Ragged Old Flag

I hate my name. I mean, I sort of like it, but I also hate it, because no one can a) pronounce it, or b) spell it. Did you know it’s pronounced JOHN-a? Like Donna, but with a J? And further, as I ask people each and every time this comes up, would you EVER say Donah or Doanna instead of Donna? You wouldn’t right? Therefore, I ask you: WHY WOULD YOU DO IT TO JONNA?

(I don’t hold it against you if you do. Everyone does.)

Every time I introduce myself, it takes at least three tries to say my name.

“Hi, I’m Jonna!”

“Nice to meet you, Shawna!”

“No, it’s JONNA”

“Shana?”

“JONNA”

“Jenna?”

“OMIGOD IT IS JONNA”

“Oh, DONNA! I’ve got it!”

*runs away*

You get the point. So you see, I’m accustomed to this, but I’ve gotta say, my insurance company really takes the proverbial cake when they’ve now sent me THREE new insurance cards to get my name right, and have yet to do it. The first card said Joana. I called to get it fixed. The second arrived as Joanna. I called again. The third, arriving today, is an even further abomination, and features a woman named Joann Mylastname.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean anything against the Joann/Joanna/Joanas of the world, but I hate those names. Hate them. Not that there’s anything WRONG with them, necessarily, but … well, I hope you understand. It’s nothing personal, Joanne. It’s just that your name isn’t MINE and it sort of sucks, but for reasons that have nothing to do with its beauty.

In other news, I recently went on an online capri-buying spree, and Old Navy had this adorable little pair of pants that were billed as “at waist”. It seems I, and the rest of the world, have forgotten what “at waist” actually means. While I’m not a fan of the muffin-toppiness born of the low-rise revolution, I can’t say I’m thrilled with a pair of pants that actually, swear to God, adds ten pounds to my frame. In addition to being cut like … well, honest to Jesus, they come up like three inches PAST MY BELLYBUTTON and are cut in the “stovepipe” sort, which is very bad for a capri. Very bad. Behold, the midsection lumpiness caused by pants near the armpits, in addition to the very sexy tree-trunk legs caused by the widest-legged pants ever:

I have a tiny head. I know this. My family calls me Pinhead. This is exacerbated by pants that give me giant, terrifying legs and a bulging midsection. Also maybe ignore junk in background, as that is the Forgotten Corner, where old knick knacks go to die before we throw them away. They have one foot in the grave and we know they’re ugly.

What the HELL, Old Navy? What. The. Hell.

And finally, I have to express my extreme disappointment in the second season of Dexter. In short, it sucked. It was like one big shark-jumping — or, as Television Without Pity put it, a Cabin Flaming — and I was so disappointed in the writing, the acting, the everything. I also didn’t need to see Keith Carradine’s backside, and I saw far too much of Lila’s boobs. So yes, I was crushed, one might say. Simply crushed. The first season was so promising! Frankly, this one wasn’t HBO-quality, and I’m now down on Showtime, the redheaded stepchild of the premium cable channels.

I hope all of you at BlogHer are having fun. I’ll be thinking of you while I attend the Family Wedding of Misery Which Is Six Hours Away and Promises to Be Challenging For So Many Reasons Acknowledged By My Whole Family, None of Whom Want to Go Either. For my part, by the way, I’d rather be at Blogstle than anywhere else.

Happy weekend, whatever you’re doing!

*Johnny Cash

55 comments July 17th, 2008