A confession: I like to name things. Animals and plants, of course, but also inanimate objects, namely major gear (cars, backpacks, tents, etc…) This proclivity may be genetic; my grandma has always named things. Mostly though I think it is partly because I believe we (said object and me) treat each other better when names are involved, and partly because this way I can at least pretend I am talking to someone else, rather than talking out loud to myself all the time.
But I digress.
What I mean to say is, everyone, meet Gina.
Gina, meet everyone.
|Apparently Honda like to make sure you know who they are…|
The story of how Gina got her name.
It’s about 5:30 am. I am on the way out of Christchurch, successfully staying on the proper side of the road. I am thinking of what I should name this little Honda. All of a sudden a voice pops into my head… Gina, it says. I ignore it. We can do better than that, I think (no offense to the Ginas for the world). Hmmm. I am thinking. Thinking. Gina, it says again.
Me: Gina? Meh. What about Cleopatra?
Car: That seems a little random.
Me: Well your color looks a bit like a scarab’s back…
Me: Okay, what about Vivaldi? Cause you’re a concerto.
Car: I get it. No.
Me: Bernadette? Then I could sing to you in manner of The Four Tops?
Car: No. Gina.
Me: Absynthia the green faerie?
Car: seriously, quit fucking around.
Me: Alright, damn Gina.
So there you have it. Though she was conceived in Japan and first named after a musical composition, she’s tough. Rather than be named after a Norse goddess, Tolkien character, or exotic spice, she picked her own name. Apparently she is actually a small but swarthy Italian chick, possibly a Martin Lawrence fan, probably from Jersey, who isn’t going to take any bullshit from anyone. And that is just how I like her. Damn, Gina.
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