“Eeyore, don’t pick your nose!” Waiting in the checkout line, I tore my attention from the tabloid photos of Big Foot’s fanny lift, to witness a boy mining his nasal Eeyorifaces and the droopy-eyed mom who resembled a donkey herself.
Obviously, popular names have changed a smidgen since Bobby, Tommy, Karen, and Darlene pranced across the original Mickey Mouse Club set. Gee whiz, Annette was such an exotic name! And if a parent yelled for John or Linda, half of the neighborhood kids deserted our backyard kickball game.
The most popular baby names now include Jacob, Joshua, and Ethan; Emily, Madison, and Abigail. Not so bad. But get this, the top ten girls’ names are spelled 104 ways! And the top ten for boys? A whopping 118! That suggests a host of gems like J’aaShoe-ah, EeE‘thin’ and Ab-B‘Gay’L. Add in the “hot” boy names like Canon, Cactus, Aspen, and Blaze, and some nasty nicknames are brewing. (Stop it, Cactus, you little pr__k!)
And girls called Avalon, Pillow, or Satin? Behold, tomorrow’s car dealers and strippers.
Think, people, think! Every child deserves a name that conveys dignity and class, one that melts on the tongue like an Italian sorbet. Nauseamo, for example. Or Flatulencia.
Creativity trumps sanity, however, with Ka’Ren, Cha’Nce, and my personal favorite, Ce’Qwoya. That’s right, the monster of coniferous trees. Granted, proud parents want to proclaim their child’s uniqueness. But most kids would rather fit in with peers, not be different. Plus, no child deserves the lifetime curse of having to bark, “Two t’s in lower case, apostrophe, capital DD, exclamation point…pronounced Ted.”
Oy vey.
But weep ye not, o fellow lovers of language. For, skulking deep inside math and science are myriad mint-condition, low-mileage names that actually mean something! So grab a dictionary while we skate across a plethora of possibilities. Myriad? Plethora? Hmm. Weren’t they, like, two ancient Greeks raised by Dalmatians? Anyway, imagine…
At the airport: “Polyhedra Jones, please pick up a white courtesy phone.” At the tofu sculpting contest: “Congratulations to our winners, Joule and Boolean Hansen!” In a high school cafeteria: “Kelvin asked Amygdala to the prom!!” And in the classifieds: “Gold wedding ring, engraved with “To my husband with love, Wasserschnicht Inertia Johnson”—Lost at Hooters. Big, big reward.”
It’s true that a move toward names like Pythagorea, Hoarfrost, or Muon-Neutrino will add pizzazz to the future résumé. But the kiss of death ’twill also be…for 12-Step anonymity.
Pssst! If you’re seeking the mother lode of unused, distinctive names, scope out the Periodic Table of Elements! Good griefaroni, have you peeked at that puppy? Yikes! Einsteinium will beckon to parents in academia, with Californium the favorite of those madcap Nebraskan farmers. Can you picture “Molybdenum Schwartz” stenciled on a lavender Shrek lunch box? And who could resist seeding a little family pathology by naming their twins Hafnium and Holmium? Ooh, just makes me shiver.
The Periodic Table is stuffed with names that will indulge the craving to be unique while packing a solid educational punch. Terbium, Yttrium, and Ytterbium sound alike, but each element has its very own atomic number! Absolutely free!
The spelling thing still worries me. Unchecked variations could decimate the Periodic Table with aberrations like Ka’arbunn, Fos‘F’Rus, and Zzzynque. So I propose new legislation, say…an Apostrophe User Tax.
Then again, thoughtful parents could resurrect classics like Bob, Jane, and that old-fashioned clunker, Dick. Those parents can sleep easy, knowing their precious little Dicks will stand up proudly in a sea of Aidans and Jadens. Our name selection might eventually reflect true diversity in America, merrily blending stupidity and science in a nationwide square dance without a caller.
And when we exhaust the Periodic Table, fear not, for then shall we fling open the medicine cabinets! Mmm, some real beauties lurking in there. With luck, we’ll someday hug family youngsters with names like Polyquaternium-7 and Methylchloroisothiazolinone. Without apostrophes.
Copyright © 2008 by Mary Tompsett
Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated columnist hoping to snag an agent for her first novel. She lives on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Wisconsin) with her dog and two cats, who allow her to believe she is their goddess. Her horse left the family for a more stable environment.
