My mother celebrated her 58th birthday in January. She did so by cooking her own birthday dinner. We had invited her to our house and I was going to provide dinner (remember I do not cook, so it probably would have been in the form of a square box via delivery). When she arrived wearing oven mitts I knew I was in trouble. Towards the end of the delightful dinner my mother announced she had a wonderful year, thanks to all of us. Alright. You’re welcome.

There was more. After gushing about how we all made her year she handed us each a sealed envelope. Everyone got one, including our 4 year old son who can’t read. First reaction was “What the hell is this?” I mean come on, first you cook your own birthday dinner, then you hand us cards? I know we’ve always been a little on the dysfunctional side, but this is high-society creepy weird.

It was a thank you card - with those exact words on the front. Mine stated:

Emily,
Thank you so much for being a daughter I can be so proud of.
It has been another year in which I am in awe of the young lady you are.
Thank you for another great year.
Love, Mother

I don’t know if they make a medication for that kind of crazy? But isn’t she a beautiful crazy 58?

Most people would start off an introduction with hello, but I’m not most people. When I send out e-mails (to family or friends - not work) I start off with “Word-up G!” I can’t explain that, so don’t ask. Aside from what I write in this first “official” post, you’re probably trying to remember high school French class. Racking your brain over what Fenicle really means. The suspense must be killing you!

Middle school is hell. Whether you are the bubbly, pretty blonde in Guess jeans, an ESPRIT shirt and Tretorn shoes or well…me. Imagine the monotone history teacher doing roll-call on the first day of school. In a class of 20 or so kids, you’d think first names would be sufficient. (Chances are there might be 2 Jennifer’s?) This man felt it was necessary to read more, but butchering the last names wasn’t enough for him. He felt compelled to read first, middle and last names. Out loud. Realizing what he was doing, I sat as he went through A-G, feeling my skin turn hot. My turn.

You’d have to ask my mom what drugs she was on when they let her sign my birth certificate. Granted, her intentions and sentimental determination to humiliate her only daughter on the first day of 6th grade were out of love. (She was obviously thinking way ahead.) First of all, the man couldn’t pronounce this 3 syllable name. Second, he read it, looked at it, looked at me, and attempted repeating it louder. {Rhymes with pinnacle} Then, the question that echoes repeatedly in my dreams….“What does Fenicle mean?”

This is where my creativity was born. Up until this point I was a virgin liar. My sassy nature was born. My reply was simple and left no need for further explanation. “It’s French for Nicole.” Thus began my alter ego.

I have to admit, I’ve grown to love my middle name. It happened to be my grandmother’s maiden name. She was one of 6 girls, so her parents had no one to carry on the family name. It’s unique, it’s different, it’s odd, and it’s one-in-a-million. It’s me. Enjoy!