The Fighting Bears

Oh, the changing of the name. In the world of modern brides, there are just so many damn choices. Keep my name? Hyphenate it? Maybe just go balls-out and take the boy’s name altogether. It’s just too much to think about. So up until this point, I’ve avoided the thought process like the bubonic plague. I find that the best way to solve problems is to avoid them until they go away. Or blow up. Whichever comes first.

  

But that little wedding app I picked up (Also known as the neurotic bride app) just loves to remind me that it’s time to start gathering up all those legal documents for the big name change. Every day… ding ding! You have 62… 61… ONLY 60… DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING! Wedding! Wedding! Ding Ding DING!

Ugh, quiet down crazy. You’re more pressed than I am.

But what if I don’t want to give it up? Anyone that knows me knows that I’m Hartnett. There are a few people out there that don’t actually know my first name- I’m just Hartnett. So what happens when I change it? Who am I to force those unsuspecting souls to actually learn my first name? Poor things. And let’s be honest, I don’t look like a Gonzales. I look like an angry Irish-Italian who occasionally drinks excessively and has been known to possess the temper of a caged mountain lion. That’s a Hartnett for you.

I’ve tried to convince Jose to change his name instead. Who doesn’t want to be a Hartnett? Dad will be happy to tell you the family history of the (not even a little) famous “Fighting Bears”.

Is it dad’s story time? Okay. Dad’s story time. I called him to get the story right:

“Aaaaah the HARTNETTS! The warrior bears- that what they are! Epic in battle. Feared by all. The men were men, and the women were men too. MEN. That’s the Hartnetts!”

Well, the Hartnett’s are really remembered as the raging drunks that stripped down naked and ran into battle waving flags over their heads. Fighting bears is actually…. Flag bearers. (Freakishly. True. Story.) Somehow that one got lost in translation. We like the bears better, so we stick with that.

Anyways, I’ve tried to convince the boy that Jose Hartnett is a perfectly acceptable name- in fact; most men would be honored to take that name. He should feel privileged to be invited into the family of fighting bears and take the name with gratitude. And besides, Gonzales is such a difficult name to sign. With the “L” next to the ‘E” and a “Z” thrown in there- nobody knows how to write a cursive “Z” anyways. Lose the name- join the Hartnett’s.

He’s not buying it.

So, here we are. The app is bleeping away, and blow up time has come. Gotta change the name. I print all the paperwork. I read all the name changing stuff. It’s boring stuff. I hate this crap.

I attempt to practice my new name on paper, but I suck at signatures. My bank already calls on a regular basis to question my signature at various stores. Usually it’s Lisa, the older lady that probably calls just for amusement. I love her.

Jessica? It’s Lisa at the bank.

Hiii-eeeeee Lisa! Long time no talk! I thought you forgot about me. What’d I buy now?

You went to a gas station in Frederick, Target in Owings Mills, and Macys in Columbia.

Yup.

All today?

All today.

And you signed with your left hand how many times?

Maybe twice. I can’t remember.

You went to three different cities in one day?

Yes- I get around.

Oh hush now!

I know, I’m a train wreck. Charity case. Now take pity and erase the charges, and I promise not to tell.

On second thought, maybe I can just get away with the same signature. And I may be a Gonzales, but my future-babies will hear the story of the glorious flag bearers. No- fighting bears. Yes, the glorious fighting bears.

Hartnett forever!

A Deacon, a world traveler, and a social leper. No good can come from this night.

Going to church. It’s not exactly on the top of every man’s to do list.

Convincing Jose that we not only had to go to church but also talk about feelings with complete strangers was going to be about as easy as asking him to give up his left testicle to science. In the end I used the “Girl stands in front of the TV while football is on to ask an intoxicated man for something he would never agree to do” tactic. (See blog post “Math, Church, and other confusing things”.) As well as this tactic works, it has unfortunately led to the first rule in our marriage:

Thou shall not hold me responsible for things I may agree to while heavily intoxicated and blinded by ESPN

I’m still working on a loop hole to this rule.

So anyways the time has come for us to meet with the Deacon. I made sure I set the date out at least 30 days from when I contacted the Deacon, to allow Jose the time to process the man steps for acceptance of woman-trickery. It’s pretty much like any grieving process:

1.       Denial and Isolation

Jose says he did not agree to this and we are not going. He then locks himself in his office with his comic books for many hours.

2.       Anger at the she-devil and heavy drinking

Once emerged from his man cave, Jose is angry that he has been fooled by a she-devil woman and her witch-like trickery. He finds comfort in the company of beer, bars, and man friends who have succumbed to similar fates.

3.       Bargaining with things that will never actually happen. Ever.

Next comes the offering of gifts, praise, and promises of a varied array of chores that will be done if we do not have to go to Church. Everyone involved in this situation knows that none of these things will ever actually happen in this or any other lifetime.

4.       Depression and pouting

Jose is sad. He does not want to go to Church. He wants to play video games and watch football and read comic books. Epic loss of fun time is imminent.

5.       Hostile acceptance

Finally, after many days, Jose accepts his fate. He will go to Church, but he will not be happy about it.

So, okay, here we go. I tell Jose that we are meeting the Deacon at his house and give him the address. Jose looks at the address and decides that the Deacon lives in a horrific area home to drug dealers, ex-convicts, and homicidal maniacs. He warns that if we end up chopped in tiny pieces in the basement of a serial killer it will be entirely my fault. I am now terrified that I have made a terrible decision and prepare myself for the horror that awaits us.

Thirty minutes later we drive into a gated community in Catonsville. At a stop sign we watch deer prance through a nearby field while neighbors stand in their front yards and chat. Perfectly manicured yards meet up to long driveways with very expensive cars occupying the space. Clearly, the drug dealers and serial killers are doing well in this economy.

Next comes the exchange of awkward social graces. Awkward because I never really learned the correct way to say hello to anyone- I still pretty much act like a 12 year old being forced to meet dad’s work buddies. Hand shake? Or is that just for guys? Do I hug you? Kiss on the cheek? Well now I’ve just completely taken over your personal space. How about I just stand over here to the side and give a meek wave hello while intently staring at my flip flops. Okay that’ll set a nice stand off-ish tone for the evening and bonus: now you and your wife realize that I’m a social leper.

We all sit down in the living room, the Deacon in an arm chair and Jose and I on a sofa that is obviously made for giants. My feet swing aimlessly looking for the floor. Jose begins an assault on massive pillows that threaten to swallow him into the sofa. The Deacon either doesn’t notice or is perfectly aware of the sofa’s Venus fly trap abilities.

The Deacon pulls out his notebook and asks about our life history. I start.

“I grew up in Columbia, and I went to school there, and…. Well that’s pretty much it.”

I hand him my little baptism certificate and he draws a line under the one sentence for my life history. Pathetic.

 

He then asks about Jose. I’ll paraphrase for the sake of space, writers cramp, and the sliver of ego I’m hoarding:

“I was born in Russia…. Then lived in Angola…. Then traveled to Peru for school… back to Angola… left because of a civil war… then to Rawanda…. Pulled out of Rawanda by the US Government because of another civil war….”

Jose hands the Deacon the notarized letter from his father stating that they do not have his baptism certificate because it was lost when they were escaping the genocide and civil war in Rawanda.

“My father worked for Catholic relief services…. I volunteered there in high school…. I went to a Catholic college…. Oh did I mention I met mother Theresa?”

OH MY GOD. The Deacon is in love with Jose. He has an entire page written on his history- right under my tiny line. I succumb to the sofa and literally die of embarrassment.

Next the Deacon pulls us each aside individually to ask the necessary questions about if we’ve been married before and yadda yadda yadda.  He takes Jose and hands me the TV remote. Real housewives? Jersey shore? South Park??? I flip through channels and work myself into a panic while cursing the TV networks for not showing ANYTHING appropriate of watching while in the house of a man of God. I decide on the weather channel. Naturally while it’s my turn, Jose watches sports- which he and the Deacon then discuss for an excruciating amount of time.

The rest of the evening went pretty much this way- me sinking even farther into despair and embarrassment, which in turn made me more awkward and liable to do things like trip over large pieces of furniture or ramble on aimlessly on subjects that have absolutely nothing to do with anything that anyone else is talking about at the moment. It kind of like when your mouth just keeps going while your brain is screaming FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST SHUT YOUR FREAKING PIE HOLE BEFORE YOU DO ANY MORE DAMAGE YOU DIM WIT!

 Jose on the other hand was shining like the sun- and getting blindingly brighter by the second. Right up until we get into the car to leave. I crawl in like a wounded animal while he bounds into the drivers seat and says to me- “Well damn that was painful”.

Seriously? Just drive the damn car.