The eerie thing about blogging is how aware you become of themes in your life, depending on the week. This week's theme seems to be "Who the hell am I?"
For instance, this morning there was a message in my inbox from Mr. New Boy. It read, "I found an old picture of you."
The following image was attached.
Yes, yes, I deserved that after telling him he looked like Keith Gordon. But it's clearly not who I am. I'm much cuter.
Message number two was from Chuck:
"The &**#ing DMV wouldn't let me register the $%#^ing new plates for the car because your %%^&ing last name doesn't match mine and the %^#&ing guy didn't believe you were my wife."
And here we are. The name changing issue again rears its ugly head.
Sometimes I wish my last name had been Snuffleofagusapelouski. Or Guggeinhickup. Then I would have loathed it and gleefully adopted my husband's last name. Instead I have spent 33 years very content with my name. And my dear husband, who is secure in his masculinity—blah blah, barbells and beer—hasn’t asked me to change it.
Lately it's becoming apparent that life would be a lot easier if I did change it. Like when I make doctor's appointments for Junior and the doctor can't find his chart because it's under a different name. Or like when my dad writes me a check for Junior's birthday and he makes it out to my "married" name when he knows very well that I haven't changed my name but he's old fashioned and wants to slight my decision.
I don't know what to do. Hyphenation isn't an option. I think if you're going to go ahead and do it, you should go ahead and do it. With gusto!
Which leads me to Chuck's last name. It has plenty of gusto. It's rather, um, festive. It's the kind of name that appears on bar signage. That drunk people yell out. The kind of party name that makes a very serious first name for your child a necessity.
So there you have it. I don’t have big ass hair but my last name could soon be all the party I need.
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