No, it is not my birthday, but one of my favorite stories is how I got my name, Anne Marie. Well, you see I was supposed to be Michelle. Actually, I was supposed to be Michael. My mother was sure I was going to be a boy. I was a surprise after all. Mom had been told she couldn’t have kids and my parents had been married a little bit and, yep, surprise. Time to sell the pool table so the baby can have a room.
This, of course, was back in 1967 when fathers paced in a waiting room, smoking cigarettes and apparently watching TV while their wives gave birth. I was born after Dad had been watching That Girl, hence I was named Anne Marie. Mom wasn’t thrilled. In fact, I rarely remember her using my name. I was Casper, or some other nickname. Grandma liked Anne Marie but in one of the few fights I ever won with her, I decided about the age of six that I was Anne not Anne Marie. Probably because I had announced that I got my middle name from my aunt Marie and was promptly told I was wrong. Aunt Marie was cool, she walked around with a transistor radio in her back pocket and was always carrying a barn cat. After that I was just Anne, but I still like the story behind my name.