Dec 17, 2025–Do you name your bread machine?
I have just been made aware that there is a whole sub-section of humanity that names objects in their lives. It is not an affliction; it is a life hack.
In a previous column I posited how we dehumanize our opponents in order to be more comfortable battling them. Apparently there is an equal and opposite movement toward humanizing everything–pets, wild animals, livestock, plants, and even inanimate objects such as sticks and stones, and tools and toys.
Humans humanize objects by the simple expedient of giving them names.
This habit starts early. Children name their dolls and teddy bears. They even go a step beyond, imbuing them with sentience, holding conversations, and making sure they are comfortable and safe. At the extreme end of the anthropomorphic scale is the movement that reveres Gaia, literally the personification of Earth and its systems.
I am not here to argue how anyone experiences interactions with their toys or their planet. I understand the satisfaction found in nurturing those spiritual, religious, physical, and metaphysical relationships.
But naming the dishwasher and mourning discarded coffee pods?
Perhaps since I grew up in a large family, I spent a lot of my energy getting away from humans. I had no need to create an imaginary family out of the shrubbery, lampposts, and Tonka trucks. Some of us can barely be bothered to give a name to the dog. I knew a musician who called his dog “Dioge” (pronounced (dee-OH-gee). I thought it was an obscure Greek god before learning it was simply his pronunciation of the letters D-O-G.
But these “humanizers” name their plants. The tree in the back yard is “Adam;” the bush in the front yard is “Eve.” They name the sticks and stones. And apologize for stepping on them, or rearrange them to make them more comfortable.
What existential itch is scratched by naming the objects around us?
According to Justin Gregg, author of Human-Ish, giving something a name humanizes that thing, thereby causing you to treat it differently. How can you kick a rock named Eddie, or swat a mosquito named Piercy?
Guys have known this forever, from naming their cars. My 1968 Ford station wagon was known as “The Rattler” for obvious reasons. Roy Rogers’ cowboy sidekick Pat Brady named his rattletrap jeep Nellybelle, and I can still hear my mom saying “Whoa, Nellybelle,” every time we pulled into our driveway after a trip over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house.
Musicians have been naming their guitars ever since Leo Fender slapped an electronic pickup on a two-by-four–witness B.B. King’s Lucille or Willie Nelson’s Trigger. Every rare violin–like every racehorse–must have a unique name to establish provenance. But no drummer I know refers to their kit as HogJowls Tumblebum.
Knowing this is driving me crazy. I can’t look at a nail clipper or an extension cord without wondering what its name might be. And how can you use a toilet brush for what it was designed for after you’ve named it Bruce?
I am officially not comfortable with this trend. Life is creepy enough without naming all the fixtures and appliances in your home, let alone the décor in your bedroom. Imagine trying to sleep while being stared at by Audrey the alarm clock, Shelly the shoe rack, and Bobby the book shelf.
How can I create cogent columns if I name my keyboard? It feels like I’m poking Mac in the eye every time I hit Control-Alt-Delete.
Like most introverts, I struggle to remember the names of human beings I share shower facilities with after a workout. What a burden starting your day by crawling out of your “Bedelia,” pulling on your “Genes,” and toasting a slice of “Brett?”
Now I’m not sure how I feel about slurping a cuppa Joe.