Archives for December 2022

Really. Dog names. The news today included a report on what names are popular with baby boomers when it comes to naming their pets. Seriously. It was in the news.

The report noted that Millennials were keen to give their pets human names such as Luna or Max. Sure enough, if you do a search for the current popular dog names of 2022, they skew towards actual people names. Luna was number one, followed by Bella, Charlie, Max, Daisy, Lucy, Cooper, Bailey, Milo, Coco, Lily, Zoe, Lola, Buddy, Sadie, Stella, Bear, Rocky, Molly, Teddy, Maggie, Penny, Duke and Leo.

Boomers, on the other hand, relied on popular culture sources such as comics, film and music.

The source of this startling news? Dog name trend reports (whatever those are) and anecdotal evidence. And there it is. The old anecdotal evidence trope. You might as well say you’re making this crap up, but okay, let’s have it. It’s a slow news day.

1. Snoopy – Really. The cartoon dog has a special place in boomers’ hearts (according to anecdotes).

2. Maggie – They give the Rod Stewart song credit for this one.

3. Dolly – Dolly Pawton. Need we say more.

4. Charlie – Because JFK had a terrier by that name.

5. Lassie – Timmy fell in the well and well, what else do you need to know?

6. Toto – Yellow brick road says it all.

7. Buddy – Because he/she truly is your best friend.

8. Major – Presidents Biden and Franklin D. Roosevelt had German Shepherds with this name.

9. Benji – The movie scores again.

10. Bear – Because your dog looks like a bear?

11. Chewy – Either the Star Wars influence or the dog is really mouthy.

12. Lady – Go back to 1955 for the Disney movie influence or just blame it on the Tramp.

13. Cujo – Who turns to Stephen King for dog name inspiration?

14. Fido – Sheesh! Does any self-respecting boomer call their dog Fido? According to anecdotal evidence, yes!

I hope this information has been useful to you, or at least entertaining. I know that I feel better informed now. At least anecdotally.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. You can also visit his author page here. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

 

 

A guy I play golf with took it upon himself to share his thoughts about my personality.

He said I seemed intelligent and independent, but I was aloof and didn’t show enough interest in other people. I need to ask more questions, he said, if I want people to like me. I just nodded.

Hmmm, so not interested in your thoughts on this subject.

For the record, I’ve never been a social animal, just a few close friends, but people seem to like me well enough … as in not universally despised. That’s a distinction I’m rather proud of.

My buddy is extroverted, randomly chats up people on the golf course and asks a million questions, some kind of personal, and although I find it annoying, it’s not a deal-breaker. As an introvert, I try to avoid the talkers, but somehow we started playing together regularly. He’s a decent fellow, and I don’t want to work all that hard to find someone new.

I actually did play with someone new this week and thought, what the hell? Ask a question. The problem is questions lead to answers, and if you get a talker, sometimes those answers are more than you bargained for. Then there’s always the possibility of sliding down that slippery slope to conversation.

Seems like I prefer exercise without conversation. I suppose that’s why I’m drawn to swimming and long walks alone.

Anyway, my buddy and I are supposed to play again next week, and I’m hoping he’ll have moved onto the next person to fix. I’m not going to apologize for being an introvert. As always, I try to be a pleasant and encouraging partner. No temper tantrums. A laugh, a smile, a thumbs up. Great putt! Wow, you smoked that drive!

Don’t get me wrong. I do enjoy people. Let’s get a beer afterward, and you can talk all you want.

I don’t know why he felt compelled to share all that, but in the end, I’m glad he did. In a strange way, it was validating. As I reflected on his comments, I’d say he wasn’t far off on my personality assessment. The part he got wrong was thinking I should do something to change it.

Feeling comfortable in your old flawed skin is one of the great pleasures of aging.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

 

One morning, I yawned and heard a distinct pop in my right jaw. Yikes? Is my head falling off? My face frozen and contorted, I had dislocated my jaw! I began to panic.

I wanted to run from our bedroom, elbows flailing, as I grasped my face to keep my head in place. (Think Edvard Munsch’s The Scream.) I needed a doctor, but I had never heard of an ear, nose, throat and jaw doctor. Unable to move my unhinged mouth, I couldn’t communicate to my wife who was sleeping next to me. If I were to reach out and shake her awake, there was no telling how she’d react when she saw me. A jury would call it self-defense.

I grabbed my jaw and began to wiggle and shift it slowly and gently, as I tried to locate the groove. This had always worked with a bicycle chain and whenever my garage door slipped off its tracks. After some painful shimmying of my head parts, I managed to position my jaw back into place.

For three days, I hid my condition from my wife while I consulted Dr. Google. Several times a day I yawned too widely and knocked my jaw out again. With each incident, I trotted quickly from the living room to the bathroom to keep my hideous disintegration from my wife. She thought I had developed a bladder condition. Behind the locked bathroom door, I would gaze at my misshapen face in the mirror, grab hold, and then eventually slot everything back in place like giant Lego pieces.

It didn’t take long to learn I had TMD–temporomandibular joint dysfunction–a condition that can hit people of any age, though I read that most people affected are under forty. I announced to my wife that I had a “young person’s disorder.” She smirked. I consulted my GP, and he referred me to a dentist who specialized in my condition.

The dentist told me that if it got any worse, I would need complicated oral surgery. After several visits, x-rays, and measurements, I was finally fitted with a custom-made retainer which I am supposed to wear at night for the rest of my life. I have been able to keep my head in place and I have had fewer episodes of detachment. At least in the physical sense.

On the plus side, my wife says I look fourteen.

Michael Riordan has taught in the U.S., Australia, Singapore, and China, where he was professor of writing and film. He was co-founder and director of Singapore-based Creative Action Now, an English language school. His work can be found in Short Edition, Consequence, Epoch Press, Front Range Review, Tether’s End, and elsewhere.

I kept hearing a bang and thump from down in my basement. Had someone left a tennis shoe in the dryer. No, it wasn’t that regular. It was intermittent, at irregular intervals and besides I wasn’t drying any clothes. I eased down the stairs and peeked around the door to the utility room. THUMP. WHACK. A bird was flying through the shrubs into the window over our splash sink. It was a cardinal. A female cardinal. When I walked into the room, it flew away.

Huh. I tried to figure out the cause of that curious behavior. Outside, when I squatted behind the embattlement of yew bushes fronting the house, I could see a reflection of trees and cloud in my larger than typical Michigan basement window. I wondered if the bird thought it could fly on through the landscape mirrored in front of her. Or maybe she was being territorial. Had a nest nearby. Protecting her young from another bird. Or was she the jealous type and didn’t like competition from someone who was as good looking as she was. In any case, I could still hear her whacking her head against the screen as I tried to eat my lunch an hour later.

I debated making a video of the critter to post online. But then I realized it would be redundant. Facebook and Twitter are replete with jokes, cartoons and poster boards of people who bang their heads against the wall, over and over for one cause or another. My bird would be just another obsessive compulsive with blue-sky political delusions or red-head political inclinations—a metaphor for freedom of self-expression, no matter the personal pain.

Or maybe, this bird’s persistence in pursuing her dream is a metaphor for any of us who have an ideal and pursue it despite repeated resistance and the inherent solitude of a personal crusade. As long as it isn’t simply obsessive-compulsive behavior. Or a self-image issue. Or projected hatred. Or…who knows why any of us keeps doing what we do? Habit? Lack of perspective? Single minded determination…stubbornness?

I tried putting a piece of plywood in front of the window. It didn’t completely cover the glass. The bird kept thumping at the sliver of reflection that remained, raising the question, ‘when is the next election?’

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/

In my childhood home, it was hard to be acknowledged as something special. Bringing home test papers marked “100%” or showing off a teacher’s delighted scribble of “A+++” on an English composition elicited, “Well, naturally. You’re my child.” And a quick change of subject.

I yearned for a distinctive talent, one that would truly impress my parents.

Every year Dad and I watched The Miss America contest together. He repeatedly declared, “You were the most beautiful baby anyone had ever seen. Why didn’t we enter you into a beautiful baby contest?” He promised I could be in the Miss America contest when I got older.

In the middle of this fantasy, he appeared flummoxed. “You’ve got to have a talent.”

I couldn’t play an instrument. My teacher was pretty sure I was tone deaf.

My father could draw clever cartoons and comics but my idea of art was a square house with four windows, a chimney belching smoke, a sun in the sky, a flower growing near the path to the house. Essentially, a vision unchanged since first grade. So, not Art.

“I’ll recite a poem I’ve written or sing a song?” Dad winced. He’d already voiced his opinion of my writing when I read him my comic western, Wild Dill Pickle Rides Again.”

“Look,” he’d said, “You’re not a real writer. A real writer gets up at 4 a.m. and writes every day. A real writer watches no TV. A real writer—” I got the idea.

Nevertheless, we continued to watch Miss America together though I was sick of hearing how I failed to measure up. One day Dad had a brainstorm. “Tuck your hair behind your ears and follow my lead.”

“They’re moving,” he whispered. “Hey kids,” he called out to my brothers. “Get in here. Bring your mother!”

With my family gathered round, I practiced in the mirror. My ears danced! And no one else in the family— outside of Dad—had inherited this particular talent. We had found my talent!

For the rest of my childhood I watched in vain for a Miss America candidate to demonstrate my aural dexterity. Ha! No way would I wiggle my ears on TV.

And by the way, I eventually discovered I was a real writer all along. Thanks, Dad (for that stubborn gene in your DNA)

Janet Garber lives in Somers, NY