Our Linda

I'm feeling really grown up right now.
First there was the wedding. I have a wife and I'm a husband and that's great. I promise not to write about this any more -- except maybe in the next paragraph.
You get some really nice adult gifts when you get married.
Not "adult" in that highway billboard "open 24 hours/truckers welcome" type way, but "adult" in the shimmery kitchen counter appliances/crystal bowl type way.
If there's anybody out there contemplating a marriage proposal my advice would be to go for it. Especially if you need a new coffee pot.
Anyway, more than just the wedding and the accompanying George Foreman Grill with built-in bun warmer, what has made me feel most grown up is our recent purchase of a new home.
How can you take on 30 years worth of debt and not feel grown up? With all that money involved, buying a house was way more stressful than getting married.
I knew I wanted to love, honor and cherish Carolina for the rest of my life, but I wasn't so sure I could say the same about a little house in Mauldin or Simpsonville.
You see? I'm so nervous about taking on this new adult experience that I'm not even sure where I live. My street address says Simpsonville, but Mauldin City picks up the trash. At least that's what they told us. After two weeks in the house the mailbox is empty and the trash can is full.
We bought one of those nice, quaint little new homes that one of those big-money, mega-real estate developers are plotting around the outskirts of Greenville. It's a great first house with a fenced piece of orange dirt in back. I have no complaints.
Because we liked the house so much, we rushed back from our honeymoon so we could attend the much-dreaded "closing."
Everyone I talked to told me to fear the closing. "Are you ready to close?" they would ask. It was as if we were conjoined twins being prepped for our separation surgery.
Truth be told, it really wasn't that bad. Becky, the nice lady who deemed our personalities and credit histories worthy of a home loan, came with us to this very professional old law firm in downtown Greenville to help us through the process.
There we met the lawyer who would handle our closing, we'll call him S. Courtney Hootie Monroe Richman, III.
He was exactly the type of guy on which Hollywood built its stereotype of an old Southern lawyer. He was well-groomed, well-mannered and probably extremely well-off.
S. Courtney Hootie Monroe Richman, III had one hoot'na of an accent, too. At one point, I thought the deal was going to fall through because he called Becky the wrong name.
Becky seemed to be old friends with Mr. S.C.H.M.R. III, so I was a little embarrassed myself when he said, "Now it is indeed a ray-yah occasion to have our Linda here with us."
"Oh no! He just called Becky 'Linda.' The deal's over. We're through," I thought.
Carolina was stone-faced. It took me a minute to realize he meant "Lender" in his own Southern way.
So, I was a little intimidated after that. But as we prepared to sign our life away, Mr. S.C.H.M.R., III put us at ease as he carefully explained all of the papers we were about to sign.
At one point when tension in the room was mounting over a mistake on the final price of the home included on the contract, S. Courtney Hootie Monroe Richman, III cooled things down by telling us a story about his family's first trip to Disney World.
It seems Mr. Richman was a little groggy on his first morning in the Magic Kingdom. As he brushed his teeth heartily with an oddly oily and bland flavor of toothpaste in the dark bathroom of the Luxury Goofy Suite, he slowly realized he had instead squeezed a dollop of hemorrhoid cream onto his brush.
It was a great story to hear from the man overseeing the legality of the biggest purchase I'll ever make.