What’s in a name? Does a rose by any other name… Did your parents struggle over yours; did you have angst over your children’s or did you pick it out of a pail? Did you change your name when you married (male and female)? Do you like your name; does it fit your personality or is it more suited to a serial killer or a transvestite? Does your name label you as being from a certain country or religion, say a Hindi from Chicago? How did you choose your blog name? Is it your alter ego, someone you admire, or revenge for a teenage prank? Do you think our names have some part in forming our personalities, or is it more that cream pudding you spilled down the front of the dean’s wife’s dress?
This onslaught of thought came as a result of being tagged by ‘Twas Brillig to answer the following question:
Where did you get your child’s' name from?
Q has a family first name, she is just grateful she bypassed Edwina. Her middle name is one that I did hope would influence her personality. It is a name of passion and independence; at times I got more than I bargained for, in my thinking. I am glad to say she likes her name and it does suit her well.
I firmly believe any action taken in your twenties, without evil intent, should be forgiven and forgotten. One’s brain is not fully formed until you are thirty. I base this opinion on personal experience! It’s just one of those opinions I thought I should put out there. What do you think?
Someone has been playing Celine Dion for a week now – over and over in one of the houses on our street – all of the day and into the night in competition with the prayer calls. We have the windows open to get the ocean breeze and the sound comes curling in through the open shutters. It is surreal. Celine Dion in North Africa? They only play the sad, whining ones so we are thinking perhaps a broken heart, or just tone deaf? And I heard the blues as I was walking through the medina today – sounded like B.B. King. Standing life size outside an appliance shop in the medina is a cutout of Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his weight lifting days. The man had a waist like Scarlet O’Hara. You get these wafts of western culture and it catches you unawares like a stumble.
A friend of ours can’t get her cat neutered until she returns to the States because her Moroccan boyfriend thinks it is evil. Yes, that’s the word used, evil. This attitude may have something to do with the large number of cats in Morocco. He thinks that depriving the male cat of the ability to have sex is WRONG. He doesn’t mind spading the female cats, but his reasoning here seems somewhat more just to my mind, because she can still have sex.
When we were in Fez we lived in The Villa across from the American/Arabic Language School. It is a big rambling place that is home to foreigners taking lessons at the school. We had the larger apartment on the first floor giving me a bird’s eye view of the activity. When we arrived in September most of the Fulbright Scholars that came to Fez with us took up residence in The Villa. Already in residence was a young woman from New England. A Grace Kelly look alike but with serious attitude and a plan to do her bit for saving the planet, the sort that gives one hope for the future. She is the one who organized the big Thanksgiving Day (for anyone not American this is a BIG holiday) party at which everyone made and brought food and in general had a brilliant time. She is the mother you want on the Parent-Teacher committee because she will have the costumes ready, make the food, and pick up the children for the play while you are still trying to get your mascara on. During our sojourn a young man in his thirties arrived from Norway. He was a Moroccan with a voice like mink and a face you would expect to see on the sheik riding his white Arabian through the desert sands (sigh, oh yes). Nancy and I both thought he was totally yummy and we swooned whenever he was near. She was a through delight and when she departed she sent me this letter.
Thanks for the e-mail, I'm pretty bad at face-to-face good-byes anyways. Nevertheless I wish I had a chance to see you before I left, because I have one more thing to tell you…
I knew I had to tell a comedian about this because it was a moment that could not have been more perfectly constructed… I knew it had to be you because, well, you'll see….
So I was up early as usual on Wednesday and getting ready to make coffee when up from the dungeon comes our Norwegian deity in his green sweater (my personal favorite). We chat a little about the imminent end of classes - he being irresistible, I trying to make sure I don't spit out my tooth chip by accident.
"I've been meaning to ask you," (my ears perk up) "I was thinking if I liked your room I may move in, after you leave of course," (…I mean… you really don't have to suffer down there a moment longer…) "so could I have a look sometime?"
"A'jee, say no more." I gave him a trademark head flick – smooth, sexy… nice work Nance. We climbed the stairs as I tried to recall my room's state of cleanliness and decided that I had naught to worry about.
"It's a good room," as I unlocked the door, "but there's something wrong with the…" shit shit shit shit FUCK. Maybe it was selective memory, but Nancy, this is ridiculous. I opened the door and was confronted, freshly laundered and draped to dry over every outcropping in the room, by EVERY last pair of my underwear, panties, knickers, and drawers.
"I see…" he smiled.
"TakeyourtimeIhavetogoaskPamelasomething!" I ducked under his gaping (gorgeous) gaze, on the fast track out of the room "sorry about the… laundry." I left him face to face with my prized possession – an old pair of yellow briefs filched from an ex-boyfriend with a bottle of Heineken Beer embroidered where my "manhood" should be.
LM– You're so much fun. Thanks for hanging out, lending movies and being a great Mama. I'll be looking for you on the bookstands…