Recreational Spending

I think I need another bookshelf. I don’t really know where I’m going to put it. I already have four in my room. But, I’m starting to have to store books on the floor again, which generally means it’s time to start looking for another shelving unit. If I mention this to Roomie, she'll roll her eyes and shake her head.

It’s not that Roomie doesn’t like reading. She does. But when she was a kid, she didn’t dream about owning the library from Beauty and the Beast, so she doesn’t quite see the point in spending money on yet another bookshelf. That works out though, because I don’t really get spending money to swim under live wires.

Roomie did the Tough Mudder this past weekend. I, sadly, wasn’t able to watch her complete this because I was all preoccupied with graduating. Last night though, she told me all about it. Of course, to make the story complete, she had to first don the orange sweatband she received whilst running.

She showed me a map of the course and took me obstacle by obstacle. There were twenty-one and each of them sounded horrible, but some were a little worse than others. Roomie said that the one she hated most was charmingly named, “Arctic Enema.” It was a dumpster filled with freezing water and a couple inches of ice cubes floating atop. She jumped in and then had to fully submerge herself to get past the wood board in the middle and over to the other side where other runners were waiting to pull her out. Apparently it took about ten minutes before she could stop shaking.

Then there was the one where she ran through bails of hay that had been set on fire. According to her recounting, the smoke was worse than the fire. So she would just open her eyes to see far she’d be running straight and then run that with her eyes closed to protect from smoke. When she saw my shock over running blind through flaming hay, she assured me, “Yeah, but when we got to other side, there was an aid stand where we got banana halves.”

I couldn’t tell you if she knows someone who has stated that half a banana is so delicious they would walk through flames to get one, but I can assure you, it wasn’t me.

And of course, my favorite, the “Electric Eel,” where she had to slide on her stomach through water, above which dangled live wires. She got shocked about five times. At this point in the story I asked why in all of hell she would pay to do this and she said that the money went to charity. I pointed out that she could also just donate money to charity and skip the whole potential electrocution thing. She waved this off, saying, “It wasn’t really that bad. It was just like you got punched real fast.”

The one thing that made this whole thing a little less Hunger Games to me was the fact that everyone there was apparently more than willing to help everyone else. Roomie said that most of the obstacles couldn’t be completed on your own, so other runners were always around to help you finish the ones they’d already completed. Which is kind of awesome and a pretty clear example of why, in a zombie apocalypse, these are the people you’d want by your side.

That being said….I think I’m going to stick with my bookshelves.

The Forest and the Trees

Every day when we were little, my mother used to sit my sister and I down on the couch and ask “So, what happened today?”

Now, this may seem like a simple question, but it generally led to at least an hour of conversation. Because when my mom asked about the events of our day, she wasn’t looking for a general overview. She wanted the details.

“So, what happened today?” meant, “Starting with the moment your foot crossed the threshold of this house, please give me a minute by minute description of your thoughts, conversations and reactions, as well as those of the people you came in contact with.”

You’d think that having company at the house would have postponed requests for such detailed recounting, but not if grandma was over. You see, my mom came by her detail oriented-ness honestly. If both ladies were in the house when we got home it was a surefire guarantee there would be more follow-up questions than usual. As my grandmother once joked, “Don’t you know we’re starving for information from the outside world?”

My other grandmother like stories well enough, but they weren't her passion. She loved words. The forest was fine, but she was more interested in the trees. 

She was a whiz at Scrabble. I don’t think there was another activity in the world that she enjoyed more than that game. I played countless games with her over the years and I did not win once. The young age at which I started out and my self-proclaimed irresistible adorability never even came close to prompting her to let me win.

This is not to say that she didn’t help me along in the process. In addition to her handy Official Scrabble Dictionary which was never more than an arms length away, she would also have me show her my tiles and help me find words in them. If we found more than one, she’d help me figure out which would get me the most points. It took time, but I slowly came into my own. And while I never won, there were a few times I gave her a run for her money, without any assistance, which was enough of a victory for me.

Though, sadly, my grandmothers aren’t with me anymore, I still feel their influence. Every time I start to write a story, I always ask myself two questions: Am I offering the right amount of detail to make this world real? Am I making the right word choices?

And every time a story turns out well, I know that they had a hand in that.

I hope everyone has a fantastic weekend. And Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there!

In conclusion, I'm basically a metaphorical zombie

As I’ve mentioned, I regularly ask Roomie weird questions without any sort of context. Sometimes they’re related to a story I’m working on, sometimes they’re just what happened to pop into my head at that moment. But last night something shocking happened. Something that was completely unprecedented in our years of friendship.

Roomie asked me one.

I waiting to order my quesadilla and she asked, “If you were to wake up tomorrow and I wasn’t there and then you gradually realized that no one was there and that no electronics worked, what would you do?”

I stared for a second in shock at the uncharacteristic query, then got some clarification before answering. To be clear, in her question, I did not wake up to some post-apocalyptic slaughtering ground. No bodies. Everyone had just disappeared. The lack of electronics ensured that I could not call or see on the TV if this was world wide or just within the city in which I live. Roomie allowed that my car would probably work, but I’m guessing that navigational systems and gas pumps would be a no go.

My answer:

I would pack a bag of books and kitchen knifes (in case this all really goes sideways and turns into a zombie-type situation). Then I’d get in the car and drive as far as I could in the direction of my childhood home in search of other people. Once I ran out of gas, I’d continue on foot.

My choice in destination was two fold, as my family all still lives in that area and I could find it without the help of a navigational system. And there are not many places that I could say that about.

Roomie then gave her answer:

I would gather all the food I could and find a home base I could hide it in. Probably not our apartment. I’d find a nice house. I’d go to the grocery store and fill the granny-cart with jugs and jugs of water. Once I’d secured that I might drive around to see if I could find other people. I wouldn’t take too many of my supplies cause that would make the car heavier and slow me down.

I found out after I had her answer that Roomie was mildly disgusted that food and water never even entered in to my thought process. Whoops. Guess you don’t want to be stuck with me in a post-apocalyptic world. Unless you’re a fan of brevity. When Roomie demanded to know what in all the world I would bring a bag of books with me, I explained that if I get stuck somewhere, I don’t want to have just dwell on the fact that I may starve to death if things go well and the zombies don’t find me first. I’d like the option of enjoying a nice story.

What it comes down to, I guess, is that if everyone in the world started to disappear, Roomie would make sure you had shelter and sustenance, while I would be prepared to entertain and fight zombies to the death on your behalf. So, really, you’re best chance of happy survival is for neither of us to disappear.

As this conversation was coming to a close, I had to ask what prompted Roomie’s question. Her voice got a little high as she said, “You ask me weird questions all the time!” Believe me, I wasn’t complaining. So, I explained that I just wanted to know what inspired this so I could ensure that it would happen again in the future. She gave me a little smile and shrugged, clearly unable to pinpoint the origin of this thought process.

And that’s when I came to a shocking, yet satisfying, realization. In the story of Roomie’s life, I am the zombie.

It’s taken me almost eight years, but I’ve finally gotten to her brain.  

In other terrifying news, here is the Squirrel Menace Update: Do not be distracted if they pull the old “ears on fire” trick. It is just a distraction!

Word Problems

When I was a kid I used to wonder who the first person was to come up with a word for something and why everyone else agreed to call it by that name. I imagined these scenes where Man 1 pointed to a dog and said “dog” (not in English, of course, but considering I think in English, I just went with it) and everyone around him shrugged and was all, Okay, fine. We’ll call it a dog. Now can we focus on getting out of the way of this stampede of mastodons? (Once again, the influence of the Flinstones on my young brain shows itself.)

But what, I wondered, if Man 1 had actually been pointing at the tree the animal was relieving itself on when he said “dog” and not the animal itself? And in all the confusion of the whole mastodon stampede, the other folks had simply taken note of the wrong thing? Now, thousands of years later, we’re calling dogs, dogs, when really trees were supposed to be dogs.

Or what if Man 1 had been pointing at the dog, so the people around him were correct in their word usage, but Man 6 (the poor guy bringing up the rear of the mastodon-fleeing group) had seen the animal first and called it a “rock,” but the others couldn’t hear him over the stampede? After making their way to safety, Man 6 realizes the animal followed them and says, “Hey, it’s the rock!” and everyone else (feeling all arrogant because they managed not to get crushed) snorts derisively, whispering amongst themselves, “What an idiot. He doesn’t even know it’s a dog.” And Man 6 gets all flustered and tries to save face, “No, of course that’s a dog. I was talking about the little thing over there on the ground. That’s the rock. Obvi.”

Given that this was the weird mess going on in my head, I constantly pondered if other people were thinking about the same thing that I was. After doing a little informal survey, I found that the vast majority were…..not. I lost track of the number of times friends looked at me strangely when I asked if they every thought that maybe their beloved pet was supposed to be called a tree, or their parents’ garden was actually meant to be referred to as a forest. Their response would almost invariably be, “It’s not a forest. It’s a garden. Forests have lots of trees.” And I’d say, “Yeah. But what if it was supposed to be that forests are just flowers and gardens have lots of trees? And people just got mixed up.”

And then they’d walk away.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out that I was probably crazy. At that point I was still basing this belief off the assumption that if the majority felt one way, then that was the sane path. Then, wonder of wonders, I made a fantastic discovery. When it came to word origins my dad thought about the same things I did! Albeit with less Flinstones involvement. Probably.

I was talking to my mom about it one day and she told me that she’d had similar conversations with my dad. So, I naturally went off, running through the house, screaming like a banshee, until I found my father. I explained the whole dog/tree/rock conundrum and not once did that let-me-get-away-from-this-crazy-person look that I’d seen on so many of friends cross his face. He just sat down and told me that he often thought about the same kind of thing.

After that, I stopped worrying that I was crazy and just focused on my queries into word origins.

I mean, I knew I probably was. Crazy, that is. But, at least I came by it honestly.

Just call me Raw Enthusiasm Girl...

All that anticipation has finally paid off….the summer movie has arrived. In the form of The Avengers. Roomie and I saw it this past weekend. There are already about a floppityjillion reviews out there telling you how flip-floppin’ awesome this movie is, so I won’t go too much into that, except to agree. And to say I'm already planning another visit to the theater for round two (and possibly three and four). 

As predicted, I felt that bittersweet twinge as the previews came to an end and the movie began. I’ve been waiting so long to see this movie and I was now so close to it being over. Of course, then the first scene kicked off and the “bitter” faded away. As, in my excitement, did the higher functions of my brain. I’m pretty sure I sat there, smiling, with a thought process akin to the Hulk’s.

Avengers….Good.

And, of course, this movie also brought out my “why not me?” feelings. I had that basking period after it was over, when thoughts like, I’d be an awesome Avenger, were flitting through my head. As I was in the basking period, facts like me lacking any significant upper body strength, or having the flexibility of dry spaghetti, or the marital arts skills of someone without any martial arts skills, ceased to matter. I sat in the car, secure in my knowledge that if only they knew me that super hero squad, would be all, Yeah. Let’s recruit that one. Sure, she has no real superhero skill set. But look at how excited she is. We shall call her Raw Enthusiasm Girl.

Basically, I’d have the power of heart without the possibility of telepathy. And I could live with that. I mean, having an actual power would be cooler, but I’d be happy just to be part of the team.

As I’ve mentioned in the past, this desire to be a member of the superhero realm has been a constant in my life. Only last summer, Roomie and I were waiting for our food in the Arbie’s drive thru and I mentioned that if she were going to be a superhero I thought her name should be Little Green Hawk. The reasons for this were three fold:

1. She was, at that point, sporting a faux-hawk.
2. I thought she should dye it lime green (she disagreed)
3. Whenever I said Little Green Hawk, Roomie quoted Andy Samberg’s last line in Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist.

She asked who I was in this world and I responded that Little Green Hawk was my sidekick. Roomie did not take kindly to what she saw as a demotion (but, seriously, did she really think Little Green Hawk was the power player here?) and the conversation devolved from there. It got the point where one of us may or may not have threatened to throw a quarter at the other one’s eye. This (most likely) empty threat prompted Roomie to declare my name in this superhero realm to be Quarter Eye. Now, whether this name implied that I had a quarter stuck in my eye for all eternity or that I only had a quarter of an eye, I’m still not entirely sure. Regardless, the name sounded more like that of a supervillain, than a superhero. I chose to embrace it. Not overly difficult given the number of times I played Robbers & Robbers as a kid.

I haven’t completely figured out the story of these archenemies yet. But I can say that in a universe where Little Green Hawk is the reigning superhero, Quarter Eye operates in a Snidely Whiplash-esque fashion. Otherwise, that poor little bird wouldn’t have a chance.

If any of the Avengers happen to be reading this, please know that I am fully dedicated to superheroism, despite my apparent villainy as Quarter Eye. It’s really just about trying to get in the enemy’s head, so I’m ready when it comes time for battle.

And, you know, you gotta throw the Roomie a bone every once in awhile.

Walking a mile in her shoes...or something like that

I often credit my mother for my desire to climb into the heads of different characters and view the world from their eyes.

Like any kids, my sister and I would occasionally argue when we were youths. When this happened, there were never any timeouts or groundings in my house. Rather, my mother would lead the two of us to the den and close us in.

I know what you’re thinking….steel cage match. But, no. Before shutting the door behind her, my mother would leave us with very specific instructions. We were to continue our argument. Only now I had to pretend to be my sister and she had to pretend to be me. Basically we had to argue the other person’s side.

Once she left us alone, my sister and I would try to follow the rules laid out for us. I would say that, in these situations, it was probably a pretty even split between times when we ultimately saw validity in the other’s argument and found a compromise, and times when we just got confused and tired from trying to remember which side we were on. But one thing was sure, when we walked out of that room, we weren’t fighting anymore.

This quirky parental choice not only saved my sister and me from a number of prolonged battles, but it also left me with an interesting writing tool. Whenever I’m writing and I hit a block where my brain stops working with the story, I pick two characters from it, select a topic related to the story and then argue it from both sides. Even if this doesn’t tell me exactly where I want to go next with my tale, it does solidify the personalities of the characters in my head and gives me a better idea of their strengths and weaknesses.

Little did I know, all those years ago, as I stood across from my sister (trying to push the knowledge that I was totally right out of my head, so I could concentrate on her side of the argument), that I was building helpful working tools. Huh. Guess parents really do know what they’re doing.

Bad Movies/Good Party Themes: Spice World Party Like It's 1997 Party

The first Friday of the month has arrived and so has our new party theme!

Here is a fun fact about me, throughout my academic career I have found one thing above all others which expedites my paper-writing process and that is….the music of the Spice Girls. Now, some of you may be sitting out there, thinking, That’s ridiculous. And while you’re not completely off base, I would encourage you to give it a try if you’re ever engaged in the lengthy process of writing something that is meant to be serious. Here are some of the reasons Spice Girls work:

-          Spice Girl songs don’t require a great deal of mental effort to listen to, so they won’t distract you from the task at hand.

-          When you’re writing something serious, you can get weighed down in the process and start to wonder how you’re ever going to successfully incorporate everything you’ve researched into the set page limit (or wonder how you’re ever going to meet the set page limit). Enter the Spice Girls. It’s really hard to feel weighed down when listening to “Wannabe.” Seriously, try it. It’s hard.

-          In my experience, every paper that I have successfully written has hinged on the dance break I have taken mid way through. And when I’m jumping up and down next to my computer tray table (high tech) as “Spice Up Your Life” blasts on iTunes, I can feel writer-y greatness rising up in my chest.

-          Sometimes you need to take a resting break from writing, but if you let it go for too long, you’re not going to come back. So, lean back and close your eyes as the dulcet sound of “2 Becomes 1” washes over you. When it’s done, so’s your break.

-          When you've finished your paper, you’ll still have the songs in your head for some ready to go celebration singing.

In conclusion, it’s always worked for me. Therefore, it seemed appropriate that the Bad Movie during the final month of my academic career should be Spice World. Even just thinking about the film makes me hearken back to the year it entered our lives.

Ah, 7^th grade Kelly, I remember you fondly. You favored knock-off Jnco jeans, t-shirts (either intensely oversized ones depicting Star Wars characters or advertising roller coasters, or ones that belonged to your nine year old sister and were therefore far too small for you) and hoodless sweatshirts. Your hair was still growing out from the Amanda Borden cut of 6^th grade. It was a strange length and intensely poofy, as it would be years before you discovered the magic of the straightener.  But you were definitely right, crimping it made you look cooler. Or like a mad scientist. But aren’t they kind of one and the same?

With the help of my friends, it was decided on a simple theme that allowed us to revisit our childhood selves.

As for the movie? It was just as great as I remembered. It actually improves upon the group’s music, which I never thought anything would ever do. But you know what the music just didn’t have enough of? Aliens and Meat Loaf.

Problem solved.

Crackerjack dialogue to look forward to:

-          “Listen up, take my advice – we need five for the power of Spice.”

-          “They’ve got fire in their eyes, hunger in their bellies…and great big shoes on their feet!”

-          “When the rabbit of chaos is pursued by the ferret of disorder through the fields of anarchy, it is time to hang your pants on the hook of darkness.”

Tagline: “They Don’t Just Sing!”

For a Spice World Party Like It’s 1997 Party of your very own, here’s what you need (Caveat: Your 1997 may have been different than mine. Go with your gut.):

-          Spice World (1997)

-          Homemade decorated posters with plenty of Lisa Frank stickers. ‘Cause it doesn’t matter what year it is, she’s always awesome. 

Oh, Willow....always jumping in for the photo bomb.

Ignore Baby Spice's wonky foot. That was an accident. Stop judging me.

-          Snacks: Now, depending on your age, what you ate in 1997 might be different than what I did. So, go with your own experience here. If you were born after 1997 or are just looking for suggestions, here are mine:

-          Clothes: Dig through your closet, there’s probably something back there that can at least look similar to something that would have been worn in ’97. Roomie and I were both able to find clothes that we actually wore back then. (Included in my outfit was a sweatshirt that Roomie hates. She lists the following reasons as why: It’s hoodless / It’s white / It doesn’t have a front pocket / It has a big seal of a historical event / It’s not awesome. I dispute the last fact, but the rest of them provide a fair description of my sweet souvenir from Fort Erie circa late ‘96.)

-          Glittery face tattoos.

-          Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC music videos for before and after the movie

-          Group of Girl Group/Boy Band groupies and/or late ‘90s enthusiasts and/or people you wouldn’t mind being hopped up on sugar with.

Bumper to bumper

I find bumper stickers really interesting. There this odd little window into the lives of total strangers. I’m always fascinated by what people choose to reveal about themselves through car decoration.

There’s a wide spectrum when it comes to bumper stickers. On one end, you’ve got people who paper their car with stickers. Trying to process all their causes, likes and dislikes during the time it takes for the light to turn from red to green can cause sensory overload. But still you try to take it all in. With these, the really interesting part is trying to figure out what one topic trumps the others in this individual’s hierarchy. For instance, I saw one car the other day that, among a menagerie of other stickers, had no less than seven proclaiming that they heart their dog.

Far on the other side of this continuum, are the people who refuse to adhere anything sticky to their automobiles. These drivers maintain their air of mystery whilst on the road. And then there is the vast range of people who fall somewhere in the middle, generally choosing to focus only on one or two interests in their decorating.

There are the people who are proud of some aspect of their life. Lots of alma mater stickers. And who hasn’t sat behind someone in traffic whose kid is an honor student? Or behind the person who was so incensed by the honor students that they felt the need to respond with a sticker declaring that their kid could beat up the honor student? Recently I’ve also seen a rise of the family stick figures. Thanks to these little fellas, not only do I now know that the person driving in front of me has four kids and two cats, I also know that the eldest is a cheerleader and the youngest an equestrian.

Political bumper stickers are, of course, old favorites. But sometimes even these are not as simple as they seem. Roomie and I were driving along the other day and noticed that the car in front of us had but one bumper sticker. It read “Reagan-Bush ’84.” Now, in my experience, it’s not uncommon for cars to have bumper stickers endorsing candidates of decades past. If the car had been old, this choice might have been interesting only because it was the lone sticker on the car and there have been so many elections since. However, what really struck me about this car was that is was fairly new. Made long after the campaign the driver was endorsing. And this left me thinking about what might have been crossing that person’s mind as they made the choice to place that one bumper sticker on the rear of their vehicle. The best I could come up with was something along the lines of, It may have been almost twenty years ago, but let’s keep the spirit alive!

And then there are those people who choose to highlight only one small thing about themselves. These tend to be the ones that I’m the most intrigued by. Roomie and I were driving to work yesterday and a very expensive looking BMW was in front of us. This driver had placed a sticker on his bumper that declared, very simply, “I’d Rather Be At A Journey Concert.” 

Now, I enjoy Journey. Probably not quite as much as J.D., but when “Don’t Stop Believing” starts playing, I start belting it out. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. And, to be completely honest, I’m a little suspect of people who don’t. But this is beside the point. The point is that, for this BMW owner, the love of Journey was vast enough to be the only thing worth sharing with the world. And as he drove away, I believed that he’d rather be at a Journey concert. And I hoped there was one in his near future.

The sentiments expressed on bumper stickers often make me laugh. On rare occasions they can annoy me. And with regularity they leave me with more questions than answers. What they always remind me of, though, is that everyone is a storyteller in some capacity. And the people who shellac their vehicle with stickers are choosing to share a little bit of their story with the world.

As a member of their audience, I certainly appreciate the effort.

The seaweed is always greener...

Disney’s The Little Mermaid really bothered me when I was kid. I mean, I knew that Ariel had gotten her wish. She got to be human and live with her prince. And he was a pretty decent guy, even if he was a little slow on the uptake. An accomplished sailor and musician, plus willing to take on Ursula? Definitely a nice fella.

But I was still bothered.

You see, I really didn’t care for the fact that she was never going to really get to spend time with her family and friend again. Sure, Scuttle could visit her and bring back word to the others. And Ariel could arrange beach excursions, where she could yell things out to her father who would have to stay in the deeper waters further off the shore. It wasn’t the same though. Even as a kid, I wondered if her “happily ever after” was really happily every after, or if she would later regret her choice to leave for a man with whom, at that point, she’d never actually had a substantive conversation.

So, even though I loved the music and would watch the movie ad nauseum, it still kinda bummed me out.

My dad helped me out with this. I don’t know if he felt the same way about the movie, or what, but he used to tell my sister and me stories of the characters from the movie. The thing was, in his stories, Ariel was still a mermaid. Eric showed up sometimes, but for the most part it was the adventures of Ariel, Flounder, Sebastian and Scuttle. And it was awesome. My dad would pit them against all sorts of watery villains. I remember one in particular, involving a very scary octopus, which had me very worried the gang wouldn’t make it.

Like any good storyteller, he took his audience into consideration. My sister and I could make requests as to who or what might appear in the night’s tale. And every once in awhile there would be a song thrown in.

After hearing all these stories, I was able to watch the movie without too much issue. Cause I knew the secret. It was a great film, but they’d gotten the ending wrong. Which was fine. Everyone makes mistakes. And I had my dad to ensure that I knew the truth. Ariel doesn’t sail off into the sunset (sorry Eric). She decides to stay in the sea (at least for the time being) with her friends and family. She continues her adventures. Based off of some of my dad’s stories involving Ariel saving the day, it seems that her love of humans and her success at saving Eric’s life was likely to lead to her creating a highly successful and respected underwater rescue team that looks out for mariners.

Also, after listening to my father’s stories, I have to believe that Ariel, with all her curiosity and brains, would want to make informed decisions. Eric would come out and visit when his crew went sailing and the two actually got to know each other. Their decision on whether or not to try to make this whole inter-species relationship work was based on more than how cute he is and the fact that she has a killer singing voice. Ariel also learned more about human life, so she didn't make her life-changing choice off of the assumption that we’re always jumping, dancing, strolling along the street and just staying all day in the sun.

I can’t say for sure that Ariel didn’t ultimately make the same decision as the movie has her making. But, thanks to my dad, I know that she didn’t make it without all the facts. And that regardless of where she eventually ended up, she’d probably still be kicking ass.

So, sorry to all of you who were, like me, misled by the honest mistake made at the close of the movie. If you ever want the real story, I’m sure my dad would be more than happy to share it.

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.