A few days ago, I received an email from my friend Kristen and I can't get it out of my head.
"Amy's favorite dish at the Rainforest Cafe is 'Rasta Pasta'. After hearing Gwen Stefani named her baby boy Zuma Nesta Rock Rossdale, she decided we should name our kid...
Rock Scissors Rasta Pasta."
I have to admit, I kind of love it.
I've been repeating that name for days.
Rock Scissors Rasta Pasta.
It has a certain ring to it.
Can you imagine if he and Zuma Nesta grew up and became a couple?
Addressing their holiday cards would be a bitch:
Rock Scissors Rasta Pasta and Zuma Nesta Rock Rossdale
Naming kids is tough.
At one point, my father wanted to name my younger brother Poindexter Alfonso.
I think he was screwing with my pregnant mother (no pun intended), but to this day he'll make Poindexter cracks.
My parents settled on the much less dweeby name of Michael Brett.
If you meet my brother through me or my parents, you'll call him Brett.
If he meets you on his own, he'll tell you his name is Mike.
He started doing that in about, oh, second grade.
I was the mean older sister who routinely sat on him, dropped loogies on his face and told him he'd look like David Hasselhoff if he'd let me curl his hair. It's relevant. Trust me.
One day, my mother fielded a phone call from his elementary teacher who was confused.
Teacher: "Do you have any idea why Brett has started submitting all of his work with the name Michael?"
Mom: "Nooo. I mean, Michael is his name, his first name, but we've always called him Brett. I'll talk to him."
Later that night during dinner, my mom popped the question.
"Brett, your teacher called. Why are you signing your papers using the name Michael?"
My brother started screaming and pointing at me.
"BECAUSE SHE AND HER FRIENDS KEEP CALLING ME BRETT-THE-BRAT!"
That's right kids. I caused my brother to CHANGE HIS NAME.
I probably should feel more ashamed than I do.
But you have no idea what I put up with from him. None.
Remember the soda can? I rest my case.