friends, let's talk baby names

specifically, let's talk about how Chris and I don't have any left.

I suppose I haven't been overly concerned about what we're going to to name this baby because we still don't know what we're having. I don't know, it just lacks urgency. But then this morning I was driving to the dry-cleaners (my life is fascinating) and I began having visions of us in the hospital with no name options agreed upon; and then having to settle for one of Christofer's baby names. People*, I'm not kidding: I about had a panic attack in the car because Christofer has what can only be described as HORRIBLE TASTE IN BABY NAMES.

(I'd like to dedicate that last sentence to everyone out there who has commented or complained that my blog makes Christofer seem like a saint. perhaps he is, perhaps he isn't, but either way: HORRIBLE TASTE IN BABY NAMES.)

*this is how Ivy refers to everyone we see. "it's people!"

To be fair, he believes I am the one with a Total Lack of Taste, but he is wrong, so very very wrong. I have come up two, TWO, totally perfect boy names that I love with a love that will not be extinguished (and no, I'm not going to tell you what they are: the surprise is part of the fun), and also have contributed at least three new and utterly delightful girl names to the pot.

He, on the other hand, has done nothing but shoot down my boy suggestions and refuse to consider girl names at all because "it's a boy."

YOU DON'T KNOW THAT, CHRISTOFER. And don't talk to me about "father's intuition," I am carrying this thing around IN MY WOMB and I don't know what it is. You have a 50/50 chance of being right, that is all.

Where was I? Right. He has also gone ahead and poisoned several of the boys names we could both have lived with, such as George ("We'll call him 'W'!) and Albert ("After Pujols? Awesome.")

His one suggestion, aside from the classic Gunter which he suggests for every baby, boy or girl, is ... wait for it ... Bradley.

WHOA. not going to happen. Maybe it is a perfectly fine name, I wouldn't know because everytime I hear the name Brad, I think of this:
(although, um...maybe only watch the first forty seconds.) (you'll thank me.)




who would do that to a sweet little baby? WHO?

when I die

I want to be cremated.

I don't want to be preserved. no formaldehyde, please.

and don't keep my ashes! that's weird. Just dispose of me quietly somewhere, not too close by.

Let me be recycled.

Please don't hold a viewing. Display a nice picture instead. Or, if you can't find a nice picture, a picture of my Magnum face will be fine. There should be a million to choose from.

Have a service. Talk about God.

(I'd really prefer harp music to organ music, but since this is assuming I'm dead I guess that part isn't essential.) (Maybe stick to piano?)

Then have a wake. Make it a party, and everyone eat. Tell stories about us, about why we were friends. Tell good stories and stupid stories, happy stories and sad stories.


say why you liked me. say why you didn't like me. I won't mind.


Feel free to cry.


feel free to laugh.


(But please don't tell that story about that one time. Leave the dead a little dignity, you know?)


Make fun of how I made weird faces in every picture taken of me ever.



It's okay to let people know I was a lousy long-distance friend.


Tell my kids I was bossy and temperamental and sometimes foolish, but I tried hard.


Say that I was beloved.


and then everyone go home without regrets.


That's what I want when I die.

haircut

Today while Michael was at school, William and I played hair salon. First I trimmed his hair, then he cut Christofer's:

It was fun, but I'm now wondering if it was the best idea to teach him to use the clippers. Ivy might be sporting a similar look next week. Watch for it.