The Lobster Dominatrix


I woke up today craving lobster — not a big, fat crustacean on a platter, but a simple lobster tail dripping in butter.

I’ve never understood the whole lobster dinner with the gross, green eggs in the middle and the claws that are so rubbery you feel like you’re eating a balloon. My lobster must already have been beheaded and betailed before I’ll dip into it. Honestly, how can you eat a creature after you’ve executed it — live?

You have to be some kind of monster.

Lobster is a guilty pleasure because there, honestly, is so much waste, especially if you’re only after the tail part so we usually substitute prawns bought at Costco which are each as big as my left foot. You only need a half-dozen prawns to make up the size of a lobster tail and there is only a tiny bit of waste.

And they’re all ready dead so I don’t have to listen to them squeal when I pop them into salted water.

It’s pretty clear that my fantasy seafood feast will not be realized. We’re between pays and the twenty odd bucks I had in my wallet went to a greedy doctor who made my son pay for a copy of his child’s ultrasound. Nicholas and Shyla came home and announced that Wheels has indeed been identified as a one and a half pound girl child, just about the size of the crustacean I will not be eating this evening.

Schnick have decided to name the child Skylar Anne Patricia,  which I believe will be confusing for everyone. Shyla, Skylar, Shyla, Skylar — I’m going to mix the names up, I know it. Besides, the kid is going to be twelve before she can pronounce her own friggin’ name.

So I’m doing what any sensible, interfering and hungry Granny would do.

I’m naming her Patty.

Everyone can pronounce it. Everyone can spell it. And who doesn’t love a Patty? It’s a friendly name; it makes you smile. People name pubs after Patty not to mention a wonderful peppermint chocolate treat. Patty is a beloved cartoon character with red hair and freckles. She’s sensible. Not slutty.

I’ve never gotten why people give their kids high-falutin’ names. Scott’s dad Warner was given the family name, which was the same name as the family bra business. Other people have names that are passed down, like that gorgeous actor who played twins in The Social Network. That poor bastard has to run around with the family name, Armie Hammer, which is baking soda, for Christ’s sake. Then there’s Baron Trump — a kid named after an evil red flyboy.

I don’t get it.

Most people who are given weird names give their children plain names. It sort of flips between generations. Warner did not call Scott “Warnie Junior” — he called him Scott — a name you can really get behind. My father named me Rosalie, a name no one could pronounce. When I got into the newspaper business, I tried to use Rosalie as a byline and got shut down by my city editor, Gord Eastwood, who said it sounded like a nun’s name. Now only doctors and judges call me that.

When they call me Rosalie, I know I’m in trouble.

I named my children Nicholas, Stefan and Marissa, all names that go with their last French Canadian name. They are  bilingual names — okay, Stefan is spelled wrong but that’s Mr. Big’s fault. Even he, a big fat French father didn’t know the correct spelling. Truth be told, I thought Stef was going to be a girl and had my heart set on Stephanie and Marissa was named after an evil soap opera character on All My Children, which was my favorite program when I was pregnant.

But all names were universal and easy to pronounce.

Now the generation has flipped and we’re getting Skylar.

Or Patty.

Let’s make a deal, Nick.

Let Wheels choose if she wants to be a Skylar or a Patty.

See which one wins.

Anyone care for a chocolate? Maybe a Guinness?

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One thought on “The Lobster Dominatrix

  1. There’s a lot of revision going round. Zowie Bowie now calls himself Joe Jones; America Hoffman (Abbie’s kid) prefers Adam. China Kantner, offspring of Paul Kantner and Grace Slick, kept her name but her parents once threatened to name her “god” so that one’s a wash.

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