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Addicted to Naming Things
Giving names to inanimate objects, I love it!
I ‘m addicted to naming things, especially those items that I find clever and useful. For example, my daughter gave me a Roomba automatic vacuum cleaner for Christmas one year. What a smart machine! You know, a Roomba learns its way around the house in no time. I promptly named him Richie and programmed him to vacuum every day. Occasionally, I would come home from work and Richie wouldn’t be on his docking station; he had gotten lost.
And so begins the search. “Have you seen Richie?” I ask my husband.
This really drives him crazy. He says that naming a vacuum is one step closer to robots taking over the world. Oh . . . whatever. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. Names just make communication easier.
I almost always find Richie in the bathroom, my husband’s bathroom. I think he may shut Richie in there on purpose—a kind of time-out. Yes, my husband has his own bathroom. And it’s conveniently located on the opposite side of the house from the master bathroom, which is my bathroom. I don’t know why it took the kids moving out to realize how great it was to have separate bathrooms!
For my 50th birthday, my husband and son got me a Porsche Boxster convertible. Forgetting the fact that getting a sports car for your 50th birthday is a bit of a cliche, I love it! It’s a very classy car. Silver grey, inside and out. As much as I love bright pops of color in my wardrobe, only a sophisticated monochrome palette would do for such a great car. I contemplated for about a week to come up with the perfect name: Georgia. Georgia was my great grandma’s name. Coincidentally, she had silver gray hair; she was also very classy and sophisticated. I don’t remember ever seeing her lose her temper. And going to Georgia was also the first road trip I took in my new automobile. So, for both reasons, nothing but Georgia would suit her.
It wasn’t easy, but I eked out some space for her in the garage. Georgia doesn’t like the rain, you know. When I can’t find my cell phone or my purse, I can say to my husband, “Will you see if Georgia has my phone?” And he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
Since we’re talking about naming gifts, I gave my daughter a PT Cruiser for her 16th birthday. The car met all my requirements for a first car. It was safe, affordable, and had a standard transmission. My son says that I don’t use this word correctly. What I mean is that you shift the car into gear with a clutch. At the time, I thought it was very important for my daughter to know how to drive such a car. What if she were out with a group of friends and the driver could no longer drive . . . and the only car available was a stick shift? She would know how to drive it, and the crisis would be averted—and there you go. Besides, when you have to shift a car to make it move, you can’t talk on the phone or text. You must concentrate on driving.
We were doing pretty well with our driving lessons until one weekend, when her brother came home from college for a visit.
At this point, I have to say that not all names given to inanimate objects are a good thing. The first words out of my son’s mouth as he walked into the house were, “Who got a PT Loser?” And that was it. Driving around in a PT Loser was not going to happen.
And so Richie and Georgia waved goodbye to PT Loser.