Sunday Scribblings... on a Thursday...

Who else might I have been?

My dad named me Victoria.  As I've been told, it was a boyhood friend's mother's name and he always liked it, or maybe she made an impression.  I was always Vicki until fourth grade, when an older girl in my Girl Scout troop insisted on calling me Victoria.  I winced for a while -- it seemed so old-fashioned, so formal, so old -- but I'm glad how that she did.  I still don't prefer Victoria, but I don't wince anymore.  I remember Mom telling me that she'd wanted to name me Rhonda or Mary Jo; she will deny it or have no recollection -- I don't know if those names seem too Petticoat Junction, or not refined enough now, or if I'm just too old for her to remember being pregnant or me being a baby -- but that's what I remember.

If my name was Rhonda...

I'd ride a Harley and wear leather and have a tattoo, or two (or even more, or maybe bigger than you'd think).  I'd be taller, and a little bit thinner, and be a daring dresser -- simple but daring, a lot of black.  I'd have cleavage and you would know it.  My hair would be longer, but not any less gray; I'd wear it in braids a lot, and wear big earrings.  I'd have an ex-husband, or two.  I'd definitely be between marriages and I wouldn't be living around here -- but I would have my own house.  I'd own a successful auto repair business, and work on my brother's pit crew at the local race track; it's where I met my husband(s).  I'd laugh loud and often; too loudly for my mother; she'd call me "a hard ticket," as would have her mother before her, and wonder how I turned out that way.  I'd party hard, but infrequently.  My favorite knitting project would be socks.

If my name was Mary Jo...