I read a lovely post yesterday.
The writer is a man named Bill, who you may have noticed commenting around these parts. Bill and I have been friends here in the invisible world for a while now, and we joke that we are long-lost siblings. If my next oldest brother wrote or spoke to me, I imagine he would write and sound much like Bill does.
There is a connection between us of the, “Oh, I know you!” sort.
Bill is an amazing writer, and I love when he tells stories of his past.
When I told Bill we were buying a boat, he was reminded of a story of his own. He wrote the story and posted the story and then told me to get my ass over there to read the story. Which I did.
I loved Bill’s story . . . a story of youth and stupidity and dreams and friendships and a boat.
A boat named “Moon Cricket.”
I just thought that was the loveliest name ever . . . Moon Cricket . . . and I mentioned this fact in my adoring comment.
I mentioned the name to Mark last night as a possibility for our own sad little fixer-upper boat. The name just spoke to me of dusk and fireflies and reflected moonlight on the water and the songs of hopeful crickets. I thought it was a name the girls would like as well . . . they both have pets that eat crickets, and it seemed like they would get a kick out of the boat being a cricket.
Went to bed.
Woke to a message from Bill . . . “Are you aware of what a moon cricket is?”
I sent a message back . . . “It’s not a small musical insect called to song in the moonlight?”
But because Bill lives in New Zealand, he slept through my question.
So I Googled . . . and was directed to this helpful entry on Urban Dictionary.
Not good, people. Not good at all.
Bill used the phrase without explanation in his story because it was the name of the boat, a boat he neither owned nor named. The fact that the boat was named “Moon Cricket” speaks volumes about the time and place in which Bill was living: Waco, Texas in the early 1980’s. I believe Bill thought people would get the reference and understand what it said about the setting of the story.
Instead? Whoosh . . . right over my head.
I was totally going to name my boat the “Moon Cricket.”
Which brings me to another episode of . . . MAJ IS SO MY DAUGHTER.
The day before Maj’s birthday. We have just been to the store, and she has purchased a boxed cake mix and a tub of frosting. Strawberry cake and lemon frosting.
I know, I know . . . but it’s her cake.
She is sitting at the kitchen counter, watching me as I do the dishes.
“I need a cool nickname.”
“Really? You are not really a nickname kind of girl.”
“I’m going to be 12, Mother. Seems like I should have a nickname.”
“Did you have something in mind?”
She plays with the cake box, “No, it could be anything, really. I just need to fully commit to it.”
“Well, it can’t be anything. You don’t want to be called butthead, for example.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mother.”
She turns the box in her hands and then says, “From this point forward, I want you to call me Super Moist.”
I choke on my laughter, “Oh my god, Maj. Where did that come from?”
She holds up the cake box, “Right here on the box. The cake is Super Moist, and that is a very good thing. I want to be Super Moist.”
I cannot even breathe.
She dances through the house, “I am Super Moist! I will shake people’s hands and introduce myself . . . Hello, I am Super Moist!”
I call after her weakly, gasping for breath, “You cannot be Super Moist!”
Kallan appears, “Who is super moist?”
Maj dances back into the room, “I am, Kallan! I will no longer be answering to Maj. Call me Super Moist!”
Kallan is dubious, “Like a super hero?”
“No, silly. I will not be moistly flying. I will be right here and I will be Super Moist!”
Kallan shrugs her shoulders, “Alright by me.”
Kallan looks at me, “Are you OK, Mom?”
I wave her away as I try to take in oxygen, “I . . . am . . . fine. Go get your sister. I need to talk to her before she leaves this house.”
Kallan screams out, “SUPER MOIST! Mom needs you!”
Oh . . . my . . . god.
I don’t get a chance to talk to Maj, because then Mark arrives home.
And then Maj is twirling and skipping about the house, “Daddy, from now on call me Super Moist! Why? Because I am Super Moist!”
Mark looks at me with eyebrows lifted.
I drag him upstairs and explain through hysterical giggles that our older daughter has a new nickname . . . Super Moist.
Mark looks at me, “Kris, you have to fix this. Maj cannot be known as Super Moist.”
I am laughing so hard I am crying, “I know that, babe.”
I call for Maj, but she doesn’t answer until I yell, “Super Moist!”
And then she appears, “Yes, Mother?”
“Your daddy and I need to talk to you for a moment.”
“We’re thinking you maybe need a new nickname.”
“Why? I love being Super Moist.”
Tears are now streaming down my face as I try to hold back giggles, “Babe, you cannot be Super Moist.”
She crosses her arms stubbornly, “Why not?”
“OK, you took that Sex Ed class, right? Remember when we talked about that stuff?”
Maj is puzzled, “Yeah?”
“Remember what we said about sexual arousal? When a man and a woman are going to have sex . . . remember that discussion?”
“Why are you bringing this up now?”
“OK, so remember that the man’s penis gets hard?”
“Ewwww, Mom. Why are you and Daddy talking about this? Ewwww.”
“OK, so the man gets hard and guess what happens to the woman?”
Maj stares at the two of us disbelievingly and then speaks slowly, “She gets super moist?”
“Yes, babe. Yes, she does.”
“Ummm . . . it makes things slippery. A good thing.”
Maj stares at Mark and me, “Seriously?”
“I guess I need a new nickname, then.”
Maj walks out of the room slowly, greets Kallan in the doorway, “I am no longer Super Moist.”
Kallan is curious, “Why not?”
Maj gestures over her shoulder at Mark and me, “Ask them.”
Can you imagine?
Just me and Super Moist, out on the river in our boat.