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So I had surgery two Thursdays ago on my left ankle. Though I’m finally off of those damn crutches (armpits rejoice!), I’m still wearing an oh-so-lovely big, black boot to protect my healing wound from the elements. Sadly, the boot has severely limited my pant selection, barring all but those bell-bottomed enough to swallow the girth of my not-so-fashionable fashion accessory. On the upside, my sock collection has, for all intensive purposes, doubled in size.

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So it turns out, if you laugh right after you seriously tell someone, “I believe you …” you subsequently negate the honesty of your earlier assertion of belief.

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When I log into WordPress, I head over to their main page, a  process that entails seeing the “Freshly Pressed” collection of blogs that are oh-so-subtly named “The best of 361, 690 bloggers.” They may as well say, “See these blogs? They’re way better than yours. Somebody actually reads them.”

Ouch.

And if you look only a little more closely (don’t worry, you don’t have to read them all; just look at the pretty pictures and read the big, bold words), you’ll note that many of these posts are about food and drink. Which, of course, makes sense. People like to eat and drink.

So blogging about how to sip with sophistication and what to add to your sauce to perfectly infuse it with flavor makes sense. It’s interesting and appetizing.

Alas, my cooking abilities are, well, a bit less refined.

I have a little hope. My father’s cooking abilities have aged like a fine wine.

Though we were never a McDonald’s drive-through family, I do remember “yellow dinner night,” a hearty and delicious dinner of fish sticks, fresh from the freezer, honey to dip them in and corn. Mmmm. And then, we’d wash it down with a swig of Ecto-Cooler … remember that stuff? Slimer from the Ghost Busters endorsed it … augh.

Now he adds caramelized onions, sautéed mushrooms and merlot to his spaghetti sauce. He makes his own chili and adds a pinch of sugar to counteract the acidity of the tomatoes.

So maybe I have the gene … somewhere.

Just don’t expect me to blog about it.

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You know, a sobriquet … a pseudonym … a  nom de guerre … a glorious and awe-inspiring epithet. I just decided I need one.

Really, anyone who’s anyone has a designation other than that given them by their mom and dad.

I mean, who would have read about Plain-Belly Sneeches (or Star-Belly Sneeches, for that matter) if Theodore Geisel had signed his name at the  bottom of the book. But Dr. Seuss … That’s an author who razzle-dazzles the little listeners and  puts a dance in the eyes

of the parents who smile

at the children they have on their laps.

Or how about Cherilyn Sarkisian? What a dreadful, mouth-filling jumble of “sh”s. She went to the opposite end of the spectrum and simplified her seven syllables down to a much more mouth-friendly, single-syllabled, Cher.

And my dad … I even got bored of calling him his fatherly title. Fred. That’s what I settled on. So what if it sprung from the name we always jokingly gave to the boxelder bugs who had strayed into our house: “Court, will you get Fred out of here?!” It’s a term of endearment now … in an odd way, perhaps, but a benevolent  byname certainly.

I suppose I’ve had some notable nicknames throughout my life. My volleyball team members called me “Red” for while, after I forgot how susceptible my acne medicine made me to UV rays. I went by “Colorada” when my dad (Fred) suggested Anne Marie and I both adopt new names for our vacation to a dude ranch in that mountainous state.

But now … I mean, it’s difficult to shorten “Courtney.” Sure, there’s “Court,” and I suppose that’s what those closest to me have landed upon, or perhaps those too lazy to languish over the “ney.” I guess I could go by “Holden,” but then, I’m not the point guard on the high school boys’ basketball team. I think I grew out of that one once I grew a pair of boobs.

Though, this is the hard part … you know. The whole coming-up-with-a-sweet-nickname thing … something catchy and fun … original, innovative, memorable.  Something that my friends will like, that my family will approve of, and whose origin my future-husband won’t question.

Thoughts?

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Biking home today, I got caught at a stoplight. A man pulled up next to me on a cruiser bicycle with high handle bars; his call to the girl behind him drew my attention.

I might flatter myself when I say that I didn’t stare; I certainly wasn’t trying to be rude, but my glance likely lingered too long on his heavily tattooed arms, his dark clothing, his bald head. I was trying to figure out what the “Melvins” emblem on his black t-shirt meant, to decide whether it was a band or a club or something else entirely.

He smiled at me then, sincerely, right into my eyes, and commented, “I like your beads,” in reference to the long and colorful strand hanging around my neck.

Looking back at him, I grinned, “Thanks!” emphatically, as if I could could apologize for my own inconsiderateness in that one simple word.

The crosswalk gave us permission to move then. And I mounted my bike and set off while he waited for his friend to catch up to him.

“Have a nice day,” he called after me.

“You guys too,” I responded, with an honest verve.

Reflecting, it makes me chide myself for my quick judgment. I knew so little about him. Only that he was a good friend; just that he liked my beads; and importantly that the same Jesus died for both of our sins.

In that, we are the same.

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