What’s in a name? A whole bunch.

When Mom and Dad (or Mom and Mom!) come up with that perfect monicker, they’re doing a lot more than simply honoring a favorite family member, friend or vacation locale. (Paris, anyone?). No, I maintain they’re setting cosmic events into motion and  influencing history. And quite possibly dooming him or her to a childhood full of torment and teasing. And maybe beyond childhood, too.

For instance, what if American icon John Wayne would have instead grown up with the name:

Marion Morrison.

(What? Really? Oh. Bad example)

This is the next in a series of suggested names for Michelle’s temporary body tenant, with possible life experiences and scenarios:

Name: Bobby Jo Precious

Sex: F

Childhood Highlights:
Fitted for her first tiara, age 6 months. Only child in neighborhood with a rhinestone studded baby blanket.

Learned to walk on catwalk constructed in family garage, age 13 months. Learned to walk in heels on catwalk, age 15 months.

Lost first baby teeth, age 5. First use of teeth whitener, age 5 years, 1 month. Mom cautioned by doctor to limit child to only one spray tan per week.

Entered 1st beauty pageant, age 3. Completed 100th beauty paegant, age 5. Number of pageants won — 3, all in Arkansas.

What she wants to be when she grows up — age 10: Miss  America / orthodontist.

What she wants to be when she grows up — age 23: Princess

Favorite Sport Growing Up: Anything she could wear her cheerleading costume to.

Favorite Song: It’s all about me, by Chelsea Staub

Possible Cruel Nicknames She’ll Endure In School — Barbie. Prom Queen. Diva. Little Miss Perfect. Dumb Blonde. Dumber Blonde. Dumber than a sack of doornobs Blonde. 

Exerpt from High School Yearbook: OMG, do you remember the time we thought we were using hair spray and it turned out to be cooking spray. It did wonders for my highlights! Too bad you didn’t make Homecoming Queen. I know you were really depressed about it but I’m sure you’ll bounce back real soon. Maybe next year? Hey, did you get that job at Hooters? We’ll meet some really classy guys there. Love ya, TTYL.  Britney. <33

Over/under on number of hair pulling fights before 7th grade: 7.5.

Favorite Birthday or Xmas Gift, Teen Years — Modeling Lessons, from Bob’s Mail  Order School of Runway Success, headquartered in that media center, Omaha, Nebraska.

Favorite TV Show Growing Up:
 Miss America Paegents, Project Runway, My Super Sweet 16. Bought all the DVDs of Toddlers In Tiaras, including all the episodes she appeared in.

Academic Career:
Showed up for school most of the time. First runner-up Prom Queen, Winter Dance Queen, Homecoming Queen, Head Cheerleader Tryouts.

Eventual Occupation: Assistant Manager, Hooters, Bentonville, Arkansas.

(Thanks to mydaughter Sara for her invaluable assistance on this post)

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Attention whores. You know who I’m talking about. You may call them something else, something more polite. But to me, they are what they are. They live only for other people noticing them, drawn to the glare of the spotlight like moths on a hot summer night.

‘Look at me,’ their clothes, piercings or tattoos scream.

‘It’s all about me, me, me’, screeches their flashy car or new face lift/boob job.

They measure their lives by the number of eyeballs trained upon them. You know them, work with them….you might live with them. In fact, you might be one. Though I doubt that, because instead of spending time reading MY blog you’d be writing your own.

Please forgive this rant about these self absorbed cretins. But I’m trying to make a point with my extreme disdain for these kinds of people and their selfish behavior. Because as Michelle begins this amazing journey, all of the attention is going to be focused on her. Rightfully so of course, because unlike your rank and file attention whore, the Blog Heroine is doing something pretty damned extraordinary. She’s going to be earning her place in the sun, basking in her well earned acclaim.

And I’ll be standing near her, slightly to the left of the center of attention. Just where I like it.

Sometimes I joke that I would have been happy having the tiny cabin next to Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber. (I can imagine myself, walking over to his tiny place, knocking on the door and asking to borrow a cup of gunpowder or whatever he was using for explosives.) I enjoy my quiet time, my alone time. In fact I require it to turn down the static of life every now and then.

And my need — or extreme lack thereof — for attention follows suit. I’m not just being modest here. The center of attention is not a place I’ve ever sought, and this even goes back to my days as a sportswriter for a small local newspaper. Sure, I enjoyed seeing my byline atop a good column or story that I worked hard to put into ink and newsprint. I found the satisfaction in telling the tale. Not in the fact that I was the narrator.

At the same time, I don’t like being the passenger on this or any ride. I don’t like being a passive observer. I want to participate; I need to be an active partner to feel like I’m doing my part. And creating GuestWomb is the very best way I can contribute to this effort.

Chronicling the story is being a part of the story.

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