WHAT'S IN A NAME?

There are certain assumptions people make about those who hold the McDonald name:

1. They make frequent trips to the Golden Arches,
2. They drink and drink often, and/or
3. They own a wide variety of livestock.

Well, I'm more of a Steak 'n' Shake sort of gal, drinking just costs too much, and I have no pets that graze. Essentially, I'm a disappointment to the McDonald moniker, but I won't lose much sleep over it—I married into the name.

However, this blog title seamlessly bridges the gap between my maiden and married names. There are those out there who may remember when I used to be called "French Fry" or "Fry-dang-er," not to mention a few other forgettable aliases. It's only fitting that I would marry into a name identical to those who basically invented the french fry. Proof that God does have a sense of humor. I'll just be thankful He didn't pair me up with some guy name Heinz—or a salty fellow named Morton...

That aside, I'm intrigued by the notion of middle names. I'm pretty sure that it came into existence because of a couple back in medieval times that couldn't agree on a first name for their new bundle of joy. "Hey, let's give Junior TWO names! Problem solved! Now pass me the mutton and ale..."

For the better part of my childhood, I really didn't like my middle name (my apologies to my parents). Why? Because I always felt like I was a member of the Petticoat Junction sisterhood [note:  this will probably be lost on anyone under the age of 35]. Remember the Bradley sisters? They all had a few things in common:  a perky disposition, ample "assets" and their middle name (apparently, Kate Bradley wasn't too creative). There was Betty Jo, Bobbie Jo, Billie Jo and their chubby little sister with the strawberry blonde hair and overbite, Dena Jo. In fact, play the Petticoat Junction theme song, and I'll revert to the behavior of a 5-year-old.

And this 5-year-old wants a milkshake and fries.