Out of all nicknames to be called, mom is best
I’ve been called many things in my life.
Several of which are unfit to print … or even post to social media … or speak in front of your priest.
But that was mostly when I was little and sparring with my sister, Gina. Okay fine, when I was getting whooped on by her, whatever. Poh-TAY-toh, poh-TOT-toh.
And during those sessions it wasn’t anything completely vile so much as it was, kid mean. You know, the typical silly-fight name-calling type of thing: jerk face; dummy; dog breath; piff brain; air head.
Yes, though my given name is Patricia I’ve beheld many nicknames in my five decades around the sun. Among them:
Patty. Pats. PK. P. Pat. Pitter Patter (that last one is Ma, natch). Daughter. Sister. Baby girl (that would be Pop).
Trish. Tricky. Patrizia. Patrishka, the Dancing Bear (a former colleague).
Little sis (the world’s best big bro). Little buckaroo (that’s one Gina and I share for one another; don’t ask me why). Peep (my girlfriend Chris; see Gina explanation).
Aunt Patty (sometimes shortened to just AP). Mama Kimerer or Mama K — this from my son’s pals.
Sista Girlfriend — that’s my sis-in-law-and-life, Kim.
Kiddo — usage reserved for my Momma and my doc — both of whom I adore.
Little Marinuch; Little Manuch; Little One. Mouse. (These are all from childhood friends.)
The Good One. The Nice One. The Smart One. (These were tossed about as I was getting picked over for Prom dates, BT dubs.)
Idiot! Stupid! Moron! (These I’ve heard yelled at me as I’m being passed on the freeway.)
Um, let’s see: Pal. Friend. Buddy. Girlfriend. Ex-Girlfriend. Hmpf.
There are the “usuals”: Babe, Hon — used only by my husband and my sister-from-another-mister Michelle. He’s been with me through — oh man, like a crap ton; she’s been by my side since I was 5. That’s what I said. Take that, all you “Facebook Friends for Two Years” celebrators. Ahem.
There are the unusuals: Bone (Pop again; his way of telling me to mangia!); Pat the Brat who Eats No Fat (Gina again — guess that’s HER way of telling me to mangia?).
And then, there’s the one without which I’d have none of the others: Catholic.
But, I’ve also held down some other neat titles in my day:
Student. Leader. Lecturer. Graduate. Alumnus. Miss. Mrs.
Cashier. Waitress. Line worker.
Programming secretary (then assistant and eventually MANAGER; BAM!).
Marketing coordinator; PR specialist; freelance writer; foundation chair; communications manager. Blogger. Columnist. Communications director. Board member.
Here are a few I’ve never heard to describe me: Pulitzer Prize winner; Olympian; direction guru; math whiz. I’m holding out hope for the first one, yo.
And after I accidentally deleted my e-mail accounts 47 times (and my husband from the family?) as I upgraded cellphone models last week, I will not ever in my lifetime hope to catch even a whisper of a reference as tech expert or computer whiz. That guy on the freeway was right. #IAmAMoron
How the heck do I know what the incoming mail server is called? What does my POP have to do with setting it up? Aren’t my name and email address description enough; why is that even a thing??
Oh well. Doesn’t matter. As long as there’s that one kid out there calling me by my absolute, unabashed, all-time beloved moniker of MOM — the rest of the humans and androids may call me what they please, even Cool Chick, if they wanna? Yeah, I s’pose not.