Public Address - Busytown (Home)

So sue me | Dec 29, 2005 09:17

I, too, want to get a word into the dictionary in 2006. And that word is krob (n), meaning "load of crumbling bollocks energetically scraped from the bottom of a long disused barrel." Conveniently, it already means "crunchy" in Thai, but let's see if we can get it working in English too. All together now: krob.

It's instantly pronounceable and enormously versatile. You can use it as a verb: to "krob" someone is to swizzle them out of the price of an advertorial book, very swiftly and genially. And the adjectival form is of course "krobby," as in, "watch out for that krobby geezer in the sharp suit, he's an adman, you know."

What do you reckon?

I should warn you, we already have a bit of competition in the new word stakes: living legend Kevin "K Rob" Roberts himself, who has come up with a real doozy. Are you ready for it?

Sisomo.

I can hear you all murmuring it out loud, right this minute. And you know what? None of you is saying it the same way:

Sissy-mo.

Suh-SOH-mo.

Scissor-mo.

Seesommo (to the tune of Fee-ga-ro).

Sigh-sumo?

So sue me.

Great candidate for a new word, there – instantly and easily pronounced at first sight by a five year old, same in every major language, except, er, not.

And it works – or doesn't work – in the other direction, too. Say it out loud to a friend and ask them to spell it for you. Chances are they'll start with S-Y-S.... bzzzzt. Wrong.

OK, but maybe we can figure out its pronunciation from its derivation. You've all got a spot of Latin or Greek, maybe some Spanish or Japanese. According to the inventor of this lexical curiosity, it is a neologism composed of syllables from the key concepts Sight, Sound, and Motion. (He's clearly been lunching with Gwen "Love.Angel.Music.Baby" Stefani, or reading Japanese lunchboxes).

But the derivation sort of helps. So it's Sigh-sour-mow, sorta thing? I may be getting the hang of it. And yet I wonder if those syllables might have worked better in another order. Any other order.

Mosiso. Somosi. Sosimo. Simoso. Sesame. Semisi. Salami. Sashimi. Samosa. Missoni. Mossimo. Moroni. Mussolini...

Mo' saussies, anyone? With tomato sauce?

Ooooh, my brain is practically fizzing. Now I see how this creative ad biz brainstorming thing works... we'll get there, sooner or later, and the clock is ticking the whole way, in hundred dollar increments.

Not that it's all about the money, of course. No no no! This is lexicographical humanitarianism, this is. The planet has a desperate need for a new noun to describe the integration of sight, sound, and motion, a conjunction that has never before happened in human history.

Not since the Greeks invented drama several millennia back, or movies morphed into talkies and then back into movies over the last century, or the multimedia revolution of the last two decades, or the age of virtual reality, have we encountered radical new syntheses of the senses to surround us and entertain us.

Oh my god! Sensurround. I'd forgotten that one. Remember, when the whole movie theatre would shake and rumble around you? Sensurround. True, it has a whiff of male cologne and Miami Device about it, but maybe we could bring it back out of retirement to do whatever job it is that "multimedia" apparently isn't doing, and that "sisomo" will frankly never get around to doing.

Sisomo, eh? No disrespect to K Rob (he's an adman, I'm a smartarse with a PhD in literature, so really we're sisters under the skin), but a lovemark it's not. Not even a love-nibble. It's just too... krobby. Not even hard-core krobby either, just a tad krobbly.

Krob. Nah, that'll never catch on, either. Too crisp; too true.

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This just in: Jen from Christchurch pointed me to an official linguistic take on why "sisomo" will never sis, or o, or mo, at Language Log. I rest my case... and tip of the hat to the writer, who coins the very useful "hyper-hyper" in the course of dismantling sisomo.

---

In other news, lots of great feedback on the preggy-brain/baby-name post. It turns out that preggy brain is, scientifically speaking, a myth. If anything, what we have is oversensitivity to normal lapses of concentration characteristic of people with a lot on their minds. I suggest we rename the whole phenomenon "project brain" instead, and lose the stigma.

Caroline writes that she had a friend who did a study on it. However, due to a severe case of, er, project-brain herself, she was unable to remember the details, beyond the fact that the study showed no major differences in memory function between women who were never pregnant, now pregnant, or pregnant a long time ago. You just think about different stuff, apparently.

Tze Ming backed me up on the absence of research supporting a theory of preggy brain. In fact, she went one better, and found a study that pretty much rules it out. In fact, the study found that:

... pregnant women did as well as the other women on the memory and concentration tasks. But they "felt strongly" that their memories were worse than they would have been, had they not been pregnant.

Tze Ming adds:

Makes a lot more sense from an evolutionary perspective, n'est-ce pas? It doesn't seem very practical to turn into a blithering morons just at the most important point for ensuring the survival of the species. Then again, the birth canal doesn't seem very practical either.

(Which reminds me, a note to the ladies: when sizing up a possible future father of your children, might I suggest that a quick tape measure round the head is eminently more useful in the long run than the old "inside leg," if you see what I mean. I say this as the wife and mother of two of the largest-headed people outside of the Peanuts comic strip).

On the question of names, Tamsin wrote to remind me of the Ngaios and Ngaires out there in the expat pool, a fascinating renaissance of the 1930s vogue for indigenous names and designs. Aidan wrote in to hotly defend the honour of his ancient and eminent name, which is the proud progenitor of all subsequent –aydens and –aidans (or rather, they are its many bastard offspring). He is right, and has a decent saint to show for it as well.

Wendy suggested having a risible name on hand to deliver with an absolutely straight face in order to deflect inquiries. Ichabod was her pick. Be warned with this tactic though – at least one person you meet will go pale and say "But that's MY baby name!" She also writes:

We also toyed with the idea of 'Exit' in case s/he was destined to be on the stage, in which case s/he would have his/her name up in lights in every theatre in the world.

I like it. Exit Exit, pursued by a bear.

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Bear with me | Dec 18, 2005 09:02

So I could blame my recent blog slowdown on that convenient old wives' catch-all "preggy brain," but that would be... um, true. Even Busyboy has noticed. The other day he boasted "My daddy has a SSSSSHUGE brain, and I have a great big four-year-old brain." I waited for the rest. He patted me on the shoulder and said "And you have a medium-sized brain."

In my quicker-witted days I might have clipped him round the ear for that, but under the circumstances it felt like a massive compliment. Really? Medium-sized? Awesome! That'll get me through till Christmas.

He's making it really easy on me too, with a new mania for giving extensive and very explicit clues and hints as to what he's thinking about. A recent sample: "Do you know what season it is right now, Mummy? I'll give you a clue. It starts with 'wint' and it ends with 'uh' -- can you guess what it is?"

Even with such generous help, I confess I still sometimes end with 'uh.'

Is pregnancy-related dopiness a real biological phenomenon? I don't know -- even with the help of the all-powerful Google, both hands, and a flashlight, I can't track down any reliable scientific studies on the subject. Not just because I'm a bit medium-sized in the cranium department, either: "preggy brain" "scientific basis" returned NO RESULTS.

Now that I think about it, though, I doubt it only applies to bio-mums, or indeed only to mums in general – it stands to reason that anyone anticipating an impending child of any kind would be a bit, as it were, preoccupied.

Actually that's a useful image, with its toilet cubicle overtones. Maybe I need a T-shirt that says "Vacant" on one side and "Preoccupied" on the other. Except I probably don't, because I finally have a tummy that signals that for me... and with only seven weeks to go. Something to show for it, at last!

It is rather handy to be what the old lady next door called "a tidy carrier," squeezing into my most forgiving pair of stretch jeans until a month ago, and able to clip my own toe-nails and shovel snow as of yesterday. But on the other hand, I miss out on the reflexive chivalry that comes to those whose tummies precede them majestically into a room by a good few minutes.

I remember last time, when I was about eleven million months pregnant, a fellow shopper in a New York deli with an armful of groceries dropped their topmost packet of Rice-a-Roni, and asked "Pick that up for me, wouldya doll?" And I cheerfully did, although it took me a good five minutes to return to the upright position. Impatience, and then a second look, led to a flustered apology from my queue-mate. No probs -- squats are good for you when you're pregnant. Even if I nearly did go into labour on the spot.

So what keeps the expecting brain so very very busy in such a foggy, misty way? I would love to say it's all the long lingering wordless conversations with the burgeoning miracle within, but mostly I stick to the Alcatraz model. Couple of taps on the plumbing a couple of times a day means you're still alive in there. When it turns into more complex volleys of Morse Code, I'll know the escape plan is underway, but for now it's one kick for yes, two for yes all right I heard you the first time, now lay off my kidney.

I did read a nice book about Your Amazing Fetus and Its Thrilling Intra-Uterine Life, which suggested I might like to try transmitting some warm, affirming dreams to my unborn lovechild. Maybe not such a great idea, considering I don't tend to go in for lavender-scented dreamscapes, but rather obsess about whatever I just read. I spent all night last night, for example, tossing and turning about Ian Frazier's kookily brilliant piece in the New Yorker on wild hogs (not online alas, but absolutely worth hunting down in print). Can see how well that would go down in wombland dreamtime. Oink! It's your mother here. Vote Democrat! Oink!

That, and the other freaky side-effect of preggy brain -- or is it just me? -- which is the worst case of ear worms in your life: random songs that stick in your brain for days, and nights, and days, and nights, and weeks and months at a time. Aaaargh. Make it stop! Make it STOP!! Or the baby will emerge singing "Right Said Fred" word-perfect from start to finish.

But one very eye-opening claim in the amazing fetus book was that not only do babies like to play with the umbilical cord – which makes sense, as it's to hand, and sturdy, and you could practice sailors' knots and such – but allegedly they sometimes like to deliberately squeeze it and let go, to give themselves a rush.

That stopped me cold. You mean, I might have a regular little Michael Hutchence in there, dangling off the wardrobe door to while away the lonely evenings? Oh dear.

I mean, really?? How on earth would you know this was going on? Do they all do it? Do some do it more than others? Could you get advance warning of whether you're incubating a teeny tiny auto-erotic thrillseeker, or just a regular old person who will one day stand idly in a queue at the bank, running their hand up and down that looped lane-divider thing and musing at a totally preconscious level about the good old days when the only toy was an umbilical cord, nothing more, nothing less.

God. See where your medium-sized preggy brain will take you, if you're not too worried about the deadlines for your loftier prose projects?

One of the other things you think about a lot, when you're pre-occupied, is of course names. You think about all the baby name books, and how they're premised on a lie, because what you're trying to name is not really a baby, per se, but a human being with a lifespan of three score or more, and those are two very different things.

The right name should work under all circumstances: from blowing raspberries on a fat six-month-old tummy, all the way up to the Presidential swearing-in ceremony. Ah, but that's me being conservative. The right kid, of course, will make any name seem right in any place, regardless – ask Tokyo Sexwale, or our own Che Tibby. And goodness knows I'm in no position to cast stones at whimsical names that you have to spell over the phone. Although if you do like to slow down as you pass traffic accidents, you might want to peruse these lists of imponderable naming choices.

Of course, anyone who's named a child lately knows that your perfect, secret, and totally unique name will also be the one chosen by your cousin, your next-door neighbour, and the postie's daughter. If you're canny, you scope out the name lists and see what's popular so you can rule those ones out. But the zeitgeist moves in completely mysterious ways, and never more so than when you're trying to elude it. For Busyboy, we picked a nice old standard, not too popular but by no means obscure, halfway up and down the US top forty. And of course it turned out to be the most popular name in New Zealand that year, blah blah cousin, blah blah neighbour, blah blah postie's daughter. He has made it his own, though, and so far hasn't shared a class or a playground with a namesake, so we're all right.

If duplication really keeps you up at nights, I suppose you could start at the other end of the list and deliberately pick a highly unpopular name. The Social Security Administration keeps track of American baby names for the last century, and here's a handy variation that groups the 2004 names by spelling variations to give an even more accurate picture (what is up with all the –aydens? Aidan, Hayden, Jayden, Kayden, Brayden? Note that Fayden and Gayden are still up for grabs... also Spreydon, if you're looking to reprazent the Garden City).

Taking it up a notch, Baby Name Wizard's Namevoyager is an extraordinary resource that animates the raw data to let you track the meteoric rise of Connor and Caitlin, and the inexplicable decline of Dorcas and Elmer. The accompanying blog has some fascinating analysis of where the name trends come from: hint, it's all about the vowels and consonants, and the celebrity babies.

Name trends tend to skip a generation, too, so the current crop of baby-bearers are more or less duty-bound to use what their parents think of as rest-home names, ones that smack of kindly moustachioed aunties in faded pinnies and nice old soldier uncles with beer breath and a chest full of medals.

I've noticed an expat trend as well: using names that speak eloquently of the home country. I know of several Baxters and Seddons and Kowhais out there, and I wouldn't be surprised to hear of a Mansfield or two (but again, Savage and King Dick and Hamilton Jet are mysteriously still up for grabs). And in the Aussie contingent, keep an eye out for Matilda (Heath Ledger's new baby), and Adelaide and Banjo (courtesy of Rachel Griffiths).

But this can get you coming or going, depending on whether the children will flap godwit-like for the homeland, or spend their lives abroad. For a while, Tui was at the top of my list, for a boy or a girl. Gorgeous name (Niki Caro agrees!), gotta love the birdie. But American friends thought it sounded a bit too Wookie, and New Zealand friends all managed to chortle some version of "Yeah, right." You can't win.

The sibling preference is definitely worth taking into account, to a degree. I really wanted to call my little sister Bernina, and I could still sing you the jingle that inspired me, but I won't because Gemma doesn't like being referred to as "so easy and so versatile." Whether or not you plan to take advice from juniors, it is useful to run your test-names past a small pair of ears, as they are that much closer to the ground and can certainly fill you in on any playground resonances you may have missed yourself. Busyboy, for example, says that Finn reminds him scarily of sharks, and vetoed the venerable Piers by noting that to a child's ear it is just one consonant off a male body part. Oops.

He also suggested Rosebush for a girl, but I'm damned if any child of mine is going to share a syllable with the guy who was responsible for the Titanic disaster. And he optimistically has a bid in for some version of his own name, although that's taking the Bob the Builder recycling thing a bit far. To be fair, he also came up with a rather excellent moniker that we may yet use as a middle name. And in the end -- as the poet who spelt his name any old way reminds us -- a Rosebush by any other name will surely smell as sweet.

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