Self

How I’m addressed has always kind of been a thing, for me. When I was little, I had a friend who, in the span of a week, went from calling me Rachael, to Rachie, to Ray-cheese, to Stinky Cheese, to Limburger. So, there’s that. For most of my life I’ve insisted on using my full name. I even insist on my full complement of vowels, which is challenging, since the biblical spelling was much more popular.

Sometimes I really hate my brain. Today, as a totally random example, has been utterly awful. I woke up out of a nightmare half an hour before my alarm, spent the next 20 minutes fishing around for someone to distract me so I would make sure I didn’t fall back asleep (and resume being pursued by a creepy monster while stringing multiple men along romantically and trying not to miss a ferry) and the next hour trying to persuade myself to start my day.

I really like doing things for other people. My shrink says I’m very empathetic - which can be a bad thing, it turns out - and as a result, making other people happy is a pretty reliable way to give myself a boost, too. I’m just as likely to send a random person a present on a Thursday in June as I am to send an actual Christmas present. It turns out you can be both empathetic, and terrible at gift-giving holidays, who knew?

A twitter buddy of mine is committing to writing 500 words a day on some topic, and invited others to join her. Feel free to write alongside us, exercise those grammar muscles, and do a little wordsmithing. The hashtag on twitter is #500wordsAbout. I learned to knit from a friend at work. I saw it as a way to bond with other women I respected, to learn something new, and to get to play with soft and pretty things.