H is for Hannah.

Good morning, World:

This morning, as I lay in bed rubbing littleb’s back in hopes that he would go back to sleep instead of chanting, “I want cake, I want cake, I want cake, I want cake”….

I know.  Annoying, right?  Apparently he had a dream about cake. 

Wow.  That may be my worst digression yet.  I just left that sentence hanging there.  I’ll never be a decent writer if I keep doing butt guts like that.

Can I start again?  Okay.  This morning as I lay in bed I ran various “H” words through my head trying to attach them to some kind of tangible memory or thought in my brain.  At one point, I thought I was just going to go with “Hello” and call it a day.  But. I’ve already made enough of a mockery of this game with my whole Cluck it, Fuck it, let’s just do the entire alphabet in one day shenanigans.  So I felt a little more effort was required.

And then the word Hannah popped into my head and ding ding ding, we had a winner.

My father is a beautiful human being.  He is a great father and through the years, he has done so many of the parenting things right.  He did, however, commit one heinous faux pas and ungrateful child that I am, I’m going to call him on it right here in the Chicken pages.

He nicknamed his daughters.  After cows.

I have a very unusual first name, to begin with, that I’ve had to shorten to something more straightforward in order to avoid repeated mispronunciations and stupid questions/statements like, “Is that Asian?  Sounds Asian”.   No, Asshole.  Look at me.  I have blue eyes, blondish hair, and skin like a vampire. I do not look remotely Asian.  Sometimes I would just make up a story:  Yes, it is Asian.  How astute of you to notice that.  Most people don’t realize since I don’t look remotely Asian, but  I was adopted at birth by a Cambodian couple and named after my adopted papa’s mother, now deceased, but former personal assistant to the wife of the former prime minister of Cambodia.  I am honored to carry her name. 

My father is to blame for my Asian name, too.

I’m procrastinating possibly because I really do not want you to know this.  The nickname bestowed upon me by my father and the one I have been known by ever since in his company is Clarabelle.  Yup.  This is what I think of when I hear the name Clarabelle:

Why on earth would a father do that to a daughter?  Dad?  ‘Splain this to me?  I know you grew up on a farm and all, but babies are not cows.  One does not stick a baby with an Asian/Cow name?  What the hell were you thinking Dad????

My Sister, J, also had a cow nickname, but hers, which was “Hannah”, was not nearly as offensive as mine.  I mean, Hannah is pretty mainstream.  It’s really a lovely name and I’ve only met a few cows named Hannah over the years.  Plus, I’m quite sure Hannah was an infinitely more attractive cow than Clarabelle.  Here’s what I think of when I picture Hannah the cow:

Incidentally, my sister also got the lovely American first name, as well.  Dad, were you playing favorites?  She’s younger than me. She was probably a total accident.  But she gets a better name?  Bad form, Dad.  Not fair.

Dad was possibly not thinking of Cows at all.  As I recall, Howdy Doody had a partner and the partner’s name was:

Clarabelle.  The Clown.  Really, Dad?  You looked down into the big blue eyes of your tiny infant daughter and you saw a bald clown?  Perhaps a bald, Asian cow clown?  It is pretty apparent to me, now that I’ve worked this through, that my father is totally to blame for my weird sense of humor.  Let that be a lesson, Peeps.  Nickname your kid after a Clown and she just might grow up to be a clown.  A weird bald Asian cow clown.

Know what, though, World?  My sister J of the beautiful American name and beautiful Cow nickname, will most likely forevermore be associated with this:

Revenge is mine. Thanks Disney. 

Check in later to read about today’s “I” word. It is another embarrassing story from my childhood.  Some of you already know this story but for those of you who do not, I think you might enjoy another hearty laugh at Chicken’s expense. 

Today’s Chicken song (click on the Chicken crossing the Road) is a Martin Sexton song called “Happy”.  Another H word.  JE, I came across this song a few years ago when I was looking for a wedding gift for you and B.  It reminded me of how the two of you might be feeling.  But then I didn’t see you for a long time and I kept it.  So I hope you both still feel this way and if you like it, I totally owe you a CD:-)

Saturday Rocks.  Enjoy it.

Chicken out

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  16 comments for “H is for Hannah.

  1. April 10, 2010 at 12:36 pm

    My parents are arseholes too. Are you quite sure we arent related? On bad days our nicknames were Dramaticus and Patheticus. I swear that is true. Nowadays that would be child abuse.

    To this day I also get called Moggs. Nasty huh? Brings to mind a scraggy male tom cat. I got my own back, and sued them for adult therapy costs. They haven't nicknamed the grandkids.

    Like

  2. April 10, 2010 at 12:57 pm

    Mrs. P-I love those names. I hope you were Dramaticus and not Patheticus, though. Patheticus is a little on the derogatory side. Moggs makes me think of a Harry Potter character, though. Nicknaming the grandkids is up to you:-)

    Like

  3. Dee
    April 10, 2010 at 2:37 pm

    Oh my goodness. I think I hurt myself laughing, Clarabell! 😀 I was “Sugar Booger” to my dad. WTF, daddy-o???

    Like

  4. April 10, 2010 at 2:51 pm

    Oh Daddy! Are you going to pay for the therapy bills?

    Like

  5. April 10, 2010 at 3:26 pm

    Sugar Booger? OMG, Red, I love that.

    Bossy-I think therapy is covered by the new healthcare reform bill. Daddy got lucky!

    Like

  6. April 10, 2010 at 11:04 pm

    One of my parents is alive.

    Fuck!

    Like

  7. April 10, 2010 at 11:13 pm

    Hi Dinners. That you know of:-)

    Like

  8. Anonymous
    April 11, 2010 at 12:35 am

    Nicknames is a great idea for a post. I was stuck with a crappy nickname growing up because my sister couldn't pronounce my actual name. I finally shrugged that “yolk” off when I went to college.

    Funny thing is once I got to college I was branded with another nickname (I guess I don't look like a “CB” –but at least this new one (Chester) I could deal with and didn't hate it.

    Here's the funny thing, even though I attended 3 different colleges between undergraduate and MBA, every time I changed schools, it wouldn't be long before SOMEONE started calling me Chester–without me EVER mentioning it was my nickname. It was like I had it tattooed on my forehead.

    I guess it's just one of those things.

    Like

  9. April 11, 2010 at 12:53 am

    Chester:-) I love that nickname. I really do. The first time it showed up in my yahoo, though, I was surprised. I never would have made that connection. But from now on, well, if you do start that blog on April 14, I hope you call it Chester something.

    Like

  10. Anonymous
    April 11, 2010 at 1:27 am

    Yeah, well, Chicken you knew me when I was suffering from Adult On-set Professionalism. Thankfully, after a painful jwooendectomy I have thankfully kicked the habit.

    Had you known me during my free-wheeling college days, I'm sure you would have made the connection.

    CB

    Like

  11. April 11, 2010 at 3:07 am

    Chester, I wish I had known you then. Thank God I know you now:-)

    Like

  12. Anonymous
    April 11, 2010 at 4:17 am

    Chicken, you and I both fall squarely under the category “not judging a book by it's cover”.

    One day–after much wine, we'll take a walk down memory lane–and confess our transgressions. 😉

    CB

    Like

  13. Anonymous
    April 11, 2010 at 4:18 am

    And I'm very glad to know you now too! xoxo

    Like

  14. April 11, 2010 at 5:44 am

    Just name the day, Chester. I'll bring the wine.

    Like

  15. April 12, 2010 at 11:55 am

    OK, one I love this entry. It brings back lovely memories of horrid nicknames from childhood, which both make me smile and cringe.

    Second, thanks a lot because now I will be dreaming of cake 🙂

    Like

  16. April 12, 2010 at 4:29 pm

    Hi FN-I dream of cake all the time. And then I wake up full. It's my diet secret. Well. Was.

    Like

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