The other night I was out with friends; well, as usual, I was the third wheel while my buddy Chris tried to work his magic with a stunner. There I was, several stiff drinks into the night, chatting along amicably with the impossibly tall and well proportioned (ie long legs, tiny waist, big hoo-hoos) red head, when I casually called her Stacy.
A look the likes of which I haven't seen before, namely a blend of amusement, anger, consternation, and disbelief, flashed across her face as she curtly informed me, "It's Tracy."
As any man should do in that situation, I chuckled, let out a groaning "ooooohh", and calmly polished off my drink. The smirk vanished from my face as I told her, "It's just that you remind me of my friend Stacy who died last year," and gazed wistfully into some unforseen distance.
"Really? I'm so sorry," she said, obviously concerned as she leaned in and touched my arm to lend emotional support.
I kept up the charade for approximately three tenths of a second before I chortled, shook my head, and admitted, "No, not really."
She playfully punched me in the rib, which not so playfully hurt like hell since I'd bruised it playing football a few weeks earlier, and we continued flirting and chatting well into the night.
The only moral of this story that I can find is that it is obviously best to do whatever possible, no matter how heinous, to distract a woman, well beyond your means, if you somehow forget or butcher her name.
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