A Lot Of Swedish Names Suck

As I've mentioned before, I name most all my possessions. There is no rational explanation for this other than the fact that I'm not very smart and am easily entertained.

Suzanne, my crappy twelve year old vehicular companion, recently began breathing her death rattle and I was forced to find a replacement. After some shopping around I ended up with a sassy little piece of Swedish machinery. The car is fab (and since I know you're dying to know -- yes you are, so don't front! -- this is what I got) but naming it has been quite a challenge. The more reasonable among you are probably thinking that I should forego the naming ritual and just drive the damn thing and shut up about it. Unfortunately, for a moron like me, that is simply not an option.

After taking the appearance and characteristics of the new SparklesMobile into consideration, I managed to decide on a name. The new car is attractive enough, socially acceptable but ultimately unremarkable, and fast as hell. (The whole turbo shit is pretty sweet. If I open that bitch up and drive it "as it was meant to be driven" I feel like I'm sitting on a rocket. But since, according to my husband, I drive like a loser grandma much of that performance is lost on me.) Based on that criteria, I selected the name that, to me, denoted pleasant and polite, but ultimately slutty: Donna. (I'm not calling all Donnas superficial sluts, just the ones that I knew. Don't email me, Donnas! But if you're a Donna that I knew growing up, yes I just called you a superficial slut so just deal with it because you know it's the truth.)

Unfortunately "Donna" got shot down by The Mister, who insisted the car was far too European for such an American name. He's never voiced any objections to my possession names in the past, but he was vehement about this one. Eventually I relented and began the search for a new name. Since my car is Swedish I looked at traditional Scandinavian names, but none of them resonated with me. Pops Sparkles pointed out that my own name is cited as being of Swedish origin, but 1) I wouldn't name my car after me, no matter how awesome I am -- which, let's be honest, is pretty damn awesome -- and B) I've always heard Kristina was a Greek name. If those two countries were close to each other I could chalk it up to geographical overlap, but Greece and Sweden are damn far apart. One is all about beaches, olive oil, and sheep and the other is about skijumping and pickled herring. Not many similarities. So you know what that means? One of those countries is a thieving bastard and is trying to bogart my name!

Anyway, after a couple days of very careful deliberation, I decided on a new name for the car: Heidi. Not necessarily Swedish, but it's European for craps sake and that's going to have to do. Besides, every Heidi I've ever known has been a slut, and that's good enough for me.

Let Me Explain The Problem With Mormonism

Tonight The Mister and I watched a very informative and interesting program on PBS called The Mormons. Let me make it very clear from the outset that I am not here to criticize anyone's faith. Hell, I come from a very long, vehement line of Catholics and they've trademarked their own special brand of crazy. I am firmly of the opinion that your salvation is between you and your maker and my dumb ass has no business telling you what to do with your eternal soul.

With that being said, I would like to switch gears for a moment -- bear with me, because I am going somewhere with this -- and point out that talent at the art of hair design is not something universally shared. Like most everything, some people have a gift for it and some don't. Unfortunately for me, my mother was under the grossly incorrect assumption that she was skilled in this particular area. This misapprehension, coupled with her unfathomable affection for Lilt home perms, is why I spent a good chunk of my high school sophomore year bearing a frightening resemblance to Roseanne Roseannadanna.

Ok, so back to Mormons. Brigham Young had more than fifty wives. I hope he was taking his vitamins. But even with all those women at his disposal he still sported this hairdo:
I know things were tough on the prairie, what with all the mayhem and cannibalism and all, and no doubt there was a horrifying lack of upscale hair salons in 19th century Utah. But with all those women around surely he could have found someone able to cut and style his hair so that it didn't look like he had a winged maxipad stuck to the top of his head.

Brigham, dude, people would have been so much more accepting of the whole multiple wife dealy if you'd had a more authoritative hairdo. Hell, look at Mitt Romney! He's a complete nutbar but he's done quite well for himself, and I have no doubt it's due in large part to his pretty, pretty hair.

So anyway, I have singlehandedly figured out why Mormonism hasn't enjoyed more mainstream success in the theological world. I hope the powers that be are paying attention to me because I've got this shit nailed.

Meanwhile, as I type this, old Brigham is looking down on me and saying, "Crack on my hairstyle as much as you want, bitch. At least I didn't look like Roseanne Roseannadanna."

Sad Times in Sparkleville

It is with a heavy heart that I report the demise of the Sparklesmobile, Suzanne. Yes, I name my cars. I also name my plants, furniture, and various household appliances. Don't judge me, y'all!

Anyway, as a public service I would like to inform you that there are things called "oil leaks" that can develop. And those "oil leaks" can spring up in places called "head gaskets." And when that happens, it blows ass. When you drive a twelve year-old piece of shit car that kind of nonsense will cost you more to repair than your sad, pathetic car is worth. And that's when you'll find yourself in the situation that I am in. Boo hoo.

So I will be buying a new car in the next couple weeks. I still have not decided what will be a suitable replacement. The Mister and I have had discussions recently (most all of which have taken place in his car) but I can report that those discussions have not gone well:

The Mister: So, what kind of car are you going to buy?

Me: Eh, I don't know. I'm still grieving. In the semi-bastardized words of Celine Dion, I'm not sure my heart can go on. I can't think about another car.

TM: Well, you're going to have to. Hate to break it to you.

Me: [sob]

TM: I don't care what you buy, I just want you to take good care of it. Make sure a good mechanic takes a look at it at least once a ...

Me: [looking out the window, rolling eyes, and doing PacMan mouth movements]

...

[approximately 37 minutes later...]

TM: What about a BMW?

Me: Ah, no. Not my thing. Don't really like them all that much. [Realizing that I'm in The Mister's car, which is -- you guessed it! -- a BMW] But they're great cars! Really!

TM: Uh huh. What's wrong with them?

Me: Nothing... I just like something a bit smaller. But... hey! I could get one of those little bitty ones like from the James Bond movie. I could be Jane Bond! And I'd kick ass! Awwww, hell yeah!

TM: What in the hell are you doing over there with your hands? And what is that farting sound you're making with your mouth?

Me: I'm using my imaginary gear shift. And KICKING ASS!

TM: Maybe you should think about a minivan.