Herein Lies the Problem or The Appellation Trail Part 3

If only my mother had named me Sloane, or Candace, or Tai, or Adrienne, or some other name glamorous enough to permit me entry into the world of grown up coffee tables and Vanity Fair bylines.

I don't think it was too much to ask.

Some people dream of their names lit up in lights or laminated on baseball cards. In comparison, all I wanted was was a half inch of space on the editorial masthead--my name squeezed in demurely between Winter Cavendish and Fiona Leopold. Granted, I did score that internship at the art magazine despite my name, but that was only because there was a 99.9% chance that no one there actually knew my name (the .1% I'm leaving to chance is due to the harsh reality that no one actually spoke to me the entire year I was there--save the saffron velvet and lightbulb command, which was more like barking than speaking--so I cannot prove beyond a doubt whether anyone knew my name or not).

But alas, my mother (bless her sweet Irish soul!)named me Molly and I was, without any input whatsoever, forever relegated to the world of livestock and golden retrievers. I was, without any say whatsover, destined to be associated with best case scenario: large, handsome women who are not sinkable or that Molly Bloom character created by that author who is too confusing for anyone to even want to read or worst case scenario: an Irish band interested in some sort of sadomasochistic flogging. Or a bucket.

Yes, I was sentenced to an old-fashioned moniker that lacks the pedigree or classicalness of say, Ann, or the Biblical cred of say, Mary. And it certainly isn't an old name that is coming into vogue again like, oh I don't know, Esther. Sure, my name does connote a certain patriotic resourcefulness, but in an Encyclopedia Brown's kid sister sort of way rather than in, say, a Bond Girl kind of way. I mean, I highly doubt that 007 has ever taken a Molly to his chateau in the Swiss Alps to seduce her right prior to her being revealed as a double agent.

Yes, mom, I know, I know: Molly is a perfect name for three year olds with blonde pigtails. But then, of course, as the course tends to go, all the little Mollys grow up and want to write something with a little more heft than their own name for a publication that is a little more respected than Sister Leona's chalkboard.