Nicknames

My name is Kim. To a handful of people (my late uncle, one high school friend, and one brother-in-law) I’m Kimbo. I am seldom Kimmie, except to my penpal and long-time (and long-distance) friend who shares my name and shotgunned the Kimbo variation.

I am not good at nicknames.

When I get introduced to someone by their nickname, I generally call them nothing until I know what their real name is.

Nothing. As in.. I don’t call them. I just start talking aimed in their direction when I need to ask them something in the hope that they realise I’m talking to them. Its awkward. But I really don’t do nicknames.

Nicknames are personal. Don’t be calling me Kimmie unless you have known me a really long time. Really long. Long enough to know that if  you call me Kimmie, I may slap you. I have to like you a lot for you to call me Kimmie. Actually… just don’t.

I have to know someone a while before I abbreviate their name, add a ‘y’ on the end, or change it completely. To you know… Douche. Or… Winky. (This shit is not made up. Both of these are friends of friends and I can’t, of course, call them these names. Unfortunately, I also don’t know what their real names are as everyone keeps calling them Douche and Winky. It gets really awkward at big gatherings when I just start talking. Or after some wine).

The same can be said for pet names. Babe, sweetie, hun, love. You may think these are words that roll off my feminine (that’s a lie, I swear more than most pirates. Pirates? I meant Sailors. Fuck.) tongue, they don’t. You need to be top-shelf to take on any of these names. And by top-shelf, I mean I have to basically love you. Or I have to have had a lot of white wine.

I don’t ever bae (what even is that?). Or bru. Or bruv. Except to one person. And mostly I call him his surname.

Aah, the surname thing. I do do that a lot. Hawkins (my husband), Bales (who is also Bruv) and Taylor (who goes by Fush to his other friends. Really… Fush. He is friends with Douche and Winky above. It must be a Hilton College thing).

**this blog post was inspired by the Naming of Cats by TS Eliot, but which ofcourse has nothing to do with cats. Or naming conventions.

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Who even am I?

Today, was a good day. It was a much better day. Problem is. I posted a blog post this morning that was so fuckin’ miserable, I don’t even recognise who wrote it.

That’s the truth about my life. Its a little bit of swings and roundabouts. Its a little bit of the happy-sad dance. And mostly, its colourful mood ring.

I re-wrote my ‘about’ section in an attempt to define what it that this blog is about. But I can’t let the one thing that defines my every mood and thought, consume me so entirely that it becomes my “about”.

I am more than that.
I am about all things that move me. All things that make me colourful. That make me crazy. That make the chaos.
I am part adventurous. I am part logical. I’m part artist, part accountant (quite literally: mom and dad). I am risk averse, with a passion for the risky and challenging. I push boundaries. I press buttons. I react to buttons pressed. I’m easily bored, and I crave serenity.
I hate the cold and winter and am happiest snowboarding (yes… in the actual cold snow). I’m ornithophobic. I’m myrmecophobic (and no, I can’t pronounce that).

I’m claustrophobic but I’m exhilarated by being 20m underwater.
I discover new things to love where I didn’t know there was still love left to give.

I cry in Greys. I’ve cried during Masterchef. I cry during wedding videos (even when I don’t know the people). I love lyrics. Music is everything.
I am awed by the world.