Name My Baby...Please!!!!

At 34 weeks and change, I am beginning to get a bit panicky over the fact that we still don't have a name for this baby. We don't even have any real possibilities. So...it is with mostly (see below) open minds that we come to you for help, guidance, and assistance. Please help!

The Rules:

-The baby is a boy!

-The name must start with a hard "C" or "K" (no Charles or Cecil, for example). We thought about branching out to other letters of the alphabet, but then realized that doing so would enable this child to pretend with relative ease that he isn't part of our family. We prefer that this child be resented by his older siblings for something more important, like being given a 12pm curfew when he is eleven (can you tell that I am an oldest child?!).

-It is preferable, though not mandatory, that the name be one that is easily mispronounced or likely to be mistaken for another, more common name. My kids really like it when they are called "Amber," "Collin," and "Courtney." I similarly enjoy being called "Jan," "Jenna," "Janet," and "Janice."

An acceptable alternative to an easily mispronounced name is a name that rhymes with an embarrassing body part, a food product, or sounds like "colon" when it is said real fast. Since I have Crohn's Disease (a gastrointestinal disorder), I would like nothing better than to name my child after the part of my digestive system that was removed when I was a teenager. But my husband says "no." He also turned down "Crohn," "Colostomy," and "Colorectal" for similar reasons.

While it is impossible for your names to be as good--or disturbing--as my initial selections, I am genuinely excited to see what you come up with. I've checked out many of your blogs and have seen firsthand what cute (and cool) names you've come up with for your kids. Please work your magic for me!

What Not to Wear (when you're pregnant)

The moment that I laid eyes on Dorothy I knew that she was my kind of woman. In her late eighties, Dorothy is one of the oldest members of our church congregation and something of a celebrity. Whenever she enters a room, the waters part and everyone jumps up to offer her their seat. Everyone that is, except for me. I refuse to move a muscle because if I do, it will pretty much guarantee that I won't get to sit next to Dorothy, something that I aspire to do.

Despite numerous attempts to entice Dorothy to sit next to me, she hasn't taken the bait yet. In fact, Dorothy hasn't ever said more than three words to me, that is, until last Sunday when she cornered me in the hallway.

"You shouldn't be wearing those shoes when you're pregnant," she told me.
I looked down, but couldn't see my shoes, so I wasn't sure what pair she was talking about. I said a silent prayer that I wasn't wearing my zebra-print stilettos, because they are my favorite.

Before I could ask Dorothy why my shoes were unacceptable, she told me.
"You could trip and fall and crush your baby in those things," she said.
That did not sound good at all.

Perhaps Dorothy had a point. Maybe I wasn't exercising the best judgment by wearing hooker heels after 30 weeks. Still, to wear flats to church would mean that I would no longer be taller than all of the men in the congregation, save my husband, who is 6'4''. I thought long and hard about Dorothy's admonition. In the end, though, I decided that the cost of swapping out my beloved heels for a stylish pair of pregnant woman huaraches was not a price that I was willing to pay, even if it did jeopardize Junior.

As I explained to my husband in the car on the ride home, I like having men look up to me. Especially those wearing short-sleeved dress shirts, bolo ties, and braided belts.