I am participating in the Blogging From A-Z Challenge. Each day in April (except Sunday), I will post topic themes that begin with the letters of the alphabet, from A-Z. Today's letter is P.
The letter P almost always reminds me of my name. Because I trust that none of you reading this are overly psychotic, I'll share a little more personal information than most people would feel comfortable sharing. Please don't use this info to stalk and kill me or my family, okay? I'd appreciate that. :)
My first name is Pitricia. No, that's not a typo. My name is spelled P-I-T, not P-A-T. I've never met anyone else who spells their name this way, which is both awesome and frustrating. Awesome because it makes me unique for something other than my crazy brain & propensity for over-sharing private details that most people keep tucked away in a little box in the back of their closet. Frustrating because I have to repeat the same story CONSTANTLY.
I'm a nice enough person, though, so I'll share the story with you all. The story goes like this: my Mom is a terrible speller.
Okay, that's just my version. My mom's version is a little longer: When she was pregnant, my Mom had a list of names she wanted to give her incubating baby daughter. However, since I have always had my own agenda, I decided to make my grand entrance almost a full month earlier than expected. After 18 hours of labor, the list was long forgotten and my Mom named me the first thing that popped into her head. That name was Pitricia. At this point, she could have taken pity (no pun intended) on the scrawny, black haired bastard child she just belched forth into the world, but instead she decided to saddle me with a moniker that would forever cause people to ask questions and regurgitate the same tired jokes over & over again.
Before I go any further, I'd like to say that the nurse who filled out the paperwork asked my Mom why she wanted to spell my name the way she did. My mom said that she didn't want anyone calling me Pat or Patty. She wanted me to be referred to as Tricia. The nurse, who obviously realized I was not born to the sharpest crayon in the box, asked why she didn't just name me Tricia. I don't know how that conversation ended, but I know my Mother & I'm sure she resented being questioned. I mean, I'm sure most people would resent that, but I'm grateful at least someone had my back, even if it was a failed endeavor.
|My dad w/ his unfortunately named middle child (aka Me!)|
Throughout school, I used the name Tricia. Always trying to reinvent myself, even at a young age, I decided in 1st grade that I wanted to go by Pitricia. The very first time I turned in a paper with that name on the top, my teacher took me outside & explained that I had spelled it wrong. I was too shy to correct him, so I went back to the shortened version of my name b/c it was just easier that way.
In high school, though I was still using Tricia, my principal nicknamed me Pat. Thankfully, he was the first and only person to ever refer to me that way. Although I cringed each time he called my name, I was too nice to say anything and suffered silently for 4 years with that unfortunate nomenclature.
As I entered the workforce, I stuck to the shortened version of my name and only had to repeat the dreaded P-I-T story when I filed my taxes or had to obtain a legal document of some kind. Thankfully, those instances were few and far between. That was, until I became a cashier at a local home improvement store. I was 20 at the time, and had just moved back to Oregon after several years in the deep south. I don't know if it was policy or just a cruel twist of fate, but my name tag was printed with the name "Pitricia" on it. I dealt with literally hundreds of people a day and the majority of them found it perfectly acceptable to not only comment on my accent (and try to guess where I was from), but to ask about the spelling of my name. I'm a good humored girl, so I always bantered. I'd say "My Mom didn't want me to be Pat or Patty, so now I'm Pit or Pitty". Laughter would ensue, I'd finish scanning their pvc pipes or bags of manure and they'd be on their way. My co-workers started referring to me as Pitty but to be honest, I kind of enjoyed that nickname. It was sort of cute and fun. But short-lived, because I got a new job and with it, a new nickname.
For the past 12 years, I've just been Trish. I don't know why I started introducing myself as such, since I never had before, but it stuck. My husband has commented several times that when my family calls me Tricia, it sounds foreign to him. I'm Trish, Trishy, Dishy, or Mom. (Or to my besty, I'm Homey, Loser, or Also-Loser.) I'm not off the hook completely, though. As an adult, there are many more instances where I have to use my full legal name, which always brings the comments and questions. And though it threatens to tip the scales of my personality from fun-crazy to batshit crazy, I retell the story with the usual amount of mirth and allow people their quips because, well, what else is there to do?!