Iggy and Jet

In an effort to get my creative juices flowing, I decided to write a short story for today's post:

My name is Iggy. Stop laughing. I mean it. My parents thought it would be a good idea to give their baby girl a good Catholic grown-up name. So Mary Ignatius is on my birth certificate. I guess that after my mother's post partum endorphins wore off, she realized what she had done and tried with all her might to make a cute baby girl name out of it. So Iggy I am.

Some of the great gems I heard growing up were "Look! It's Icky Iggy" or "Ha-ha! Iggy is married to Ziggy!" Because we all no that nothing is as insulting as hearing that you are married to an adorable comic strip character.

But, whatev. I grew up and built some good character along the way, and now I've grown into my name and have even come to embrace it. I am, after all, the only Iggy I've ever known. And when people shorten it to "Ig" as a term of endearment, I nearly pee myself with glee. "Ig" is just plain cute.

You may be wondering what a girl named Iggy does for a living. I work at Macy's behind the MAC counter. Yep, I'm one of the freaks you see wearing all black with black hair and a fuschia streak in it. I love black eyeliner. And don't even get me started on the wonders of black nail polish.

I live with my husband, Jet. Bless his heart--his parents thought it might be fun to name him after their favorite space-age cartoon family. Jetson Riker are his first and middle names. (They were Trekkies, too.) Lucky for him, "Jet" is an incredibly cool knickname, and it is just as masculine as he is.

Jet and I met two Halloweens ago. He was bound and determined to win his office costume party. He thought it would be funny to go as a hangover. No, you did not misunderstand me. He wanted to dress up as a hangover for Halloween. One of his co-workers told him that if he really wanted to wow everyone, he should get his makeup professionally done. So in he walks and asks me to make him look like a hangover. We made small talk as I gave him dark circles under his eyes. We laughed as I drew a zig-zag down his forhead to represent his splitting headache. But things really started to heat up when I was attaching prosthetic pieces of throw-up to his face with spirit gum: He told me I had nice hands.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!

I do not have nice hands. They are the feature I have always loathed the most about myself. I can't grow my nails out worth a darn. My fingers are chubby. The only thing they have going for them is MAC's "Nocturnelle" Nail Lacquer. I told him that I didn't care much for my fingers. But he insisted that they were the cutest he'd ever seen and that they had a gentle touch. All he had to do at that point was ask me if I wanted to be the mother of his children, and I would have said "YES!".

Thankfully, he just slipped me his card with a generous tip, and went on his way. "Jetson Riker Jones, CPA". An accountant? How could an accountant have been that charming? I decided to take a risk and call him. We went out that weekend and we've been together ever since. We're totally wrong for each other--a real mismatch by the world's standards. No one gets it but us. But we're happy. Really happy.

We're expecting our first baby in May. A little girl. We're naming her Leia Ruth. A little bit sci-fi and a little bit Catholic. I think our parents will be proud.