I like to name things. I just do. I have named my camera, my phone, the odd Superman-blue mailbox I pass on my way to work, the brown and white-spotted horse in the field over there . . everything.
I name everything.
That includes my car.
I've been naming my cars since the beginning of time. I started with The Green Beast, a beat-up olive-green Mercury Marquis. I then had Roger, an off-white Ford Ranger pick-up. Later there was a Honda Civic CRX named Civvy, which was followed by Barney, the frightenly purple Nissan 200SX. More recently I drove Ali the Oldsmobile Alero and then Mitsi the Mitsubishi Endeavor. That was all topped off by that wench Audrey.
Somewhere along the line, Alexis started interfering with my highly scientific naming methodology. Instead of just letting me have my painfully obvious and perhaps cheesey names, she went and voice an opinion. KIDS THESE DAYS. She always refused to call Audrey by her name, instead preferring to call her "Audi Audi." Which, uh, NO. Her name was Audrey, thank you very much.
With the new Nissan Rogue, I had a million names I liked. She-who-interferes-when-not-invited decided she didn't like any of them. NONE OF THEM. I would suggest a name, she would insist it wasn't right. I would ask her what she wanted to name it, she would reply, "Toy." NOT. A. CHANCE. I refused to name my Nissan "Toy." REFUSED.
Mostly because there's a Toyota in our driveway and I'm easily confused. But, whatever.
It took Alexis and I a week to come to an agreement on the Nissan's name, and even then I had to bribe her to get my way.
Nissa.
Done.
And now I know for certain that should Alexis ever end up with a younger sibling, we're going to need a lot of money to convince her to let us pick out the name.
