A rose by any other name...

…might smell as sweet, but don’t tell me if it was called a skunkbud, you’d be as likely to try smelling it in the first place.

Names are very important, both in real life and in fiction. They are often the first thing you have to react to when you meet someone new. And I doubt anyone has made it through life without at least once thinking, Yikes, when someone else has introduced themselves. I had a friend who used to claim she was going to put a silent "q" in all her future children's names. Just to build their character. 

"Actually it's pronounced Nancy" Long suffering sigh. "The q is silent."

As for fictional characters, take Elizabeth Bennett, for instance. A simple, classic name. Perfect for an Austen heroine, but if Gregory Maguire had chosen it for the main character of Wicked? It probably wouldn’t work. And if everything in the Harry Potter series stayed exactly the same, except that Harry and Draco switched names? I just don’t think the fit would be quite right.

Two different memories spring to mind when I think about how important the choice of a name is.

When my sister was in pre-school, her class did a project where they glued large rocks to felt and then gave the rocks faces. At the end of the day, my mother picked my sister up and the teacher stopped to talk to her about my sister’s creation. It was magnificent, to be sure. How could a rock with a face not be? But what had really struck the teacher was my sister’s chosen name for the creature. Apparently many of the other children were naming their rocks after themselves, but not my sister. She took one look at her rock face and knew that it was meant for bigger and better things. And thus she bequeathed upon him the name of Rainbowland. And it was good.

My next exposure to the importance of naming occurred within a year of this. My parents packed my sister and me in the car, placing some towels between us. We were told that we were going to get a surprise. I was, of course, thrilled, but also a little concerned. You see, the towels had thrown me off. I assumed that the surprise had something to do with a pool. Indoors, naturally, because it was winter and freezing out. This would have been wonderful, except I did not have my bathing suit. So, I was a little worried as to how to handle this swimming extravaganza, but decided to trust that my parents knew what they were doing.

The worrying was unnecessary, as there was no pool involved. This might have been disappointing, if it wasn’t for all the puppies. My parents had taken us to a house where two Dalmatians had just had puppies and, wonder of wonders, my sister and I got to pick one out. To keep.

Best. Surprise. Ever.

We picked the little boy puppy and bundled him up in towels for the car ride home. Once there, my parents set up gates in the kitchen, where the puppy would be kept during the whole housebreaking process. I set up shop in there, with my little notebook, so that I could “do my homework,” while really focusing on the puppy. It was a thrilling time.

Then came the naming process. My sister and I, totally ignoring the fact that we had a boy dog, chose names that any self-respecting girl in our age range would immediately adore. If I remember correctly, Buttercup and Cupcake were two big contenders. Thankfully, at this point, my brother, home from school, stepped in.

Without outright vetoing the names his two Lisa Frank-obsessed sisters had so thoughtfully chosen, he managed to convince us to go in a different direction. And so, our young Dalmatian became Odysseus, of Homeric fame. A moniker that, in the following years, I realized was much, much cooler to tell people. Particularly when the rascal made his way past the gate, over a few blocks and into the open doors of strangers’ houses. As I dragged him out of their living rooms, profusely apologizing, having to call him Buttercup would have just been insult to injury.

Thanks to my siblings, I learned that the right name can provide a mightiness that is just missing with a poor name choice. An understanding that comes in handy whenever I put the pen to the page to start a new story. 

Here's the moral: Names have power. Just ask Rumplestiltskin.

Natural Disasters and Final Words

I think a lot of kids go through a natural disaster phase. There’s just something morbidly fascinating about the fact that the earth can and has wiped out civilizations.

My sister’s interest in this manifested itself in films. She loved Dante’s Peak and Twister (the movie, not the game. Though she liked that as well). Roomie was more into the Titanic, which while certainly tragic, was more human error than natural disaster. I asked another friend if she had also been interested in such things and she responded:

If by fascinated, you mean terrified and morbidly interested in…then yes. If by “which one” you mean “ALL OF THEM EVER – EVEN EARTHQUAKES I DON’T CARE IF I LIVE IN FLORIDA WITHOUT FAULT LINES” then that’s the answer. Although, I would say that tornadoes fascinated me most. Also, potentially dinosaurs coming back to real life, a la Jurassic Park. I still occasionally have those nightmares.

My tragedy of choice was Pompeii. I lost count of the number of times I took out Edith Kunhardt Davis’ Pompeii…Buried Alive! from the library. I would just read it over and over again, equal parts enthrallment and horror. Sometimes I would try to create stories where the people of Pompeii had a different, happier ending. Some crazy epic about a hero (or occasionally a group of aliens) who rode in just in time to get the city’s inhabitants to safety. At other points, I would accept their tragic ending (often there were tears involved on my end) and create death scenes that at least allowed them a chance to get whatever had bothered them in life off their chests.

It’s one of those things that drives me nuts in TV shows – things look grim for the main characters; even though we know they won’t, they think they’re likely to die. But rather than give voice to all those pent up feelings that have been building for seasons, they just give each other meaningful looks as the clock ticks down.

I get it. They’re not actually going to die and the writers don’t want to create a situation where they have to deal with the fallout of near-death emotional declarations that would make it more difficult to string out the will they/won’t they tension for another fifty episodes. Still, though, it annoys me. And is one of the reasons I so loved Chuck. They were willing to have the “oh, so we’re not actually going to die….awkward” moment. 

I love stories that are fantastical. The more I have to suspend my disbelief, the better. But when it comes to dying, it’s just too unrealistic to me that people wouldn’t be spilling their guts if they actually thought it was going to be the last chance they got. Of course, that may just be me. For all I know, everyone reading this may be stoic badasses. If so, congratulations, 'cause that's impressive. But I’m guessing that in such a situation, my reaction would be akin to that of Emma Corrigan in Sophie Kinsella’s Can You Keep A Secret? Plane’s going down? Volcano’s erupting? Dinosaurs are back and roaming the city? Apologies to whoever happens to be next to me, because I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to hear quite the stream of vocalized inner monologue.

There’s a very good chance that if a natural disaster of Pompeii proportions was to strike, my last words would not be eloquent nor something that history would see fit to quote. But let me tell you, they would be comprehensive.

And roll credits....

Did any of you ever watch Daria? I loved so much about that show and then my affection was just compounded when it got to the end credits and all the characters would be shown in bizarre outfits, doing strange things.

This is kind of how my brain works sometimes. I think of the people around me and they suddenly appear in my brain as a character. While I think this is just my natural inclination, I also kind of blame my sister for this. She's always pointing out when people look like something other than people. 

Back in the day, when I was trying to figure out where I wanted to go to college, my family visited a lot of schools. At one, we were sitting in an auditorium, listening to a panel of speakers. Everything was going fine, until my sister leaned over to me and said, "The woman on the right? She looks like a turtle. Seriously, look at the way her head moves. She's totally a turtle." 

Well, once she said this, I couldn't see anything but the turtle-like aspect of that speaker's mannerisms. I think it was mostly the head bob, but I don't think the shell like sweater coming to a peak over her shoulders really helped matters. So, I started to laugh a little. Seeing that she had made me laugh, my sister started to laugh, which made me laugh harder. That's the thing about my family. Laughing is always contagious. You don't even have to find what originally sparked the outburst to be funny. One of the others is laughing and it's pretty much a done deal. 

My mother, of course, noticed that we were laughing like hyenas and asked what was going on. I explained to her that it had begun because of the woman's turtle-ness, but had now spiraled out of control. My mother told us to knock it off. But, you see, my sister and I come by the contagious laughter honestly and in moments mom was laughing as well. The thing was she was trying harder to stop than we were, which just made it worse for her. And then she tried to get mad, to stop the laughing and said to me, "I want you to leave." Which just set me off, anew. It was a mess. My dad was just lucky he came into the presentation a couple minutes later than the rest of us and was able to sit in the back.

The point of this is, because of my sister, when I see people I think things like, Man, he kind of looks like an earthworm. Or, That guy would make a great cartoon giant. Or, She's got kind of a old-school Strawberry Shortcake thing going on. Of course, that might just be the hat/dress combo.

Since I expect this to be going on the rest of my life, I thought, out of fairness, the people who I see the most frequently should have some say as to what kind of character my brain is turning them into. So, I asked a few if they were going to be turned into story characters what would they want to be. Here are the answers I got:

The Roomie: What about a sports writer? No superpowers. I’m the Xander. (When asked why she chose sports writer, her answer was succinct and eloquent: SPORTS SPORTS SPORTS SPORTS. Can’t ask for too much more than that.)

The brother: A wise cracking, street smart detective. No superpowers. (When asked why:) It’s something I actually think I could do right now and I wanted to be true to myself. (I'm seeing a cross between Sam Spade and Mick St. John (when he's not all vampiric), with a splash of Shawn Spencer in there.)

The sister: A smart exec rising to the top (working for a company whose field is never described, of course) by day and an Indiana Jones-like woman saving the world by night. No superpowers…unless you consider your hair never getting messed up in a fight a superpower. (For one thing, not getting your hair messed up is totally a superpower. And who wouldn't want to see a lady Barney Stinson fighting archaeological crime?)

The sister-in-law: I’d like to be the wise cracking, street smart detective’s charming and beautiful wife. =) Or, I’d like to be on a sci-fi show where I’m the female in a pair of FBI agents who solve mystery cases…oh, wait, that’s already been done. And lastly, I’d like to be on some type of dramedy (a la Desperate Housewives) with completely unrealistic plot lines, and fabulous clothes and hair. (Married FBI agent living in a neighborhood of aliens, affluence and allure. Fantastic.)

Ah, yes, that should take care of my Daria-like credit role for a little while. But, if anyone else would like to share their chosen characters, I'd certainly love to hear about them. 

My thinking cap is securely fastened...

In the last few days I’ve heard a number of people using some iteration of the phrase, “Let me just put on my [INSERT PROFESSION/HOBBY/IDENTITY OF CHOICE HERE] hat to answer that question.”

So, naturally, after listening to all these folks explaining what metaphorical cap they’re throwing on, I had a thought: What if these hats weren’t figurative?

Voila! Eureka! Some other word indicating the birth of a wondrous idea!

Roomie doesn’t know it yet, but she and I are about to embark on a new entrepreneurial endeavor. From now on all graduates upon receipt of their diploma, will also receive a hat by us declaring their profession. After completing tasks to prove their expertise, dedicated hobbyists will be awarded our wares to ensure that when they discuss their activity the people around them know that they’re opinions come from a place of authority.

Avoid any of those awkward moments where you’re left wondering if your doctor friend is thinking about your question in terms of her medical background or pondering it as the heavy metal enthusiast you know her to be. As long as she has on DOCTOR HAT, you’re in the clear!

 

And no longer will you have to waste precious seconds explaining to your coworkers that you’re drawing on your scrapbooking know-how to answer their question. Just place this bad boy upon your noggin and everyone will know where you’re coming from!

Clearly, this is going to be a multi-BILLION dollar business. And think of all the time we’ll save and misunderstandings we’ll avoid. Forget the money, there could be a Nobel Peace Prize in this! 

It’s all very exciting.

So, to my Roomie/Business Partner and to the world on whole…..you are extremely welcome.

Artificial Flavoring

Roomie and I were just at a conference where they served a cheesecake with a chocolate crust and cherries jubilee-ish topping after lunch. Roomie mentioned that she wished there were strawberries rather than cherries – that cherries would, in fact, be her last choice. I took interest in this as she categorically chooses cherry flavored candy when the opportunity presents itself. When I inquired as to this shunning of real cherries, she said that she liked cherry-flavored things because they didn’t taste like real cherries. She then offered the following theory:

I think that cherry-flavored things were the beginning of the end. Once they got away with calling something cherry that didn’t actually taste like cherries, they were like, ‘What else can we get away with?’ So, next they tackled watermelon. I’m convinced that the person that they assigned this to had never actually tasted a watermelon. That’s the only way to explain why watermelon-flavored things don’t taste even remotely like the fruit. But once people accepted this, things just went downhill. And that’s how we ended up with Blue Raspberry. I mean Blue Raspberry? That’s not even a thing.

It might have been my deficit of sleep or it could have had something to do with the sugar cube I took for my iced tea (but instead stealthily ate), but I could see the logic in her argument. Some might dispute this, stating that Blue Raspberry flavoring originated with the Rubus leucodermis, but I like Roomie’s theory better. ‘Cause I’d be willing to bet that the Rubus leucodermis doesn’t taste anything like a Blue Raspberry Jolly Rancher.

Therefore, I thought I should share this wisdom with you all, as well.

Strangely, artificial flavoring has been coming up in conversation a lot lately. Particularly surrounding Dr. Pepper. (Slight confession, I’m a bit of a DP addict.) Recently, I’ve come into contact with more than one person who refuses to drink the soda due to its flavoring. A coworker said, “There’s just too much going on in there. I just can’t get on board.” Not long after, a classmate stated, “I've never drank Dr. Pepper. There are just too many flavors. Freaks me out.”

My philosophy, on the other hand, is, when the opportunity presents itself, throw some more flavors on in. The other day, I got soda from what I can only describe as a futuristic machine (I’m assuming it’s a step in the direction of flying cars, so….very exciting) at the nearby Noodles & Co. and chose Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper.

I would highly recommend it.

Now, you may be asking yourselves, “What is the point of any of this?” To that, I would have to respond that there really isn’t any. But I’m thinking about, so why shouldn’t you?

Squirrel Menace Update

I'm going to be away from the computer today and won't be able to post. I can already picture the one tear rolling gracefully down your cheek as you read this and realize that you will have to go a full day without my magical words. Or maybe you just stubbed your toe. It's really 50/50.

Regardless, in my absence do not forget that the battle against the Squirrel Menace continues. The best advice I can give you at this point is to avoid wearing outfits entirely of pink. This drives the squirrels to delirium. They are unable to stop themselves from latching on to your shoulder and attempting to engage in a staring contest. There are very few who can beat them in such a feat. My best advice if you find yourself in such a situation is to stare forward, avoiding the demon gaze of the vermin, and let out your best pigeon coo. With any luck, one of Winkie's descendants will hear you and come to your aid.

Best of luck, my friends. I shall return soon.

A Pirate's Life for Me

It rained pretty much all weekend here. And it was wonderful.

The rain makes me think of when I was a kid. I’ve always loved thunderstorms. The louder, the better. I like the drama of it. 

We had a lot of lawn furniture when I was growing up and we tried to bring the cushions in whenever it would rain. We’d shake them out to ensure that no icky creepy crawlers were allowed entry into the house and then drag them into the living room. That’s when the real fun would begin.

Like any self-respecting kids, my sister and I would use the cushions to create forts of epic proportions. Once inside our cushion-y creation, we took on a whole host of new identities. Sometimes we were princesses inside a haunted castle on the stormy moors. Or we could be witches in a cave by the sea, stirring our potions. More often than not, though, pirates became our chosen personalities.

As the thunder crashed outside of our sturdy frigate, we yelled orders to our fellow buccaneers. We fought valiantly against the ravings of Mother Nature, doing everything in our power to keep our ship afloat. To keep our crew from losing hope as the waves threatened, we would engage in the enthusiastic singing of sea shanties that always sounded shockingly similar to Disney tunes. And when the sun finally peeked out again and we found ourselves on solid ground surrounded by treasures untold (you know…like ice cream or the newest episode of Fraggle Rock), we would take our fill. Then all our fellow pirates would be commanded back on the ship, to take to the high seas once again for as many adventures as we could squeeze in before it was time to take the cushions back outside.

I thought about my past life as a pirate a number of times this weekend. As there was no thunder, it didn’t seem quite right to resurrect the old ship. But with the possibility of summer storms not too far in the future, I’m thinking I better invest in some cushions, with or with out the lawn furniture. And tell my sister to brush up on her pirate jargon. I’m going to need all hands on deck.

‘Cause it’s been far too long since I last set sail.

Soundtracks To Our Lives

I often wish my life had a soundtrack. Now, I’ve given it my best shot. Playing music wherever it’s possible, singing regardless of the social awkwardness it prompts in those around me. And I can't count the number of times I've felt like this. But it’s not the same. I want music to play from the heavens – mostly with lyrics, so I can sing along, but some instrumentals are okay, too.

In addition to making impromptu dance parties more understandable, this life soundtrack would serve the deeper purpose of informing people as to how they should feel in certain situations. Often the appropriate feeling for an event is easy enough to figure out. Person One hands you a giant ice cream cone: joy and rapture. Person Two knocks the ice cream cone out of your hand and then runs away laughing and waving his arms in the air: sorrow and rage. Easy peasy. No music required. But everyone has those moments where they think, How exactly am I supposed to react to this? Solution – life soundtrack.

No longer will you struggle with questions like: Is she serious? No, instead you’ll think: Damn, listen to that music. She’s not fooling around. Or: She expects me to believe that something’s wrong? Does she not hear those jovial strains playing around us? What a clown.

You get home from a long day of work and, as you turn the key to your door, ominous strains ring out. You drop your head to your chest for a second, thinking, Crap, would you listen to that? Someone’s totally going to jump out at me. Ah, well, I’ll just go wait in the car for the cops to arrive. Problem solved.

Or let’s say you’re having a bad day. Suddenly your soundtrack gets jauntier and you feel relief over the guarantee that things are going to get better soon. Or maybe the music stays morose and, in your effort not to wallow, you work hard enough to make things better that it prompts an inspirational power ballad. Now, not only are you feeling great about yourself, but as people walk by and hear your music, they’re left thinking, Now, there’s an inspirational fella. You go buddy!

Here’s where I trip up though. Considering the vast number of people in the world, how would we handle that many soundtracks? Sure, there would be times when your soundtrack would coincide with the people around you. I would assume, for instance, that Roomie and her soccer team would hear a fairly constant stream of Queen songs while on the field. But for the most part, people’s lives are going to be going in all different directions, ultimately leading to a cacophony of clashing melodies, which could possibly result in a rise in the incidences of insanity. Which would be bad. This is probably the main reason why the heavens do not start playing my song when I wake up in the morning. And I can understand that.

Still….it would be kind of cool.

You Talkin' To Me? No? Well, I Am.

When I was four years old, I was in a recital where I danced to Elvis’ “Rock-A-Hula.” My uncle video-taped my stellar performance (My head piece kind of fell off and I was one of those kids who looked down the line at everyone else to see what they were doing. Spoiler alert: it rarely was what I was doing.). Afterwards he interviewed me (for posterity’s sake) and told me that one day my future self would be watching this video and was there anything I wanted to say to her?

I stared at him for a moment, laughed derisively and said only, “I’m not talkin’ to myself.”

Ah, tiny past Kelly. If only you knew how wrong you would be….well, you probably still wouldn’t have said anything. Tiny past Kelly was a stubborn kid.

As for present Kelly, I doubt this will really be that big of surprise to anyone who has read anything else I’ve posted here, but I’m a big talking-to-myself-er. It’s how I work out problems, story lines or occasionally just pass the time. In a slight nod to societal norms, I do try not to have these conversations out loud when in public. Do I always succeed? No. But the attempt is there.

Even when I can get the audible discussions under wraps, I’m still rambling on in my head. And since, every once in awhile, I can be unintentionally witty, sometimes I laugh at what I’m internally saying. I actually think this is worse than just talking out loud to begin with. ‘Cause now I’m the creeper who is walking by herself, staring into space and chortling nonsensically.

The potential for maniacal laughter aside, I still highly recommend self chats. They’re almost always interesting because you know what you’re interested in. Really makes it easy to tailor the conversation for your audience. If you manage to bore yourself, then you know that this is not the topic to try with other people. Because if you don’t care about what you’re saying, why would anyone else? And when else can you have an argument where you ultimately have to be both a gracious winner and loser? It’s a great learning tool.

Do you ever talk to yourself?

Fair warning, if your answer is “no,” I’m not going to believe you. Most likely I’ll even go past that and start regarding you suspiciously. You see, I don’t completely trust people who scoff at talking to themselves. You don’t want to talk to you, but you think other people should? That seems weird. (Yes, I know, me calling someone weird is a little bold. But I'm standing by it.)

Still, there are occasions when I see someone talking to themselves and have the desire to tell them to rein it in a little. This morning, Roomie and I were driving to work and stopped at a light. A young gentleman walked past on the sidewalk. Not only was he involved in a whispered yelling match with himself, but he was punctuating it by quite literally shaking his fist at the sky. (At least that’s how I saw it. Roomie said it looked like he was working out with an imaginary Shake Weight. Eye of the beholder, I guess.) It was a little more public, yet solitary, rage than I’m personally comfortable with.

Here’s my suggestion, if you don’t already talk to yourself, give it a try. You probably have some interesting stuff to say. If you do, keep up the good work! If you’re afraid you’re going to start having these conversations in public, throw in a blue tooth ear piece. Sure, in your case, it won’t have anyone on the other end, but for all you know, neither does anyone else’s. I would just recommend that all parties keep violent hand motions to a minimum. ‘Cause that’s when you start looking like you may be a danger to society.

Like Barbie's Dream House...Only Haunted...And With an Ostrich

Roomie tricked me into exercising with her yesterday. She said, “You want to go for a walk after work?” I assumed she meant to the grocery store for ice cream or something. Four miles, two hills and countless curses later we finally made it home where I sat on the couch and toasted my new physical prowess with some chips and cheese dip. Only we ended up not having chips, so I ate tortillas and cheese dip. And some pizza. All and all, a healthy night.

But my athletic nature is not actually what I’m here to discuss. Roomie offset the horrors of physical exertion by walking me through different neighborhoods where we picked our favorite houses. Occasionally we’d find two houses that were connected, sharing a porch and a yard, but with their own doors and space. We leaned towards those. Mostly because if we had houses like that, there is a much greater possibility for the construction of secret doorways, which as I’ve mentioned before is one of my requirements for my future home.

Between my huffing and puffing and Roomie’s incessant “Charlie Bit My Finger” quoting, we did finally come up with a fairly comprehensive list of what we’re looking for in our future homes.

- Either two houses joined together or a giant castle-like house with two separate wings (Roomie wants some freedom from my holiday decorating frenzies and if I have to listen to another Chelsea game on the soccer network there’s going to be fisticuffs. Still we would like to live close enough to each other that midnight Step Up marathons are not inconvenient)

- Movie screening room (See Step Up above)

- Secret doors, hallways and book shelves

- A ghost (Really looking for a place that already has one. I’ve heard trying to move them from one house to another is extremely difficult. Still, if you know of a really friendly ghost, let me know and I’ll give it a shot)

- Soccer field in the back yard (Really a Quidditch pitch would be better, but a soccer field is a good starter field)

- A well (For wishing, not drinking)

- A fairy garden (just in case we every get any spritely visitors)

- Gargoyles (I’m completely willing to create my own once settling in a place, so it’s not required that the house already have them)

- A drive way (Looking for street parking is always annoying. Takes time away from learning to do magic)

- A dog

- An ostrich

Basically, I want to live The Bloggess’ dollhouse, but in my real size, not all shrunken down to doll size. So, I’m going to go try and find a machine a la Honey, I Blew Up the Kid to make the house a little roomier.

In case this doesn’t work out as brilliantly as I am currently assuming it will, please let me know if you hear about anything meeting the above requirements. We’re looking into a moving time between now and ten years from now, but that’s not a hard and fast time frame.