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Naming Rights: If I Ran the Castle, Nothing Would Have a Normal Name

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Spoiler alert: this is one of those 4:45 a.m. blogs. No coherent thesis. No elegant takeaway. Just a brain dump because apparently my subconscious opened twelve browser tabs and forgot where the music was coming from. I can’t go back to sleep until I drain the cranial swamp. See? I knew some of you MAGAs thought I was going there.

Every time I begin a post like this, I feel like I’m channeling my inner Rod Serling. Submitted for your approval… a middle-aged blogger wandering through naming conventions no reasonable human asked for.

Lately, the Garden of Weeden is outperforming The Examined Life. Apparently, readers prefer stories involving me chasing squirrels, guineas, rogue rabbits, and my dignity around raised beds rather than my cerebral attempts to connect obscure song lyrics to emotional growth.

Noted. The people have spoken. They crave fertilizer, feathers, and self-deprecation.

Anyway… naming rights. If I were an absolute monarch of my castle, nothing under my roof would retain its government-issued name.

Two male dogs? Starsky and Hutch.
Starsky would obviously be the one willing to wear the seasonal dog sweater and emotionally support decorative pillows. Hutch would spend his afternoons judging visitors and barking at existential threats like Amazon drivers and leaves.

Two female dogs? Laverne and Shirley.
Or perhaps Thelma and Louise, although given current orthopedic realities, that duo might be better assigned to the missus’ chest. Once upon a time, we lived in the 44D era. We now operate in the 52 Extra-Long ZIP code area. Don’t tell her I said that. She doesn’t read my blogs. I’m protected by obscurity.

Mixed-sex pets? Bogie and Bacall. 
Classy. Sophisticated. Slightly judgmental.

A pair of cats? Mick and Keith.
Because one would survive absolutely everything, while the other somehow looks half-dead yet refuses to actually die.

Houseplants? Oh, houseplants deserve names. The thriving one you ignore for six months?Keith Richards. 

The dramatic basil plant collapsed because the humidity shifted by two degrees. Tennessee Williams.

My lawn mower? The Negotiator.
Every summer, we enter delicate peace talks involving gasoline, profanity, and my lower back.

The coffee maker? Saint Caffeine of Perpetual Salvation.
Patron saint of bloggers, gardeners, grant writers, and people facing morning meetings with Irish Catholic nuns.

Speaking of which… Grandkids should absolutely come with thematic naming packages. Not legal names. Nicknames. The energetic one who can destroy a living room in eleven minutes? Tiny Viking. The observant quiet one? The Auditor. The sugar-fueled wildcard? Lord Chaos von Snacktime.

I lost the naming rights battle with Señor Hunter — our beloved 19-year-old Jack Russell/Beagle. God rest his furry soul. When Hunter patrolled the premises, the Garden of Weeden did not resemble a Disney woodland scene. No squirrels frolicked. No rabbits held yoga retreats among the green beans. Nature respected the chain of command. Now the wildlife strolls through my garden like they own stock options.

If I’m being honest, half my life’s disappointments stem from losing naming rights. Cars. Pets. Wi-Fi networks. My Wi-Fi would absolutely be called GetOffMyLAN.

My garden shed? The Ministry of Dirty Affairs.

My recliner or the Lou? The Throne of Questionable Decisions.

My alarm clock? Benedict Arnold. Because every morning it betrays me.

Anyway… It’s now nearly dawn. I need sleep before a grant writing session later this morning involving an Irish Catholic nun; a sentence that sounds either deeply noble or like the opening scene of a Martin Scorsese film.

Pray for me, or at least send coffee.

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