Neal took the day off and is over at the new apartment, cleaning and stuff. Good. That's a load off my mind. The next thing we have to do is paint.
Hotmail will not let me into my email. This is MicroFucking unacceptable. I have important work emails and press releases sent to me, not to mention that it's crucial to be able to find out whether or not any of my friends got laid over the weekend.
There's a new employee here, and she's my age. I'm sure I sounds pathetic, but I hope I'm finally getting a work buddy. My demographic is pitifully represented on these here islands, and I've had a bitch of a time finding people with whom to go have beers and talk about sex. I think she's game, though. Yay!
One thing... she's someone who looks like another name to me. Did that make sense? Let's use fake names... Her name is "Sarah," but she looks like a "Miranda." Does that make sense? Actually, when I told Neal I kept wanting to call her Miranda, because that's just what she looked like, he said, "Yeah! You're right, she does!"
His agreeing with me is the kind of thing that makes me think I'm less insane.
Let's talk about names.
I've actually had people tell me I look like another name before, and it's always a name that I loathe. I have strong associations with names... actually, I think everyone does. There are certain things that I could never name a child or a car or a dog or a potato chip, because even if it's pretty, it's the name of someone who done me wrong. (Lord, it's tempting to list my off-limits names here, but I'm resisting the urge. Maybe another day.)
Fortunately, I like my name.
Conversation with a friend. I'm 8 years old.
Friend (with a lame name): "You're so lucky."
Me: "How come?"
Friend: "Your name could be for a boy or girl. I've always thought it would be cool to have a name that could be for a boy or girl."
Me (thoughtfully): "Yeah, I am lucky. Hmmm.
[pause]
You wanna go see what happens if we dip the dog in paint?"
Friend: "OK!"
Anyway, I'm not named after anyone special... my mom just met a girl named Jamie and decided it was cool. Now, my middle name is a really common one, but it's actually taken from my great-great aunt. (Who is still alive, by the way. She's 99 on Valentine's day.)
I know Maggie and I both like our first names. In fact, we've discussed having tshirts printed up with just "Jamie" or "Maggie" across the chest, and handing them out for people to wear around. Hmmm. I may still do that.
Now, let's talk about my last name. (Everyone reading this who knows me has started snickering.) I don't feel comfortable coming out and saying what it is, but I realize you will have a pretty good idea by the time you finish reading this entry.
See, my last name is the scientific word for... a part of the female sexual anatomy. The "cherry," to be precise. Snicker away. And please don't call me "Buster," because it's been my nickname ever since I was old enough to know what my name stood for, and it was only funny the first 700 times I heard it. Yeah, "Tara," too. But nice try.
When I won my award over the weekend, the award was also given to a new employee at another station... A man everyone calls "Stumpy." He was very excited to discuss "life with a difficult last name." He looked me in the eyes and said, "Jamie, I would like to tell you what it's like growing up Jon Stumpfig." I cracked up. (Don't worry, that's the reaction he was seeking.)
Now, I announce my name on the radio 5-10 times per day, not to mention the commercials promoting my newscasts. And I know the people around town are getting a chuckle. Why don't I change it? Well, the thing is, I couldn't come up with anything I particularly liked better. Believe me, I tried for months. I just never settled on a new name that felt right. It looks like another word for "cherry" is ME. And I'm OK with that. It's not like anyone can forget it, right?
