If you have a date in Constantinople, she'll be waiting in Instanbul

It happened again.

I got another letter addressed to me by my maiden name. I've only been married for a few years, so. . .whatever. Take your time. The state of California is the biggest offender. I won't even tell you the story of one agency I've been dealing with, because I will get angry and throw things again. Moving on.

It's such a pain to change addresses. Worse to change to your married name. I bet I'll have the same email address until I'm 84 and then I die because the idea of changing it makes me twitchy. Too bad it's cute_young_and_under_thirty @ defunctISP.com (Don't click: it's not real. Duh.) and I've already had it for twenty years. I've had that email address since before email was even invented. I got it right after Al Gore invented the Internet. He called me up and was like, "I have this great opportunity for you. It's free to join," and that's how I got my address. Or else it was at BYU when the computer monitors still had green letters and everybody had to go to the library to check their email because laptops were still just a twinkle in Apple's eye. One of those two.

I was saying. . . ? Oh, yeah. Those logistical changes are a pain.

Which is why I'm wondering . . .

How the holy crud do entire COUNTRIES get away that? You ever met anyone from Iran? You ever heard them call themselves Iranian? NO. But I bet you've met quite a few Persians in your time. (This could totally be a Southern California phenomenon like Little Saigon six miles up the road. Second largest Vietnamese population in a city outside of Saigon. Little Persia, per se, does not exist except for as a network of widely strewn homes in all of the wealthiest neighborhoods along the SoCal coast).

And Thailand? I like Siam better. It may have something to do with my partiality to Yul Brynner.

Although I think Myanmar is a more interesting name than Burma. Except that it reminds me of Miramar which reminds of Top Gun which reminds me of the volleyball scene and then I lose my train of thought again.

Huh.

Oh, I know. Hello, Czechoslovakia. (I totally did not get that right on my first attempt.) Oh, wait. No, not hello. Goodbye, and say hello instead to the Czech Republic and . . . what? Serbia? No. Hang on. I'm hitting the Wiki. Oh, it's Slovakia. Uh, that should have been more obvious to me.

BTW, geography? Not my special talent.

I'm sure these countries have very good reasons for changing their names, but like. . .

Who makes it official? The U.N.? I bet it's not. I bet it's Rand McNally. You're NOTHING if you're not in their atlas. You can drop Babylon for Iraq when Mr. McNally says you can.

I wonder if there's a special international Dead Letter office where mail sits because it was addressed to the wrong country. Like maybe there's some poor sweepstakes winner who never got to claim their Publisher's Clearinghouse Winnings because it was addressed to Javier Nieto in Santo Domingo instead of the good ole (or kind of new-ish) Dominican Republic.

Can I tell you how tired I am of hearing the phrase, " The former Soviet Republic of Zxcrstgnstan, etc."? At least I can say "Soviet Union". Didn't care for their Olympic dominance and would as soon take on the republics one team at a time, but it's still easier to say. Not that I'm trying to bring back the Iron Curtain or whatever. One Germany is easier than East and West so some of that stuff worked out better. Anyway, in a shocking twist. . . I digress.

You know, I bet this whole post is the whole fault of geography. I don't think my brain realizes that my body made it back to Huntington Beach (a.k.a. Surf City--it's only a matter of time before it's not just a slogan) and it's still hanging out in Bear Lake somewhere.

Maybe just don't mail me anything. Except chocolate.

No, wait. Do. I'll just have to never, ever move from this address.