Yesterday, I was in the office alone, minding my own business, getting some work done, when the aforementioned Port Captain walked in.
After the usual greetings, he said "I have something to show you. Now, keep your hands to yourself and your eyes where they belong." He began to unbuckle his belt.
I was intrigued.
He turned around and showed me the top of one very small, very pink butt cheek. He'd been tanning bare-ass after all. Nice butt, too.
My life. I could not make this shit up if I tried.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Go Big Or Go Home
I was talking with one of the Port Captains yesterday (they provide shore support for the lobster boats), and he told me, in a very conspiratorial tone, that he's thinking of going to a tanning salon. He wants to even out his "dumpster man tan" - which, having grown up in the 'burbs, I didn't even know what that was. Turns out, he is referring to what the rest of us call a "farmer tan," but in the city, it's the sanitation workers that tan around their t-shirts. Who knew?
I thought it was really funny that he was whispering it to me like he was thinking about doing something illegal or immoral. But we are talking about a fisherman, and tanning in a salon is pretty metrosexual for a guy like that.
I laughed and said "You do some random funny stuff, you know that? But seriously, if you're going to tan, you've got to be buck naked. You need a tan butt." He looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
"If you're going to do random funny stuff, you need to commit to it. Go big or go home!"
I'm thinking about opening a diner in Amarillo with the help of a married man or a biker dude (while wearing lame' hot pants, can't forget the lame' hot pants), and this guy is worried about baring his butt in a tanning bed.
Newbie.
I thought it was really funny that he was whispering it to me like he was thinking about doing something illegal or immoral. But we are talking about a fisherman, and tanning in a salon is pretty metrosexual for a guy like that.
I laughed and said "You do some random funny stuff, you know that? But seriously, if you're going to tan, you've got to be buck naked. You need a tan butt." He looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
"If you're going to do random funny stuff, you need to commit to it. Go big or go home!"
I'm thinking about opening a diner in Amarillo with the help of a married man or a biker dude (while wearing lame' hot pants, can't forget the lame' hot pants), and this guy is worried about baring his butt in a tanning bed.
Newbie.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Hoosier Fry Daddy?
You know how it is. Anytime you go to your parents’ house, you automatically revert to old patterns and roles. Maybe you were the smart one, or the pretty one, or the athletic one, and no matter how many years it’s been since you graduated from high school, as soon as you are in the presence of your family, the old label clings to you like a barnacle.
I wasn’t the smart one, the pretty one, or the athletic one. I’ve always been the one most likely to do something stupid to mess up her life. I don’t know how or when I got that particular label. I was a timid child, so it’s not like I was jumping off the roof wearing wings I’d made of construction paper, or anything like that.
Looking back over the years, however, I can’t deny that I’ve made some pretty stupid choices – and they are always big stupid choices. I can’t seem to be content with things like getting my phone shut off for non-payment or thinking that Paris Hilton is an excellent fashion role model for a middle-aged woman. Oh no, I’d never do either of those things. In fact, my life is fairly routine and regimented. My bills get paid, my apartment gets cleaned, and – unlike Paris – I wear slips and underwear, just like my mother taught me.
But occasionally, it’s as if I stumble across a handful of magic beans and I decide to plant them just to see what will happen. And next thing you know, I am on a ferry with my cat and all my worldly goods, moving to Nantucket to live with a guy young enough to be my son. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It always does.
My youngest sister, Rachel, was The Good Child. Seriously, she was. I am fourteen years older than she is, and I remember how easy-going a child she was. Pretty, smart, sweet – a parent’s dream. She went on to get a good education and a series of good jobs. She’s the successful one… except, now, at 30, she is contemplating a big career change. As in leaving the business world of Chicago and becoming a horse trainer in Austin, Texas.
I vary between wanting to be a fly on the wall when she has that little conversation with our mother, and thinking “Wait a minute, I’m the big disappointment in the family. Back off my turf, sister.”
I also worry that as The Good Child, she has no idea what sleeping dogs of war she’s about to awaken. I wonder if she has the skills to handle what is about to come barreling at her. So, despite the fact that I really enjoy my job, I thought that in sisterly solidarity, I’d join her in her quest for a new life. I cooked up the idea of opening a diner together on Route 66 outside Amarillo called Two Sisters, where the uniform includes lame’ hot pants.
Somehow, though, the idea simply does not seem big enough. I was talking with a friend, brainstorming about how I could set the screw-up bar so high that none of my siblings could hope to reach it. He suggested I have an affair with a married man, waving his wedding band in my general direction and asking “How can I help?”
When I finished cleaning up the mess I’d made from spewing tea while I laughed, I said, “It needs to be bigger. You’d have to run away to Texas with me and become my fry cook.” (What a diner really needs is a fry cook with a master’s degree. Am I right?)
Upon reflection, however, I realize that there are a couple of other candidates who would make my family’s hair stand on end like quills upon the fretful porpentine. For example, I work with several heavily tattooed lobstermen with criminal records. (Just so you know, I don’t haul trawls; I push paper.) I’ve seen a lot of bearded guys zooming around on Harleys lately. The mind boggles at the possibilities.
I’ve decided that the best way to handle this is to try it as a statement: “My daughter ran away to Texas with a married man and opened a diner where she wears lame’ hot pants to work every day. He’s the fry cook.” Or, “My daughter ran away to Texas with a burnt out, heavily-tattooed lobsterman. She opened a diner and wears lame’ hot pants to work every day.” How about “My daughter ran away to Texas on the back of a Harley with some guy who looks like a member of ZZ Topp, and now he’s the fry cook at the diner she runs while wearing lame’ hot pants.”
Except, I’m not so sure that last one is viable, because I don’t believe my parents actually know who ZZ Topp were. (Are?)
I think of it as a public service, really. My siblings can forever more be up to all manner of crazy things and our parents won’t even blink. It’s like I’m handing them a “Get Out Of Jail Free” card.
Merry Christmas for the rest of your lives, y’all.
I wasn’t the smart one, the pretty one, or the athletic one. I’ve always been the one most likely to do something stupid to mess up her life. I don’t know how or when I got that particular label. I was a timid child, so it’s not like I was jumping off the roof wearing wings I’d made of construction paper, or anything like that.
Looking back over the years, however, I can’t deny that I’ve made some pretty stupid choices – and they are always big stupid choices. I can’t seem to be content with things like getting my phone shut off for non-payment or thinking that Paris Hilton is an excellent fashion role model for a middle-aged woman. Oh no, I’d never do either of those things. In fact, my life is fairly routine and regimented. My bills get paid, my apartment gets cleaned, and – unlike Paris – I wear slips and underwear, just like my mother taught me.
But occasionally, it’s as if I stumble across a handful of magic beans and I decide to plant them just to see what will happen. And next thing you know, I am on a ferry with my cat and all my worldly goods, moving to Nantucket to live with a guy young enough to be my son. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It always does.
My youngest sister, Rachel, was The Good Child. Seriously, she was. I am fourteen years older than she is, and I remember how easy-going a child she was. Pretty, smart, sweet – a parent’s dream. She went on to get a good education and a series of good jobs. She’s the successful one… except, now, at 30, she is contemplating a big career change. As in leaving the business world of Chicago and becoming a horse trainer in Austin, Texas.
I vary between wanting to be a fly on the wall when she has that little conversation with our mother, and thinking “Wait a minute, I’m the big disappointment in the family. Back off my turf, sister.”
I also worry that as The Good Child, she has no idea what sleeping dogs of war she’s about to awaken. I wonder if she has the skills to handle what is about to come barreling at her. So, despite the fact that I really enjoy my job, I thought that in sisterly solidarity, I’d join her in her quest for a new life. I cooked up the idea of opening a diner together on Route 66 outside Amarillo called Two Sisters, where the uniform includes lame’ hot pants.
Somehow, though, the idea simply does not seem big enough. I was talking with a friend, brainstorming about how I could set the screw-up bar so high that none of my siblings could hope to reach it. He suggested I have an affair with a married man, waving his wedding band in my general direction and asking “How can I help?”
When I finished cleaning up the mess I’d made from spewing tea while I laughed, I said, “It needs to be bigger. You’d have to run away to Texas with me and become my fry cook.” (What a diner really needs is a fry cook with a master’s degree. Am I right?)
Upon reflection, however, I realize that there are a couple of other candidates who would make my family’s hair stand on end like quills upon the fretful porpentine. For example, I work with several heavily tattooed lobstermen with criminal records. (Just so you know, I don’t haul trawls; I push paper.) I’ve seen a lot of bearded guys zooming around on Harleys lately. The mind boggles at the possibilities.
I’ve decided that the best way to handle this is to try it as a statement: “My daughter ran away to Texas with a married man and opened a diner where she wears lame’ hot pants to work every day. He’s the fry cook.” Or, “My daughter ran away to Texas with a burnt out, heavily-tattooed lobsterman. She opened a diner and wears lame’ hot pants to work every day.” How about “My daughter ran away to Texas on the back of a Harley with some guy who looks like a member of ZZ Topp, and now he’s the fry cook at the diner she runs while wearing lame’ hot pants.”
Except, I’m not so sure that last one is viable, because I don’t believe my parents actually know who ZZ Topp were. (Are?)
I think of it as a public service, really. My siblings can forever more be up to all manner of crazy things and our parents won’t even blink. It’s like I’m handing them a “Get Out Of Jail Free” card.
Merry Christmas for the rest of your lives, y’all.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
She Likes Me! She Really Likes Me!
This morning I staggered to my desk, cup of tea in hand, before the sun came up. I logged on toDixiepeach's Blog, and conceive of my surprise when I discovered I was one of the people she wanted to give an award for powerful writing! It meant so much, since I truly admire Dixiepeach, both as a writer and as a person. I couldn't have been more excited if I'd won an Academy Award.
Actually, this is probably better than winning an Academy Award, since The Oscars would require weeks of diligent dieting, a stylist, a hairdresser, and a makeup artist, and I'd STILL probably end up being treated badly by Joan and Melissa Rivers and having my picture posted the next day on Go Fug Yourself under the heading "Random Fug" because they'd have no idea who I am. Which, much as I love the Fug Girls, is just WAY too much pressure. I am accepting this award while wearing my blue flannel pajamas with clouds printed on them, a polarfleece robe, and giant slippers shaped like sneakers. Much better.
Here is what the award is about: Those people given this award to are encouraged to post it on their own blogs; list three things they believe are necessary for good, powerful writing; and then pass the award on to the five blogs they want to honour, who in turn pass it on to five others, etc., etc. Let's send a roar through the blogsphere! The image at the top right can be copied and pasted onto other blogs. Also, a small size of the award for sidebars can be found over at the writing circle site.
I don't actually read a whole lot of blogs, what with my busy schedule of Golden Girls reruns, scooping the cat box, and exercising so I need to take Xanax less often. But this is what I look for in my blog reading:
1. I feel like I can hear the writer's voice. I appreciate it when I feel like I'm sitting across the kitchen table from the writer, listening to her talk. When a person writes in such a way that I'm convinced that if I met her, she'd sound exactly the same --whether it's true or not -- to me that is good writing.
2. A brave and honest point of view. I admire those who can really let it rip and tell their story or give their opinion, even when it's not pretty. Especially when it's not pretty. I aspire to that in my own writing, and I admire it in the writing of others.
3. A sense of humor. The writing doesn't have to be screamingly funny, but if I am convinced that the author has a sense of humor and an appreciation for life's absurditites, I enjoy reading.
Aside from Dixiepeach (who fits all the criteria, but sending it back to her seems like cheating somehow) I could only come up with four blogs on short notice, but they are blogs I've enjoyed reading. Here they are:
1. Dub Dub, my sister Rachel's blog. It started as a way for her to share about her adventures in weight loss (doing Weight Watchers, hence the Dub Dub, which is, I think, the way today's young hepcats say "WW"), but has been about other things as well. I admire my sister for getting back to her love of horseback riding and in general creating a wonderful life for herself. That postive attitude comes across in her writing, and believe me, she talks exactly how she writes.
2. Allie of Memoirs of A Gouda is seriously funny. And prolific, since she has something like 3 or 4 blogs she posts to regularly. Plus she's a wife and mother, which as we know, keeps a gal pretty busy. She seems like someone I'd like to drink margaritas and people watch with.
3.Joie De Kitty. Can I just tell you how much I admire Kitty? She is an amazing young woman who has overcome a lot of obstacles and yet she is fearlessly creating the life she wants. Her writing is intelligent, funny, and wise beyond her years.
4. The Geek Inside. When I read Sari's blog, I feel like I'm there, experiencing whatever she's writing about along with her. And she loves Tim Gunn and Project Runway! I love that in a person!
So tag, y'all. You're it!
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Popes On A Blog
Awhile back when I was blogging about how boring my life is I mentioned the Pope, and I began to wonder, in that random way my mind works, how often the Pope is mentioned on a blog. I did a search, and it turns out the answer is that he's mentioned a lot. Aside from one very funny site called Ask The Pope (which hasn't been updated in a while but is worth a peek), most of them seem to be maintained by devout folks who want to be up to date on what the Pope is doing. It sounds kind of boring if you ask me, since I imagine the Pope's day goes something like this:
4:30 a.m. Prayer
5:30 a.m. Bathe, put on robes, pointy hat, and red shoes. Make usual joke about having the feeling he's not in Kansas anymore.
6:00 a.m. Say Mass for Cardinals, all of whom are hoping he drops dead so they can become the next leader of the Catholic faith.
7:00 a.m. Eat breakfast (if it's not a fasting day); drink prune juice regardless.
7:30 a.m. Visit Little Pope's room.
8:00 a.m. Go out on balcony and wave.
You get the idea.
One blog points out that the Pope's birthday coincided with Easter this year, and then wasn't updated until late July. I guess there's not a lot of Pope News. Still, knowing the Pope is on the job, leading the faith, being the head of a teeny-tiny city-state and praying all the time is a comforting thought.
4:30 a.m. Prayer
5:30 a.m. Bathe, put on robes, pointy hat, and red shoes. Make usual joke about having the feeling he's not in Kansas anymore.
6:00 a.m. Say Mass for Cardinals, all of whom are hoping he drops dead so they can become the next leader of the Catholic faith.
7:00 a.m. Eat breakfast (if it's not a fasting day); drink prune juice regardless.
7:30 a.m. Visit Little Pope's room.
8:00 a.m. Go out on balcony and wave.
You get the idea.
One blog points out that the Pope's birthday coincided with Easter this year, and then wasn't updated until late July. I guess there's not a lot of Pope News. Still, knowing the Pope is on the job, leading the faith, being the head of a teeny-tiny city-state and praying all the time is a comforting thought.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
I Love A Good Photo Op
I finally got around to getting the photos from my trip to Raleigh, NC developed yesterday. It didn't take me too long -- I only went in early April. I know... I am the only person in the western world who doesn't own a digital camera. It's this thing I have about "making do" when a comparatively small investment could improve my life. Don't even get me started on how long I suffered with an iron that spit rusty water on my clothing at the most innopportune times before I realized that with an investment of less than $100, I could avoid being completely stressed and harried every morning.
I blame my grandmother, who from what I can tell invented recycling. I lived with her for a short period of time in my early 20s, and I swear, everything I threw away reappeared the next day. I mean everything -- from cassette tapes and cheap costume jewelry with missing parts to socks without a mate and bras that no longer had their underwires. I have no idea what she did with the bras and the cassettes, but I can tell you that I now use old socks to dust and polish, and I save broken jewelry in case I ever start making my own jewelry and need parts. The fruit, as wiser people than I am have pointed out, never falls far from the tree.
I've fiddled with the idea of making jewelry and I've even made a couple of pieces, but the amount of jewelry I've made does not justify the number of bags of broken and out-of-style junk jewelry I have in ziploc bags in storage. The bags of jewelry, whenever I come across them, are a reminder that I have every intention of using them for creative projects that never quite get off the ground. So I've avoided investing several hundred of my hard-earned bucks in a digital camera that will quite possibly only be used on Christmas day and the rare occasions I go on vacation. Instead, I make do with a disposable camera and then curse Kodak for making it difficult for me to view my prints without loading their software onto my computer.
I was eager to see the photo that was taken at the Raleigh Renaissance Fair of me with a guy in a kilt.
He was not just any guy in a kilt -- many had been viewed and rejected during the long hot day a the fair. Some were too skinny, with underdeveloped calf muscles (something I really can't stand to see on a man in a skirt), some looked too Goth for my personal taste, and some had girlfriends who looked like they might kick my ass if I requested a photo with them. This guy was perfect, and even spoke with a Scottish accent. (Okay, it was probably a fake accent, but it added that little bit of extra authenticity which made following him all over the fairgrounds -- including waiting outside the privies -- worth it.)
It was as I gazed happily at the piture of Kilt-Clad Man that I realized I seem to be developing a thing for getting my picture taken next to unusual characters, although Kilt Guy was not an unusual sight at a renaissance fair, except in his utter perfection. The photo reminded me that about a year and a half ago, I had my picture taken in Montreal next to a guy I affectionately refer to as "Popeye The Spiderman."
He was doing some kind of performance art. He had a CD player blasting eerie music and a narrative which I unfortuately could not follow because it's been a chien's age since I took French in high school. While the music and narrative were playing, he was wearing his Spidey hood and doing Spidey movements which I can only assume illustrated the story.
A couple of hours later, my friend and I caught him having a cigarette break and I asked him to have a photo taken with me. He made a move to put the ciggy out and put his Spiderman hood back on, but I managed to talk him out of it despite the fact that we couldn't understand each other at all. He said, "Oui...Le PopEYE," a phrase my friend and I used incessantly for the rest of my visit with her. I love that he did the Spidey Hand Gestures for the picture.
I blame my grandmother, who from what I can tell invented recycling. I lived with her for a short period of time in my early 20s, and I swear, everything I threw away reappeared the next day. I mean everything -- from cassette tapes and cheap costume jewelry with missing parts to socks without a mate and bras that no longer had their underwires. I have no idea what she did with the bras and the cassettes, but I can tell you that I now use old socks to dust and polish, and I save broken jewelry in case I ever start making my own jewelry and need parts. The fruit, as wiser people than I am have pointed out, never falls far from the tree.
I've fiddled with the idea of making jewelry and I've even made a couple of pieces, but the amount of jewelry I've made does not justify the number of bags of broken and out-of-style junk jewelry I have in ziploc bags in storage. The bags of jewelry, whenever I come across them, are a reminder that I have every intention of using them for creative projects that never quite get off the ground. So I've avoided investing several hundred of my hard-earned bucks in a digital camera that will quite possibly only be used on Christmas day and the rare occasions I go on vacation. Instead, I make do with a disposable camera and then curse Kodak for making it difficult for me to view my prints without loading their software onto my computer.
I was eager to see the photo that was taken at the Raleigh Renaissance Fair of me with a guy in a kilt.
He was not just any guy in a kilt -- many had been viewed and rejected during the long hot day a the fair. Some were too skinny, with underdeveloped calf muscles (something I really can't stand to see on a man in a skirt), some looked too Goth for my personal taste, and some had girlfriends who looked like they might kick my ass if I requested a photo with them. This guy was perfect, and even spoke with a Scottish accent. (Okay, it was probably a fake accent, but it added that little bit of extra authenticity which made following him all over the fairgrounds -- including waiting outside the privies -- worth it.)It was as I gazed happily at the piture of Kilt-Clad Man that I realized I seem to be developing a thing for getting my picture taken next to unusual characters, although Kilt Guy was not an unusual sight at a renaissance fair, except in his utter perfection. The photo reminded me that about a year and a half ago, I had my picture taken in Montreal next to a guy I affectionately refer to as "Popeye The Spiderman."
He was doing some kind of performance art. He had a CD player blasting eerie music and a narrative which I unfortuately could not follow because it's been a chien's age since I took French in high school. While the music and narrative were playing, he was wearing his Spidey hood and doing Spidey movements which I can only assume illustrated the story.
A couple of hours later, my friend and I caught him having a cigarette break and I asked him to have a photo taken with me. He made a move to put the ciggy out and put his Spiderman hood back on, but I managed to talk him out of it despite the fact that we couldn't understand each other at all. He said, "Oui...Le PopEYE," a phrase my friend and I used incessantly for the rest of my visit with her. I love that he did the Spidey Hand Gestures for the picture.
I'm thinking about a trip to Tucson in the foreseeable future. It depends on little details, like when I get a job and how in debt I am when that day comes. Also, I prefer to go there when it's just "hot," as opposed to "freaking hot," which it is right now.
As I think about the trip, I wonder who I can get my picture taken next to, and who I will embarass by doing so (the person who took both of these photos is a good sport and has a lively sense of humor, so she found both situations funny). The good thing about looking for the perfect photo op is that it would give my trip a certain structure and purpose. Structure and purpose are good to have, you can ask anybody -- for instance, a kindergarten teacher or the commandant of a prison. It will be fun to look for just the right person to have my picture taken with.
People of Tucson, be very afraid.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Names and Nicknames
Blame it on my effort to come up with a name for this blog. I found myself staring out the window at the bridge (hence, the whole "water view" thing), wondering why Scooter Libby still lets people call him Scooter. I mean, really. Isn't there a point where you outgrow that kind of thing? My take on it is once anyone is eligible to start calling you "Dad," a nickname like Scooter should be retired. Certainly, if some people are calling you "Grampa" while others are calling you "Chip" or "Junior" or "Skippy," it may be time to rethink.
Of course, here in Rhode Island, if you get a nickname, it's with you for life. This is mostly, I think, because Rhode Island is made up of a lot of small towns where everyone knows you from cradle to grave. Heaven help you if you get labeled "Stinky" in grade school. Your obituary will read "John (Stinky) Smith, age 90, died peacefully in his home on Friday. He is survived by his children John (Junior) Smith, Edward (Tiny) Smith, and Lucy (Goosey) Smith-Jones, seventeen grandchildren and thirty great-grandchildren." Nobody thinks this is odd, or minds that we all know who provided most of those grandchildren.
Another thing a Rhode Islander knows from the obit is that Edward was tall, or fat, or both. Big men are nicknamed "Tiny," short men are nicknamed "Stretch," fat guys are called "Slim." I don't know why this is.
I went to college with a girl who introduced herself to me by saying, "I'm Naomi, but my friends call me Nomi." I remember thinking that I didn't know what to call her because I hadn't had time to decide if I wanted to be her friend or not. In time I realized that "not" was the answer, but I had already started calling her "Nomi" just to shut her up.
I also went to college with a girl who introduced herself by saying, "I'm ____ Limoges. As in Limoges." Being a small town girl, I had no idea what the hell Limoges was or why I should be impressed. She was quick to enlighten me. It was years before I found out while reading an article on french pottery (yeah, I find the damndest things interesting, you'll see) that Limoges isn't a brand name that connotes money like, say, Du Pont. It's a region of France where pottery is made. Unrelated reading on life in the Middle Ages taught me that when the population of Europe got big enough to require the use of surnames and people started moving around to find work, it was usually the poor people who ended up with their hometown as a surname. Those with a trade became "Miller," "Potter," "Weaver," etc.
It tickles me to think of this pretentious girl unwittingly advertising her family's humble origins. It doesn't surprise me, though. She once bragged that she liked to go turkey hunting with her dad because it was fun to watch the turkeys get shot down out of the trees.
Now I know the burning question in everyone's mind is whether or not I have a nickname. I have a few, even though my parents went out of their way to give their children names that don't have automatic nicknames. My uncle calls me "Stretch," not because I'm short, but because I had a big growth spurt at age 13 (evidently, moving to California in young adulthood caused Uncle Bob to forget the Rhode Island Nicknaming Code). My siblings call me different permutations of my given name, mostly created by their children. A favorite is "Auntie Red Car," which is what one of my nephews called me before he learned to say my name. It sounds nothing like my name; I drove a red car back when he was learning to talk.
My computer and ISP both call me "Your Highness" because that is what I have them set to do. It amuses me.
Of course, here in Rhode Island, if you get a nickname, it's with you for life. This is mostly, I think, because Rhode Island is made up of a lot of small towns where everyone knows you from cradle to grave. Heaven help you if you get labeled "Stinky" in grade school. Your obituary will read "John (Stinky) Smith, age 90, died peacefully in his home on Friday. He is survived by his children John (Junior) Smith, Edward (Tiny) Smith, and Lucy (Goosey) Smith-Jones, seventeen grandchildren and thirty great-grandchildren." Nobody thinks this is odd, or minds that we all know who provided most of those grandchildren.
Another thing a Rhode Islander knows from the obit is that Edward was tall, or fat, or both. Big men are nicknamed "Tiny," short men are nicknamed "Stretch," fat guys are called "Slim." I don't know why this is.
I went to college with a girl who introduced herself to me by saying, "I'm Naomi, but my friends call me Nomi." I remember thinking that I didn't know what to call her because I hadn't had time to decide if I wanted to be her friend or not. In time I realized that "not" was the answer, but I had already started calling her "Nomi" just to shut her up.
I also went to college with a girl who introduced herself by saying, "I'm ____ Limoges. As in Limoges." Being a small town girl, I had no idea what the hell Limoges was or why I should be impressed. She was quick to enlighten me. It was years before I found out while reading an article on french pottery (yeah, I find the damndest things interesting, you'll see) that Limoges isn't a brand name that connotes money like, say, Du Pont. It's a region of France where pottery is made. Unrelated reading on life in the Middle Ages taught me that when the population of Europe got big enough to require the use of surnames and people started moving around to find work, it was usually the poor people who ended up with their hometown as a surname. Those with a trade became "Miller," "Potter," "Weaver," etc.
It tickles me to think of this pretentious girl unwittingly advertising her family's humble origins. It doesn't surprise me, though. She once bragged that she liked to go turkey hunting with her dad because it was fun to watch the turkeys get shot down out of the trees.
Now I know the burning question in everyone's mind is whether or not I have a nickname. I have a few, even though my parents went out of their way to give their children names that don't have automatic nicknames. My uncle calls me "Stretch," not because I'm short, but because I had a big growth spurt at age 13 (evidently, moving to California in young adulthood caused Uncle Bob to forget the Rhode Island Nicknaming Code). My siblings call me different permutations of my given name, mostly created by their children. A favorite is "Auntie Red Car," which is what one of my nephews called me before he learned to say my name. It sounds nothing like my name; I drove a red car back when he was learning to talk.
My computer and ISP both call me "Your Highness" because that is what I have them set to do. It amuses me.
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