"The pressure of a name...

Okay, I'll give you a name......Cinda-f*ckin'-rella!"

I have many names. I'm guessing it goes hand-in-hand with my multiple personality disorder? The funny thing is, my mama PROHIBITED nicknames for me until I was in high school and my 16 years of rebellion finally wore her down. (Remind me to tell you sometime how I got my ears pierced at 17, a year before I could "legally sign for myself.")

See, I hate my name. Always have. I like my name when I'm in Germany. Hate my name when I'm in any English speaking country. My dad named me after one of my mom's sisters. (She's crazy, by the way...doesn't bode well for me, oh, and she has MS & Parkinson's. I couldn't make this shit up, I swear.)

It's just that my name is ALWAYS mispronounced or forgotten. My kindergarten teacher called me Belinda every single day. My kindergarten "diploma" is even addressed to...Belinda. How hard is it to remember 15 five-year olds' names??? (Funny side note that doubles with a movie quote: in A Muppet's Christmas Carol, the Crachits [Kermit & Miss Piggy] have twin piglet daughters, as well as older son Peter and Tiny Tim. The twin's names are....BETINA & BELINDA!!! [Since it's such a great movie, they are forgiven for misspelling it.] And there is a scene where Miss Piggy/Emily Crachit mixes them up and replies to their correction, "uh, uh, WHATEVER!"...funny ass shit, but most likely to just me and Jules, my movie quote equal. Put this on your holiday movie list. You won't be sorry.)

And if I had a dollar for every time I've been called Bonita, I'd quit my job and buy me an ice rink, people! I realize Bonita means 'beautiful' but to me, it conjures up some trashy, grease-bomb, trailer park crack whore mental image that I just can't shake. When someone tries to pronounce my name and they say, "Um, Bonita?" I, a.) ignore them, KNOWING full well they are talking to me, b.) get caustic and say, "are you dyslexic or retarded? T's before N," or, c.) chant quietly, "Hooked on Phonics worked for me!"

So in high school, my band buddies (or was it my softball teammates...I can't recall) started calling me B. Just B. It's easy. Simple. Rolls off the tongue. And few people forget it. My mom was mortified. Sorry, mama! It stuck. Until now.

My name has morphed into various other names by my friends and family. Exhibit A:

• Roomie Jolene called me ButrosButros
• U1 called me Spaz the entire first year of college
• UB kids called me Petuna one summer...I blame my boss, JS for starting that one
• Nephews call me NeNe
• Opa called me Tienschen...I can still hear him calling me from downstairs...and I'd holler back, "Opa, was machst, du?" He wanted me to make him waffles. They were his fav. (Sorry, tangent down memory lane for me...my blog...my tangent...too bad.)
• U2 called me B'tweena in high school
• A tennis coach called me SchneidaPie, as in "Serve me up a slice o' SchneidaPie." Always made me giggle.
• One of my brother's friends used to call me Schneidzie Whiplash ????? Your guess is as good as mine...
• I hesitate to write this one, because I never liked it either...my dad called me Bum and Bummie until, oh, I was 30. I think he realized when I no longer answered to it, that he should drop it. Problem is, his wife still calls me Bum. (As a wee-pup, I was THE tom-boy of the neighborhood. Two older brothers will do that to you. I also had very long hair that I would not let my mom comb, ever. I was a straggly headed wild banshee child. I also didn't like to wear shirts. Story for another time.)

Why does this naming-thingy rear its ugly head now? Because it seems I need a new name on the ice. I've been using B forever. But there's another girl on my team whose last name is Bean. When we're on the ice together, we can't tell if Coach is yelling at B or Bean...see? Confusing. I say, just use her first name, which starts with an M, and let me keep B. It's not flying, so the search for a new name is on.

My last name is too long and doesn't "roll off the tongue." I don't know what that is all about. There were some other crazy suggestions, PT, M, I don't know...I sort of blacked out during the naming negotiations. And now, I sort of fell into a new name, Juicy.

Just so you know, I'm not on board with it, just yet. I hear my linemates or Coach calling, "Juicy, Juicy!" And I seriously, look around, giggle, wonder what is so juicy, then realize, OH, THAT'S ME! All of which takes over 10 seconds. Puck is gone. Play has moved on. And B, I mean Juicy, is trying to figure out what happened.

As a joke, I found a couple FUNNY t-shirts by Juicy Couture. Nothing quite like having 4-inch letters across your chest spelling out: Juicys Do it Better! I've worn them out to the bar, post-game party. Now a bartender actually calls me Juicy. A guy who serves me vodka, calls me...Juicy.

Story behind the Juice: ("There is too much, I will sum up.")

There's a jerky hockey guy/instructor that told me five years ago that I should just quit because I'd never be a hockey player. This was after I tried out for his "competitive" hockey team. After hearing this, my good friend ABC-123 started a team for me so we could show him we COULD be hockey players. I see this guy almost on a daily basis at the rink. Now he's all compliments. He makes all kinds of sugary comments to me. Mostly I ignore. But sometimes I giggle. See, had he taken me seriously when I asked him after the tryout what I needed to do to become a "hockey player" and I was willing to do anything, he could have said, "You can take lessons from me." Think of the $$$ he could have made from me. Now he gets BUBKUS from me and Coach sees me multiple times a week! ("Hi, remember me? I was in here yesterday and you wouldn't wait on me. Big mistake. Huge. I have shopping to do.") So about six weeks ago I went up to jerky hockey instructor to see if I could sub in his novice league. He said, and I quote, "B, of course you can. I know you will control the juice." I said, "I have...juice?" And he said, "GIRRRRRRL! You got JUICE!!!! I know you won't turn up the juice and skate all over the novice. You know how to play nice with them so go, have fun." I was and still am speechless...until...

I made the mistake of telling Coach and my line mates. It seemed like I had FINALLY arrived. The guy who told me to quit, admitted (almost, in his own crazy way) that I can play hockey, and since the folks who have always supported and believed in me (and played with me when I was so horrible) knew the original story of Mr. Rude, I figured they should get the follow-up story.

Just call me Juicy! I'll try to remember you're talkin' to me!

Sleep Study: Not progressing as hoped...maybe better luck tomorrow night.