"And what is your last name?" asked the woman I had only just met.
We were making polite, get-to-know-you conversation among crowds at a ladies' breakfast that would later be profound and insightful.
"Ah. Good one. Nice and long." She stretched her hands to exemplify the greatness of a lengthy name.
"Well, yes. Thank you. My maiden name was Lott, so a longer name is new to me. Or, new ten years ago."
"Lott! Yes! Nice and choppy!" And she clapped her hands together, like, chop-chop.
Clearly this woman had some opinions and thoughts on length and syllables of names.
She asked about my boys' names. When I told her, she frowned. "Now, you know they'll never be President, of course. Too many syllables."
"(?)," said the look on my face.
"I mean, think about it. Look at the pattern. Bill. Clin-ton. George. Bush. Ba-rack. O-ba-ma." She clapped her hands with every first and last name.
"So... (insert 'unsure of where this is going...') I don't think I see a pattern."
"Oh, but there is one."
"Tyler could shorten his last name and take after Gerald Ford. He could be President Ford."
"Except that's not his name."
"Oh, right, of course. And you'll also need to send them to Yale or Harvard if they plan to lead the country, and well, you know, those are tough to get into."
"Right. And so today, I think we'll make sure we don't have any potty training accidents. Maybe we'll master that first."
"Oh, sure. Good idea."
Then she adds, "Did you know you are part Indian, since you and your husband are arranged?"
She was a wealth of theories, I'm telling you. I began listening politely, as I seemed to have little to offer that made any sense at all.