Would a rose by any other name, smell as sweet?
I found out recently (last night) whilst titting about at Legendary Noodle, that it took my parents three weeks to name me*.
This was news to me but it seems on a recent trip to Van, my mother told my bestfriend Fragglehump this particular anecdote – and frankly, I have mixed feelings about it.
First up, I was a little miffed that I could be so characterless for the first few weeks of my life that they couldn’t even pull something out of the hat in a temporary fashion.
Then I figured maybe I had too much character and nothing short of miraculous would do. Most definitely that would have to be the answer.
But, on reading the below post (see: Lightle’s masterpiece underneath) and with this new information, I have been thinking about names and nicknames all morning.
(All morning? First thought was “I’m hungry”, second was “Did I forget to put knickers on?”, but you get the gist.)
So, what’s in a name?
My name is Christa.
A lot of people know that. I introduce myself to people I don’t know all the time, because they are all just friends we haven’t met yet, am I right? I bandy it about like it’s going out of fashion.
Hardly anyone actually uses it. Nobody who loves me certainly. Nobody who likes me. Only bosses and people who are pissed off with me ever really say it – and I like that.
I love the fact that with every person I am close to I can be someone new, someone unique and our relationship is our own.
Take for instance the aforementioned Fragglehump (AKA. Ellie). She has called me Loobi ever since that fateful day when Pheobe made up a goofy name on Friends and I said I wanted to be renamed Faloolah. Renamed I was and over the years it has been streamlined to Loobi. Sometimes Loobina.
Now even Fragglehump’s mother calls me Loobi.
My own mother, now she’s got the hang of me actually having a name, calls me Bella. As in Christa Bella. Because I’m beautiful, apparently.
My brother calls me Crunch. Or at least he did before he was cool.
To my other bestfriend, David, I am Dolores or simply ‘D’. This stems from a story we made up (soon to be novel) involving two friends called Dolores and Tarquin. He’s my T, you see.
To Char I’m Sexy Whore (self-explanatory), to Boo I am Pookie, to the Barman at the bar who possibly wanted to get inside my knicker elastic, I was ‘English Girl’ and then, promoted to ‘Red’ because, you see, I have red hair.
To the handyman in our building I am ‘Smiley’.
As for my real name, the other day a kind soul told me it sounds like a porn stars name and in a sense I have to agree.
Growing up in England nobody at all had my name. Subsequently nobody could ever get it right. Spelling wise, pronunciation wise, the whole shebang.
I know. It’s a complex name, right? Chris-ta. Ouch.
But then I got here and every second Soccor Mom or blonde Lulu Lemon-wearing bimbette is called Christa and I’m not unique anymore.
Which is why I embrace my monikers wholeheartedly.
And for the record, I like to use food or inanimate object based references for my friends and loved ones.
Lightle herself is always a foodstuff, usually ‘Pumpkin’ or ‘Love Muffin’. Fragglehump sometimes gets ‘Spooky Shoe’ – and Tarquin?
Well, he’s my ‘Sex Trumpet’.
What’s your nickname?
*I jest. I know how special I was/am to my mother and I appreciate that they didn’t commit me to some godawful tag because they were pressurised by time. Apparently one day they stumbled across my name and it all began to make sense, which is lovely.
And to my Daddy, I was always ‘Gold Angel’. So it all ends happily.