The Name Game

Names have always held an odd fascination for me. My mother despised her name, which I never fully understood. “Bessie Katherine” was a good, solid southern name, and seems pretty tame compared with that of one of her childhood friends, who was unfortunately saddled with “Highly Devine. Nevertheless, my mother shed the hated “Bessie” at the first opportunity, changed the “Katherine” to “Catherine,” and forever after went by Catherine B. Ferguson, which I considered awfully prosaic—especially considering that her own grandmother had the most, uh, spectacular name I ever heard. It was “Rachel Lucretia Cassandra Josephine Sarah Elizabeth Margaret Katherine Evelyn Dow Turner Dillard Gold. No, really. Seriously. Do you think I could make up something like that? So the story goes, my great great grandparents had 21 children, the majority of whom were wiped out in some pandemic or other, and my great grandmother was named after her dead siblings. Isn’t that charming? And, you may well ask, with such a wealth to choose from, which did she choose to go by?

Lu. They called her Lu.

My mother pored over baby name books, determined that her daughters would not have names that could easily be lampooned or twisted into ugly or insulting nicknames. No sirree, her daughters weren’t going to be made fun of, or likened to a cow, due to an ill considered name choice. After careful consideration, she settled on “Teresa Marie” and “Linda Katherine.” Unfortunately, her “best laid plans” came to naught, as my classmates gleefully locked onto my last name as the target of their barbs and I was known all through school as “Fergie.” Oh, sure, it’s a very trendy moniker now, but back then I hated it.

In a sublime example of cosmic irony, when I married, I traded in “Ferguson” for “Coffin.” Now, that’s a last name with real baggage. It elicits snorts and snickers wherever it goes. I’ve even had people blurt out, “That’s not a real name!” Pizza places have actually hung up on me when I gave them my last name… after they ASKED for it!

The only place where the name Coffin doesn’t lift an eyebrow is the island of Nantucket off the coast of Massachusetts. In the 1640’s, four families settled on the island: The Gardners, the Folgers, the Starbucks, and—the Coffins. (Clearly we should have gone into the coffee business… but I digress.) If you show up on Nantucket and mention your name, a crowd quickly gathers, armed with genealogy charts, wanting to see how you’re related. Half the businesses on Main Street are called “Coffin” this-or-that: Coffin General Store, Coffin Real Estate, the Jared Coffin House. It’s a real hoot—if you’re named Coffin.

The name has a long, illustrious, and probably apocryphal history, tracing back to 1066, when William the Conqueror decided he wanted to own that charming little island across the channel. His knights received land in exchange for their services. (There is still a Coffin estate in England.) Anyway, some of the “Chauvin” ancestors settled in London. The name “Chauvin” became “Coffin,” and one of them must have been quite a woodworker. He became known for crafting small, ornamental jewelry boxes. They called them coffins, of course. Later the family “branched out,” as it were. So, YES, if you were wondering, coffins ARE named after the family.

It’s a tough name to grow up with, despite the history. Fergie simply pales in comparison. I just wanted to say to my kids: Just remember. Coffin is the coolest name on earth—on October 31^st.

Avatar: A Somewhat Belated Review

Okay, let's talk about the movie with the big blue smurfycats. I think I'm the only member of my family who actually bothered to watch it, the others concluding (correctly, alas) that the plot is so derivative, it's not worth the effort. You've all probably read that it's basically the same plot as [insert your favorite movie about big evil countries/corporations/conglomerations raping and pillaging the landscape and/or natives here]. Well, it's true. Then again, plot isn't everything. In fact, depending on who you ask, there are only five basic plots in all of literature. (Some claim there's really only one.) "Avatar" filed the serial numbers off an old, tried-and-true plot, and then dazzled us with special effects. The results were mixed. So, I'd give it an A+ for beauty of animation and cinematography, and a D- on plot, due to utter predictability. Sam Worthington (Sully) and Zoe Saldana (Neytiri) get A's for their voice acting (and brief "real" acting, for Worthington.) Cameron's "world building" skills need work. For instance, I had real problems with "floating mountains." I think the laws of physics apply even on Pandora, folks. Voiding them out by use of some mysterious "vortex" thingy won't cut it, sorry. And whoever decided to call the mysterious mineral "unobtainium" gets the "Lame Name of the Century" award, and should be blackballed from all future cinematic endeavors forever. James Cameron should be marooned on an iceberg in the North Atlantic for three days just for ALLOWING it. HONESTLY. That practically ruined the whole movie for me. Even friends who are able to suspend their disbelief quite easily, had a problem with "unobtainium." I could not have come up with a more idiotic name if I'd sat up three nights running, watching nothing but a Three Stooges marathon interspersed with back-to-back infomercials. While drinking double Espresso and eating Turkish Delight. And Cheetos. Gah. Unobtainium. Gah. I thought Sigourney Weaver was great; and doesn't she look incredible for a woman of 60? But the Marine Colonel/Mercenary was way, WAY too two-dimensional. He was like the bastard offspring of Boris Badenov and Maleficent. And, once more flogging the deceased equine, the plot was pure DancesWithWolvesPocahontasFernGully. I could throw in a few dozen others. Really, they should have called it "Dances with Big Blue Native Smurf Cats on Pandora." And, of course, you know what "Pandora" means, right? Right? My only question is, was James Cameron aware of the awesome mythic roots he was giving his smurfy cats? If so, how could he then proceed to slap the audience in the face with a wet fish called "unobtainium?" Sheer ignorance? Bad advice from his production staff? Off his meds? However, despite my difficulties with floating mountains and all, it was a very pretty movie. And, oh boy, the beasties were spectacular! Great, GREAT beasties! My assessment: Despite it all, worth watching. Watch it for the beasties.

Observations on the Vacuum Cleaner

Someone once said that nature abhors a vacuum.

Well, I have something in common with nature. I can't stand my vacuum, either. That is, I can't stand my vacuum cleaner. This may have something to do with the fact that it's male.

It's not that I'm anti-male, really. But what with my husband and three sons, not to mention my (male) German shepherd, my daughter and I are are already outnumbered. The last thing we need is a male vacuum cleaner, too.

You may not have realized that household appliances have genders, but they do. This particularly applies to vacuum cleaners.

Male vacuum cleaners are sleek and shiny, with lots of chrome. They usually have wheels on the bottom, but these are purely for decoration. The typical male vacuum cleaner is top heavy and falls over when being dragged from room to room or around corners. This is because men are stronger than women, and really don't care whether the vacuum cleaner rolls smoothly or has to be lugged from room to room on its side. After all, they've used to clubbing a moose and dragging it back to the cave, right? After that, a mere 50 pound vacuum cleaner is a piece of cake.

Yes, male vacuum cleaners are heavier, and supposedly sturdier than the female variety. They are sold door-to-door, and never in a discount store. They usually have a sticker price similar to a compact car, and like a car, they have endless options which can be added on. That's because men love gadgets. Male vacuum cleaner salesmen are usually male themselves, and they insist on "the man of the house" being present at the demonstration. Supposedly; this is because the man makes the major buying decisions; but in reality, it's because the salesman knows he can impress they guy with the rug shampoo/floor sander/Cuisinart option.

And then there's the lifetime moneyback guarantee. This sucks men in like a black hole. To a man, a lifetime guarantee says security. It says, I love you enough to buy you the best.

To a woman, where a male vacuum cleaner is concerned, that lifetime guarantee says: LIFE SENTENCE WITHOUT PAROLE.

I haven't said much about the female of the species. Well, it is usually lightweight, efficient, quiet, and can be purchased at any discount store for under $300.00. Invariably, the man will think it looks "cheap" and wonder aloud if it is powerful enough to do the job.

"Geez, it doesn't even have a paint removing attachment!"

But set a male vacuum cleaner in front of the man you love, and he'll get a gleam in his eye similar to the one he gets when he sees a new Corvette. ("Look, honey, real Corinthian leather seats!")

So ladies, if necessary, give in gracefully. Let your husband purchase a male vacuum cleaner and drag it out to his workshop to gather dust (literally). Then bop over to Wal-Mart and get yourself a female. Who knows? Maybe you can breed them, and have little dust busters running all over the house cleaning up your toddler's cookie crumbs.

Well, I can dream, can't I?