What's in a Name?

There is this belief that parents doom their children to lives of success or failure based on what they choose to name them. Classic, simple names, such as Henry, Richard and Alice, bring about possible CEO-awesomeness and a life of yachts and time shares. While oddly-spelled and experimental names, such as Jaedon and Leesa and Stone, are more likely to produce fast food cashiers and women of the night.

Not sure if I buy into the whole name=future thing (I'm thinking it's probably more like socioeconomic status=name=future), but I must admit, I've seen some curious happenings.

Point and case . . . my cars.

I named my first car, a fully loaded 1990 Audi 100, Fitzgerald. Partly for the author. And partly because I like the way it sounds. But mostly because no other name would do. He was Fitzgerald and that was that.

And he lived up to his name.

That car was the grumpiest, most temperamental old man I have ever known. One example of his complete difficultness: Fitz simply would not start. Sure, he needed some work done and yeah I was getting ready to get rid of him, but out of nowhere, the car refused to cooperate. So, I let him sit for three months and then I called the junkyard to have them come and take him away. And what happened? He started right up. Yup. As though nothing was wrong. HE STARTED UP FOR THE GUY WHO WAS GOING TO TURN HIM IN TO A MILLION PIECES. It was as if he wanted to die and end his miserable existence. Or at least get under my skin one last time.

Sheesh.

So then my next car, a 1997 Volkswagon Jetta GLX VR6, I named Mary Jane.

And, as luck would have it, she turned in to a junkie. She was a repair-addict and really liked frequenting the shops of various mechanics in the area.

Good riddance.

So, when Tad and I named our new (to us) car, we took all of this in to consideration.

Ok, no we didn't.

We named it whatever the heck seemed right.

We named it Ghetto Baby.

Pictures to come.