JOHN, BY ANY OTHER NAME IS STILL MY JOHN

John, By Any Other Name, Is Still My John.  

You know, you marry a man you know and you love, and then you get busy with life -- the troubles, the insistant necesssities, the interruptions, the self-help and healings, and then one day you pause.

And when you pause, you take note of things you never took note of before.

That happened this year.  

I took note of the fact that my dear hubby calls himself names.  Sometimes he's behind closed doors brushing his teeth with Ultra Bright and I can hear him.  Sometimes, he's stuck under the hood of his blue Ford diesel with a rachet and socket in his hand and I hear him.  Sometimes he's walking through the family room with a full plate of food in one hand and eating utensils in the other looking for a place to park everything and I hear him.  Sometimes he's dispirited and wants to think positive thoughts and I overhear him.

We went through Panera Bread last Thursday and the young man says, "What name, please."  And John says, "Fred."

I looked at him sideways with sqinting eyes, "Your name's not Fred!"  And he grins, wickedly.

The next day or so he's telling a story about some instance about the bus and the school kids and himself, only this time he replaced himself with Larry, "Larry needs to use the mic more to tell Henry to quit going from seat to seat visiting with the girls!"

And then there's the times he uses Johnny.  Now, his full name isn't Johnny or Johnston or Johnathon, it's simply John. So when he says, "Johnny's a good guy" it's a surprise to know he's talking of himself.

Yes, he mutters around the house, and while outside you can catch him talking to himself.  And he has self-calling names.  Each has a particular use, I just did find that out!

Finally, one day as I'm laughing at his indiscriminate use of these names, I decided to be blunt, "Why do you sometimes call yourself  Fred, other times you say Larry, and sometimes use Johnny?  Did your mother ever call you Johnny?"

"No."

"Well, why the different names?"

"Fred is for food,"  he says.  When we're at a fast food restaurant and they need a name he thinks its funny to give them a false and fictitious name.

"Larry is funny," he adds.  When he's telling a joke on himself he uses an imaginary Larry.

"Johnny is honesty," he finishes his explanation.  If he feels like someone besmirched him, he boosts himself with a Johnny pat-on-the-back.

This day we're at Michaelangelo's Italian Bistro, and the girl cashier in black apron asks, "What name, please."  

Standing next to him, I now know what to expect, and I grin as John says, "Fred."

Sitting at the red checkered table, with paper placemats under our elbows, I ask him if he knows how to spell the name Michaelangelo.  I was going to make some notes with my pen and placemat as I always do when I'm trying to patiently wait.

John begins, "M.  I.  C. ... " and he completes it.

I replied, "Got it!  That worked!"  

"Shew," he says, "You don't know how lucky you are.  That wasn't as easy as Fred, Larry or Johnny.  I was having a brain squirm." 

And that's My John.