A case of mistaken identity

So a lot of women have the same name as I do. Not too surprising considering that Kelly is the second most popular Irish name, and as my mother says: "The Irish reproduce like rabbits. They populate the entire earth. It's disgusting." Christina is pretty common too. Don't get me wrong; I like my name. I just wish I didn't have to share it with so many people.

This is usually just a mild annoyance, as when the dry cleaner switches my clothes with those of the other Christina Kelly who goes there. Once a doctor called to tell me I had a sexually transmitted disease, only to ring back later to say, oops, she meant to notify her other patient named Christina Kelly.

However, a Christina Kelly who resides in Chattanooga, Tennessee has really fucked with me. Not only do we share the same name, our email addresses are almost identical. I mean, they are really easy to mix up. Thus she often gets email intended for me. Most of this is very mundane, such as reminders from our church that it's my turn to help in the Sunday school, notices from the kids' school, etc. Chattanooga C.K. deals with this in a truly unbelievable way. She doesn't let the sender know they've got the wrong lady. She just responds really rudely, and then they think I'm insane.

The first time this happened, about two years ago, a class mom had sent out a group email to make sure I was still bringing the paper plates for the party. Chattanooga C.K. fires off some crabby response, and EVERYONE THINKS IT'S ME! But nobody tells me about it. I just get funny looks in the A&P, and no one is calling for playdates, and basically the sea parts when I arrive at, say, a birthday party for pickup. Finally, weeks later, a mom of one of my son's friends, asks, "What was the deal with that email you sent?" And it all gets unraveled. But there was no undoing the damage. It was viral. I felt like every stay-at-home mom in the school thought I was a lunatic. I felt like I had sent the email.

About a week before Christmas, at about 10 pm, I was in my room reading when the doorbell rang. My husband answered it. I heard him say, "Hello, officer," and then a few seconds later he asked me to come downstairs. He and a police officer were standing near our newly decorated Christmas tree.

"Did you call a suicide hot line?" he asked. "A Christina Kelly called a suicide hot line, but she didn't give her address, so we're checking with all the Christina Kellys in the area." I had not called a suicide hot line. But I had been really depressed that weekend. So it was eerie.