Say my name, say my name

I'm a pretty big fan of Yelp.

If you didn't know that already, I'm just going to assume you're new here.

If you did miss all the warning signs, here are some of the ways you could have figured that out:

• The widget I've added here on my blog. Go on, scroll down. It's on the right there.

• It's in my bio on my company's website:
• I've listed it as one of my "interests" on my Facebook profile, before the internet:

• I even "became a fan":

Obviously this borders on unhealthy.

Naturally, I've signed up to receive Yelp's weekly newsletters.

For any non-Yelpers out there (go sign up!) the newsletters tend to have a single theme or topic, highlighting different local businesses and featuring quotes of Yelpers who have reviewed those businesses.

I read these newsletters each week with the secret hope that some day a snippet of one of my reviews will be featured. Again, unhealthy. Also, let's be honest, kind of sad.

When I saw this week's newsletter subject, "Do You Shabu?" I thought, "Well, I've only reviewed one shabu-shabu place and there are tons in this town, so this week is probably not my week."

Then I read the newsletter.

After "discovering the shabu cooking style and getting addicted to it," Jeremy K now gets his fix at Shabu Village

. Maria C does too, and guarantees that you'll leave this Brookline spot "feeling very full, but not that oh-God-why-did-I-eat-that? full!"

I did a double take. "Hey, that looks like something I would write. It even has unnecessary exclamation marks!"

Oh. wait.

Yup. Finally got my half second in the limelight and Yelp got my name wrong.

Not only did they get my name wrong, but they picked the one name that I actually, truly hate.

(No offense to all the Maria's out there, I'm sure it looks lovely on you!)

See, when I was in elementary school, no one really believed that my first name was actually Marie. Despite the fact that 85% of the people I meet tell me, "Oh, my sister's boyfriend's cousin's middle name is Marie", the fine folks of Northern Virginia's various grammar schools could not wrap their minds around the final vowel of my name.

I found this extremely frustrating as a child and the situation escalated to the point that my mother was forced to call the school and inform them that my name was in fact Marie, and could they please change that in their records?

They told her the change could only be made if she came in with proof--namely, my birth certificate.

When "But I'm her mother! I know what her name is!" failed to sway them, she gave up. My mother believes very strongly that one should not given in to the unreasonable demands of terrorists.

By the time I was in 5th grade, I'd simply had enough. Like any good pre-teen, I decided to let it all out on my poor, unsuspecting, horrible witch of a math teacher.

"Maria, can you please explain the problem on the board to the class?"

Silence.

I didn't look up at her. I didn't look around. I just stared straight ahead.

We were halfway through the year. My dislike for the teacher and the subject had been well established. If she didn't return those sentiments before our exchange, I'm sure she did after.

"Maria, please answer the question."

More silence.

"Maria, why won't you answer me? You're being very disrespectful!"

"Because that's not my name." I snarked, with a force possessed only by tween girls.

I shall never have that power again.

So thanks, Yelp, for reminding me of glory days.