what’s in a name?

Well, I’ve gone and done it now.

My Beloved has this wee little fellow who works for him. At my height of five-four, I tower above him like a shade tree. My Beloved, though, fairly menaces at six-three, and I reckon the poor little fellow has never even seen his face. He jumps and scurries, head down, whenever My Beloved speaks to him, which I find hysterical. Really, though, I do wish he’d stop because I don’t do that and the wee’un’s making me look bad.

He’s a lovely lad, really; he’s simply bite-sized, a hobbit. In fact, whenever we mention him in private, we call him Frodo. It’s a good-natured homage, really. At least, I think it is.

Now before you scold me, admit it. You have names like this, too. I know you do. We ALL do. In private. With our husbands. Our wives. Our families. Our friends. It’s a little verbal shorthand. A curious kind of bond. A secret, silly kinship.

We have a favorite barista at our favorite coffee house who we call Princess Glumsby. We don’t know her real name, as she stubbornly eschews the name tag, but she never cracks a smile, never loses her Eeyore gloom and doom, and never fails to make the perfect latte. She’s Princess Glumsby, The Deliciously Competent, and we love her.

But back to Frodo.

Today, I went to help out at My Beloved’s office as he prepares to do some major reorganization ’round there. Frodo was there, working quietly, because he is always quiet. I was vacuuming, moving from room to room, when I stopped and called out to My Beloved:

“Do you want me to do Frodo’s area, too?”

Oh.

Lord.

I had said it. OUT LOUD. In front of Frodo himself.

OH.

LORD.

My world went slow-motion. In my mind’s eye, I imagined my hand shooting out, too slowly, trying to snatch the words from the air and stuff them back into my stupid, STUPID mouth.

But there they were, hanging, dumbing down the very air around me.

Frodo was head down, still quiet, still appearing, at least, very busy. I couldn’t tell if the word had registered with him. I could tell, however, that it had registered with My Beloved. Oh, yes. His head snapped towards me, almost audibly, and his eyes were huge and blue and shocked. His lips were pursed together so tightly they became nothing but a thin, red line. For a split second, we stood still, frozen by my blast of idiocy. We simply stared at each other, our expressions mirror images.

Trying to cover, I babbled something. DO NOT ask me what it was; I’ve repressed it. Well, I do have vaguest twinge that I began to pretend oh-so-nonchalantly that I was talking about “The Lord of the Rings,” which I nearly never talk about. My Beloved’s eyebrows were getting a workout: up-down-up-down-up-down. Finally, they just stayed down and I shut up. Red-faced with the horror of it all, I wheeled the vacuum away, without a word, with nary a backwards glance at the silent, hunched-over hobbit.

Later, when Frodo left for lunch, I whirled on My Beloved.

“All right. You HAVE to fire him!”

“I do?” He was unmoved by my good sense solution.

“Yes!” I hissed.

“Why?”

“Well, you heard what I said!” I was desperate. What was wrong with him?

“Yes, I did. So you want me to fire him because YOU created a socially awkward situation?”

“YES!” I wailed. At least the boy was finally getting it.

He laughed, opened his arms, and wrapped me in his snug, gently shaking embrace. My hair grew warm with the breath of his chuckles. Then he said the thing we always say when one of us is being stupid or irrational or annoying or all of them at once:

“Oh, honey. Good thing you’re pretty.”

Aww, Lurch.