We all have our pet peeves, those tiny, often seemingly insignificant annoyances that, when accumulated, can make you want to scream into a pillow.
For me, many of these frustrations manifest in the mundane exchanges of everyday conversation. It’s not about grand philosophical debates or heated political arguments; it’s about the subtle, often unconscious habits people adopt when they speak. And if we’re truly striving for clearer, more engaging, and less cringeworthy communication, then it’s time we addressed a few of these linguistic quirks head-on.
Today, I want to talk about names – how we use them, how we don't use them, and how sometimes, we just use them plain wrong.
The Mystery of the Unknown "George": Give Us Some Context, Please!
Picture this: You're deep in conversation with a friend, co-worker or acquaintance. The chat is flowing, you're engaged and then, out of nowhere, they drop a bomb.
"Oh, yeah, that reminds me," they say, "George was just saying the other day that his garden is having the same problem."
George?
My brain immediately freezes. Who the hell is George? Is he a mutual friend I've somehow forgotten? Is he a clandestine operative? Was he the gardener who tended to the former White House Rose Garden?
You, the speaker, are clearly familiar with George. You’ve had conversations with him, you know his horticultural woes. But I, the listener, am left floating in a sea of confusion, desperately trying to construct an identity for this phantom individual.
It’s like walking into the middle of a movie without the opening credits. Suddenly, you’re expected to care about the protagonist’s emotional arc when you don't even know their name, let alone their backstory. Why do we do this to each other? Why do we assume a shared mental contact list of every single person who has ever crossed our path?
I understand the impulse. In your head, George is a fully formed person, a fixed point in your social universe. But to me, he’s a blank slate and without a tiny bit of context, he remains utterly irrelevant.
This is where I often find myself thinking, "If only real life were more like a poorly written TV show!" You know the kind I mean. The characters have a habit of over-articulating each other's names, even when it feels completely unnatural.
"How was your day, Brenda?" "It was good, Rachel, and yours?" No one actually talks like that in real life, but at least, in that fictional universe, the "audience" (us, the viewers) quickly learns who Brenda and Rachel are. We get it. We're in the loop.
My plea isn't for us to start artificially injecting names into every sentence. Instead, it's about a simple, one-time act of conversational courtesy. A quick, graceful introduction. "My neighbor, George, was just saying the other day that his garden is having the same problem." Boom. Instantly, George has a place in the universe. He's not just a floating signifier; he's your neighbor, George. I now have a reference point. I can picture him, even if vaguely, tending to his troubled petunias. I can engage with your story without feeling like I've missed a crucial memo.
This isn't just about my understanding; it's about facilitating your communication. When you introduce someone – even someone who isn’t physically present – you invite your listener fully into your narrative. You make your story richer, your anecdote more relatable and you avoid the silent internal struggle your audience is having trying to piece together your cast of characters. So, let’s make a pact: if you're going to mention someone I don't know, give me the CliffsNotes version first. Just a quick descriptor, that's all I ask. My brain (and my sanity) will thank you.
"It Still Curls My Toes, Drew": When People Wear Out Your Own Name
Speaking of using names, let's pivot to another peculiar habit, one that involves your name – the name you've had since birth, the one you respond to, the one that defines you. This particular quirk is perhaps even more baffling than the first because it involves people using your name when they’re talking directly to you.
Again, let’s revisit that clunky TV show dialogue: "How was your day, Brenda?" "It was good, Rachel, and yours?" It's stilted, it's unnatural and it's there purely for the benefit of the unseen audience. In real life, when you're talking face-to-face with someone and you already have their full attention, why do you feel the need to pepper their name throughout the conversation?
I've had conversations where my name, Drew, is dropped into sentences with an almost rhythmic regularity.
"I really liked what you did to the report, Drew. It showed a lot of initiative, Drew. I think we should do more of that, Drew." I’m right here! My ears are working; I know my name. You know my name. We’re both fully aware of who is being addressed. It’s not a large auditorium; it’s a one-on-one conversation.
It conjures up memories of childhood, when an older relative might playfully admonish, "Don't wear out your name!" And honestly, sometimes it feels like that's precisely what's happening. Each unnecessary repetition of "Drew" feels like a tiny, conversational speed bump. It jolts me out of the flow just enough to make me wonder, Why did they say my name there? Was it for emphasis? Was it to make sure I was still listening? Did they momentarily forget who they were talking to?
Sometimes, it's used to soften a critique or to add an artificial layer of warmth: "You know, Drew, I think we could have approached that differently." Other times, it feels almost like an attempt to establish a false intimacy. Whatever the intention, the effect is often the opposite: it can feel patronizing, overly earnest or just plain odd.
Of course, there are times when using a person's name is entirely appropriate and even necessary. When you're trying to get someone's attention in a noisy room, absolutely. When you're introducing them to someone else, naturally. Or when you haven't spoken in a while and want to re-establish connection. But in the middle of an ongoing dialogue, where eye contact is made and engagement is clear, the constant re-insertion of my name often feels like a tic, an unnecessary linguistic flourish that adds nothing but awkwardness.
Conversations should flow naturally, like a river, not like a series of punctuated sentences. We don't need to constantly re-establish who is speaking to whom. Trust that I know who I am, and I trust that you know who you are. Let's just talk.
The "Mom" and "Dad" Quandary: It’s Not Her Proper Name (to Me)
Finally, for my third and perhaps most specific linguistic peeve, I turn to the way adults refer to their parents when speaking to someone outside the family unit. This might seem like a minor quibble but it’s one that consistently makes me pause.
It goes something like this: "I was talking to Mom last night, and she said..." or "Dad helped me move some furniture and he nearly threw out his back."
Now, let's be absolutely clear: within the family, calling your parents "Mom" and "Dad" is completely normal, expected and affectionate. It's a term of endearment, a shorthand for a deep familial bond. But when you’re talking to me – I am not your child, I am not married into your family, I have no direct relationship with your parents. To me, "Mom" and "Dad" are titles, not names.
When you say, "I was talking to Mom last night," it sounds as if "Mom" is her actual first name. And I guarantee you, unless her parents were incredibly avant-garde, "Mom" is not the name on her birth certificate. Her name is probably Susan or Julie or Deborah.
The proper, more universally understood way to convey this information to an outsider is to say, "I was talking to my mom last night," or "My dad helped me move some furniture." That little possessive pronoun, "my," makes all the difference. It clarifies the relationship. It sets the context. It acknowledges that your mother isn't "Mom" to the entire world; she's your mom.
When you just say "Mom" or "Dad" without "my," it creates a subtle, almost subconscious assumption of shared intimacy. It’s as if you’re inviting me into a familial circle that I’m not actually a part of. It’s a small detail but it speaks to a broader issue of conversational clarity and the appropriate establishment of boundaries.
We don't call our spouses "Wife" or "Husband" when talking to friends ("Husband went to the store"); we say "my husband." The same principle should apply to parents.
Perhaps these are all just minor gripes, the musings of someone who spends too much time dissecting human interaction. But I believe they point to a larger truth: mindful communication isn't just about what we say but also how we say it. It's about being aware of our audience, providing context and ensuring that our words genuinely facilitate understanding and connection, rather than creating confusion or awkwardness.
So, the next time you're about to mention "George," pause for a second and ask yourself, "Does this person know George?" If not, give them a little help. If you find yourself repeatedly using someone's name in a direct conversation, consider if it's truly necessary. And when you're talking about your parents to a non-family member, a simple "my" can make all the difference.