The Story Of My First Name

A long long time ago, in a galaxy far far away...

Well, 1970 in fact. Here on earth. The  other way just sounds more mysterious. Shut up.

Oh okay, I'll start again.

Picture it. Sydney. 1970. (Kudos to Sophia from the Golden Girls...)

There was a lovely young pregnant lady. That magnificent woman was, of course, my very own mother. She had the important task, along with my father, of bestowing upon me ( the sprog percolating in her womb), the name that I would be known as for the duration of my life. 

They were already the proud parents of a son (my brother - Captain Obvious...) they had named Mark David. This was supposedly due to my mother's aversion to names that could be abbreviated. A short and punchy Mark seemed just right. 

At first, Mum was keen to name me either Rebecca or Rachel. Perhaps she hadn't considered the potential abbreviations of these very fine names. A big hello to all the Bec's, Becca's and Becky's out there. The Rach's, too. I could have been one of you.

It turned out to be a moot point, since my dad wasn't enamoured with either of these suggestions. More pondering ensued as I floated contentedly in the cocoon of my mother's womb. 

Incidentally, I have been told that Mum was quite convinced I was a girl. Of course there was no way to find out the sex of a baby back in those times. The only way was to give birth and clap eyes on it. I mean him. Or her. Mum just had a strong feeling I'd be a girl. And of course, she was right. Consequently, she says she did not give any serious thought to boys names. However, there is slight possibility I may have been a Craig had I developed a Y chromosome. 

Craig. Can you IMAGINE?  I guess it was 1970, so Craig's and Kylie's and Sharon's were all the thing back then. Hard to imagine they were ever babies though, isn't it?

So, yes. Mum was certain I was a girl. Rebecca and Rachel were rejected. Another name was very briefly agreed upon: 

Monique. 

Still. It just wasn't quite right. I was due to make my arrival into this dark and dangerous bright and beautiful world in early 1971. 

Apparently it was around this time that Mum happened to see the 1967 film Camelot, starring Richard Harris as King Arthur, Vanessa Redgrave as Guenevere,  and Franco Nero as Lancelot. 

You can see where this is going, can't you? 

Mum thought Vanessa Redgrave was lovely. Moreover, she was quite taken with her name. "What a beautiful name," she thought. This time, Dad agreed.

Side note: I'm glad she didn't go with Guenevere, because I would have spent my entire life spelling my name to people. It sometimes happens with Vanessa, but not TOO often...

My reluctant arrival into the world occurred on January 15th, 1971. Mum endured an epic and traumatic labour.  I didn't want to be born and kept swimming back the wrong way to stay where I was. Look, it was all warm and floaty in there. Who'd want to come out? Eventually, I did. Around 6pm. Just in time for dinner. Prophetic. 

And it was settled.  My crumpled little yellow and jaundiced features looked like a Vanessa. For a middle name I was given Faye, with a rogue E on the end. Simply because that's Mum's middle name (Alison Faye), so she gave me the same one as hers. I mention the rogue E because I'm quite proud of it. It reminds me of Anne Shirley insisting her name be spelled with an E in Anne of Green Gables. 

Again, it would appear that Mum was oblivious to the potential abbreviations of Vanessa. These days I'm often known as Ness or Nessie (hence the name of this blog). Mum, Dad and Mick always call me Vanessa, but everyone else (mostly) calls me Ness.

Shout out to all my fellow Vanessa's and Ness's out there. I imagine you've also been called Vanessa the Professor, Vanessa the Undresser (useful if your career is stripping), or Messy Nessy in your life time. The latter being particularly apt for me. Ahem.

Oh, and my brother? Who was named a short and to the point Mark? In primary school he was nicknamed "Jaffa" due to his red hair resembling the lollies. It's stuck ever since. Even my boys call him Uncle 'Jaf'. Names are a funny old thing, aren't they? 

And just for another interesting anecdote, I noticed a curious coincidence. For three generations in my husband's family, dudes have married ladies with names beginning with a V.

Mick's Grandmother's name was Violet and his mum's name was Verna. Then he married me, a Vanessa! Just a funny coincidence. But it will be interesting to see if one of our boys ends up with a partner whose name begins with a V... We'll have to wait and see. 

I'm pretty cool with my name. Vanessa Redgrave  is a pretty rad namesake. These days she's known as the narrator on Call The Midwife, among other things. 

And  while I was born here on earth (surprising, since I feel like a creature from the planet Zorg...), 1971 is certainly a long, LONG time ago. Just like Craig, there aren't many babies named Vanessa now. Or at least, I don't hear of any. It's becoming a middle aged/old lady name. Sniff.

But a very good one. Thanks, Mum and Dad. 

And  that is the story of my first name. 

What is the story of your first name? 

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Horror Scopes

Hello there! It's the weekend again, lovely people. Now, make yourself comfortable, sit down with a glass of wine, and let's talk about horror scopes. Erm... I mean... horoscopes. 

Do you read yours? I must confess, I do not. This may come as no surprise, but I'm quite the cynical old soul in regards to such frivolities.  However, I figured why not? Let's have a look into this nonsense, shall we? At any rate, I can't think of anything else to write, and I've had a scotch or two, so this should be interesting... 

Yep. I am a Greedy Emo. 

I made my way into this mad old world on January 15th of 1971. According to astrology this makes me a Capricorn. And a Greedy Emo. See above.

It is an indisputable FACT that all Capricorns are dazzlingly clever and divinely beautiful. Okay, I may have made that up. (Or stolen it from LM Montgomery...). There was no need for the word 'may' in that sentence... But aren't all horoscopes fiction? So why can't I invent whatever it is that I want? HMPH.

Anyway, I just did a bit of the old googling and this is my horoscope for yesterday:

It's a good time to build up your self-esteem in terms of expressing yourself. Deep down inside, you're a very creative person, and today is a good day to let that show. Get involved in planning or cooking a meal, and volunteer to set the table. You can arrange the settings in a unique way -- let yourself do something that strikes people as downright odd. It's all part of encouraging yourself to take chances and express your natural talents.

Indeed, I have been cooking a lot lately, as well as setting the table in my own unique way. This involves flinging mismatching crockery and cutlery at the table in a most random fashion. Food follows likewise, because by the time I get to this point of the proceedings I am completely over it all and don't care anymore, so they can eat it or starve. 

But back to me being a Capricorn. 

According to Google, Capricorn personality traits are as follows:

Capricorn Traits : The Capricorn-born people are the most determined of the entire Zodiac. The most prominent qualities of the Goats, as they are called, are that they are ambitious, conservative, determined, practical and helpful.

Bwahahahahahahaha! NO.

How I fervently wish that the above was true for me! I am not at all determined or ambitious. I suppose I'm conservative, with a teensy little subversive streak that makes a guest appearance now and again. Like when I write rambling blog posts while I'm tipsy (or stone cold sober...). Living on the edge! 

Additionally, us goats are reputed to be quite stubborn. I've never thought of myself as stubborn. However, I don't cope with change whatsoever, so I'm wondering if that is, in fact, a form of stubbornness? What say you? 

Meanwhile, I just read the following passage and it certainly does resonate: 

Capricorn women typically enjoy people though they are often thoughtful, self-contained and shy. Their quiet exterior can make them appear to be loners, often building a wall of reserve around themselves. They are very loyal to those they care for, but often cold to those outside of their circle of friends and family. They are often highly cautious and analytical when making new friends.

CONCLUSION

My initial thoughts were that I am NOTHING like a Capricorn. However, after my drunken online reading, some of it does resonate. I reckon it's all open to interpretation and you can read whatever you want into it. I'd still never take horror scopes too seriously, but they're quite fun some of the time. Or maybe that's the scotch talking... You be the judge.

And now a final look at all of our horror scopes for the for the future...

I think that sums it up. 

What do you think? What star sign are you? Does it reflect your personality? Or do you think it's all a load of bollocks? 

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Winging It

 Another Monday has rolled inconveniently around. They have a tendency to do that, the rude things. I must confess that my brain feels like cotton wool this morning even post coffee, so this post will most likely sound like meandering gibberish. Which is quite similar to most of my posts really. Consistency is important. 

Over the weekend Mr 9 became Mr 10. He had a bowling party which he enjoyed. I must confess that that I find the wall of noise in those places quite challenging. I've only just got my hearing back. However, I'd find organising a party at home even more challenging. Couldn't organise a piss up in brewery. Or a meat raffle in a butcher's. Or an orgy at a nymphomaniac convention.  You get the picture. 

With this in mind, I decided to finally get with the 21st century and purchase a new phone so that I could start using the calendars and reminders and things to help me become more organised. Shut up. It could happen. I could possibly even take a selfie for the first time EVER. I know - I haven't even LIVED. Apparently people can't possibly live these days unless they take selfies every 17 seconds and photograph their food before they eat it, so that's how I've come to the conclusion that I haven't lived. 

However, I must confess that I STILL haven't worked out how to use the contraption. I did point the  thing at my face thinking I'd take a selfie and recoiled in utter horror. Do I REALLY look like that? I think there is a reason I've never taken one. Nobody needs to see that. 

In other scintillating news I had my first tit crushing experience last week which was quite painful bracing. I have to admit to being a big scardey cat and feeling quite anxious about it. But it was over with in a jiffy. As they say, Mammogramming your boobs is more important than Instagramming them. Not that there is any danger of me doing that. I can't even Instagram my face let alone my National Geographics. But yes - PETRIFIED before hand. You'd think nothing would scare you anymore after experiencing childbirth, right? WRONG.

Especially since experiencing childbirth usually means you now have children. Which is scary. Because you worry about them all the time. I must confess that after watching this report about a paedophile ring and all the media coverage about the Daniel Morcombe case recently that I've felt sickened and horrified. It makes me question all humanity and the wisdom of blogging at all. Sigh. 

Now I need to mention cake again quickly just to lighten the mood. CAKE. There, that's better. Yes, I did have a lovely cake filled weekend because of Mr 10's birthday and Micky Blue Eyes loading up with a few cakes from an old favourite cake shop we hadn't been to in years. He isn't helping my addiction. He is furthering it. I knew I married him for a reason. 

Anyway, it appears that there is a mountain of washing awaiting me to be put away so I had better end this gibberish here and get on with it. 

Later dudes. 

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess. 

                                      What is on your mind on this fine Monday morning?

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The Meaning Of Life Is....42

Apparently it is now 2013. All the fireworks and doof doof here in Boganville last night, kind of gave it away.  Meaning, there were slightly more fireworks than what we usually hear every night. Anyway, I should probably wish you a Happy New Year. So I will. 

Happy New Year! May 2013 see all your dreams come true and Gangnam Style finally dying a long overdue, painful death. My neighbours very helpfully decided to blast it at around two seconds past midnight. Yeah, the 500 gazillion, trillion times I heard it in 2012 weren't quite enough, thanks very much. 

Anyway, being January, it probably means I should take the Christmas tree down. Eventually. It also means I will be turning 42 in approximately 14 days. Supposedly this is the answer to the meaning of life. 42.  According to Douglas Adams anyway.

It’s been a while since I read the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy series (since high school in fact) , so I can’t quite remember the finer details.

All I remember is these two things coming up at some point in the series: the answer to the meaning of life is 42 and the phrase  Don’t Panic!  Both of which are relevant to me presently as I tend to be overly panicky and I will be 42 very soon.

Therefore, I expect I shall suddenly possess the wisdom of the ages. Have it all sorted. Stop panicking? That would be good.

That, or I shall suddenly stomp off to Greece on a  holiday, a la Shirley Valentine, leaving my ungrateful family behind blinking. I remember watching that movie  a very long time ago and thinking that 42 sounded really old. Yet here I am. Really old.

The thing is, I couldn’t stomp off to  Greece even if I wanted too.  My children are not grown up. I have a four year old. I am destined to be mistaken for his Granny by the time he is at school. Sigh.

There is also another reason I couldn't stomp off to Greece. Or anywhere. It would scare the bejesus out of me.

Jetsar, fasten your seatbelts, here come some scary Bogans again. But,
I have tragically never been on flight by myself.

 

The truth is, I am (almost) 42 and have never even been on a flight by myself. I know, tragic, aren’t I?

I have also never:

·         Smoked a cigarette

·         Taken illegal drugs

·         Had a bikini wax

·          Or even a leg wax

·         Been so drunk I’ve thrown up or couldn’t remember it

·         Seen a dead person (unless my not quite cooked baby counts)

·         Had a career

·         Bought a car

·         Had a broken heart (unless losing my not quite cooked baby counts)

And I still can’t:

·         Make eye contact

·         Talk/communicate

·         Have a successful job interview due to the above two things

·         Sew a button on

·         Be organised

·         Make scones (well,I can,but they don’t rise

 

*   Make anything remotely edible, according to my boys anyway

·         Make a decision about the slightest thing, even what to have on a sandwich

·         Have a needle or blood test without freaking out

·         Ditto dentist appointments

·         Programme the dvd/vcr

·         Do anything whatsoever involving technology

·         Read a map

·         Reverse park (sorry, I’m letting down the sisterhood, admitting these last two. Admitting all of them really)

Anyway, we could be here for another 42 years. You get the idea.

I have been on a plane, just never by myself. Once with my parents and lots of times with Micky Blue Eyes. And then with Micky Blue Eyes and the boys. Which is ever so fun (insert sarcasm here).

So naturally we are doing so again and flying up to Queensland on January 8th. There I will spend my birthday. I expect it will just be another day and I'll feel exactly like I did the day before.

Completely clueless. Thoroughly inept and inadequate in every facet of life.

But at least I'll get to have cake.

And I’ll just have to keep remembering: Don’t panic!

What have you never done? What IS the meaning of life? Just kidding. But if you really have it figured out I’d be interested!

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