Addendum to "A Rose..."

Reflecting a bit more on this rejection of names thing from my parents and their siblings, I wonder if perhaps it didn't just skip a generation.

When Chris was 2 1/2 or so, I went to tuck him into bed.

Me:  Good night, Chris.
Chris:  My name is not Chris.
Me:  Okay, sorry.  Good night Christopher.
Chris:  My name is Robert, but you can call me Bob.

I have NO clue where that came from.

Not to be outdone, I had the following phone conversation with Brad's teacher in 5th grade.

Teacher:  Is Bradley changing his name?
Me:  If he is, I haven't heard anything about it.
Teacher:   He is insisting we call him Ed Johnson.

Insanity:  we catch it from our children.

A Rose by Any Other Name Would Smell Like Feet

When I was bearing children, all my friends had baby name books on their bookshelves.  I had one, too, of course.   Expectant parents would pour over these books finding just the right name for their little bundle of joy.  I expect that most people these days use the internet, but I imagine that the process is the same..... try many names, both for first names and middle names, and try them with the surname, all to be sure you don't end up with a kid with a bad name.  (Who can forget the song "A Boy Named Sue?")

I don't know if my parents or grandparents had baby name books, but I know for sure my grandparents pretty much stunk it up when they picked their kids' names.  My father was the oldest of five.  Only two of the five go by their given first names.    Now that I think of it, my only aunt who still goes by her given first name rejected the spelling of her name and changed it.  The pronunciation is the same, but they take a deduction for the spelling.  Overall, their success rate at naming their kids was 30%.  That's a very clear F, no matter the curve.

My maternal grandparents did a bit better.  They had two kids.  My mom rejected her first name and her brother uses his.  Score:  50%, still an F.

The next generation did significantly better.  I'm the oldest of four, all of whom have drivers licenses showing our given first names.  I have ten cousins.  All of them use their given first names.  My mom told me once that she and Dad really worked hard to be sure they didn't give us yucky names.  Given that none of my cousins or siblings rejected their names, I guess my aunts and uncles must have done the same.  From all evidence, they all did a pretty good job. 

So - what happened?  Nicknames. :)  From a very early age, my friends all just called me Booker.  I have no idea why it started.  It was common place to call boys by their last names, but not so much the girls.  Maybe it was because I was a tomboy - I don't know.  But from the beginning, people seemed to just use my last name.  It started in Pennsylvania when I was in 1st grade.  It continued when I moved back to Oklahoma in 4th grade.  I switched schools in 6th grade, and still I was "Booker".   That followed me all the way through college and beyond.  I moved half way across the state after college, to a town where no one knew me, and within a couple of weeks, people were calling me "Booker".  (We won't go into the identity crisis that hit when I married!!)

Along the way, other nicknames came along, both for me and my siblings - and they all stuck.  My little sister was born when I was in 6th grade (thus the move to a bigger house and different elementary school).  As she learned to talk, she began with "Mommy" and "Daddy", of course.  As she began to refer to the rest of us, I didn't "fit" in her way of thinking.  Mommy, Daddy, Karen, Larry and Garry.  One of these things is not like the other....  Sorry - my little sister was a Sesame Street junkie and I have that song stuck in my head to this day.  I digress.

Renee started calling me "Karnie" so that everyone had that "Y" sound at the end of their name.  I returned the favor when she was about four, and we named her "Ernie" from the diminutive form of her Pig Latin name, Ernee Ray.   Her other family nickname came from my oldest son.  He called her "Mean Aunt Bubbles".... Garry and I liked it, so we kept it.  :)

I've saved my favorite one for last.   Garry acquired his family nickname when my youngest was small.  Brad had a pretty severe hearing loss during all those language milestones when kids learn how to make different sounds - so when he'd say "Uncle Garry", it sounded like "Uncle Dirty".  OF COURSE that one stuck!


There's something comfortable about nicknames.  Just a week or so ago, an old friend since elementary school sent me a Facebook message to ask me a question about mystery shopping.  The message began, "Hey, Booker - "  He probably has no idea how that made me smile.

Pregnant for YEARS!

Today, Courtney changed her Facebook status to "I feel like I've been pregnant for YEARS. Twins are serious business".  

Courtney's status change immediately caused me to flash back to my childhood...... And since Courtney is related to all the people in this story, I dedicate this to her.  By the way, Courtney, I wish you'd have known your great-great grandpa Tyson.  He was an amazing man.


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I was the oldest child of two people who were such polar opposites that I'm still not sure how they ever got together.  My mom never met a stranger.  She had an incredible sense of humor.  She was often the life of the party and people gravitated to her.  My father, especially when he was younger, was uber-serious and didn't much like being around people, and I recall that at this stage of his life (before taking the Dale Carnegie course and becoming a confident public speaker), he was still somewhat socially awkward.  He seldom smiled, never laughed, and preferred to have no one notice him.  One thing's for sure.... he had the wrong wife and daughter, because he hated being the center of attention.

At that time, we lived in a smallish frame house in a suburb of Oklahoma City.  We were not far from Tinker Air Force Base, where my dad was stationed.  I was three, and my mom was pregnant.  And by pregnant, I mean PREGNANT!  From the beginning, I told everyone who would listen "My momma's gonna have two babies, one for me and one for her!"  At this point, the Air Force doctor had not figured out that there were twins...  so everyone just ignored my constant insistence that there were two babies.   I don't know HOW they didn't know.... she was huge from the fourth month on.  She eventually became the most pregnant person any person in our family has ever seen.  Most people don't remember much from when they are three or four, but I clearly remember how huge my Mom was when she was carrying the twins.  I generally describe it as "pregnant from here to West Texas".  Most folks know that generally twins are born early and small... but not my brothers!  They ended up inducing labor on her due date - and she had two BIG babies.  (The genius Air Force doctor delivered the first one, then announced "I think there's at least one more in there...."  Mom later said she freaked out wondering what "at least" meant.)


One afternoon in her second trimester, this very pregnant woman was waddling... er....walking down the hallway from the living room to the bedrooms.  She was being followed by my dad, and I was following along behind the two of them.  Spotting something on the floor, mom bent over to pick it up.  When she did, she ripped the seat out of her pants, loudly and dramatically.  Always a bit of a clown, she turned around, swatted at my father playfully and said, "Don't you dare try to rip my pants off!"  And nothing else was said.


A couple more months passed and we had a family get together with my paternal grandmother's family.  Sitting in the seat of honor, "holding court" when we walked in was my Great-Grandpa Tyson.  I remember him being small in stature, but with a gigantic personality, a somewhat booming voice and a great sense of humor.  As we entered the room, he saw how huge my mom had become and he exclaimed, "Earlene!  What on earth has happened to you!?!?"

As the family all started to chuckle, I piped up and said, "Well, my daddy ripped the pants right off of her!" 

Fifty years later, my father still hasn't forgiven me for that one.  ;-)

Different Thanksgiving, Same Mom (rated PG-13 :)

Since getting feedback that I made some of my friends and family cry with my last story about my mom and Thanksgiving, it occurred to me that I would be remiss in not telling another story about my mom and Thanksgiving.   This one won't may anyone cry...  

As we lead up to this story, in the spring and early summer of 1990, I was converting the books of our FBO (or fixed base operation, a full service business for general aviation - selling fuel, maintenance, parts, etc for light aircraft) from manual to computerized accounting.  In so doing, I was trying to figure out a way for the receptionists to easily pull up customer accounts.  Rather than using somewhat meaningless account numbers, it was decided that since we knew most of the customers by name, we would use a short cut that began with the last four letters of the customer's name followed by the first two letters of their first name, then followed by numbers if there were duplications.  Thus, Sue Smith's account could be called up as "smitsu".  Bob Jone's account would show up as "jonebo".   On customer invoices and statements, this short cut would print on the line above their name, followed by address info, etc.   Everyone at the FBO said they liked the idea much better than having to use random numbers.

One beautiful summer day during this computer conversion, I was at Mom and Dad's house so the kids could play in the pool for a while.  As the boys swam, Mom asked how the conversion was coming along.

Me:  So, you remember that we decided to go with four letters of the last name, and two letters of the first name, right?  Well, I ran into a bit of a snafu I had not anticipated.  It was all going along great until Donnie Dill decided to open an account.

<insert pause for Mom to process Donnie Dill's name and the computer shortcut>

Mom:  So, what is the problem?

Me:  Think about it, Mom!  Donnie Dill.

Mom:  What do you mean?

Me:  Good grief, Mom!  If you use four letters from his last name and two letters from his first name, what do you get?

Mom:  D-I-L-L-D-O    So?

Me:  Mom!  Of course it is not spelled the same, but I really don't want "dilldo" printing at the top of all his paperwork!

Mom:  Why not?

Me:  Oh for Pete's sake, Mom!  How would YOU feel if every invoice said "dilldo" on it?

Mom:  I guess I don't get it.  Is that code for something?

And suddenly, without a single warning, this day had become what is still, 20 years later, the seventh worst day in my life.  I had the unbelievably embarrassing job of explaining to MY MOTHER what a dildo is.   Mom being Mom, would not let that conversation die easily.  She had lots of questions, one of which was "How do YOU know what that word means??"  I explained to her that I figured she was one of possibly three people on the planet that did not know what that word meant.   (about this time, in my recollection of the event, I can hear the voice of Billy Mays shouting, "Embarrassed beyond belief?  Just wait.... there's more!")

Following this conversation, which seemed to last for hours, I went home.   I spent the entire drive home trying to figure out a way to never have to talk to my mother again.   But after successfully avoiding my mom for a couple weeks, it appeared that she had forgotten the conversation.  I found that I could look at her again without blushing.  Finally, life returned normal.  

Until..... <insert ominous music here>..... Thanksgiving.

We have a pretty fair sized family and owned a couple of businesses which happened to employ quite a few students and recent graduates just embarking on their careers.  For Thanksgiving, we had almost the entire family and since we had lots of single employees who found themselves living a long way from their own families, we invited any employee who wanted to enjoy the Thanksgiving meal with us.  All in all, we probably had around 50-60 people at Mom and Dad's for Thanksgiving that year.  We had folding tables and tv trays set up all through the den, dining room and sun room to accommodate the crowd.  That many people eating and chatting over a meal makes a fair amount of background noise.  I was seated in the sun room enjoying my meal and a conversation when I heard Mom shout from the den, "Karnie??  What's that word again?"

Me, shouting a bit to be able for her to hear me in the other room:  What word, Mom?

Mom, still shouting above the ambient background noise:   You know..... that word!

I got up and walked to the doorway between the sun room and the den.  All 50-60 people stopped talking and eating and were looking at Mom and me.

Me:  Mom, I know lots of words... but I swear, I have no idea which one you're talking about.

Mom:  You know the one..... is it dilbo?

<Insert gales of laughter here from the crowd>

Me:   OMG, Mom!  What the hell are you asking about that for????

Mom:  You said everyone knows that word.  I was going to ask to find out if anyone here didn't know it.

She found out that pretty much everyone over the age of 14 did indeed know what "dilbo" meant.  Twenty years have passed.  I can still feel my face flush just at the memory.

So, that's how "dilbo" became a word at my house.     It's just one of the things Mom stored in one of those areas in her brain where the cells didn't touch.

It's the little things that get ya sometimes

For at least two decades, we had a family tradition at Thanksgiving.  When I say "we" in this instance, I mean my mother and me.  The rest of the family somehow avoided participating with us in this tradition - lucky for them, but I'm a bit sad they missed it, too.

Every year, my mom would freak out about 7:00am on Thanksgiving Day because she would have just discovered that she did not have enough corn starch to make gravy for the X number of people coming to Thanksgiving dinner.  In the 21st century, this would not be much of a problem, as grocers all seem to be open on holidays.  However, when I was younger, this was a very real problem because the only thing open on Thanksgiving were gas stations, convenience stores and Chinese restaurants.   So my part was that I'd scrounge around (going to neighbor's homes if necessary) and find enough corn starch to allow Mom to calm down.


One would think that after maybe twice, she'd have made sure that she always kept extra corn starch in the pantry - but that wasn't how Mom's brain worked, at least when it came to corn starch.  Mom would always have a large gathering at Thanksgiving.  She could calculate the exact number of pounds of turkey that would be needed.  She'd plan an elaborate schedule so that she could fix all manner of dishes, and have them all ready right on time.  She could plan a menu beyond compare, cook like Martha Stewart, but she could not remember to buy corn starch.  That was just my mom.

My mom was a brilliant woman, don't get me wrong.  When I say brilliant,  I mean REALLY brilliant.  She ran a multi-million dollar company that operated all over the world.  She raised four kids mostly alone, as my father was often traveling and occasionally gone for months at a time.  I saw her face numerous "insurmountable" problems that she solved quickly and creatively while people around her were rendered helpless.  She was brilliant, for sure.   Well, except that she had a couple areas in her brain where the cells did not touch.  Corn starch was filed in one of those areas.

I suspect I also have those areas in my brain (my kids will swear to it, I'm sure... and they'll tell you ridiculous stories about butter knives, but you won't believe those stories because they are too dumb to be true.  Really.   So if they try to tell you stories about butter knives, just smile and nod.).  Anyway, back to where I was before I parenthetically interrupted myself....  It is fortuitous that I do not have corn starch stored in one of those areas of my brain.  So after determining that corn starch was my mom's mental kryptonite, I solved the whole problem by keeping an extra box in MY pantry.  Every October, I'd check to make sure I had an extra box. Problem solved.  At 7:00am Thanksgiving morning, the phone would ring and it would be my mom - freaking out about not having enough corn starch.  "It's already in the car, Mom," I'd say.  "I'll be there in a little while.  Don't worry!"

This all worked great until Thanksgiving 1992.  The problem with my plan that year was that my mom had died in September.  A day or two before Thanksgiving, I opened the pantry, saw the corn starch and just dissolved into tears.  I'd done great from September to November.  It was just that box of corn starch that got me, slammed me face first into the ground and would not let me get back up.   My kids probably thought they were going to have to call someone.... but after a few hours, I finally got a hold on my self.

It doesn't happen every year - but at least a half dozen times in the last 18 years, corn starch has nearly put me out for a day.  I never expect it, it just happens.

So here it is, 2010.  Why am I writing about this today, you might ask.  Because today, BoatGuy and I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few items and I happened down the baking aisle.  I don't know why - but that dadgummed corn starch almost jumped off the shelf at me.  After all these years, it was all I could do to get finished with my shopping and out to the pickup tear-free.  I ALMOST made it into the pickup, but not quite.  I started crying in the parking lot and had to explain to BoatGuy why something as innocuous as corn starch makes me cry.

I still keep an extra box around, by the way.

I miss you, Mom.

How I became the Queen of Murphy's Universe

As the years have gone by, a number of quite strange things have occurred in my life. Some of them good, some of them horrific, some of them funny and some a combination of things.  Genetically predisposed to tell stories, I've shared a number of these stories with friends and family.

People now seem to just expect the strange occurrences in (and around me). In my defense, one day I said, "It's not that more strange things happen to me - it's just that all of you now EXPECT strange things to happen to me. So, when something does happen, you take more notice of it than if it happened to someone else." Dana, the accountant, said, "Karnie, that's a very nice story - but that's not it." Oh well, it sounded good!

Another co-worker later suggested that I write a book. He wanted the name to be "Queen of Murphyville" - as a reference to his belief that Murphy's Law was written just for me.  I eventually became known as the Queen of Murphy's Universe...

So, with the QOMU tiara firmly in place on top of my Elmer Fudd hat (complete with ear flaps, natch),  I'm going to experiment with blogging to capture some of the stories and experiences of my life thus far.  And don't be surprised if I toss in a recipe from time to time.  I'm eclectic that way.  :)

Adapting the old intro they used on Dragnet (yes, I really *am* that old).... "The stories you are about to read are true. Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent."