CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE: PARENTS KNEW THEIR CATS' NAMES BUT NOT THEIR DAUGHTERS'

I went home to visit the folks not long ago and was again reminded of a peculiar phenomenon: My beloved Pop doesn't know his daughters' names.

Or, to be more specific, he can't tell us apart. He knows the two names -- Peggy and Liz -- he's just never sure which name goes with which offspring.

Mom had the same problem. For years, I only responded to "Li-Peggy!!!"

Bill Cosby, of course, had the classic routine about the two little boys informally christened with expletives which cannot appear in these pristine gray columns.

"But dad," one son protests when being scolded, "I'm **%$#!."

I empathize.

Our brother, the only son, never had the name confusion, which is probably good. God knows what the consequences could have been had he spent his formative years being addressed by a girl's name.

The hairline issue's causing enough problems, and he's an adult.

Technically.

The good thing about name confusion is the kid's ego doesn't get too big.

His self-esteem may be shot to perdition, but answering to anything and everything including "Hey You!" keeps a person humble.

What has always amazed me is that while my parents could not tell their daughters apart, they never got the cats confused.

Liz and I do look a lot alike. I'm much taller, but on our scale that's not saying a heck of a lot.

And the cats were pretty easy to distinguish. Patches was, of course, a calico of abundant size. At one point, she weighed more than a pound for each year, and she was 19 when she went to kitty-cat heaven.

Cinnamon, on the other hand, was a scrawny little yellow tabby mix with a yowl that could be heard across three city blocks.

He mostly yowled because Patches ate all of his food.

This explains how Patches became so abundant and Cinnamon stayed so scrawny. It does not explain why Patches didn't drop dead of a stroke from eating all that kibble.

Cats thrive under pressure.

The irony, of course, is that while my sister and I pretty much answer when any woman's name is called out, cats rarely respond even when people call them by the proper name.

That's Ms. Fuzzybutt to you, bud.

Personally, I like scanning the birth announcements to see what baby names are popular.

In the '80s, all girl children seemed to be christened Jennifer, Erica, Tiffany (or my personal favorite, Tiphanie) and Alexis.

I don't think people had more time to watch soap operas then; I think we all just wanted to live soap operas.

Now in the somber '90s, more conservative names are popular: Sarah, Elizabeth, Molly, etc.

I blame it on Dan Quayle.

Men's names, of course, aren't as prone to faddism, although there are a fair number of Brocks, Bryces, Jasons and Jeremys out there.

Does anyone name their kids John and Mary anymore? How about Cindy? Or Linda? Every other girl my sister went to school with was named Linda, or so it seemed.

Names carry certain connotations, of course; that's why we name our children after rich, powerful, gorgeous soap opera characters or presidents.

And really old-fashioned names -- like Ethelred and Guinevere -- are pretty much reserved for pets these days, and usually have the word "Saint" in front of them.

I just hope I live long enough to see the first St. Tiphanie canonized.

Peggy O'Farrell is a copy editor for the Southeast Missourian.