mixing a metaphor

According to a co-worker, the squeaky wheel is the one who really stirs the pot.

A pot full of metaphors, apparently ...

good company

I don't have the standard anxiety dreams. My teeth don't fall out. I'm never naked ... except,  you know, when it makes sense. 

My anxiety dream is always the same. I'm in a broken elevator. It isn't hung well and it is swinging from side to side. And it turns out that Charlie Kaufman, who I think is an absolute genius, told Terry Gross that he has the same recurring dream!

on the positive side

Boy, there's nothing like a good international economic crisis for helping a mom like me take that baby weight off!

I know some folks turn toward comfort eating in times like these. But not me! My stomache clenches up and the food just can't fit.

And I shall call him Bubba

This whole "baby changes your life" thing is all fine and dandy but I seem to be experiencing some kind of severe chemical reaction bordering on psychosis. And I don't mean postpartum depression unless spontaneously calling your baby "Bubba" is one of the symptoms.

Seriously. I'm calling him "Bubba."

The first time I heard myself say it, I thought "What on god's green earth is wrong with me?" I am a native Texan, true, but I am the type of native Texan who loves the myths, the brash personalities, outsized everythings, and absurd verbal ticks from a distance assumed by the informed and bemused observer.

Not to suggest that there's anything wrong with calling your child Bubba. It's just not me.

Really

It really freaks me out that I say this word "Bubba" in reference to my child. And I say it with affection.

So how did I end up in my own personal Bubba-ville and why am I dragging my child there with me?

This is my defense:

It started out as "Bebe" but perhaps because I sometimes call our dog "Puppeh" it morphed to "Bubbeh."

(If you're wondering how desperate I am to excuse this behavior that I would try to draw a distinction between an "eh" and "a" at the end of that word, I'll say that you have a tin ear and should never try to learn a foreign language.)

At some point, "bebe" and "Bubbeh" got mixed up with "Bubeleh" (pronounced BOO [as in "book"]-buh-leh) which is what my Great Aunt Millie called me when I was a kid and she wanted to shark me at penny ante poker.

(Not really. Millie always supplied all the pennies for the game)

(Also, totally off the subject, but Millie looked like a fat witch with a giant hairy mole on her chin, beady black eyes, and a long nose. Also, no joke, she used to hook her cane around my ankle and say "Come here Bubeleh" when she wanted me to come to talk to her.)

(I loved her so!)

So in the end, there's a simple, almost mathematical explanation:

Bebe + Puppeh + BOO-buh-leh = Bubba

Yet in the end, all that intellectualizing, analyzing, and linguisticizing still boils down to two bare facts:

My baby is my Bubba and I love him so!