Great story from Ez:
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For graduation my mom gave me a briefcase she was given when she practiced law. It’s a great gift. I’m stoked to use something of hers in my professional life. It needed some repairs so Mom sent the briefcase off to a fancy-pants leather shop on an even more fancy-pants street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Here’s what happened when I went to pick it up:
I approach the counter to speak to a patrician looking lady with upright posture and arched eyebrows. If you can admit to yourself that you watched The L Word, picture a taller Peggy Peabody. “Last name?” asks the lady.
Per usual, I say my name and then spell out “C-U-K-O-R.” It’s not phonetic.
Oh, “Coo-Core,” responds the lady.
“Actually its pronounced ‘Sue-core’”, I reply.
No, “Coo-core” she insists.
At this point in the conversation I conclude the lady is in fact snobbier than she looks. No small achievement. I blurt out. “It’s my name, I know how to pronounce it.”
The lady’s eyes sweep my body from faux-hawked head to Adidas-Samba clad toe. I’m guessing she was trying to raise her eyebrows, but they couldn’t go any higher.
“Oh. I thought you were the delivery boy.”
