There are a lot of silly, nit-picky, ridiculous things that upset me. I hate it when I share my toothpaste with someone and they squeeze it from the middle. I get infuriated if someone leaves toast crumbs in the butter. If you leave the toilet seat up in the middle of the night, I will kill you. And if you get my drink order incorrect whilst wearing a Starbucks apron, I will curse the day you were born.

I care about having silverware arranged correctly on the table. I hate when people end sentences with prepositional phrases (and sink into self-loathing when I do so).  I need for the volume on the TV and stereo to be set on an even number.

But there’s something I don’t care much about: the way my name is pronounced.

Some people fly into a rage if you mispronounce their names.  They will sneer and pronounce their names the way they prefer with a condescending air of superiority that makes everyone feel stupid for reading the name incorrectly. They show no grace, despite fact there are numerous popular pronunciations.

I’m not one of them.

I will admit that I was mildly annoyed when the Starbucks barista handed me the cup in the following picture:

Frankly, I was annoyed because Niomi isn’t an actual name. I didn’t want anyone to think my parents were crazy hippies with the need to channel their creativity through spelling a perfectly normal name in a completely ridiculous way.  But, had the barista pronounced my name NYomi or NAYomi, I would have picked up my drink, without saying a word, and strolled out of Starbucks unperturbed.

For 23 years, I have been living with two first names.

NAYomi?

NYomie?

Which is it?

I’ve never bothered to correct anyone. My parents call me NAYomi, so I suppose that’s my “real” name, but my mum’s accent occasionally makes it sound more like NEEomi. It didn’t help matters that my mum’s side of the family tended to call me NYomi, while my dad’s side proliferated NAYomi. To further the confusion about my name, on the first day of school I was always too shy to respond to the teacher’s first run through the attendance with anything more than a nod or a wave of my hand. Until I was about 14, I would have rather died than speak up in front of a room of silent classmates. The teacher could have called me Bob and I would have gone with it. Every year I deferred to the teacher’s pronunciation of my name, and every year the kids in my class followed my teacher’s lead.  Thus, my friends are almost equally divided between the NAYomi and NYomi pronunciations.

I should probably care about how my name is pronounced, but I don’t. In grade school, I was the fat kid with the last name Hogg. As long as nobody was connecting those dots, I could have cared less about what they called me. Beggars cannot be choosers! It just seems really unnatural that I have no preference; neither pronunciation resonates more deeply within me. I don’t hear one as “right” and one as “wrong.” They’re both my name.

Still, it’s been troubling that I don’t have a preferance. I recently met someone who asked me, “NAYomi? or is it NYomi?  Which do you prefer?”  I realized it was completely ludicrous to reply, “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Either way.”  It’s my name, for goodness sakes!

The thing that makes me reticent to decisively pick one pronunciation over the other is the fact I’d have to start correcting people that have known me for more than 10 years. It seems like it would be an overly burdensome – and possibly rude (?) – thing to start now.  Do I pick a pronunciation and leave a grandfather clause for those who met me before I chose?   Or, should I adopt one of my many nicknames and vehemently proliferate it at every opportunity presented, desperately hoping that it catches on?  It might be fun to be NJ, Mimi, or Mia for a while.

Although, I suppose that would lead to confusion about whether my name should be pronounced ME-ah or MY-ah…

Earlier today, I snagged a copy of Katy Perry’s new album.  By snagged I mean that I bought it from iTunes, but snagged sounds better.  I’m disappointed with the album. Katy Perry doesn’t have a particularly strong voice, so the number of ballads made the album feel completely underwhelming.  I sincerely hoped the entire album had a California Gurls vibe, but it was a lot more Teenage Dream than anything else. In any case, the album does have a few good songs, and I suppose it was a better purchase than three cans of  Red Bull.

Having listened to it beginning to end with no pauses, stops, or repeats – the way I always listen to a new album -I decided it was complete pop fluff with one exception: Who Am I Living For?

Check it out (and ignore the certain air of cheese, that seems obligatory when making this sort of video. And the spelling/grammar mistakes, for that matter. I did not make this video):

I am ready for the road less traveled
Suiting up for my crowning battle
This test is my own cross to bear
But I will get there

It’s never easy to be chosen, never easy to be called
Standing on the frontline when the bomb starts to fall
I can see the heavens but I still hear the flames
Calling out my name

I can see the writing on the wall
I can’t ignore this war
At the end of it all
Who am I living for?

This really stuck out as a timely reminder to always consider who I’m living for.

You can suit up to do battle, walk the least traveled road, and bear the most difficult cross, but, at the end of it all, what does it matter if you’re doing it for yourself or for purely selfish motivations?  The thing that keeps me forging ahead, no matter how difficult it may be, is the knowledge I’m not living for me. Although I’m not a particular fan of The Purpose Driven Life, I believe everyone should open the book and read the first line: “It’s not about you!”  Living out our selfishness and narcissistic tendencies may lead to the appearance of success, but it doesn’t lead to purpose of fulfillment.

Here’s a little something upon which I’ve been reflecting:

If you’ve gotten anything at all out of following Christ, if his love has made any difference in your life, if being in a community of the Spirit means anything to you, if you have a heart, if you care— then do me a favor: Agree with each other, love each other, be deep-spirited friends. Don’t push your way to the front; don’t sweet-talk your way to the top. Put yourself aside, and help others get ahead. Don’t be obsessed with getting your own advantage. Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand.

Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. Not at all. When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process. He didn’t claim special privileges. Instead, he lived a selfless, obedient life and then died a selfless, obedient death—and the worst kind of death at that—a crucifixion.

Because of that obedience, God lifted him high and honored him far beyond anyone or anything, ever, so that all created beings in heaven and on earth—even those long ago dead and buried—will bow in worship before this Jesus Christ, and call out in praise that he is the Master of all, to the glorious honor of God the Father.

Philippians 2:1-11 (The Message)

My friend Simon is a lot of things. He is a filmmaker, a chocolate cake enthusiast, a critic, a cynic, and a button-up wearer. He is also right. Not all the time, but a good chunk of the time.  Last night, he was right. He suggested I respond to a young man’s invitation by simply writing, “No Thanks.” I have never been good at harsh, solid responses to men. I try to be polite and ladylike. So I buffered my response with an, “I don’t really know you.”  Simon was right.  A simple “No Thanks” would have been better.

In my own defense, the guy said, “I know you live in Canada and all, but I think we should start doing something.” I wasn’t sure if that was a euphemism for something else, so, despite the thousand other reasons I felt no inclination to respond positively, I felt that I ought to decline the offer. That and I don’t respond to facebook messages that begin with the words, “hey mama.” Especially not from a white guy.

Of course the guy followed up, insisting that we could get to know each other, and I found myself responding with a classic bull-filled response about being so over long distance relationships and being too busy with school and work.  Well, I suppose my response was honest enough. I am “so over” long distance relationships. And I am very busy with work and school and trying to finish a damn novel. But would those things really matter if I met someone with whom I had real chemistry? No. They just wouldn’t stand up as a real reason to not pursue the elusive Mr. Right. Or someone that seemed awfully right, for that matter. If I met someone I really hit it off with, distance and busyness would seem like very small obstacles.

Last summer’s brief spell dating a man that shall only be known as “Jersey Shore” (total guido!) was enough to remind me that I should only get involved with someone I really click with. Over the past year, I’ve also learned that I need to stop looking for Kevin 2.0. It would be so easy to continue looking for someone “just like Kevin, only he doesn’t do [insert frustrating thing] and actually likes [thing I like].”  I’m over it. I’ve moved on. And I need another Kevin about as much as he needs another Naomi. I’m pretty sure that amount roughly equates to “not at all, not even a little.”

So where does that leave me?  Single.

Sometimes I feel like I have become incredibly picky, but looking at the guys I’ve been involved with in the past, I know I haven’t been picky enough. I’d rather spend a lengthy period watching all my friends pair off and settle down than to keep dating for the sake of dating. It’s just frustrating. I feel like I’m finally at a place where I’m emotionally ready for another serious relationship, but I’m just not meeting any one that catches my fancy.

I still believe in fairytales and true love and being swept of my feet. Actually, the problem is that I’m just not willing to settle for anything less.

Now, if you excuse me, I shall go find my copy of Sense and Sensibility; perhaps Jane Austen will hold the answers.

Tonight I write about cardigans. Josh requested I write about cardigans, and, as I have little else to write about, I shall offer you a few thoughts about cardigans.

I have a long history with cardigans. As a Scottish school girl, the cardigan was an integral part of my identity. And uniform.  That formative period of my life left me with a general distaste for cardigans. I’ve always been the rebellious type; thus, I felt it necessary to rebel against cardigans for a long time. This led me to embrace several alternative fashion faux pas from the mid 90′s until about 2003. I’m talking about serious faux pas. On many a day, I left the house wearing denim from head to toe. I even carried a denim purse. I owned denim shirts and skirts and jackets and pants, and I wore them all in some sort of ridiculous blue ensemble. Don’t even get me started on the strange color combinations that I paired with my Old Navy tech vest. Although I courted cardigans upon occasion, I was bullied out of my openness to the garments by a giant, butch pain in my ass, who gave me hell for wearing pink.  Looking back, I see nothing wrong with my hot pink sweater, but I suppose anything from the Gap or Old Navy would intimidate a 13-year-old who grew up on a basketball court and lived in over-sized sweat pants.

So it seems strange that cardigans have become a staple of my clothing diet.

In the past six months, I bought at least 5 or 6 cardigans, all of which I’ve over worn to the point of destruction. I love cardigans. Two of said cardigans are pink, and I’m sure everyone I know is sick of seeing me in pink cardigans. On a particularly bad day, I found myself waiting in line at the Tommy Hilfiger outlet, baby pink cardigan in hand. It took every ounce of will power I had to put it back and walk out of the store. I own black cardigans. I own grey cardigans. I have biscuit coloured cardigans. Yes. Plural. Three biscuit coloured cardigans, to be exact. Beige, if you prefer.

Why am I telling you all of this? It just serves to illustrate that we’re a product our journeys. It might be my nature, after all, I come from a long line of cardigan-wearing women. It might be nurture; I was raised with cardigans, sweater sets, and films in which Doris Day wore cardigans. Whatever the reason, cardigans are in my blood.

The sooner we embrace our roots, the living history in us, the better. You can runaway from who you are and your past, but it’s still going to be there. When you finally confront it, it will hit you with a vengeance. You will wake up one day with a closet full of cardigans.

I’m a girl who wears cardigans. I’m not even cool enough to rock a hipster look. I am a Gap poster child reject. And I’m happy with that.

• Walking city streets unobstructed by umbrellas.
• Good drip coffee. Almost everywhere.
• Quality used bookstores.
• Knowing exactly where to buy obscure groceries.
• Or Chinese take-out.
• Bottles of wine for $5 or less.
• The smell of garlic fries filling Safeco.
• And pouring out of the stadium, onto the street, where it mingles with that of popcorn and beer.
• Poseidon, Lord of the Sea – otherwise know as the Edmonds water temperature guy.
• Mac & Jack’s.
• Bumping into old friends.
• Bumping into new friends.
• Bumping. Generally.
• 24-hour fast food chains.
• Ferry rides in the rain.
• Blustery days.
• Walks through old wood growth on familiar paths.
• Waves from the sound, surging over the breakwater.
• Watching pink sunsets from rooftops.
• Front porch nights bleeding into morning over a smoldering hookah.
• Shoe sales.
• Seashells.
• Soft-serve.
• Rockabilly shows in the park.
• Driving too fast.
• Learning too slow.
• And You.
• All of you.

Women intimidate me. There. I said it. They’re out of my comfort zone. It’s not that I don’t like other women, but growing up a lot of the other girls didn’t like me.  I defaulted to being “one of the guys” whenever possible, with exception of my best friend Kiana.  Kiana and I never had a “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” type of relationship. I think we had a more primitive, tribal friendship. There was this almost sacred level of “together” that we had, and we would have savagely killed for one another if necessary.  It wasn’t warm and fuzzy and cute. If you got up in my sister’s face, I would have been too busy making you bleed to sit and hand her tissues and cry with her.

Needless to say, through high school, mine was not the house hosting the stereotypical sleepover party with pink pajamas and toenail polish. Kiana and I once ate a large pizza between the two of us and chased it with 2 litres of soda (each), while watching Mall Rats and Invasion of the Body Snatchers back to back.   On the continuum between friend and enemy, most other girls landed in the gray zone, save a few exceptional outliers.  And so it has been ever since.  Stick me in a room with men and I’m golden.  Ask me to a Tupperware party and you wont get me to show up, no matter how many free colorful plastic boxes you promise.

It’s rare when I feel that same, tribal kinship with another woman. It’s happened a few times. And, as I’ve gotten older (and dare I say wiser?), I’ve mellowed out and made female friends.  Some of my frenemies have become friends And most recently, I had a great moment in which I realized one of those frenemies had some how landed in my extended network of tribal warriors.

Lord knows that if you knew the whole back-story, you’d be shocked that girls like us ever grew up enough to put the past behind us, but somehow – miraculously – we did. And this girl -this sister – and I have a 2-person “First Wives Club” sort of thing going for us.  Perhaps it was years of fighting the same wars against the same enemies – that can be enough to unite the most obstinate adversaries – but at some point we started playing for the same team. I find that the same savage protective streak has stretched just a little bit further to encompass her. Funny how that happens.  It is both humbling and empowering.