What's in a Name?

It was Romeo who said, "What's in a name?  That which we call a rose by another name would smell just a sweet."  And while Shakespeare was certainly right about that, I think there's a little more to it.  A lot more, actually.

 

Growing up as a child I didn't realize that Wrigley's gum was named after the man whose company shared his name – how could I?  a.)  I was seven.  b.) I favored the less corporate-promoting variety, Juicy Fruit, and c.)  I was interested in the gum more for the wrappers – remember those super cool L-link chains you could make? 

 

So, it should be safe to assume that if I didn't realize the gum was named after the magnate, you can bet I didn't know Wrigley Field was named after the same guy.  Wrigley Field.  It just doesn't sound like an ego stroke.  It sounds like a ballpark.  Wrigley Field.

 

I feel the same way about Shea Stadium, which I just recently found out was actually named William A. Shea Municipal Stadium after – you guessed it – William A. Shea who is, as they say, the man responsible for bringing National League baseball back to New York.  With an accomplishment like that, it makes sense to dedicate a baseball stadium to him; but, again, it doesn't feel like an ego stroke when it's a bestowed honor; plus, it sounds like a ballpark.  Shea Stadium.

 

I touched on this topic in my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir, when I mentioned going to see a concert at The Spectrum.  The Spectrum.  Now that sounds like a stadium – especially if you say it with a deep reverberative tone:  The Spectrum.  It's not called that anymore.  I don't even know what it's called – or what it was called the last time I was there.  It was named after some bank, and with all the recent folds, mergers and acquisitions who knows what it might be called now.

 

I'm sure it's me, but I just don't care for those corporate named stadiums: Staples Center, Bank One Ballpark which, of course, has already been changed to Chase Field (which does sound a little better, but still) or University of Phoenix Stadium (that has a catchy ring to it, huh?) which has nothing to do with Phoenix, Arizona (and is actually located in Glendale).

 

I like a name that's rooted in history or tied to a specific area or team – think Candlestick Park, Fenway or The Astrodome.  Now those are stadium names.  So, what's in name?  Ego, that's what.

 

It's my understanding we have Anheuser-Busch to thank for the first corporate branded stadium.  See, that's what happens.  After the first one does it, everyone follows.  He did what?  I want to do that!  He has what?  I have to have that!  What worked for them?  Oh, let's do that!  I call it the "Me, too" syndrome. 

 

This doesn't just apply to ballparks, either.  Think back to old TV commercials.  Remember how, back in the day, struggling wanna-be actors used to portray normal everyday folks in an effort to hawk shampoos, beauty products and hair dyes, not to mention things like cereal and sneakers.  Now you'd be hard-pressed to see an ad for these types of products without an accomplished actor, model or athlete peddling these wares.  Why?  Because someone did it first and everyone else followed suit; and thanks to that person we'll probably never have another Mr. Wipple or Dunkin' Donuts guy.  These two no-names became icons – but those days are over.  It's all about the recognizable name now.

 

And the latest trend?  I read recently that Sheryl Crow – a breast cancer survivor – donated a large sum of money to an establishment which is now named The Sheryl Crow Imaging Center.  While I think it's great she made such a large donation, I can't help but wonder what this means for the future.  How many will now follow in these footsteps? It'd be different if the imaging center was named in memoriam – think Susan G. Komen – but it wasn't, and to me, there's something very ego-y about that.  She probably had nothing to do with it; it's likely the facility just wanted to publicly express their gratitude – hospital wings and the like are commonly named after their benefactors.  I just think it would have been a greater gesture had the donation been made anonymously.

 

But anonymity, my friends, has no name… and therein lies the rub!

 

~ M. 

 

Say, what?

"Gimme Shelter" used to be one of my favorite songs.  I suppose, in some way, it may still be.  That song is tied to a memory which will likely keep it tethered to my heart.  It's just that now I'd rather think of the memory and imagine the song without ever actually hearing it again.  Why?  Well, because I finally found out what they were saying. 

 

Prior to Rock Band, I had no idea what the majority of the lyrics were.  I liked the music, dug the melody… "Love, sister, it's just a kiss away, it's just a kiss away…"  You know I hesitate to even quote that, since it's probably wrong.  Anyway, one day – while basking in nostalgia – I watched my brother rack up a lot of points to this song as colorful blocks flew up the neck of his guitar.  The basking ended abruptly when the words "rape" and "murder" ticked along the screen.  I sat straight up.  "What?  Rape?  Murder?  Just what the heck is this song about?"  I'm sorry, but knowing the lyrics has ruined this song for me.  I simply cannot bop along belting out lyrics like "rape" and "murder."

 

I'm certainly not the first person to misunderstand lyrics.  Rosie O'Donnell thought "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" was about a girl with a bowel disorder – and who could blame her?  It does sound more like a girl with colitis goes by than a girl with kaleidoscope eyes.  And I once heard that Bob Dylan was shocked at what he thought was pure boldness on the part of The Beatles to sing "I get high" on "I Want to Hold your Hand" when, in fact, they're actually singing "I can't hide."

 

Everyone misunderstands lyrics.

 

For years my sister thought Jimmy Buffett cut his heel on a Pop-Tart before cruising back home.  Never mind that that doesn't make sense or the fact that I've told her multiple times it's 'pop-top' – to this day, in her mind, it was a Pop-Tart that lacerated his foot in "Margaritaville."

 

Sometimes we just sing along without ever considering if it makes sense or not; other times we may over think it – like Linda did with England Dan & John Ford Coley's "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight."  She'd sing, "I'm not talkin' 'bout the linen…"  Again I was there to set her straight (which I'm sure she loved).  I said, "It's not linen, it's movin' in."  She told me it was linen and that the word was being used as a metaphor for all the stereotypical duties a woman incurs when a man and a woman get together.  (See what I mean? A little over thought.)  I said, "It is not linen.  It is not a metaphor.  It's movin' in."

 

Then there are the times we get the lyrics right but miss the point.  Years ago, a friend of mine who loved The Kinks' classic "Lola" had no idea that Lola was a transvestite.  She actually sang the correct lyrics – for the whole song – and still didn't know.  I asked her what she thought the end meant when they say, "I'm glad I'm a man, and so is Lola."  She said Lola was happy the guy was a man.  And while I'm sure he was happy about that, I said, "That's not it.  Lola's a man, too."  All she said was, "Oh…" as the logic gently washed over her.

 

Back in the 70s long before PC was prevalent, my other sister, Laura, believed that Three Dog Night loved the natives when, in fact, it's the ladies they loved as they sang "Joy to the World."

 

Although I knew it didn't make any sense, for years I thought the boys of CCR didn't need a pinhead just to hang around "Down on the Corner" (even though pinheads are often fun to be with).  It wasn't until I paid attention to the word nickel in the next line that I figured out they must be saying 'penny.'

 

And while I had no idea why Billy Preston's Willie went 'round in circles (I first heard this song as a child when I really enjoyed spinning), I just thought we had that in common.

 

There are probably thousands of stories of misunderstood lyrics.  After my experience with the Rolling Stones, I think sometimes it may be better not to know.  As my friend Elena used to say, "I have no idea what they're saying, but I give it a 10 'cause I like the beat!"   

 

Rock on –

 

~ M.      

 

Place your Bets!

Pwish.  Plink.  Kerplunk.  "I'll set 'em up again," I said as my little brother reloaded the BBs.  Dad, calling out from the front porch, asked, "What are you kids doing?"  We responded in unison, "Shooting soda cans."  It was the mid '70s, BB guns weren't an issue and this was what you did when you grew up in a rural part of town.

 

"Let me have a shot," Dad said.  As he pumped the gun, he turned to us and offered what seemed to be a deal – an opportunity – too good to pass up.  "I'll bet you fifty cents that even with a 20 second lead I can hit you with a BB."  (I know what you're thinking, and you're right – good times.)  Timmy turned to me wide-eyed, but not in wonder, it was more like fear; while I, on the other hand, stared back with eyebrows raised as I took in the possibility of it all.  Fifty cents?  Hey, that was a couple of packs of chewing gum back then.

 

"I'll have a 20 second lead?"  I needed to verify some particulars before making my final decision.  "Yup."  "And you get one shot?"  "Right."  Hmm… I could run pretty fast… He won't hit me… Uhhmmm… "Alright, you're on," I blurted out with great enthusiasm. 

 

As my adrenaline began to pump, my dad pumped the gun.  "Go," he yelled, and I took off running.  I ran for all I was worth and as I neared the woods, I heard the shot – PWOOSH  – sail right past me.  Quite pleased with myself, I strode back toward my dad and brother.  Almost simultaneously, I said, "Well, I did it," as my dad said, "Double or nothing I'll get you with just a 10 second lead."  No time to bask in the glory, I guess.  Hmm… only a 10 second lead this time?  Still charged by my victory high, I accepted the challenge.  "I'll do it!" 

 

4-3-2-1, PWOOSH.  Missed again.  "Ha, I'm like lightning," I called out, "You owe me one dollar!"  Then he said these fatherly words that I will never forget, "Double or nothing I'll get you this time."  (Parenting was different then.)  "You're on!"  You have to remember, at this point, I was running for two bucks.  Two dollars was a lot of money back in 1976. 

 

3-2-1, PWOOSH – PWULPT!  I was hit.  That BB got me in the back of my right thigh just below my butt.  I went down with my hand clasped to my leg, "Arghhh!"  As I rolled on the ground writhing in pain, my dad walked over to me.  And with the BB still deeply embedded in my leg, held tightly beneath my white-knuckled hand, he said these words: "Gambling does not pay."

 

The welt only lasted a few days, the lesson a lifetime.

 

~ M.

 

Party On!

What'll they think of next?  Sure, debutantes have long had their balls, young Jewish girls their Bat Mitzvahs and Latino chicas their Quinceñeras.  But why are the festivities limited to only a select few?  Well, they're not – not really.  Why any girl has always had the opportunity to celebrate her Sweet Sixteen if she wants to.  And then there's this other thing…  Don't tell me you haven't heard about the latest reason to throw a party? 

 

I'm taking about menarcheal rituals.  For those not familiar with that term, it is the adjective form of the word menarche which is defined, according to Merriam-Webster, as the beginning of the menstrual function, especially the first menstrual period of an individual.  Apparently mothers everywhere are now hosting 'first period' parties.  Do I need to repeat myself?  What will they think of next?

 

I can see the Hallmark cards now:

 

Adolescence is over

It's come to an end

And now you have

A monthly friend

 

You've hit puberty

Let's shout for joy

Good-bye little girl

Oh, boy – oh, boy!

 

Expect some cramps

And bloating, too

Shedding a uterine lining

Is not easy to do

 

Your head may ache

And moods will swing

But, you can procreate –

That's a cool thing

 

So what if it's painful

And you retain water

You're a woman now

My sweet baby daughter

 

Congratulations on your first period Honey!

 

I realize this is a milestone in a young woman's life, but it just doesn't seem like something you'd actually celebrate…

 

Now later in life when 'your friend' may be tardy,

but shows up, after all, that's when you party!

 

~ M.

 

Say, "Cheese."

I've talked about the effects of aging before.  It's a fascinating topic.

 

You know, when you're young, all you really hear about, in regard to aging, is some drivel about gray hair and a few wrinkles.  And if you're like me, you grew up hearing trivializing things about it like Clairol's ad campaign, "I'm gonna wash that gray right out of my hair," or that laugh lines are okay; so what if you look like you have a ventriloquist's dummy's hinged mouth – it shows character.  No, for some reason, no one talks about the other stuff.

 

It's not until you begin to undergo certain changes for yourself that you realize you're becoming part of a secret club: induction through experience.   Now there may not be a secret handshake among club members, but there are definitely tell-tale signs that you are one of them.  Club members don't typically go braless or wear sleeveless garments, for example.  Recent inductees may eschew these sensible guidelines and walk around without any mammary support – their nipples aligned with their navels – or in tank-tops with triceps flapping like raglan sleeves; but this doesn't mean they're any less part of the club.

 

What I don't understand is why all the secrecy? Why not let us know what's in store? What's wrong with a little heads-up?  Is it because it's just too horrifying to imagine, when you're young, what happens to your aging body, yet manageable to deal with, somehow, when it happens slowly, over time, in little increments? Maybe that's it.

 

Anyway, if you think of this aging thing like karate and with each new level you get another belt, then I'd guess I must be about a green belt already.

 

The latest development has me asking, "What's going on in my mouth? What is happening with my teeth?"  I think they're on the move.  I don't know how this is possible.  I haven't had any teeth extracted and, as far as I know, my mouth is still the same size so… how is it they're moving?  I obviously don't know the answer to that question; I just know that they are.  Things are forever getting stuck between them now.

 

There was a time in my life when, over a meal, I could freely converse and even let out a toothy grin, in response to something amusing, without any fear of sickening my dining companion by exposing some uneaten particle wedged between my teeth.  But, as any floss-carrying green-belt knows, those days are over.

 

And what is it about the mouth that distorts all size relativity? You know what I'm talking about: A caraway seed feels like a 2x4, a raspberry seed like a boulder, and a strand of chicken feels like the entire bird has taken roost amid the molars. 

 

Did you ever have a piece of lettuce or tomato skin cling to the roof of your mouth?  It feels like a tarp.  This doesn't happen to me often, but when it does, it actually incites mild waves of panic as I first begin to try and discreetly remove it with my tongue.  My eyes naturally begin to dart around as I focus on dislodging the suffocating blanket that is holding steadfast to my upper palate.  These episodes almost always end with me in a cold sweat saying, "Exth-thcoothez me, there'thz thumthing sthtuck in my mouth."  Earnestly repressing my gag reflex, I've often no choice but to distastefully remove the gossamery offender with my finger.

 

Well, I veered off a bit, but there you have it.  I've entered the tooth migration stage of this inevitable process, but I'm not worried.  So what if I now have a tiny spit-hole between my two front teeth; add that to my fang on the top right and my crowded English choppers on the bottom and my smile is still just as dazzling as ever!  Say, "Cheese." 

 

Wondering what the next belt will be… 

~ M.

 

Craig Wilson

I don't know if you're familiar with Craig Wilson or not, but I love this guy.  So what if he's an openly gay man – that I've never actually met – who's been involved in a committed relationship for over 25 years.  I don't care.  I love him just the same.

 

I always look forward to his Wednesday column in the USA Today – nary one goes by unread.  I appreciate his witty style, easy going disposition and overall demeanor.  I relate to him.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's because we both grew up in the Northeast?  Or that we're close in age?  I don't know, but after one of his April columns, I became convinced that we must be kindred spirits. 

 

This past April marked the 30 year anniversary of the Post-it note.  Well, according to what he wrote in his column, he, too, has an affinity for these little wonders – 'love affair' was the term he actually used.  I get that – totally. 

 

Like Craig, I'm also a list maker and these little gems couldn't be handier for that.  I not only use these for weekly grocery lists, but as anyone who knows me can testify, I have an entire year's worth of financial expenses stuck right to my check book.  Also like Craig, I've been known to keep a Post-it note in the upper corner of my At-A-Glance calendar blotter detailing special 'to do' items for work.  And ever the traditionalist myself, I, too, use only the canary yellow – let's face it, any Post-it user worth his salt wouldn't be caught dead with anything else.   

 

I keep the 3x3 pads in my right-hand desk drawer, in a drawer in my kitchen and in my night table.  They're always there at the ready to record a message, note some task that needs attending or, my favorite, to capture a brilliant idea.  I've been known to tip-toe out of the shower, soaking wet, not willing to risk forgetting something clever that came to mind.  And I've also jotted down reminders after waking from a sleepy haze lest I forget some ingenious insight I had.

 

Now, the problem is although the Post-it note will never let you down, our feeble minds are just not as reliable.  I awoke one morning to find the words 'cloud nine' scribbled down and, for the life of me, I have no idea why – it was obviously worth noting at 3:00 a.m. but… perhaps it will come to me one day.  In the meanwhile, as anyone who's read The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir knows, I can happily live without a man in my life; but I don't think I could live without Post-its.  I'm sure Craig Wilson would attest.  And who wouldn't love that?

 

~ M.

LOVE

I Corinthians 13:13 says, "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love."

 

The love Paul is talking about is patient and kind – one that's not rude or self-seeking; one that always protects, always trusts, always perseveres.

 

The 13^th chapter of I Corinthians is read at many weddings and it's my opinion that spouses can only dream of attaining this type of pure love.  See, the problem is that men and women are both human and, for most humans, things get in the way of pure love.  Things like envy, pride, anger – the very things Paul says love is not. 

 

Animal lovers know that pure love can be found with our pets.  They're always there for you and they give love unconditionally; and when you nurture that relationship, they will become precious babies that you can interact with.    

 

They greet you in the morning when you get up, follow you throughout the routine of your day and snuggle up with you at bedtime.  And they have their own habits, as well – from napping locations, to play times, to preferred toys – that showcase their individual personalities.

 

I've had two Himalayan cats for over 17 years.  Don't let that number just glide over you – 17 years is a long stretch of time, a long time.  Think about it, 17 years ago Bill Clinton had only just begun his presidency, the only economic downturn anyone spoke of was still the Great Depression and terrorism hadn't quite fully made its way to the US yet.  Do you get it?  Seventeen years is a long, long time. 

 

On April 8^th I lost my Izzie.  Princess Isabella Serina passed away, leaving me genuinely broken hearted.  There are no words that can convey the depth of my feelings to make any reader understand what she truly meant to me – it's personal, an unsurpassed special bond that was forged over nearly two decades.   

 

To make my sorrow even deeper, I watch her sister, who's 17-1/2, look for her everywhere – not understanding.  Her life is different now, my life is different now.  And what's crushing me is that I know it's only a matter of time before I'll lose Lillie, too – or Queen Lillie Chandra as she's known on the registry of the Cat Fancier's Federation. 

 

Of course I understand that loss is inevitable, but knowing that doesn't help at all – the pain is brutal.  My Izzie was the cutest Iz that ever was or ever will be.  She was like my shadow – always by my side.  I'll miss her forever.  And Miss Lil will always be my first baby girl – nothing will ever change that. 

 

With a hole in my heart…

 ~ M.