I’ve noticed that most bloggers use pseudonyms when discussing their families and friends, to protect their – you know – privacy. This is funny because blogging is the most privacy busting thing you can do. Nonetheless, I guess I should create a little distance, at least when talking about my immediate family, before my blog BLOWS UP AND I HAVE A MILLION READERS! (ahahahahahaha) I mean really, what would I do then? For you early adopters, you alone shall know the secret identities of my family. You and anyone with a computer and ten minutes to do a Google search.
But real reason I am doing this is because I am dying to use a couple names that make me giggle. When I was pregnant I decided to not share my list of possible names with anyone but my husband, because people might think I wanted their opinion.
That’s a stripper name.
I knew someone named that in high school, he was a dick.
You should name him xyz because that’s my favorite name.
I didn’t give a shit about what anyone else thought, I knew what I wanted to name my kids. Period. And I didn’t want to know about anyone else’s judgements or baggage or some stupid study that says kids with names starting with J are all pricks, which explains a lot about a fellow blogger friend of mine. My dad kidded (kind of, not really, well maybe) that I should name my first born after his two favorite people, himself and Lance Armstrong: Buzzy Lance. Given Lance’s fall from grace, I feel rather vindicated in my rejection of that idea.
When people (friends, family, total strangers) asked me what I was going to name my babies, I always answered with a totally straight face Scrotus or Testiclese, because they were, “Masculine in a Roman conquerer kind of way.” At that point they would change the subject. The girl options were Latrina, Sucretia and Fallopia. Aren’t they so feminine? I really ought to try for a girl.
So from hereon in, my oldest child shall be known as Scrotus and my youngest as Testiclese. My husband shall be known as Zebulon (his choice for naming our boys, no fucking way) and his assistant is now Cato, referring to The Pink Panther’s Inspector Clouseau’s intrepid butler whose job was to ambush him on a regular basis to keep his catlike reflexes honed. Click on Cato and be prepared to laugh really hard.
The jacket isn’t mine, Zebulon donated it to the cause (eBay). But it is reducing the overall bulk in the house. The sweatshirt belongs to the boys, it’s got greasy stains on it.
Another stupid booklight, extra laces for some boots I have, a rubberband shooter and an old organizer. I scanned a few pages of it because it shows that I was an organizational freak even when I was 19. 90’s Organizer.
More files. I’m counting them as doubles because they are so thick. One is labeled with my ex-husband’s name and a little heart. I started it when we were in love, he was good at writing letters and leaving notes. My heart breaks a little every time I see it but I can’t bring myself to throw it out so I’m going to scan and store it. I lost all other memorabilia (wedding album, etc.) in the fire so this is all I have left, which is okay.