Not long ago, Daring Young Mom asked for help naming her new Daring Young Van. (I think she settled on Vincent Van Go, but you’ll have to go over there to see for sure.)
I’m almost finished reading A Severe Mercy. They lived in places call “St. Udio” and “Glenmerle,” and drove cars with names that escape me at the moment.
What do these two things have in common? I’ll tell you. Vehicle naming.
For whatever reason, I have never named a house or a car or a truck or a vehicle of any kind. I don’t even use the cats’ proper names–they are all “kitty” to me. I can’t keep the kids straight. I end up saying (literally, I am not kidding), “You! Whatever your name is!” Calling the children a car name might damage their delicate psyches and we all know I’m all about pampering the wee ones.
Naming inanimate objects seems like fun, however, and right now, I’d like to begin.
My car? Pamela Anderson. Because we got it used and it’s been around the block a few times. (And now, please think up your own joke because when I thought too much I started to veer into rated-R humor in my head and I just had to stop. But I’ll pause while you laugh at yourself.)
I did make a list today and, boy, do I feel better. I named my list, “Step-by-Step: Becoming a Nurse.” Doesn’t that sound like a magazine article title? I have three easy steps and I even highlighted the prerequisite courses I’ll be able to take online. First, I must take some placement tests, so I requested “Forgotten Algebra” from the library. If all goes well, on January 21, I’ll be taking tests. Unless I decide that’s too soon–and it might be. Wait, is that Saturday? Well, okay, maybe in a few weeks. How about February? But not the 4th or the 25th or the 18th, either. I’m busy those days.
I finished A Severe Mercy, and so tonight, I started A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. He begins his memoir by stating in the “Preface to this Edition”: “For all the author’s bluster elsewhere, this is not, actually, a work of pure nonfiction. Many parts have been fictionalized in varying degrees, for various purposes.”
In light of the Frey Fray, I bet James Frey wishes he’d put a similar warning in his memoir, huh?
Here is how pathetic I am. Just awhile ago, after finishing exercising (every day, since December 1st–be impressed, even though my metabolism is unimpressed and seems not to have taken notice of my daily exertion)–which I did while reading the aforementioned book during the commericals of “American Idol”–I came downstairs and sat in the green recliner and clicked from channel to channel. (Before I came downstairs, I watched the first skaters in “Skating with Celebrities” on FOX. In one word? No. No, no, no, no, no.) Anyway, once downstairs, I settled on “Cribs,” specifically the episode with Kathy Griffin. I couldn’t stop watching, even when I saw myself for the pitiful creature I have become. I’m not blind. I stare at my self in horror and disappointment.
But I couldn’t stop because when I was in junior high, I had to design a house in art class. And I designed a house with a waterfall in the living room. Lo and behold, Kathy Griffin is living in the house I created in my mind.
I could have had a career in architecture. Who knew?