Jenre Genre

What’s in a name…no, no, no…boring way to start a blog entry. How about, ‘Jennifer’ is a fad name. 

I know, right????

According to Reader’s Digest magazine, (June 2014) and a writer named Tim Urban, ‘Jennifer’ was big during Generation X. In other words, my era. It’s fallen out, and is considered as dated as Cheryl, Shirley, or Linda. 

Exactly! Who names their daughters those, anymore? But really, even if it wasn’t my name, I’d still think it had a young ring to it. 

I’d asked my mom some time ago what I could’ve been named, and she said she toyed with Heather, Holly, and Amber. Hmmm…a flowery plant, a holiday shrub, and a fossil resin that could possibly hold a Jurassic era mosquito.

Say your own name aloud, and ask yourself if it truly sounds démodé. 

In truth, I do tend to shorten my name to others. (“Call me Jenn.”)  But there is the occasional flirty fella that will slur all eight letters on his vodka-soaked tongue, before ruminating about a ‘Jennifer’ he knew back in high school; usually on the pep squad, or the librarian’s nerdy student-assistant.

But, hey, I’m not the only one branded with a fad name. ‘Twihards’ and ‘Tributes’ that had babies in the last six years have spiked the movement for Katnisses, Bellas, Jacobs, Peetas…and maybe even something as Victorian as Edward. (Though I do find that name deliciously regal!)

However, the practice of passing down a family-name, antiquated though it may be, has that wanting of a little history in our future; of not allowing us to forget why a name was so important. I get it. My middle name came from a grandparent. My brothers combined names come from three relatives.  

To judge whether a name is dowdy, archaic, or no longer used is a waste of time; it only serves to fuel a bully’s stockpile of verbal munitions. So, if one introduces themselves to a stranger, she/he should state their name proudly. 

But if that stranger then chooses to snerk over your fad name, you can turn and leave them wondering why you chose not to learn theirs.

What I learned at 46....

Cassatt-in-training

“Awww…are you trying to kill me?!” I asked my mom, after realizing she’d parked the car on the farthest end of an Idaho Rodeway Inn parking lot.

Turns out it was the closest spot, by the time she pulled in the night before, after visiting my brother and sister-in-law. So I had to drag my arthritic self all the way to the other end of the building.

But it wasn’t until I got to the car, aching back and all, that it occurred to me she’d inadvertently given me another writing-prompt.

“Oh yeah!!”

“Yeah! Do it!”

“Awww…c’mon!!”

“I think there must be a big football game going on up there,” she said, glancing up at an open third floor window on the very end. “Doesn’t sound like his team is winning.”

I turned my head a bit to listen as I unlocked the car. It’s not uncommon for people to rent rooms for study-group cram sessions, a quiet place for writers to work, or even to have football parties.

However, my ears picked up on something Mom had missed—the lack of others raising their voices over blown calls, the sound of sports announcers play-by-play…or even the T.V. noise of a football game.

But still, there were shouts.

“Ohhh…yeahhhh!”

I held in my snicker-n-snerking—whatever it’s referred to these days—until we were in the car. 

“It wasn’t a football game,” I responded, as we pulled away from the lot. I started laughing. 

Hoo-boy! What an added memory that is to spending an afternoon with a houseful of extended family, by way of my niece’s 10^th birthday. 

Boisterous relatives, laughter, shy-but-pleased smiles from the birthday-girl over gifts, grilled hot dogs, a trampoline, and six, four-legged animals was reason enough to unload my cellphone’s memory-card the night before of all the pictures I’d already taken. My nieces are a gas to be around, and I wanted proof of it all. 

The youngest is quite the ham. (She’s even made a crack about ham that was so clever, it ended up in one of my manuscripts) 

The eldest, the apple-of-her-artist-father's-eye, seems to morph into a writer whenever Auntie’s in town. No, no…I don’t dare try to steer her away from her interest in drawing. Quite the contrary! I gifted her a sketch pad and color pencils. Also…she’s way better at art than I was at her age.

But I also added a journal of sorts; a composition notebook that’s always found in the school supplies aisle of any store. And I insisted that she only write in it if she wanted to, about any old thing she wanted. 

Still, an auntie can hope. (Especially when she asked me a couple of years ago if she could be a writer, like me. Joy!)


In the meantime, I’ve secured a couple of volunteer positions that will, hopefully, encourage employment at a later time. Recycling is good for the planet. And with the added bonus that I get to work with tools—taking things apart—I get to feel productive once again! (But, ooooh…what I wouldn’t give for one of those positions to involve my love for writing!)

Ah, well, who am I to be choosy? It’s getting this hermit out of the house. And no better time than summer. This season will also be spent resembling Hoke Coburn…without the added utterances of, “Yes’m Miz Daisy.” 

What the cookies am I goin’ on about? Well, I have one relative that’s showing signs of needing companionable-assistance, and, a ‘sweet lil’ ol’ church lady’ that needs my “hep gettin’ ta th’ stow...,” as it were. Of course, as I love to drive, acting as a chauffeur won’t be an issue. 

Anywoo, I’m cautiously-optimistic about the rest of this year. My voc-rehab consultant says I’m taking steps in the right direction. Maybe if I’m really lucky, I’ll get to hear the pitter-patter of little adopted feet this time next year.

I just won’t be “renting a room at the Rodeway anytime soon.”

Mah

For my Mah, the proud Granny-nanny,

Grandbabies are better than any litany.

But I’ll try to find the words that work best,

That one would find in a Mother’s Day text. 

Cuz Mah doesn’t want flowers, chocolates, or money

On this day that weather-guy promised would be sunny.

She’d rather have warm rays, and kick-back with a brew,

Oh, and later, we’ll shell out for ribs—specifically barbeque.

She’s been a mom of three for most of her life,

Triple the headache for a nurse and housewife.

She loves to read, consuming book-after-book,

And doesn’t stop…til she decides to cook.

She’s at the age of retirement, but I think she’d get bored,

And, anyway, her co-workers make her feel adored.

She loves to watch T.V. shows with cops and scientists,

Her favorite has F.B.I., and some quirky anthropologists.

She’s had some back issues lately, and spends time at home,

But it’s not so bad with a flat-screen, and oxycodone.

However, she’s itching for the day she can go for a walk,

Just her and her Sony playlist, where she doesn’t have to talk.

Cuz solitude is her thing, and so is rock-n-roll,

But it can be a bitch, when she has to stop and scroll.

She understands me when I get on my soap-box and rail,

But also tells me to hold on, when she checks her voicemail.

She’s a Baby Boomer; born the week Animal Farm hit the U.K.,

What a significant moment, for remembering your birthday.

The raunchy part of this poem, is I hooked her on Fifty Shades of Grey,

But I’d rather not entertain that she’d get into THAT sort of horseplay! 

When she’s not ‘in a mood,’ she’s an easy-going mom,

Though I wouldn’t go so far as to say, “She’s da bomb.”

She still shares her chocolate-stash, even though it’s sugar-free,

And never guilts me about grandchildren, cuz she knows I’m a childfree.

I really have no complaints about her, as a mom, a confidante, or friend,

Even when I know she was groomed to be a Baptist clucking hen.

As a minister’s wife, she was held to a standard by righteous appraisers,

Meanwhile…well…shucks! Everyone knows P.K.’s are hell-raisers!!

And there was a time when her stubbornness made me furious,

But now I’m at that stage where I can’t help but be curious.

About my bloodline that involves so many ancestral turns,

It’s telling to know I’m related to poet Robert Burns.

So while she’s walking this Earth, I’d better find out all I need.

Not just about, "Where’s your will, life insurance policy, and the Deed?"

I mean about the stuff that you can’t know from an album or picture frames,

Unlike Vito Corleone—no, Andolini!—our ancestor deliberately changed names.

Cuz I know she has stories she has yet to tell me about,

And me-n-my bros. will believe we have the clout,

That each of us know Mom better than the other,

But we’ll definitely agree, she was NEVER a ‘Smother’! 

The Poetry of Coffee

(Disclaimer: Let me state, this is NOT my poem. It is penned by an interesting writer, Carole Holliday. It was a Google random-find, and attached to the picture below. I merely retyped the exact text in this entry so that it could be readable and enjoyed for its creativity and humor)

CAFFEINE NATION
by Carole Holliday

There is a cult of coffee

I do not understand:

It cannot bail you out of jail

Or even hold your hand.

There are those who belong to it

And love it quite a lot.

They do not care if coffee’s cold

Or if their coffee’s hot.

They love it like one loves a child

I don’t exaggerate

And those who do not share this love

They do not tolerate.

This brown and bitter water

Has them tightly in its thrall

And if their coffee were a god

they’d say I surrender all! 
A day can’t pass without its sip
a glug
a swish
a swallow
Without their coffee in a cup
They feel so lost and hollow.
They ache they moan they twitch they growl

And in their moods most foul

As if an addict hooked on drugs

And lost in depths of sorrow!

And not a judgment do I make

On coffee drinkers here 
For all who walk upon the earth
Obsess on things so queer.
Some are chocolate
Some are booze 
And some are comic books 
So drinkers of a cup of Joe.
They’ll get no dirty looks
And lovers of their java breaks
I promise not to scoff.

Least not before their morning taste.

And then all bets are off!