What’s in a name?

My sister got married in Savannah, Ga., last weekend. I spent a little time watching “Toddlers and Tiaras” in my hotel room. I’m not ashamed of myself. I like to indulge in junk food and junk TV when I’m away from home.

But I digress.

What offended me the most about “Toddlers and Tiaras” wasn’t the suggestive outfits the tots were prancing around in. I wasn’t bothered that the parents on the show were pumping thousands of dollars into glorified dog shows when they could be pumping that money into college funds. The cultural implications of spray tanning a child or telling her that her natural teeth aren’t pretty enough didn’t irk me at all.

What did bother me was the stupid names people give their kids. I, for one, am glad my mother didn’t name me after a print, a car or a city.

For a second I thought perhaps I didn’t grow up knowing anyone named Paisley Mercedes because, frankly, there was no point to pretense in that particular blip in time and space.

Then I remembered: I went to school with a Bo Hunter. For real.

But, hey, bow season is upon us. I hope he’s doing well and that he lives up to his moniker. Bag that buck, Bo.

About Carrie

Writer by day, writer by night. Urban farmer/dog mama/baby mama/bicycle enthusiast/oenophile the rest of the time.
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