Guy Ladybugs

I feel bad for guy ladybugs. I imagine that their culture is either female dominated with a bunch of momma’s boys fluttering around or they are the toughest guy bugs around because they have been getting crap from day one.

            Eventually, most of us learn to appreciate our names. That is probably what happens with guy ladybugs, but not before a tumultuous adolescence. One day, when they are older, they probably come to the conclusion that there are more important things to care about. I imagine that it would be similar to a human guy with the last name Poopydoodoo.

            With a name like Poopydoodoo, he would be sure to catch laughs in the classroom, and would constantly have to defend his honor on the playground. Kids can be cruel. With a name like Poopydoodoo, he’d always be a target. No matter how hard he could kick a kickball, how good he was at four square, or tetherball, or math, or drawing, everyday he would encounter the issue of something bringing up his name mockingly. When you’re a kid, it’s hard sometimes to understand why people don’t get you.

            After a while, young Poopydoodoo would start to wonder if he even understood why somebody would have a name like his. So, he would ask his Grandfather the why question. His Grandfather would tell him, “It's about time you knew. Your Great Grandfather was an Icelandic man named Peter Bjorganjorgan.  Everyone in the homeland called him Poppy. His greatest dream was to come to America. On the boat ride here, he learned what little English he could. Before he got to Ellis Island, he decided to ask the first American he met for work. When the immigration official inquired of his name, he had no clue what he was being asked, but nonetheless responded, “Poppy do! Poppy do do!” Apparently, Poppy thought the word “do” was synonymous with work. The overtired, overworked immigration official thought nothing of it and registered your Great Grandfather as Mr. Poopydoodoo.”

            I am sure that after a sit down like that, the young boy would despise his name a little less. He should. I mean, it is a silly name, and they should have changed it two generations ago, but his Great Grandfather didn’t care what people called him, he was just glad to be in America.

            Guy ladybugs should take a lesson from the Poopydoodoo family. They should be more excited about their features than concerned about their name. Those little bugs have a ton of things rolling in their favor. First thing rolling in their favor: Easy, gift of flight. Second thing rolling in their favor: Hard shell Lamborghini doors. Third thing rolling in their favor: Humans don’t try to spray you with things or stomp on you. Talk about the insect’s burden, try being a soft-spoken, well-behaved, donates to charity, would rather stay home this weekend and finish Catcher in the Rye(he’s been meaning to get to it for years), keeps to himself SPIDER. AHHHHH! WHERE?! KILL HIM!

Nicknames

            I have been called many things, and I don’t mind being called late for dinner if you used cream of mushroom in that casserole.

My cousin Thomas nicknamed me T-Bone. It stuck for most of my childhood. I loved it. To nickname someone T-Bone whose first named begins with “T” is not very original, however, his explanation for why he gave me the name always amazed me. If you asked him when we were younger, he would tell you I was named T-Bone because I sat on a bench and woke my hamsters up. What an absurd explanation. A back-story was only ever given if asked for. 

I had two hamsters. One was named Sonic. The other was Hedgehog.

I call my girlfriend, Babe. I call her daughter, baby-girl. I call my girlfriend, Sweetheart. She also calls me Babe and Sweetheart. I find it humorous when we are in an argument and she keeps calling me Sweetheart. In those moments, I feel more like Uglyheart. Hearing her call me something tender in moments of disagreements gives me hope that we will get through whatever this is. We always do. She has always been good at looking forward and calling up the best in me.

I still remember my freshman year of high school when one of the nerds told me that he thought it was interesting that I was both a nerd and cool. Still one of the kindest things anyone has ever told me. Recently, almost 10 years after that, my best-friend’s wife told me that she wasn’t sure if I was really cool or just a nerd. Remember, I’m the kid who named his hamsters after a video game character.

I’ve had other alias’s: Bonesaw(variation of T-Bone), Coltrane(this one came from Shane the Brain), Tay Tay(when I hear my nieces and nephew call me this, I can always conjure up a crazy dance to make them laugh), Swampthing(Mokie, my cousin Marc, coined this one. Cover yourself in wet sand, pretend you're a monster and you too can have this nickname, but not before then.).

There are a couple nicknames that float around a group of my friends. They are not normal nicknames. They are temporary, always circumstantial and you never want to be called them.

The first is “The Entertainer”. This is reserved for the emcee of the night. He has been telling the most jokes. He is the one in the spotlight making everyone laugh. The dream sequence in Dumb and Dumber is the template for this nickname. There is one part in that segment where Jim Carry is in a lodge with Mary’s family. We enter to him telling the punch line of a joke; “he said, ‘do you love me?’ and she says, ‘No. But that’s a real nice ski mask.” He then proceeds to throw a bunch of goldfish in his mouth and lights a fart on fire. No matter what he does, everyone bursts out laughing. If any an this niche group of friends catches the other commanding the room like this, he will be sure to be hailed as entertainer.

don't be this guy

“The Godfather” is the other nickname and is far worse to be called. The Godfather is declared if anyone tries to define rules to any activity that we are all involved in. If you are having people over for dinner and tell them which order they are to serve themselves, you will hear “whatever you say Godfather.” If you dispute any rule, whether it is the proper scoring in washers or how to rearrange big-blinds when somebody gets knocked out of a poker game, you will be declared Godfather. It could be the most simple, common rule that just needs to be voiced in front of everyone, but if you are the one to do it, you are sentencing yourself.

The title Godfather comes with the responsibility of answering any question about rules or procedures the rest of the night. In some cases, The Godfather will have to make every decision for the group. When asked to vote on something, it is common to defer by saying that your allegiance lies with the Godfather and whatever he says goes. The trick to the Godfather is to name someone the Godfather first. It is always difficult to get rid of a nickname.

Something even more difficult to do is nickname yourself. It never feels right. You end up looking arrogant and nobody will ever feel comfortable using it. No matter how cool a pair of shoes is you won’t enjoy wearing them if they don’t fit. I have some friends that live in Kewaskum, Wisconsin. I tried to get a couple of them to start calling me T-waskum. They asked why and I stopped my campaign right there. Explaining an idea like that, when you are just then realizing it wasn’t as good as you thought, is like retelling a joke to somebody that didn’t hear it the first time.

Some of my closest friends respond to Bro Bro, Hoodmomma, Bigby, Warhammer and Pup. I knew two brothers in middle school. The oldest was nicknamed Air Fish and his younger brother Air Fish Jr. Nicknames are found in the seasonings cabinets of social interaction. Sometimes they are just absurd and fun. Sometimes they can be a subversive way of telling someone you love them.

I Sat on an Egg

My girlfriend bought me a Cadbury Egg. She told me that I need to warm it up before I ate it. I was so confused. She suggested that I put it under my pillow. I was still so confused. I am still a little kid when it comes to chocolate. I have no patience. I don't want to let chocolate get warm under my pillow. I want it to let it warm in my mouth.
     The egg was still in my car when I got to work the next day. One of my jobs is delivering flowers. Another one of my jobs is delivering pizzas. Sometimes I get hungry on the road. I don't like to stop for snacks very often on the boss's dime, so, I grabbed the egg and brought it with me.
     It sat in the cup-holder looking very uncomfortable. Eggs don't like too much exposure to open air, right? It must have known I was planning on eating it. I wasn't really in the mood to eat chocolate at that time. It was about 11am and all I had to eat was chocolate chip cookies that I dipped in my coffee earlier that morning. My hope is that I would be able to eat from at least one other part of the pyramid before I got down on that egg.
     That egg was never going to last till after lunch. I wanted it now, but I knew I had to warm it up first. What was I going to say if my girlfriend asked me about the egg? I thought about turning the heat on and holding the egg up to the vent. That would make me hot. Not into that idea. I felt the egg. It was in fact a little cooler than van temperature. "This will not do. This will not do," I thought. So, I did what any self respecting hen would do. I sat on it.
     The only natural way to give it the warmth it needed was to give it the warmth I had to give. Now, before you get grossed, because I know you will. Keep this in mind: underpants, khakis and tin foiled all played their part in not letting milk chocolate and my flesh get formally introduced. Nor was any gas released. However that may have helped I still have my standards.
      So, there I was. Another day. Another dollar. Running floral deliveries as usual, and then I sat on an egg. When I sat on that egg something shifted inside my heart. I felt a parental bond. I was no longer driving a floral van. It was a mobile stoop. I checked my eggs temperature from time to time. It seemed like it was barely changing. I got worried. What was wrong with my egg? I tried to sit on it better than ever. I would check every 5 minutes. Would it grow up deformed because I didn't sit on it right? Was I even worthy to sit on it?
     I worked myself into a frenzy. There was a long driving section in my route and I kept mulling over what I should be doing better as an egg sitter. I got so worried about how well I was providing warmth for the egg that came into my life that I forgot to check on it. Woopsies.
    I forgot for a moment that it was not my child-to-be and that it was actually milk chocolate. It had gone to the soft side. I know my girlfriend wanted me to warm my Cadbury Egg up, but I can't imagine that she had this in mind. The only way to return chocolate to hard form once it has gone to the soft side, is to freeze it, but even then it tastes different after being re-hardened.
     I wasn't going to let MY egg taste different than it was suppose to be. I wanted to enjoy its last moments. So, I carefully peeled back the tin foil and licked it. About a third of the egg clung to the foil. My greatest achievement after that was not wrecking the van while mournfully enjoying the rest of the chocolate egg.
      If I had to draw one thing from this story, it would be a draw two card. From then I would explain how we need to be careful that we don't treat the "chocolate eggs" in our lives like they are our babies. What are the "chocolate eggs" in your life? For me, it was literally a chocolate egg. For you, it may be a good idea somebody gave you. Don't sit on that good idea. Eat it up and enjoy it. Also, don't fart on it.
      The other thing I would draw from this is that I need to pack a lunch. All I had until 4:45p was chocolate chip cookies, coffee and a soft Cadbury Egg. Come on.