April and Ryan are Gettin' Hitched

It should be noted, right here at the top, that I'm NOT the one that should be writing this post. Which means it's me, Ryan, writing it. Because I'm not changing my name.

It should be April writing this, because she HAS to get the question more than I do (and I get it a lot), but she's sleeping. It's 9 p.m., on a Sunday night -- post-Sopranos gathering -- and she's sleeping because she has to get up early and finish an uplifting story on a Jonestown survivor.

Or is it Jones Town?

Is that an inappropriate question?

Sigh.

ANYWAY, I got the question the other night: Is April changing her name?

I don't think so, no. But it's totally her call. I support whatever she does. We also have options, some more profitable than others.

(Digression: There's a damn beagle next door, and it howls. All the damn time. It's howling right now, and if it wakes April up, I'm going to go apply for a gun, and three-to-five days from now ... actually, I can't back that up. But if anyone knows anyone who raises pit bulls for fighting ... I'm just sayin' ...)

A few years ago here in Portland, a restaurant empire emerged. It began as a private gathering and turned into three or 15 businesses. It was hard to tell. The Hebberoys were everywhere. Hebberoy being the combined names of Michael Hebb and Naomi Pomeroy, the husband-wife team that created this little culinary Disneyland.

Well, it fell apart. They got divorced, their businesses declared bankruptcy, friends of ours had to find a new place for their rehearsal dinner. It was all pretty ugly.

So last summer, when our friends Helen and Patrick got married, and they got the question, they said they were going to change their names to Hebberoy. It wasn't being used.

Except they didn't.

So it still isn't being used. That's one option.

The combined name is interesting. Our friends Helen and Patrick kept their names, be for fun we combined them, and now Green and Jung are Grung.

Then there's Andy and Tara. Dworkin and Wilkinson. Dwilkinson. Or, because we're fond of (bleeping) things up: Dwilkerson.

April and I could be the Baites. Or the Whaers, which would invite all kinds of Who's on first type jokes.

Lately, however, we've been leaning toward the hyphenate. White-Baer. Or not hyphenating at all. Whitebaer.

Not only does it give the kids a shot at the Native American scholarship when it comes time for college, but I've always wanted a casino in my living room. Blackjack over breakfast is fine by me.

"I'd like to double down -- and some toast."

Always order toast on 11.

Unless April disagrees. And if she does, I'm sure there will be a post on top of this one, and quickly. It might involve waffles, but whatever.