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!