A waitress called my shortie this weekend while placing my grits in front of me.
“Here you go, shortie.”
I loved it. I felt like L’il Kim or something. Word.
But the truth is that I’m not a shortie. Nor am I Long Tall Sally. I’m 5′6″. Average. Very average.
I’ve never had a nickname that stuck. Once I told my friend that in my head I liked to call myself “sugar” (this is an homage to some of the boxers I like) and he sang to “Doe A Deer” the ditty “sugar, a name I call myself…” But, he didn’t start calling me sugar.
Everyone calls me Julie, Jul, or Jules. Jul and Jules are not nicknames. One pal calls me Luongo, but that’s because he knows me through my friend Julie. Sometime my sister and a few very close friends call me Baby Julie. But is that a nickname? No. It’s because I’m the baby of the family. Ok, it’s also because I’m bossy and I hang out with bossy people, so they like to point out when I’m trying to get my way. It wouldn’t be noticable if they too weren’t also trying to get their way. But whatever. I don’t press it, because I like that they’re almost using a nickname for me. I’m so easy to manipulate.
I think I want a nickname because oh-so long ago I was moved by the story about native Alaskans having all of those names for snow. I think it means love. But maybe I’m just so consistent that I’m just always the same old Julie. (Yeah, right.) Or maybe I’m just blogging about this because I’m Baby Julie and I’m I’m trying to get my way… hmmm… that’s likely.
