Saturday, February 20, 2010


A nickname says one of three things:@

1) I like you so much, I want to name you myself, to have this tiny, personal link that I give from me to you. It's a token of my esteem.

2) You are so horrible and laughable that I feel a need to say something derisive about you every single time I mention you.§

3) Your name or occupation lends itself so readily to a nickname I must apply one, even if I don't know you well enough to determine rules one or two apply.

[SUMMARY: I am a master of useless generalisations.]

Under the black auspices of condition No. 2, I feel my post office needs a nickname.% Post Office of the Damned? The Post Office that Time Forgot? Lost Office?

[SUMMARY: Bitter much?]

Y'all chime in here anytime. I may be starting to lose my sense of humour where the mail is concerned.

Because my post office is trying to kill me.

I received HALF of my Colourmart shipment yesterday. Four cones of the blue and two of the green. Four pink and two green are... where? At the Jiffy Lube on South Federal# for whom I inexplicably get mail four or five times a year?†† A neighbour's? In the parking lot of Safeway?

[SUMMARY: The Travelocity gnome got nothing on my yarn.]

On the bright side, the yarn is gorgeous. The blue is almost exactly as it looks on my computer screen and the green has a brighter, more acid edge that brings it even closer to the ideal I was seeking when I started my quest.

I'll let you know how the pink is if I ever get it.

FOOTNOTE (crossed): Funny, we were just discussing nicknames in the comments. Not philosophically, just the surety that if I changed my name to Griselda, a certain portion of the population would resist "Zelda" and insist on calling me "Griz."

@FOOTNOTE (atted): For the purposes of this rant, in any case.

FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Even if I choose to call you Wombat or Fishlips.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Overwhelmingly childish and good for the soul.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Oh, my PO has a first name, M-O-T-H-E-R...

FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Do they not know I'm prone to stroke?

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Currently at least five miles away on SOUTH FEDERAL BOULEVARD, not, one would think, to be mistaken for WEST 37th AVENUE.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Oddly, when I lived on North Hooker Street, I also got mail from that same Jiffy Lube, prompting me once to write, "Do I look like a Jiffy Lube?" in angry red Sharpie on an envelope. A question, I might add, that I don't really want an answer to.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed):


Laurie (Moo!) said...

Oh! I forgot to thank you for the neat cones of yarn. Just what I need for the sock machine from hell.

Call me "Fishlips". PLEASE.

Marin (AntiM) said...

Dear Fishlips,

I hope the cones of yarn will render the evil, scary sock machine mild as a bunny.


Anonymous said...

++ Footnote WOMBATS is actually a accronim for Women on Mountain Bikes and Teas Society.

Marin (AntiM) said...

I'll be dipped. That's my nickname for my brother. He'll be delighted to hear what it really means.

Anonymous said...

I have never had a nickname.

And how has no one mentioned the "If you don't look like a Jiffy Lube, maybe you look like a North Hooker?" payoff?

Marin (AntiM) said...

We were all waiting for you. Clearly, that was your softball to hit out of the park.

If it helps, I call you "Kimmie" (and I say it exactly the way Miss Piggy says "Kermie") in my head. So you do have a nickname, just a very private one.