What Shall We Name the Baby?

I was sitting here the other day pondering the names we give our children, and wondering what it is that drives us when faced with giving to a person, who maybe not even be here yet, or in some cases maybe not even in utero yet, the appellation by which said person will be known for the rest of his/her life. (Okay, can we agree that where I use he/his/him it will mean either sex and is in no way snubbing the femmes? Thank you)

So, back to naming the baby. Naming my own children was not too difficult. The first one was named after his father - yes, he became a Jr. on the moment of birth. But I was young and thought it was expected. I now know better. The second and third sons were named what they were named because I thought the names, first and middle, had a nice ring to them, although in the case of the second son, his middle name was a family name that could as easily been a regular name. Son number four has a first and middle name that I liked all by myself and would have named #two or #three except the last name I had at the time just didn't fit with #four's first and middle. The first and middle name of #five was a mutually-arrived at decision with #five's father. (Who was, BTW, also the father of #four.)

I happen to think that all of my sons have perfectly handsome names, and if any one of them wished to use any variation of their names, they would be equally mellifluous-sounding. Wise of me to think that while they were given those names, they at least had an option in the manner they chose to use them. To wit: First and Last; First, Middle, Last; First, Middle Initial, Last; First Initial, Middle, Last; First Initial, Middle Initial, oh, you know.

In my own case, I was given a first name, which came with a last name. NMI. I have always disliked my first name. Not hated it, exactly, but never thought it had any character or pizzazz. At one point, age 12ish, I desperately wanted my name to be Lisle. pronounced Lie-ull. No, I don't know why. Anyway, for a time I insisted my step-sister call me that, which she did but never without a snicker. But I'm stuck with the name I never really cared for, and I had no options. Until I was confirmed in the church when we got to pick a middle name. At the time, I was in the middle of an episode of religious zeal and having just seen the movie The Song of Bernadette, that's what I chose. The same people who gave me my mundane first name spent no time at all trying to talk me out of my choice and so I ended up with a middle name that offered no options once I came to my senses.

Of course, I, as many others of my age and location, wasted no time getting pregnant and married and being known as Mommy. I was still busy being Mommy when my first-to-get-married son presented me with a baby girl who would be calling me Grandmom. She was followed over the years by siblings and cousins, all 10 of whom call me Grandmom.

Now if we add to the unliked first name, the unwieldly middle name, Mommy and Grandmom, all the character names of all the roles I have played on stage, it occurs to me that it really doesn't much matter what name I was given.

I do recall one woman, upon being told what name I had selected for #five, shrieked loudly into the 'phone, "What the hell kind of a name is that!?" This from a woman who named her only son Guido.

Was That This Year?

Okay, here's a rant. On many occasions, when stopped at a traffic signal, I glance at the surroundings and of late have noticed a proliferation of yard sale signs tacked/stapled/nailed/taped to trees and utility poles. In fact, I've had the dubious pleasure of watching someone put the sign on the pole. Just when I'm about to ask the sign putter-upper if he/she knows that the tree or pole to which he/she is affixing said sign is private property, the light changes and in my neighborhood, you better damn well be prepared to move the exact second the light changes. Or suffer the horn-blowing that is sure to ensue if one's foot is not immediately off-the-brake-and-on-the-gas.

Since I'm not the Private Property Police, it's probably okay that folks want to publicize the sale of tacky junque, which if they don't want it, what makes you think you do?

But it surely grinds my gears when the asshat doesn't have the good sense to come back and take the bloody sign down when the sale is over! Fact is, some of the signs have been on that tree/pole for months. Since we don't live in graffiti-ridden area, and most people are pretty respectful about littering, the yard sale signs are a singular blight on our small communities.

But I have what I consider a way to , if not eliminate these eyesores, at least decrease their numbers. I hope you'll join my crusade. It's pretty easy. So many people are "walkers" in the quest for physical fitness, slip a plastic bag in your pocket tomorrow when you leave for that constitutional. Keep your eyes open for unattractive yard sale signs littering your neighborhood. Since the miscreants have to put their address on their signs, cue ominous music: duh duh daaaaaah we know where you live. After you have collected all the signs along your route, return those suckers to their rightful owners. You can nail them on their tree; slip them under the door; mail them back; or if you're feeling particularly bold, knock on the door and hand 'em over. I suggest you only do the latter if you're sufficiently able to run fast!

Elections have a way of bringing out those odious lawn signs that pop up all over printed with Vote for Doofus thereby perpetrating another eyesore because the law that says the signs must be removed following the election isn't always enforced. I'll bet Mr. Doofus would like to have his signs back. You think so, too? Well, let's make sure Mr. Doofus gets those signs back - on his lawn. Be even better if Mr. Doofus didn't win. (Cue sound of gleeful cackling.)

At the Beach

A week at the Jersey Shore. Wildwood Crest, to be precise. The southernmost end of the Wildwoods. All that's left after the Crest is Cape May and the Atlantic. Ocean, that is. This was my third year of vaca with my youngest son and his family. DIL rents a condo and we do spend the week in comfort. This year's was beach-block. In the Crest, that's very desirable, because crossing the sand to get to the edge of the ocean is quite a walk in itself. In North Wildwood and Wildwood it's an even longer walk. The Wildwoods do have a lot of beach. If you are a beach devotee, you probably have heard that Wildwood is a loud, rowdy,raucous, drunken-party kind of town. You must come to the Crest. It's not at all like you've heard.

So we had a three BR, two bath first floor condo. Nicely furnished and clean as a whistle. Balcony overlooking the well-maintained pool and grill area.

Breakfast in the condo, sandwiches and snacks on the beach, dinner at one or the other of the hundreds of restaurants in the area. Some are good, some are very good and some are just revolting. One night of a seafood feast but we bypass the over-priced all you can eat seafood buffets and opt to cook our own feast in our condo. Shop-Rite has some excellent deals on crab, shrimp, scallops, etc. Our feast, with left-overs, cost about a fourth of what we would have spent at Urie's.

The boardwalk is as gaudy, glitzy, crowded as I remembered from my childhood vacations. The only difference - it was fun then. And it's still fun for the kids. At one spot on the BW, at one of the numerous pizza joints, there was a man tossing pizza dough in a showy manner. He delights in selecting someone, usually a child, from the onlookers and making the dough into a t-shirt. It is kinda cute and they take a photo which can be seen on Facebook. My eight-year-old Granddaughter, who is a ham anyway, was one of the lucky girls who wore this silly garment and had fun doing it.

Lazy days building sand castles and hauling buckets of sea water up the beach to moisten the quick-drying towers seems to be a lot of fun. For the kids. As for me, sitting quietly and reading my Kindle is fun enough for me.

A day in Cape May to wander the shopping district (high-priced clothing, for the most part), and roam the book store. Enjoyed watching the people climb into the horse-drawn open carriages for a half-hour tour of the residential streets with the charming Victorian homes. Forty-five dollars for one person, $60. for two and increments for each add'l passenger. We passed on the trip. Cape May does have a wonderful Zoo/Park and is run by volunteers. Wholly operates on donations and endowments. The animals are scattered about in native habitats, for the most part, and the fences that surround them are mostly disguised. We didn't go this year, but it is a nice way to spend a few hours.

The consensus? A week is too short.

Been a While

I haven't been around. Well, I've been around, just not around here. Had some bad days - not terrible - just bad. Then went on vacation. And it's been too bloody hot to even think let alone think of posting.

I've been like the weather. Dry. Very dry. We definitely need rain. Got some today, and while it's welcome, it's not sufficient.

I still stubbornly maintain my stance against the air conditioner in my window. Haven't installed it the last couple of years, and despite the intense heat and humidity of this summer, I'm holding fast. What the hell. My youngest son has central air in his house, and I have a key. Or a walk around the Dollar Store gets me a brief respite from the Dog Days. Their A/C is going whether I'm there or not so it doesn't cost them extra when I peruse the merchandise. Buy something. Don't buy something. They don't care. What's that across the parking lot? I do declare it's a Mickey D's. Stroll over and get a Smoothie. Sit and sip a bit. A stop at the market for some watermelon. Linger a while in the frozen food aisle.
A "cool" way to spend the afternoon.

Home for a chicken salad and sliced tomato supper. Nothing too heavy. A frosty pitcher of sweet iced tea awaits. Sit on the screened-in front porch with a good book and a tall cool drink. Sun is low in the sky and the ceiling fan in the bedroom makes the night tolerable.

No strenuous activity during the hot spell, except when the electric bill arrives. I can be forgiven for that big, wide smile, can't I?

Soon it will be Fall. Then Winter. The hot, humid weather nothing but a memory. And I have vowed never to complain again about being cold.

As for vacation, it was lovely. Met a magician at dinner; had a turkey platter that would have fed a small country; granddaughter got a pizza crust t-shirt. Come back tomorrow for details.

I Guess It's Me

I don't get Facebook. I didn't get My Space either, when it was all the rage. Oh I joined My Space at the insistence of some friends. Only problem was it repeatedly refused to let me sign in - to my account. Frustrated me no end so I abandoned it.

Then, Chris Hansen does all those exposes of predators who frequented My Space chat rooms and suddenly My Space lost cred. And along comes Facebook. I got a tip that someone I had been searching for might be found on that site, so I signed up. The only people I found were those who only shared their info with "friends". Since I had little interest in befriending these people, I closed the account. And after I did, I got an e-mail from the nice folks who run the place assuring me that I would change my mind, and when I did, they would welcome me back. Nice to know they're keeping my seat warm. But it seems to me that the only reason people want to be on Facebook is to see how many "friends" they can garner. Apparently it gives one a sense of achievement to get to say. "I have xxx number of friends. I'm so popular."

Now the thing that makes me crazy is the New Age of Advertising where companies ask me to join them on Facebook. They offer coupons, and contests, and information about the product. On Facebook. Any takers? Not I, sez I. May not mean much to the giants of industry, but I refuse to do business with a company whose only identity is how many "friends" they have. The point of being in business is to have customers. And the way to get customers is to have a good quality, reasonably priced, readily available product. Tell me about it on TV or in the newspaper. And give me a coupon to introduce it. My return purchases will tell you how friendly I am.

Like I said earlier, I don't get it. If you really think all of these "friends" are friends, tell 'em you're moving and need help. That's when you find out who your friends are.

Dance Recitals and Ugly People

My two youngest granddaughters are dance students. The little one takes ballet and tap, while her sister takes ballet and jazz. She did take tap for a couple of years but switched to jazz last year. I'm not a big fan of jazz, which in recent years has become more hip-hop and less Bob Fosse. Anyway, they had their dance recital(s) over the last two weekends and it's important to them that Grandma attend. I love to see them dance. The only drawback is that one must watch everyone else's kids dance and while the really little ones are cute, the rest of the evening(s) are very long. So, the first Friday, the little one appeared in two numbers - one being her ballet and the other being her tap. She did a good job and basked in the glow of floral tributes, compliments, and lots of hugs.

Saturday night, the older sister had her ballet recital as one of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz production. This is her first year as one of the "Big Girls" so she has to work her way up to a premiere role. Since she isn't yet nine years old, it will be three years before we see her on pointe. The young lady who danced the role of the Wicked Witch was a remarkable dancer, although she was a bit on the heavy side. So we got to hug Our Girl, and give her flowers, and tell her how wonderful she is, and then we got to go home.

The following weekend, the big girl had her jazz recital, on both Friday and Saturday evenings. For the first time, the dance school she attends had a young boy in the jazz class. The choreography of her routine called for the boy to lift her during the performance, and for her to cartwheel over him. They both did a nice job and the audience cheered and applauded as they took their simultaneous bow.

I attended the Saturday evening performance and was seated with my son, his wife, and his sister-in-law. In the row in front of us, a man, a woman, and a young boy were seated together. You may be sure that anyone at the recital has a very close relative or an extremely special friend's child. What follows is what was related to me several days after the show.

The jazz dancers were performing, and the girls were wearing pink and black striped shirts, under-leggings and long black shorts. The only boy was dressed in blue and black striped outfit and a ball cap. The woman in the row ahead remarked, "Is that a boy?" and her male companion said, "Yes". The woman responded with, "What is he? A faggot?" The man said, "Leave the kid alone".

The person who heard this exchange was too taken aback to say anything, but I'm afraid I would not have been so reticent. In the first place, why would an adult make that kind of remark about a kid? Within earshot of the kid who had accompanied her? In public? If this sorry excuse for a human could see how ugly she is, she would hide from the world.

As for the young dancer, at age nine he fears being labeled gay by his peers. He's a Little Leaguer with a crush on one of the fifth grade girls in the dance class.
He's taking dance for movement improvement so that when he plays sports, it will enhance his capability on the field.

Would it be poetic justice if this woman's own progeny turned out to practice an alternative lifestyle? I'm only sayin'.

Heroes

Last evening, I attended the Jefferson Awards dinner and award ceremony at the Ramada, along with my youngest, Palmer and his wife, Stacey. The Jefferson honors local people with the spirit of volunteerism and selfless giving. Palmer was nominated because of his decades-long devotion to firefighting, both as a volunteer and career, and his helping hands whereever needed, from coaching soccer and Little League, and recording Coming Home to benefit the families of those deployed to the Middle East. Offering a helping hand to family, friends and people he didn't even know. Just because that's how he is.

The awards are sponsored by the Times Leader, and there was a cocktail hour followed by the usual banquet fare; slice o' melon, limp salad, chicken, rice, a tablespoon of vegetables (really. A tablespoon), and two tablespoons of chocolate mousse. But we weren't expecting much more. It wasn't about the dinner anyway.

We were seated with a woman who was a Nurse Practitioner who had instituted programs to provide health care for migrant workers and other needy people with no insurance, and an 18-year-old man who ran fund raisers in his high school to support a food pantry in the area, having raised almost $2,000. cash in addition to food contributions.

The presentation of the awards, an etched glass plaque, was accompanied by a voice-over reciting the achievements of the seventeen nominees. Seventeen remarkable people, from the 16-year-old young lady to the 89-year-old senior lady who does more in a week than I do in six months. It was inspirational, and humbling, and embarrassing to realize that I do nothing to enrich the lives of others. Hell, I don't even enrich my own life.

Five of these exceptional folks were chosen as finalists, and one overall winner of an expense-paid trip to Washington DC to represent NEPA at the national Jefferson Awards dinner.

At the end of the evening, Palmer told the organizer, Rachel Pugh, that I was the "What's in it for you?" lady. She was very excited and insisted I must be introduced to Richard (Connor). We chatted briefly. He now has the face to put to the e-mails I send when I agree with something he wrote.

It was an uplifting couple of hours. Makes me want to go out and adopt a kid. Well, maybe not. But something.