Made for each other

Will the real Kelly Hildebrandt please sit down:

Kelly Hildebrandt and also Kelly Hildebrandt

Thank you. On the left is Kelly Hildebrandt, a fellow from Texas; on the right is Kelly Hildebrandt, a girl from Florida.

And they’re getting married this fall:

“I was like, ‘I wonder if there’s any other Kelly Hildebrandts on Facebook’,” she explained. “So, I searched my own name and he’s the only one that came up. And actually, in the picture, he didn’t have his shirt on, and I’m like, ‘oh, he’s cute!'”

One thing led to several others, he flew out to meet her, and now they’re happy blogfodder. Me, I’m just grateful they’re not hyphenating the two surnames.


  1. sya »

    19 July 2009 · 8:05 pm

    If there’s a guy out there who has the same name as me, I think I’d freak out first.

  2. GradualDazzle »

    19 July 2009 · 8:39 pm

    My un-married name used to be Kris Young. I dated a guy in high school named Chris Wood. Later I married a guy named Rick Wood (not related to the previous guy at all), so now my name’s Kris Wood. One of my best friends in high school also had the last name Young, and we weren’t related at all. She eventually married a guy named Monty Wood. So now we *still* share the same last name.

    Life is weirder than we imagine it will be.

  3. John Owen Butler »

    19 July 2009 · 10:34 pm

    I want a candid camera in the clerk’s office when they come in to apply for a marriage license. The look on the clerk’s face when she reads each Kelly’s driver’s license to verify ID will be priceless.

  4. LeeAnn »

    19 July 2009 · 11:21 pm

    The husband got a call today from a guy with the same name as his. The guy (age 62) said he just got curious about who might have the same name, looked up the ones he could find, and was calling all of them. Kinda neat.

  5. Kirk »

    20 July 2009 · 7:25 am

    This is, I suppose, the ultimate example of a woman marrying someone with the same initials so as not to have to change the monograms on the luggage.

  6. fillyjonk »

    20 July 2009 · 7:29 am

    May they have a happy marriage.

  7. Francis W. Porretto »

    20 July 2009 · 11:49 am

    When I was a sophomore in college (SUNY Stony Brook), the university altered its registration policies, such that a student had to show that all his bills were paid in full to be allowed to register for the next semester. The Bursar’s office was therefore embroiled in the semiannual registration process, and they hated it. But not nearly as much as we students did. No, not within an order of magnitude. After all, they got to take their unhappiness out on us.

    Toward the end of the spring semester, when registration for the fall semester opened up, I was feeling pretty good. I’d paid all my bills on time and in full, and had earned quite a bit as a freelance computer programmer (back then, the professors were actually proud that they knew nothing about computers). So I went to the Registration windows in a rather cocky mood.

    (Cue the “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall” background music, please.)

    I was on line that day for several hours. It wasn’t entirely time wasted; I read a good Heinlein novel and chatted up a couple of attractive young ladies. But most of my fellow line inmates were pretty peeved about the process. By the time I got to the window, students behind me were talking openly about setting the building on fire to drive the administration workers out into the open where they could be tortured to death.

    Anyway, I presented my registration form to the clerk with a big smile, and she told me, as she’d told everyone else on line that day, that she had to check my account first. I waved it aside. When she looked up from her console, it was with the least legible expression I’d ever seen on a woman’s face (and that’s a big sample space).

    “Mr. Porretto,” she said in a monotone, “you have an unpaid balance.”

    And I, optimist that I was, reached for my wallet as I said, “Oh? How much is it?”

    That clerk looked me squarely in the eyes, smiled sweetly, and said in a ringing voice, “Three thousand dollars and sixteen cents.”

    When the paramedics had revived me (and when I’d ceased to spout incredulous obscenities in a bull-elephant roar), that clerk and I did a rather exhaustive search of the university’s accounts receivable. Yes, you guessed it: there was another Francis Porretto registered there, with a credit balance of exactly $3000.16. Every cent I’d paid the university over the previous year had been credited to her account.

    I never met the lady, which is probably for the best.

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