The other side of Volvo-style

For parents who always expounded the virtues of not just proper grammar but beautifully constructed proper grammar, my Mother and Father sure did stick me with one hell of pronunciation pickle when it comes to my given name and the nickname by which I was exclusively known until the age of 24 when my graduate school adviser advised me to "select" something else.

"Anything else," I believe he put it.

But well before I arrived at that rather humbling moment, it was at the tender age of eight when I confronted the more tell it like it is half of my parental unit using my already seasoned brand of passive-aggressiveness for advice on how to remedy the frustration that was my constantly mispronounced names:

"Dad..."

"Mmmhmm?"

"Can I ask you something? It's important."

"Of course, what is it?"

"How would you say the word, 't-a-n-n-i-n-g'?"

"The word, what? Uh...tanning. Why?"

"How would you say, 'p-i-n-n-e-d'?"

"Pinned."

"What about, 'r-u-n-n...'"

"Is there a point to this exercise, Johanna, and if so, are we nearing it? I have exams to grade and..."

"The point, Dad, is that I don't understand why the second syllable of my given name and the first syllable of my nickname are pronounced with a short 'o' when every other word with that vowel/consonant arrangement has taught me to use a short 'a'."

(turning away from his desk and toward me, lowering his bifocals, smiling)

"Good grief, you. I've created a monster."

What does this dilemma -one for which a satisfying resolution wasn't reached until my teenage years when I finally discovered "Johanna" and "Hannie" were originally assigned to me with traditional German pronunciations and thus not meant to be held to the same phonetic rules as their American counterparts- have to do with what happened to me at the airport on Monday or the Volvo-style epiphany to which I alluded in yesterday's post?

Plenty, actually.

Due to my parents' insistence I assume a name with an affectation unnatural to those in this country, people will more likely get my name wrong than right. Over time, I've trained myself to let the "Joannas," the "Johannahs" and the "Hannees" slide right by, correcting only those with whom I knew I would have a close and continuing relationship and being sure to do so in an almost self-deprecating manner so as to preempt any unnecessary apologies that might follow.

Likewise, now that my hair is at a length more commonly associated with the opposite sex, people are much more likely to misidentify my gender. Big deal. Sunday was not the first time, and I don't expect it will be the last. As with the name situation, I don't see any real benefit to my raising the issue with the Dereks of the world other than to boost my own sense of "I'm right/you're wrong"-edness, which frankly, by the end of the day, smacks more of pathetic than victorious.

And now, finally, the epiphany.

In the past two months, I've had encounters with three women, all of these women extremely well-intentioned and all of them brazen enough to approach me, a complete stranger, at a party, on the street and in a department store for no other reason than to pay me an "I love your _____" compliment.

But the thing was, unlike the majority of admirers who offer their "I love your _____" praise and move on, this trio of women took their liking of my shoes, bracelet and coat a step further by unknowingly misidentifying them as items they just plain weren't.

And let me be clear, when I say misidentify, I mean really, really misidentify.

If you'll recall, a woman with something I like to call "Volvo-style" is a woman who dresses no less luxe than her Lamborghini lot-mate but does so in a much less overt, much less attention-whoring manner; she's the one in Jil Sander and Calvin Klein, not Cavalli and Fendi. Not surprisingly, I aspire to the idea of the former, and up until a couple of months ago when I had my first of the three aforementioned interactions, I thought I had been well on my way.

Thought would be the operative word.

I was wrong, for a Volvo woman, I have come to realize, is much more than just her sleek paint job and minimalist high-end stereo system, she is also the embodiment of fashion humility, someone who, even when given a gift-wrapped opportunity to sit alone atop braggart butte prefers the view down below where she can comfortably mingle with all models and makes. She owns a room gradually, quietly, more effectively.

A Volvo woman is the type who, when asked by an unobservant but awfully sweet woman at a formal event if she, too, purchased her "awesome" patent leather pumps at Ross for $29.99 would smile and either falsely acknowledge she had, or if white lies aren't her thing, avoid the question altogether by offering up a compliment on what a fantastic bargain her new acquaintance had found in her admittedly "very similar" shoes.

She would not, however, scrunch her face into a mess of hurt, insult and fury, and without thinking, launch into a story of how she'd bought her MARNI pumps at SAKS and how they'd been her SPLURGE of the Christmas season and how even though they were EXPENSIVE what was the point of owning well-made DESIGNER SHOES if one didn't wear them out every chance one got?

Believe me, no sooner had the words tumbled out of my mouth than I was looking for a hiding spot and an Opus Dei cilice. I might've been wearing a simple black dress with small onyx studs but my outburst made me feel as tacky, overaccessorized and logo-emblazoned as Eve circa 2002.

The subsequent interactions concerning my bracelet and Winter coat were not nearly as regretful as the one with my shoes, but all three incidents forced me to recognize I'm very much a Volvo in training at this point, because even though it may not be overt, it may not be exclusive and it may not be frequent, there is no denying I still flush with misguided pride over the enhanced status wearing a higher quality bit or bauble affords me.

In sum, I've let my dentist call me "Joanna" for years, and I laugh it off when airport security mistakes me for a man; it's only fitting the next time a nice stranger calls my ____ "awesome" and compares their ____ to mine -whether there is or isn't a several hundred dollar difference between the two- I will be much more careful not to let the little bit of Lamborghini I have inside of me creep its way down the driveway again.