“Oh, what a darling little girl.”

“Thank you. He’s a boy.”

“Oh, he’s so cute. What’s his name?”

“Vivian.”

She stares and smiles and blinks. And smiles.

“Isn’t that usually a girl’s name?”

“Are you calling me a girl?”

“No, I mean. Of course not. I was just saying that all the Vivians I’ve known have been girls.”

“Are you calling me a girl?”

“No! We’re not even talking about you. I was talking about your son’s name.”

“He’s Vivian MacAlpin Five. The seventh.” If I’d only had the presence to tack on, “His name is my name too,” for good measure.

“Uh. What?”

“My name is Vivian. My father’s name is Vivian. His dad’s name is Vivian. His dad too. Not satisfied that there were yet enough Vivians in the clan, his father’s name is Vivian and so on. So I’m gonna ask one last time.

“Are you callin’ me a girl?”

She had a cell phone and 911 ringing faster than I’ve seen it done, and believe me! I’ve seen it done in haste.

The police officers and I also had a lovely conversation about Christian names and whether or not there was anything sharp in my pockets which I felt they needed to know about first.