his thick Mexican accent--almost undecipherable at times.

Quick Tangent: You should also know that I'm that person whom no one can remember my name. It doesn't bother me because I'm so used to it--it's actually comical now. I've been called every name under the sun, except for my real name. It's also very, very common for me to be in a group and one person is introducing everyone by name and then they get to me and they get a blank and almost panicked look on their face. I oftentimes know that this is about to happen, so I usually try to step in, extend my hand to the person to whom I'm being introduced and introduce myself to save the introduce-ee the embarrassment. I have lots of theories about why this is my lot in life. One of them involves magnetic fields, but I'll save that theory for another time.

Ok, back on track: So, this particular flashback that came to me yesterday, was of a hot day at band camp. The whole band was standing in formation, while Feliz was standing up in the stadium bleachers, with his ever-present bullhorn in hand. We were at "attention" or something, I suppose, because we all were rendered frozen and listening intently for Feliz to either release us for the day or give us further instruction. Suddenly, Feliz screams into the bullhorn the following:

WEEEENDY MEEEELOR! (Wendy Miller) Move to your left!

Me, being a Freshman, and not knowing every upperclassman's name, stood at attention, waiting for Wendy Miller to get her act together and inwardly patting myself on the back for finally being in the right place and doing the right thing. Then again,

WEEEENDY MEEELOR! Move. To. Your. LEFT!

God, Wendy!

About this time, I can hear the murmurs of the other bandmembers and realized that no one knew who the hell Feliz was talking about--apparently there WAS no Wendy Miller in our band. Feliz's face was getting redder and redder, as he swung his bullhorn from side to side, obviously cooking up a temper tantrum, the caliber of which I've (to this day) only seen band directors summon.

And again.

WEEEEEEEEEEEDY MEEEEEEEEELOR! MOVE YOUR ASS NOW OR WE'RE GOING TO STAND HERE ALL NIGHT!

Then, I think an upperclassman near me got an idea and whispered to me to move to my left. I obediently did and finally...

THANK YOU, MISS MEEEELOR!

The entire band breathed a collective sigh of relief.

From that moment on, I was called Wendy by Feliz. I don't think that poor little man ever learned my name.

*By the way, in case you don't know me, my first name is not Wendy and my maiden name was never Miller.