What is your middle name? Does it carry any special meaning/significance?

I’m not going to tell you my first or middle name because, well, I enjoy my privacy on the internet. Also, I have unusual names—both first and middle—so if I told you, you could easily Google me, uncover all my state secrets, and next thing you know, the government is involved, and it’s just a whole mess.

However, I am happy to tell you how I got them.

When my mom was pregnant, she and my dad made a deal: if I was a boy, he got to name me; if I was a girl, she got to name me. And as fate (and biology) would have it, I was born a girl.

Now, this was back in the day, when labor was less “peaceful birthing experience” and more “industrial-strength torture session.” My mother endured an epic labor—something like 96 hours, though the number gets longer every time the story is told. And because the medical profession at the time was basically run by men with the bedside manner of a cinder block, they gave her scopolamine, a drug that did not relieve pain but did make you forget the pain happened. (You still suffered, but later, you were like, Huh. That wasn’t so bad?—a gaslighting masterpiece.)

Meanwhile, my dad—who was not allowed in the delivery room—stood outside the door, balanced on an actual apple box, hand through a tiny window, holding my mom’s hand while she was in labor. Oh, and he was probably smoking a cigarette because it was the early ’60s, and doctors themselves were still like, Have you tried menthols for that cough?

Finally, after all the chaos (and, let’s be honest, brute force), I was born. They rolled my mom out, high as a kite on scopolamine, and my dad eagerly asked, What did we have?

My mom, grinning through the haze, proudly announced, “A beautiful, beautiful baby girl!”

And my dad, relieved and thrilled, asked, What did you name her?

And my mother, still floating in a drug-induced fog, beamed and said, “After the two best people I know—my best friend and myself!”

And that, my friends, is how I got my name.

This story has been told and retold in my family for decades, and we still crack up every time. My mom’s bestie—her ride-or-die—was one of the most brilliant, eclectic, and talented artists to walk this earth. And I’m proud to carry her name, even if my mom’s pain-medicated self basically declared, Why pick just one person to honor when I can name my kid after both of us?

Honestly? Iconic move.