What's in a Name?

Yesterday, dawn began with Dawn.  Dawn is my hygienist and I had an early appointment with her at my dentist's practice.  She gave me a good report and said she'd see me in September.  This did not surprise me, but still, it was a relief that nothing needed to be scraped, filled, bridged, removed, or reconfigured.  Then I headed to the mall with my computer, which, for some reason, had basically quit on me.  I did not have an appointment at the Apple store, so I was resigned to waiting there all day to be helped.  The Apple store in the Mall (I hate going to the Mall) didn't open until 10, so I waited, dreading spending the rest of the daylight hours waiting for a helper to minister to my techno-frustration.

But a helper-person came out of the Apple store with a little device in her hand and began scheduling appointments for those of us waiting for the store to open.  I couldn't believe it.  She took down my information and said, "We'll send you a text when your appointment is ready."  I said, "I don't text."  She said, "Oh, well, just come on in about fifteen minutes from now."  I did.  Another young woman, named "Sunny," ran a bunch of tests and we figured out the problem was me.  I'm not going into that.  Suffice it to say that my morning appointments' timing corresponded with the names of the people with whom I would be dealing.  I'm just glad I didn't have a lunch reservation somewhere only to find out the waitstaff's name was "Nooner."

The rest of the day was fine and dandy.  I met my long-suffering wife at a local soccer match because some of her 9th graders were playing another group of 9th graders nearby.  After watching a flotilla of teenage boys kicking each other in the shins, wandering around aimlessly, and bonking the ball with their heads, I remain unpersuaded about the efficacy of soccer as a sport.  Waiting for something exciting to happen in a soccer match is like waiting for a politician to tell the truth.  So, after the game, I went from the ridiculous to the sublime; that is, a dinner date with my long-suffering wife.

A fine and glorious day, all in all.  A blessing every which way.

The Boy in the Bridal Boutique

Shortly after Christmas, my long-suffering wife and I drove to Florida for a visit with her sister's family in Melbourne. An unexpected highlight awaited. Given the choice of watching a bunch of men in shorts kicking each other's shins or accompanying my wife, her sister, and two nieces to The Bridal Boutique, I chose the latter.

I had wisely avoided such enterprises when my daughters married, so why was I going now? Well, my gifted, talented, lovely, witty, and brilliant niece is getting married in March. She had purchased a wedding gown and was going in for a fitting. Being a lifelong learner, I thought I'd tag along.

While Anna was getting fitted, I roamed around the estrogen-rich environment, looking at wedding gowns on a rack that extended about the length of a football field. The cheapest gown was $1,800, and they escalated into the low 4's. Off the rack. Above the rack were posters of the Bulemia All-Stars modeling various gowns. One young woman appeared to have failed in her attempt to escape vampires.

Backtracking to the front of the business, I proved useful in picking out the color for the Mother of the Bride dress. Blue. Later passed over for a mauve taupe sea mist stone aqua.

And even though Anna looked radiant in her tasteful gown, I just might pass when it's time for my niece Amy to visit the Bridal Boutique. And maybe give soccer another look.