BLAME THE NAME

(A slight deviation from the Nomadic Adventures and Cross Country Travels of the Outrageousminx Series-aka Minx Does America. But, as any woman knows, we always reserve the right to change our minds.)

Had a thought-provoking discussion with the Fairy Godmother last night, predicting the likelihood (HIGH) of her getting preggers before years end. Along with that discussion came the inevitable bitching about the pain and suffering of childbirth, and the virtues of the German spa-hospital. (Apparently, due to the falling birth rates, hospitals in Germany are competing to have the little brats born in their wards. They are luring women in by promising spa-like facilities and services. A far-cry from the back room butcheries that we in America (and India) call the maternity ward).

ANYWAY, once the imaginary child was born-this prompted the question: what to name it? This sparked a discussion on names, and my own musings on how some unfortunate names have come into being. For example, who on earth decided on the name Randy? I mean, how can a parent name a baby that? Do they KNOW that the child will grow up to be a horn-dog? (and, for the record, most Randys do end up being total pervs-is it because they must live up to their name? chicken? egg? who knows.) And what to name the other children, the Randy siblings? "This is my son Randy. And our adopted Korean daughter Fris-kee". And names which guarantee a profession: Chastity (stripper), Jose (bodega owner/customer), Sri Ram (software engineer)...you get the idea.

And then, of course, the disastrous Indian names. Now, if you name someone something because it sounds nice (like the Germans-whose Heike, Silke, Rike mean nothing, but sound nice (to them anyway)), then you might be okay. But names like Seema (which sounds nice) also have completely horrible meanings. Seema, as you may know, means border. I once asked my Mom why on earth someone would so stupid as to name their kid 'border'. She explained that it meant, a border-as in NO MORE FEMALE KIDS. Hmph. Bet Seema is a well adjusted and loved kid.

And then, there is MY personal fav., the name I love to hate: Khushbu. Vomit. Hurl. Puke. I mean, naming your child 'Aroma'. Barf. AND, the one Khushbu that I had the misfortune of knowing, was a total sabzi kid-reeking of Undhiya and sweat. And, just so you don't think that I judge people by their smell (or lack of it)-the reason she was odious was not because of her malodorous stench-but rather because she thought she was the hot shit that hit the fan and was one of those toxic women who feels the incessant need to gossip. She really thought no end of herself and was baseless in her strutting. Totally deluded, that one was. Talk about a misnomer.

Oh, I can rattle off a litany of names that make me cringe and pity their owners: Champa, Sona (gold), Daulat(wealth), Ginny (as in Guineau coins...see a theme here?), Hans Raj (the Swan King) and Madhu ( ALWAYS belonging to a bitter old woman). Generic, dime-a-dozen names like Sanjay, Preeti and Rajiv. Grown women with cutesy names like Suhani, Dulari, and Dolly.
And any asphyxia-inducing 22 letter hyphenated name that includes your father's name, village name and the names of every one in your neighborhood. Oh...I can go on and on.

And, as if our formal names weren't bad enough-we bear the additional burdens of nicknames which inevitably follow through to adulthood (in fact, is proportional...the more embarrassing the nickname-the more likely it is to stick and be spread far and wide. Imagine a young professional answering to Bubble. So sad.) Shall we visit the more popular of them? Gogi, Dimple, Bittoo and Jolly, and Gotu. Monty, Guddi, Tinu, and Chhotu. Happy, Tony, Pappoo, and Motu. I will see them in my car. I will see them near and far. I see them here and there. I see them everywhere.

And some of these names are ubiquitous. Don't we all have someone in our family who has the misfortune of being known as Babloo, Pinky, Bunty, Tippoo, or (my personal fav.) BABY? And then, there are the RHYMING names.

Parents, inhaling a little too many smog fumes, (and not bothering to consider the financial repercussions of the necessary future therapy sessions to undo the damage) decide it would be oh-so cute to give their three girls the names Pinky, Twinky, and Rinki...whose real names are actually Nina, Tina and Reena. When will we learn? Rhyming and names do not mix. Repeat. Rinse.

Luckily, I escaped the proper nickname, though I have about a million nicknames based on attributes and character traits (as opposed to a parental need to rhyme). In fact, when I was younger-I tried to implement my own nickname to escape the shortened version of my real name. I started by introducing myself to the new kids in the neighborhood by my new chosen name, saying, "My name is ..., but you can call me..." So-walking down the street one day with my Mom, the new kids called to me, using my new name. My Mom looked around to see who she was waving to-only to be informed by 9 year old me that it was my new name. Not bothering to stifle her laughter, the cruel woman proceeded to revel in my ridiculousness and promptly tell the rest of the family. Needless to say, my chosen name didn't catch on and my parents mock me to this day by calling me by my would-be nickname. At least I made life interesting...

But lots can be gained by analyzing someone's name...especially within the South Asian community. You can almost instantly find out where they are from, what religion they are, and how damaged their psyche may be. Anyname ending in li (Rupali, Sonali, Deepali)--a good chance they are Gujus. Any name with a Sri or Bala-I'd be willing to double down and say they are Southies. Any last name ending in "kar"-you better put your money on Marathi.

And it can be useful for dating, too. I recently met a very hot young man who I am going to be staying FAR away from...why, how very un-minx like you may think. why on earth, you may ask. Well...his name (combined with other words) means death. I could have maybe dealth with it if it meant, 'minor injury' or 'broken arm'--but death is a bit much...Yeah...methinks I need to run into the hills. Plus, after analyzing the names of ex-loves, it became apparent how stupid I have been by not paying more attention. DMX's name had no actual meaning (though there was a quest to find out the creation of the name). I should have known better than to get involved with a man who had no identity...and another whose name loosely meant "victory"...someone obsessed with 'making it'--pretty fuckin' balls-on right.

So, cats and kittens, be circumspect before giving a Trixie or Butch a chance...and see if you can really be screaming "Oh, SriRamBalaKrishnamohenKumar...take me now..."Methinks not.

DAMN THE JAM

This morning, after rising at an ungodly hour, I staggered, bleary-eyed, to the remote recesses of the airport to catch my piss-early flight to our nation's capital. I hardly was awake enough to register the nightmare scenario that awaited me. Desperate for caffeine, I lurched into the Starbuck's (I know...I hate myself, too. Have confessed sins and done three Hail Marys as penance) to get an IV of drip coffee. (SIDE NOTE: Why hasn't anyone launched a law suit against Starbuck's, claiming that they are the neighborhood pusher. I mean, the early morning business traveler is a variety of junkie; deny a suit their caffeine fix and it can get ugly. I've seen it happen)

ANYWAY. Jumpstarted by the caffeine hit, I recovered from my comatose state and my flat-lining mind functions began to show some peaks (or, hills, in my case). I soon noticed that I was surounded by a sea of khaki occupying the seats which my weary ass belonged in. In horror, I stared at the ungainly beasts, realizing that I would be sharing my flight with not the normal assortment of freaks that I embrace, but rather the institutionalized cult of sanctified hypocrisy in America THE BOY SCOUTS (or more commonly known as, Future Pedophiles of America).

As they lined up in Starbuck's to purchase their cups of caffeinated liquid sugar (oh yeah, THAT'S smart. Let's give the pre-pubescent, ritalin-dependent hatchlings caffeine and sugar before 7 am), the smug creatures had me surrounded.

As a general rule, I love kids. I really do. But, put them together and the become The Children of The Corn or the Salem witch-hunt girls. Put them in matching uniforms, and it is nothing short of a Nazi kindergruppe.

And, as if dressing the little monsters identically into a sick cloning gone wrong isn't frighteneing enough-we have their den leaders to ENSURE that we should sleep with one eye open during our flight. Its unnatural and wrong for grown men to to be dressed in khaki knicker shorts, straw boater hats, knee socks and blue kershief tied around their necks. (I know-I could've stopped at khaki knickers. Indian policemen...need I say more?) I mean, seriously, boy scout leader?? Code for pedophile.

Only the pressing need to be in DC for a job interviuew would have prompted me to board this flight. (Not to mention the fact that legions of boy socuts were clogging the hallways waiting for later flights). A Scout-free flight was not in the cards.

I, brave soul that I am, boarded the flight, with bravado comparable to any young jawaan. Upon being seated, the flight attendant announced how honored she was to be flying with the wonderful boy scouts and how these young men would be role models and gentleman.

Now, having known a boy scout or two in my time, I can tell you (from their own mouths) that it severely stunts their dating growth. One friend, a true hottie in every way-president of high school, football player, straight A-student kind of guy--and BRUTALLY HOT-never dated in high school, nor in the early days of college. Poor chap just didn't know how. Also-having known his first girlfriend, I can attest to the fact that he was pure to a fault. The monastery is a comin' knockin'...

And then, there are the few desi boy scouts, who, by virtue of being desi males already didn't have enough obstacles in that area, decide to impair themselves more. Poor saps.

But, let me tell you, not all suffer their fate. Having briefly dated an Eagle Scout, I can certianly attest to him certainly being NO gentleman. He must have picked up some moves at band camp.


I think the boy socuts would better serve their country by teaching these young tadppoles real life skills and give them merit bages for stuff they might actually USE. Examples? Scheduling dates properly. Telling the truth. Doing laundry. Using the telephone. Finding a G-spot.Foreplay.

Hell-I'd sign up as a scout leader if they did (and I'd look a hell of a lot better in that damn uniform).

*THIS WAS WRITTEN BEFORE TRAGEDY STRUCK THE SCOUT LEADERS, SO KNOW THAT BEFORE Y'ALL JUMP UP MY ASS FOR BEING INSENSITIVE. AS FOR THE FAINTING BOY SCOUTS BAKING IN THE SUN WAITING FOR IL DUCE TO ARRIVE AND SPEAK TO THEM (HOW MANY TIMES?), METHINKS IT IS DIVINE INTERVENTION. GOD WAS UNWILLING TO SEE THE YOUTH OF AMERICA BEING CORRUPTED ANY MORE THAN NECESSARY. THOSE UNIFORMS ARE PUNISHMENT ENOUGH*

SILENCE BROKEN

Dear Cats and Kittens,

Yet again, I have no excuses or explanations for my extended absence. In the most succinct way I know how-I will say the following:

1. Yes. I had been holed up in romantic bliss for a while...but, knowing me as well as you do, you know how THAT ended. I don't want to talk about it. Yet.

2. My life has continued to be the non-stop drama that you readers have come to rely on...with travels, hook-ups, and bizzarro adventures.

3. I am going to try to be more consistent in my postings-come orgy, travels and flooding-postings will (hopefully) be more regular. No promises here...but I will certainly try.

WHEW! So, the next few postings will not be organized chronologically, but rather in the weird filing system that my mind employs (a perverse dewey decimal system).

Over the last few months, I have zig-zagged this once-great land of ours (pre-Bush era, naturally) in the mind-numbing pursuit of the perfect job (more about THAT later too...)

In my travels, I have encountered a gaggle of freaks and scary people worthy of a sideshow spot on Coney Island (though perhaps, not enough to score a coveted spot on Springer or a float during Pride Week). The following blogs have been scribbled on cocktail napkins, corners of magazines and ticket stubs.

Enjoy the feasting, you savages!