Pat

I just returned from the dentist. Good news: no cavities or any other issues...except that I'm an aggressive brusher. Bad news: the dental hygienist called me "Pat".
Attention: dental hygienists, bank tellers and retail clerks! If you see my name written down as "Patricia", if you're not sure of a nickname, just call me as it's written. That is my name, after all!
Over the years, I've been called Pat, Patty, Patsy (my favorite)...none of which I've actually adopted. "Hey, that's a good idea. I'm going to abandon 'Trish' and start going by 'Patsy'!"
The thing that gets me though about my recent office visit is that I've been going to this same dentist since I've developed teeth. The wrong-name culprit has seen me twice a year since I was, what?, two years old. She assisted in many of my cleanings and even during an oral surgery. My mother had also gone to this dental office for years and, while she was in the chair, I was in the waiting room rocking pigtails and reading Highlights...talking to this same lady.
She remembers that I currently live in Rhode Island and that I went to Nantucket for vacation last summer. Why does she remember random details about my life but doesn't even know my name?
I realize that this poor woman can't remember EVERYBODY that walks through those doors, but I think she should at least make a note in my file. It'll take just a few seconds to write in and then I won't give her the stink eye every six months.