The Tiffany Problem
“The Tiffany problem is a reference to a literary anachronism. The idea that audiences must not question the authenticity of your story, no matter the premise. Even if your characters are assassins or chimaeras or exploring a lost civilization’s ruins, a minute detail can pull them free. Ergo, the Tiffany problem.”
Kelly squinted. “What does this have to do with baby showers?” Veronica waved her question away and continued on doggedly.
“Tiffany was a common nickname in medieval years; short for Theophania. But if you were reading some steamy novel about a duchess and a farmhand falling in love, the average reader isn’t going to accept a fourteenth century noblewoman named Tiffany. People’s perceptions of names matter just as much as the names themselves.”
Kelly groaned as she selected another french fry. “Who are you telling? My cousin said there was a kid in middle school who never escaped the title of ‘Booger-Eater-Brian.’ Guess we won’t be naming this kid after Jason’s brother now.”
Their waitress swooped by for another check-in. Roz was in rare form tonight. Since entering her second trimester, Kelly had texted Veronica no less than six times to schedule a late night meal. Jenny’s was the only thing serving milkshakes and hash browns around after 9:00pm. Roz, as any greasy spoon waitress worth her salt would affirm, provided excellent service when she wasn’t chainsmoking 6 inches from the entry. They knew Roz liked them because she always blew the Marlboro Light smoke plume over her opposite shoulder as they entered the restaurant.
“Are you going to make me give the last slice of key lime to those little shits?” Roz asked in a gravelled voice, arching an eyebrow at the late night diners. A gaggle of teenage boys guffawed in a booth at the far end of Jenny’s, that honking chatter boys of that age would never allow their crushes to hear. It was the exuberance of silliness, and it chafed against its mortal enemy, a mid-sixties night-shift waitress with sore ankles.
Veronica scoffed. “You shut your filthy mouth Rosaline, two forks please.” The waitress grunted with a wry smile.
Kelly took a long sip of her chocolate shake. “So, what about Tiffany?”
“Tiffany,” Veronica drew out the name, “is the answer to your family being annoying. Plus, everyone over a certain age wants to play games at a baby shower,”
“Argh, they will not shut up about the stupid diaper game! As if I’m going to have people pretend to eat baby shit for fun.”
“Right!” Veronica said, jabbing a forkful of hash browns at her friend. “They want a game, you hate their games, and you’re tired of the passive aggressive comments.”
Kelly adjusted herself in the booth. Her oversized collegiate sweatshirt was fitting more snug by the week. “Tired of the aggressive comments too. No offense, but whatever you’re pitching isn’t going to tame these gorgons.”
“Just, hold on,” Veronica said, palms outstretched and pleading. She began rattling off the party’s itinerary, pacifying Kelly with a pledge that the game would occur an hour into the event. Guests would be at least one peach bellini deep, and Veronica would lead the group to the couches with snacks like a Pied Piper of nachos.
“Guests will be asked to submit five names, written only, no making suggestions to the guest of honor on the fly.”
Veronica extended a hand to Kelly, “and as they arrive at the party, the names will be added to a jar. A healthy selection of other names will already be inside, mixed around just to fill it out. The rules are, people pass around the jar, and pull a name out.”
Roz dropped the illustrious slice of key lime pie on their table. Veronica swore under breath in excitement. Jenny’s was that magical place where the definition of food loosened. She knew this crust was filled from a barrel sized can labelled ‘key lime’ and she did not care, it tasted like preservative perfection.
“So, I write the name on a poster and hit the timer. Participants have free reign to say they like it, or tell a funny story about someone with the name, or whatever their first impression is. Even if it's Booger-Eating Brian. Everyone agrees that while in play, no opinions are taken personally, and after the game is over, no more unprompted name suggestions.”
Kelly leaned in, plucking another fry from the basket. “Generous of you to assume our family will respect the rules.”
“That’s the point. I’m creating an out,” Veronica said, stabbing at the pie. Its lard laced crust melted in her mouth. Whatever cancer this pie caused was worth it.
Kelly chortled. “It’s a nice thought, but you don’t stand a chance against these women.”
“Think about it,” Veronica countered, “When the hens start clucking and pressuring you to name your baby after their brother or great-grandmother or their favourite moniker, you can laugh them off and blame ‘The Tiffany Game.’ It creates a clearly defined window of time where you are willing to listen to their unrequested opinions so they get to feel included, and then the window closes. Forever.”
“And when my mother gets all huffy and offended? Or sad because the name she put into the jar wasn’t picked?”
Veronica mocked clutching her pearls, the shock in her voice slipping into a southern debutante’s drawl. “My goodness Mrs. Palsen, are you accusing me of sabotage? Little old me?”
They cackled, the diner bubbling with their laughter. Jenny’s visits under cover of night transported them to the past, back when they drove crappy cars and pooled cash from their retail jobs for concert tickets. Kelly threw out a few more ‘what if’ scenarios, Veronica countering each with humor and a pledge of being the sacrificial lamb.
“Who cares if they’re pissed at me? I’m not the one having the baby. Shut everyone up afterwards by reminding them The Tiffany Game is now over, no more recommendations allowed.” Eyebrows pitched high, Veronica leaned forward expectantly.
Kelly finished her last fry, licking her fingers clean. She donned a broad smile and said, “You know what, I love it. If I have to hear one more person trying to convince me to name my baby Braxton or Tanner or Shaughnessy, I’m going to snap.”
Veronica pumped her fist in the air, her cry of victory drawing Roz’s eyes. The pair hooted with laughter, predicting the fallout and committing to follow through with the game.
Lauryn Fox is a former theatre kid and forever emo adult. A lover of obstinate animals and all things artistic, she believes creativity is intrinsic to humanity. Like most artists, she hopes on day her literary aspirations catch up to her self-doubt.
