I will never be able to look at that baby with a straight face.

While in Texas we visited our friends Paul and Caryn. I'll preface the rest of this post by letting you know that most conversations with Paul and Caryn, no matter how serious and well-intentioned, usually digress into some exercise in silliness and sarcasm. So let's say we're talking about, oh, I don't know, the Holocaust. The conversation will still end in all of us rolling on the floor laughing. I'm not saying it's right, I'm just saying it's true.

So Paul and Caryn are expecting their first child. The DNA bloodwork (!!!!) shows it's a girl and they are still brainstorming names. I have a strong and freakish desire to name other people's children so I start throwing out some of my favorites. Alas, the Williamses and the Harrisons favor vastly different name preferences and the name brainstorming ends in a disappointing disgrace.

Then I had an idea. I give you the following conversation, to the best of my recollection.

"You know you could always name her after your favorite literary or movie character."

"Like, Murchoch Williams?"

"JackChrissyJanet Williams."

"JackChrissyJanetTerry Williams."

"JackChrissyJanetTerry...I don't know the name of the other one."

"I don't either but I know her real name. It's Jennilee Harris. It's sad that I know that."

"Yes it is."

"Mrs. Roper Williams."

"Mr. Furley Williams."

Things start getting out of control from here on out. Picture four grown a** adults laughing themselves to utter illness while continuing this conversation.

"We could get her a little leisure suit that zips up."

"With medallions."

"No, a little ascot."

"She could go around threatening everyone with her karate chops." Paul puckers his mouth and starts doing the Furley mock-karate moves.

"This is our daughter, Mr. Furley Williams."

"Her monogram would be MFW."

"Her baby dedication in front of the church: Congregation, do you promise to love and pray for little Mr. Furley Williams?"

"Dear Jesus, please watch over Mr. Furley Williams. Help her parents raise her to know you..."

"Your little dancer silhouette on the back of your Tahoe will say Mr. Furley."

"So the parking lot will read McKenzie, Mackensy, MccKKynzi, Mr. Furley, MkKinsey..."

"First day of school...'Have a good time, Mr. Furley. I love you, Mr. Furley."

"Good job, Mr. Furley! I'm so proud of you!"

"Oh no..."

"What?"

"She have to learn how to write her name. 'Capital M, lower case R, period. Finger space, capital F..."

It was all over after that.

The sad thing is that I'm going to be secretly calling this unborn child Mr. Furley until the day I die. She's going to know me as the crazy lady who leaves the room laughing everytime I see her.

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