A Rhoze by any other Nayme a.k.a. What's in a Name?

   Around the time that I was having my children, it started to become very popular for parents to alter the traditional spelling of a name in order to strive for uniqueness. I blame it on the eighties. (I could in fact blame almost anything on the eighties and still be right.) (Really. Think about it.) Anyway, with bands like Siouxsie and the Banshees and INXS (I have friends who still pronounce it 'inks' having failed to grasp the whole in excess thing…), it's no wonder people began to look for new ways to spell things. Mike, Jim and Sue just wouldn't cut it anymore. Now if you say Myke, Djimm and Sioux, you really got something!

   Or, let's blame it on rock music in general. (Maybe John Lithgow had it right in Footloose. And- back to the eighties…) Prince made infamy in the early nineties (as if any of his other antics hadn't garnered him enough notoriety already) simply by changing his name to some unpronounceable symbol mish-mash of the male and female gender symbols with a swirly line running through it. So blame it on the eighties, blame it on rock music, or blame it on the rain. Or is that rayne? Reign? Raene?

   Anyway, Brittany became Bryttani, and Amy became Aimee, etc. and so on. The basic rule of thumb was to swap any 'y' for an 'i' and vice versa. Further, anytime an additional vowel or vowels could be thrown into the mix- well do it!- that just makes things exciting! If your kid's name looks like a bowl of alphabet soup, you're doing it right!

   This has caused quite a lot of confusion for us boring folks when we try to figure out someone's name by reading it. And a lot of unfair outrage from the parents and the child should the child's name be mispronounced. Really? If your child's name is Siobhan there's a pretty good chance NO one is going to pronounce it correctly. (Although in all fairness this is a traditional Irish spelling, it's still a tricky endeavor for many of us on this side of the ocean.)

   Technically speaking, if you are trying to name your child with originality, you need not stick to unusual spellings and the conjoining of two names such as -Michael and Rene making Miche, or Renael. Try going old fashioned. How many Gertrudes do you deal with on a regular basis? Mildreds? Eugenias? Berthas?  Just sayin', if you name your bouncing baby girl Gertrude Eugenia, it's a pretty fair assumption she'll be the only five year old in kindergarten with that name. Plus, with the initials G.E. she might turn out to be brilliant. Bringing good things to light…

   Not that long ago, a woman named Eina filled out an application at the company I was working for and I was responsible for calling her references. The first was her mother. After the initial greeting, I explained the reason for my call, pronouncing the woman's name as I-na, and was immediately interrupted, "You should learn how to say someone's name before you call their references! Are you stupid?"

   Huh. Really. Now being the pleasant, patient (ha!!) person I am, I naturally kept my temper and, assuming I was having difficulty reading the handwriting, I said, "I'm sorry, I have the spelling as E-i-n-a. Is that correct?"

   "Yes," she said. "But it's pronounced Eena, as in Tina. It's not that hard to understand, unless you're stupid!"

   Alrighty then. Well, let me just point this out to you Einstein (see what I did there?). Eina designates I-na. Eichmann, Calvin Klein, Eisenhower, Gloria Steinem and even the Eiffel Tower would all agree. Now, if you had wanted her name to be pronounced Eena, you might have considered spelling it Iena- ask Steven Spielberg. Because, the general rule of thumb is- when you have a vowel immediately preceded by another vowel, you pronounce the second in the hard form. Now the fine example you have given alters the rule because the 'i' in Tina is immediately preceded by a consonant. Not hard to understand, unless you are stupid.

   Thus, I have come to the conclusion that along with Lamaze classes, people should be given baby naming classes and then pass a test in order to be allowed to name their own children. There are some relatively simple rules to follow. If your last name is Bush, you probably should not name your child Harry. I say this because I went to school with a boy who was saddled with this moniker and- true story- he was an extremely successful track runner, specifically in the long distance run. No kidding, who's shocked here? It's a talent the poor boy had years to hone. Similarly speaking, think twice if you intend to name your son Richard. There are a number of surnames that would lead to disaster. Pretty much, if your last name is also an action verb- ie: Bender, Holder, Barber, etc.- these are all BAD ideas.

   Rhyming names are also bad. It is not cute to name your child Belle Snell, or Ruth Bluth, or for that matter, to saddle them with the same first name as their surname, as in, James James, or Michael Michaels. And never, EVER, is the name 'Vaginia' appropriate for your daughter. I have met one such girl. Her parents must have hated her.

   In fact, it is exceptionally wise to take some names completely off the table. Poindexter is a prime example of table removal. Scrub that puppy off. Nope, it's not even up for debate. Move on. And though you might think your baby is Precious, it's not a particularly great name for anything that doesn't have a tail (which leads to a whole new set of problems).

   My particular favorite is a story my daughter told me. At some point in school, she came across a girl named Le-a. Naturally, everyone thought her parents named her Leah and added the hyphen for whimsy. The girl had the audacity to become outraged. Because, it turns out, her name was- are you ready for this?- Ledasha. What?!! To become enraged because people failed to enunciate the punctuation in your name (which, by the way would make your name Lehyphena), is the epitome of ignorance. When did we start articulating punctuation? It would certainly extend conversations to the point that we comma as a whole comma would all get very tired of hearing each other speak exclamation point.

   Before long children will be bearing names like @&*$%. 

   "No officer, I wasn't cursing at him, that's his name…"

Do the Zombie Shuffle a.ka. Giving the Bird a.k.a. Counting Not So Decapitated Heads

  Things at my house have begun to turn to the macabre. That is because we are sick, twisted people. It is also because we run a haunted house and this is the time of year we kick it into high gear to prepare for opening. New props are built, walls are painted, rooms are decorated, actors are located, you name it, we do it, in the name of all things unholy. We find ourselves running a bit behind due to life getting in the way (see previous blogs…) and we are running full force now trying to catch up things that should have been done months ago. Such is our life.

   In the midst of all this chaos, our haunt participated in something called the Zombie Walk, in South Bend. Please understand, zombies do not walk. Rather, they shuffle. They shamble. They drag their feet. They meander as if they are on a ten day drunk and their ankles are shackled together. So Zombie 'Walk' seems a bit out of character to me. So be it. We went anyway.

   This is a mini-convention of sorts, where people (weirdoes and other assorted nut-balls) get their zombie geek on. All sorts of people from all walks of life show up at the park dressed in full zombie regalia- torn clothes, missing limbs, full make-up and the like. It's pretty astounding to see. And, it's kind of awesome. (I have the pictures to prove it- who knew Tippi Hedren was going to turn out to be a zombie? Her birds too… Melanie Griffith is going to be so disappointed- not about the birds, about her zombie mother. It's gotta suck to have to decapitate your own mother. Though, some days, I think my kids could live with it…)

   Anyway, the set up is pretty easy. As with other conventions, vendors have booths, in a marked off area just for them. Our own little hundred square feet of the acreage just for us. Wheeee! So, we went about setting up the canopy (with way too many cooks to spoil the broth so it was a wonder the thing went up at all) and the tables and loaded those puppies down with the t-shirts we were selling. (With any luck. Hopefully. Maybe. Please?)

    Whilst in the throes of such set-up, I, who can find the single stick or rock or something in a wide, vast desert of NOTHING and trip over it, managed to catch my heel on the folding camp chairs that were laying in a pile near the edge of our 'temporary squatting grounds.' (There was absolutely NO squatting. Just saying. Making that perfectly clear. There were port-o-potties available at a not-too-far jaunt, though far enough to keep from damaging the air quality nearby. Okay, moving on.) So there I was, leaning backwards at a precarious angle (I had been backing up when I caught my heel), arms wind-milling through the air, and going, "Oh! Ooohhh! Ooohhhhh!!" while everyone ignored me.

   I fought it, I honestly did. With every ounce of willpower and fortitude I had ever owned (I think I even borrowed some from nearby people- er- zombies). Apparently, zombies do NOT have fortitude, because it was to no avail. All I managed to do was look like an idiot, flailing my arms and tipping like a skate-boarder balancing on a rail, before landing- KERTHUMP!- with a thud in the middle of the chairs. Which, by the way, are not nearly as comfortable to sit upon when they are still folded up. Just saying.

    I also landed on my step-daughter's pocketbook. Which had her glasses in it. Which were not in a case, just bumping around loosely inside. Awesome.

   Now, naturally, everyone wanted to run to my assistance and I couldn't help but to think, 'Where were you all, like, ten seconds ago?!' Anyway, I eventually pried myself off of the pile-o-chairs, bruised, sore, but not in the least embarrassed. Hey, falling is what I do. And by God, if there is something you do well, no matter how trivial, OWN it! And I do. I OWN falling! (I lend it out to my son sometimes.)

The purse was investigated and the glasses discovered whole and hearty- thank God for that! That could have been one very expensive fall.

   We finally finished setting up the booth and began to hawk our t-shirts and pass out flyers while the haunt kids went wandering to see what they could see. A number of zombies trailed by our booth through-out the day: Tippi Hedren (as I have already mentioned, but I did it again anyway, so there, sue me) giving everybody the bird-er- being attacked by her birds, Little Red Riding Hood and her Grandma Wolf, zombie prom queens abounded, zombies in pajamas. (which makes me think of Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down the stairs! Does anybody besides me remember that? My daughter loved that stupid show. Anyway, zombies… definitely not coming down the stairs. Falling maybe… Hey, we got something in common!)

   Um, let's see, where was I? Oh yeah, a zombie bride and groom, zombie princesses, a zombie ballerina, and even a zombie nutcracker. Who knew the zombie plague could take out inanimate objects? I have to warn my son, he collects nutcrackers. Just what he needs: to wake up one morning and be doing his own early morning shamble towards the bathroom when suddenly an assault team of zombie nutcrackers starts sliding across the floor after him, their little wooden jaws opening and closing with ominous intent. Chomp, chomp, chomp! Or maybe, Click, click, click. Which makes me think of that Christmas song, (fitting right?) about the reindeer on the rooftop, Click, click, click. Not nearly as ominous. More enjoyable. As long as you're not the one scraping reindeer poop off the shingles.

   So anyway, we managed to sell some shirts- meeting about half our goal for the cost of the event insurance (for the haunt) and all was well. The vendors were closing shop. It was time for the 'walk' to begin. The walk, in essence, is a mini-march down through part of the town, mimicking a zombie hoard shuffling through the streets of some fair city. You know, you've seen it enacted in many a zombie movie. I have to wonder though- does the town use this as some sort of a preparedness drill?  I mean, you have your tornado sirens and your emergency broadcast signals to help you prepare for various disasters. Are they getting ready for the zombie plague? If so, buddy, we might want to all jump on board. I mean, ask yourselves- are YOU ready for the zombie apocalypse? Doubt it.

   So, naturally our haunt kids wanted to join the shamble and since this gave us time to pack everything back up, clean up our area, and prepare to load the vehicles, this worked about perfectly.

   Until, that is, one of the event coordinators stopped by the booth and volunteered me to count zombies. "It's easy," she said. "Just stand at the head of the park and count heads as they leave."

   Sounds easy, doesn't it?

   Wrong.

   Have you ever tried to count hundreds of moving people? They are shuffling and shambling (as zombies do, we already discussed this) and bobbing and weaving (as zombies don't- see above) and moving in and out of one another. And don't even get me started on the kids. Suddenly the crowd would part and you'd see a group of like six or seven (because kids wander in packs a la zombies) that you had failed to count the heads of. This task would have been much easier if we had been allowed to decapitate the zombies and then count the heads. But that was apparently against the rules. They thought we needed a challenge. But the zombies weren't really giving us a sporting chance.

   I managed to count 720 of the blasted buggers- my count matched another person's to a T so I guess I wasn't that far off. However, I missed the MANY who went off course and cut through the park instead of coming up the stairs like they were supposed to. But who could blame them- zombies are not bananas in pajamas, instead they are like slinkies- they tumble down the stairs.

Food Glorious? Food a.k.a. All Things Erky

   Most people say I have a strange palate. My husband will go so far as to say I am un-American and call me a Communist. This is because I strongly dislike, loathe and despise most 'all American' foods. Hamburgers and hot dogs- yuck! As a rule I cannot tolerate red meat in general. I will not partake of ground beef, steak, or ribs, let alone ground-up, mish-mashed miscellaneous cow and/or chicken and pork parts. And anything that is on a bone is a 'Do Not Pass Go!' Do not, in fact, attempt to step near Go. Really, when you get right down to it, avoid Go like the plague- you WILL be turned away at the door.

   Hostess Twinkies and apple pie- double yuck!! I can't stand apples or anything made from them including, but not limited to, pies, ciders, juices, jellies and sauces. And I refuse to eat Twinkies on the grounds that they and the roaches are the only two things likely to survive a nuclear attack. I'll pass on both, thanks.

   Peanut butter and caramel- ewwwwww!! Oh my God! I want to do a 'Yuck! Yuck! Yucky!!' dance just at the thought of it. (For those of you interested- those of you who are not, look away- this dance is similar to the 'Chicken Dance,' though with much more extreme flapping and at a far more frantic pace.) I detest even the smell of peanut butter, it makes me nauseous. And the flavor of caramel revolts me as much as the stickiness. I don’t get the whole sticky thing. Why do you want to deliberately consume something that sticks not only to your fingers (ew!), but also to the roof of your mouth and your teeth? I can't stand it! I won't eat anything sticky- no caramels, marshmallows, taffy, or peanut butter. Nope. I take a big old happy PASS on the sticky.

   If you have been paying attention, you have come to realize that for me, the caramel apple with nuts is the epitome of all that is unholy. It is one of many torture devices utilized by Beelzebub in the seventh level of hell. No need for it here on Earth. Just saying.

   Instead, my palate is more herbivore than carnivore. Rarely have I met a vegetable that I didn't like.  You name it, Brussels sprouts to collard greens, turnips to parsnips, peas, beans and corn, I like them all. Even the strange ones that most people don't know what they are. I was raised on kohlrabi. For this (and many other reasons, I have no doubt) people think that I'm weird.

   Hmmmmm… Really?

   I think it's far weirder that my son will pry open little oyster shells to get to that dubious ball of nasty goo inside and slurp it down. Errggghhh, YAK!!! Or that my step-daughter (who has an adventurous palate), is not at all put off by the cannibalistic nature of ingesting crawfish, gleefully breaking their wee little necks and sucking their brains out of their cranial cavities… Mmhmm good! Forget the biscuits, Alton, that's good eats!

   Recently, my step-daughter and I had a conversation regarding her need to find a French restaurant. The reason? She was craving snails. What?! Hold the phone there, missy! WHO, I ask you, WHO, in the name of all that is holy, craves snails?? She went on to say, that if she could get hold of some 'prepared' snails she would be glad to make them herself, but she couldn't think where to find a specialty market around here for such things.

   'Prepared snails.' Prepared snails? Now my head is filled with jolly cartoonish pictures of happy little snails cavorting (do snails cavort?) around with petite knapsacks on their shells filled with all sorts of paraphernalia, such as teensy little compasses, microscopic bottles of water, infinitesimal rolls of duct tape, and diminutive Swiss Army knives - what you've got there is a prepared snail! That boy is READY for action!!

   So stupidly, I asked, "Exactly how do you prepare a snail for eating?" Of course, I was thinking: Do you give him a stern lecture? Is this something that requires a little heart to heart with the snail, such as: 'Hey, buddy, now I know this is gonna be tough on you, but you gotta brace yourself…" Is this a 'last rites' kind of thing? What exactly is going on here?

   The response was quick and decisive: You have to de-snot the snails.

   Erk.

   What?

   De-snot the snails.

   Erk.  'De-snot the snails.' In order to eat them.

   I'm sorry. If the word 'de-snot' is involved anywhere in the process of my food prep, I am NOT eating it.

   Thanks, I'll stick to carrots. All I gotta do is peel those bad boys and I am good to go…