They say that the sweetest sound in the English language is one’s own name. I heard a lot of it today. “Wistar, you have no blood vessels in your left leg.” “Wistar, can you eat some fruit cocktail, or do you think you might throw it up?” “Wistar, we’re just going to stick this needle in your vein for a hot second.” I am my grandmother’s namesake. I was there with Wistar, sitting beside the orthopedic hospital bed, editing an erotica novel on my laptop while Big Wis watched the first few episodes of Desperate Housewives, and we both started to get confused. “Hey Wis,” said my other, visiting grandparents, “Would you like to come to dinner with us?” “No,” said Big Wis, thinking they were inviting her, demobilized with infection on her fluffy pillows. “I don’t have anything to wear. I think I will just dine here tonight. I ordered mashed potatoes.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was me who had been invited [that seems like bad grammar – me versus I – someone help me], that no one was dreaming of taking her out to dinner, that she was obviously bedridden while I was mobile and restaurant-able. The other Wistar. The young, healthy Wistar, who can hoist the 90-pound grandma onto the commode, who can eat a cheeseburger in 30 seconds, who can tune out the TV during Law & Order. As opposed to the elderly, southernly Wistar, who can catch a fever and be suspicious of Mexicans. Who can refuse to be hungry for dinner. Who can reject the circulation in her leg. One nurse came into the room and said, “My father-in-law is named Wistar. I’ve never in my life met another Wistar and here are two in one room.” “Terrific,” I said, “Make the other one get better.”
That’s funny. The sound of MY name is the least sweet of all sounds. Jennifer. It connotes a televisionary level of trendiness and commonality. In fact it’s so trendy as to be almost like neutral air. Might as well have been named Jane Doe #87. That would be a cool name actually. Never as cool as Wistar Watts, though, dammit. Wait a minute, Jennifer did have one cool moment in that De La Soul album 3 Feet High and Rising. Jennifer oh Jenny, etc… Okay back to cleaning. smooch.
Wait. Let’s go back to that part where you’re editing a novel of erotica….
I agree with Corey Jo. Let’s get to the erotica.
P.S. I love my name, and yours.
I am so delighted by all your close, insightful readings of my blog entries.
Corey, you missed the great conversation after you left Jennifer’s house early Monday night. Wife swap talk at the clothes swap. It was right up your alley. But I know you just got bored after all the girls put their shirts back on.
Oh and I really am editing an erotica novel, but I want to retain a bit of mystery about it. After all I can’t blog about everything, only the boring stuff.
*hug*
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