Here’s another bad joke (call it a “groaner”) that I just made up, but I can’t quite believe that no one has said it before because it’s so obvious:

A guy walks up to Haydn and says, “Are you Haydn?”

Haydn says, “I’m Haydn in plain sight.”

Buh Dump Bump.

I warned you.

It’s in the league of such classics as:

#1: “Surely you jest.”

#2: “Don’t call me Shirley.”

I called my wife, Shirley, Shirley, because her name was Shirley. She didn’t like her name much, didn’t choose it, it was assigned at birth, and sometimes she went by her middle name, Carol. Some people (not me) called her Caroline or Caroleena. She answered to it.

I wasn’t crazy about my own name either. Maybe that’s why so many people called me Mr. Sterling. Shirley called me Huitre.

I think I told you the story. We chose our own secret pet names for each other. We went French. Maybe because Shirley was taking French at San Bernardino City College. I had two years of French in high school, didn’t remember much, but at least I could sing the Marseillaise, which impressed her mightily.

Shirley was “chou” (pronounced shoo), which means “cabbage” in French. It’s a French term of endearment, “Ma petite chou,” my little cabbage.

I was Huitre, because Shirley (chou) liked the sound of it. It’s “oyster” in French.

We drew little pictures of and for each other. Often we were darling seals, me with whiskers, moustache, ponytail, she with the long flowing locks. Our noses would approach each other, triggering a rush of floating hearts. It was iconic.

Sometimes we were lizards, sometimes alligators. I don’t remember the origin of why.

But I translated our pet names into images, me, the great open-mouthed sea shell looking more like a clam,  and back at the clam/oyster’s heart, a little round cabbage, the pearl of the oyster.

There are what must be hundreds of our little drawings on cards for every occasion, and sometimes even on notes and letters.

Aww…

We couldn’t help falling in love with each other over and over again.

And how did I segue to this point from the way I started this ramble?

Because our inner secret selves were Haydn in plain sight.