Rock Star

            My loan officer calls me a rock star.  That’s a first.

            In my lifetime, I’ve been called many things.  As a painfully shy little girl, I never earned the nickname, “Brute,” but it did afford my father some laughs.  At flute choir last night, our director unintentionally called a fellow flutist and me “Jeggy” and “Panis.”  My English students occasionally got confused about my identity:  I saw my name on an essay heading not once but twice from the same student as “Janis Joplin.”  And, of course, no matter how often I spell out my name to others, it often ends up as “Janice.” 

            I guess I’ve been fortunate not to have derogatory nicknames . . . maybe I should rephrase that to say I’ve been fortunate not to know about any such names.  I have heard myself identified as “the short English teacher.”  And I’ve been known as “Dana’s mom” and “Joseph’s mom.”  When my siblings and I were growing up, Mom used to run through the whole list before she settled on the name:  “AnnJanBobJohn . . .Jan!”  We never liked it when she called us “Smoky” (our cat’s name), though. 

            It’s true that I would rather be known as a rock star than a cat.  By the way, the occasion for my star status was just a trifle:  I sent in one more piece of information the loan officer needed before she had a chance to ask.  I’ll try not to let this new name go to my head.  But do ya wanna hear my rendition of “Me and Bobby McGee”?