Your Name Is?

The Husband and I went to see a lawyer last week. (No, not a divorce. Just transferring some farm mortgages.) Our banker had sent our documents to a law office we hadn’t used before; we weren’t quite sure which lawyer would be helping us.

The receptionist told The Lawyer we were there and He came out to meet us. Sixty-five-ish, white, smiling and shaking hands all over the place, as if this chance to meet a real-life lawyer would surely be the highlight of our week. “And you must be Leeann,” he said, taking my hand once he finished with The Husband. Then he led us to his office.

So we followed him down the hall. But there was a problem: He hadn’t mentioned his name. I know. I could have just waited until we were seated in his office. He would surely have all kinds of fancy framed lawyer-like qualifications out where we could see them. But it just seemed so rude. As if, after years of effort, we were finally going to be allowed to meet Barack Obama. Or Michael Bublé. As if, of course we knew all about him. Had memorized the entry about him in “Weyburn Who’s Who”, and been monitoring his social life in the society pages of “Weyburn This Week”.

And so I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.” The Lawyer was quiet for a second. Like he’d never been asked this before. Then he quickly introduced himself, and spent the rest of the meeting ignoring me as much as possible, looking The Husband in the eye while he explained the papers we both had to sign. The Husband was mortified. But I felt strangely vindicated by the whole experience.

 

Comments

[Maureen]

Welcome to my world.

[Shelley Banks]

Does this mean you don't _like_ arrogance?

(And congrats on the Real London reading of Bloom!)

[Bernadette]

Ha! Good for you! Do hubbies ever get used to living with a strong woman?

On another matter, I'm an idiot! I didn't know you blogged!

[Michelle]

Valid question. Every girl of virtue should at least ask the guy his name, right?