“Oh, look! (It was Halloween night). The Quinns are out on their porch taking pictures of their kids in all their costumes!”  My husband loves Halloween. It takes all of my strength to keep him inside the house that evening. His preferred method of operation is to pace around our yard, looking for hapless costumed children to run up to with gusto and fun sized candy bars. This is so scary for the children that I have been forced to threaten to turn off the porch light and lock him in the basement in previous years.

But I digress already. Because on this particular Halloween, the trick or treating hadn’t even started. We both stood at the window, watching the Quinns, who are new neighbors, and their adorable children.

“I didn’t know that their last name was Quinn. Good to know.” I mused.

“It isn’t Quinn.” He answered.

“But you just SAID Look at the Quinns and their children!” 

I should explain at this point that I should have learned long ago never to trust my husband with names. This is the same guy that told me the neighbors named their new baby girl MOBLEY. I didn’t bite on that one (her actual name is Morgan), but the name “Quinn” sounded so plausible.

“So what is their name, if not Quinn? Quincy? Quinoa? Does it even start with a Q?”

He paused. “I have no idea.”

“So why on earth did you just tell me to look at the Quinns?”

He rolled his eyes. “By the time I thought of their real names, all of the pictures would have been taken, and they would have gone back inside. So I just made up a name.”

Logical. For him. But in the meantime, these poor people will be the QUINNS in my head until I die. No matter that I now know that they are actually the GRANTS.

I pray I will never have to introduce one of them to anybody. Well, maybe to Mobley.

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