Nickeled and Named
Angela Townsend
Fancy Cookie
I did not want to go to the racetrack casino. V. believed I was elitist. V. did not believe I dislike watching horses get whipped while breathing in the fumes of burning income. V. prescribed exposure therapy.
V. could not believe I wrangled a good time anyway. I do not believe unsavory characters exist. I do not believe secondary characters exist. I believe in a world where every living creature is the main marinara. I believe in high-fiving strangers. I believe the woman whose bosoms are escaping her blouse has wisdom that I lack. I believe she had reason to tattoo her collarbones with eyeballs. I would have asked her, if V. would have let me. I will ask her next time.
I believe mahogany behemoths with melted ice-cream streaks down their noses deserve better than running in circles. I believe the horse called “Fancy Cookie” was personally intended by God. I believe she looked in my eyes. I would have brushed her hair, if given the chance.
When I was young enough to be enormous, it was adorable to wear hair ribbons the size of pennants. Several decades hence, it will be adorable again. In the trough between childhoods, I bide my time. I shrink my bows to farfalle, but I do not stop wearing them. I wear them over Peter Pan collars and Willie Nelson T-shirts. I wear them to Communion and the casino.
I do not feel guilty for washing each finger individually after the racetrack. V. said I have a raging case of undiagnosed OCD. I reminded V. that I have not vomited in thirty-eight years. I informed V. that I have my sights on a Guinness World Record.
I invited V. to call me “Fancy Cookie.” I took selfies with Stella d’Oro biscuits in ShopRite. I changed my Amazon name to “Fancy Cookie.” V. tracked my reviews and scolded me for pathological exuberance on the subjects of sweat shorts and granola. V. said Amazon would assume I was some sort of bot. Amazon awarded my 250th review with a gift card. I purchased a bow the size of a helicopter and leggings covered in nebulas. I informed V. that I am intergalactic.
Bolax
The jalapeño boys in middle school treated me like Cindy Crawford despite my resemblance to an electrocuted hobbit. Other girls’ frizz was fair game. I was respected and radioactive. Only the boy wearing the Mean People Suck T-shirt made fun of my type 1 diabetes. The paprika boys and cayenne boys dealt with him. The cinnamon boys and nutmeg boys placed bets on my blood glucose and congratulated me no matter the number.
V. diagnosed a form of scurvy induced by inadequate exposure to discouragement. V. spouted extemporaneous dissertations on the ill effects of gentleness. V. offered citric shrieks of “blee-bloo-BLOOP!” when I entered a bolus on my insulin pump. V. began calling me “Bolax,” because I need boluses and don’t know how to relax.
V. said my type 1 diabetic friends on Instagram are bots and algorithms planted by the insurance company. Yes, even the “Diagodfather,” who personally checks in on each member of the diafamily to ask about our sugars and dreams. Especially the Diagodfather.
I believe the Diagodfather is a real man in Bath, England, who has lived with type 1 diabetes for sixty years. I believe wrinkled angels sent him to remind all the pancreas people that we can be ill and well and angry and jolly. I believe most adolescents are trying to savor all they can salvage from hours and days. I believe we can be middle schoolers and godparents and farina and jambalaya before our first cup of coffee.
V. decreed that, if I would not eat charred mammals, I was unfit to attend events entitled “barbecues.” I went anyway. I had unauthorized conversations with his mother about the beauty of the human soul, until she got scared and asked if I heard that Jennifer Lopez was going to divorce Ben Affleck. I asked V. to stop calling me Bolax. This was unsuccessful.
Little Peanut Ball
I complete my holiday shopping before Halloween. This ensures timely delivery of ceremonial potholders from Bulgaria and small-batch penuche formed in the likeness of my stepfather. V. described my gifts as “high-risk.” I was asking for a nuclear reaction. I was herding innocent recipients into discomfort while guaranteeing my own disappointment. A box of Turtles from CVS would save everyone some pathos.
V. only begins his holiday shopping once Santa Claus is airborne. I wrapped while he shopped. I put on Christmas music from Copenhagen. I convinced myself the Danish women were singing, “glad little peanut ball!” I sang it to V. I signed my Christmas cards, “your little peanut ball.”
V. called me Bolax. V. diagnosed me as overinvested in “little.” V. lamented that I overdo the underdog. We revisited the topic of medium-rare mammals. V. said I would be improved by the addition of twenty pounds. I informed V. that I am the moon. I reminded V. that three hundred bayou people perform knee-slappin’ bluegrass under my ribs every time I laugh. I asked if V. knows that I am God’s favorite ninja. V. asked me not to say things like that in front of his parents.
Blambo
V. was my first everything. I had not realized how excited I was to serve someone muffins. It surprised me how easily words like “Pumpkin” and “Sweetie” fell from my tongue. They had been baked into my lines when I wasn’t paying attention.
V. was vigilant. V. lamented my uncreative terms of endearment. V. reminded me that I am a writer and could do better. V. asked if I used so many clichés in my essays.
V. called me Blambo. I yelped like a cat with its foot in a trap. V. clapped his hands and said it louder. “Blambo!” I asked where it came from. V. said it was an epiphany.
I determined to love Blambo. Watching the international news, I suggested that the U.N. could send Blambo to Mozambo to broker peace. V. tossed me a styptic for my hemorrhagic empathy. At the casino, I asked if a win might buy Blambo a Lambo. V. said that we just needed to get me out of my lousy hatchback that I bought before we met.
I warned V. that someday fancy little Blambo might run off with Rambo. He said that was hilarious. I reminded him that, in Greek, “hilarious” comes from the same root as “blessed.”
Angela Townsend
Fancy Cookie
I did not want to go to the racetrack casino. V. believed I was elitist. V. did not believe I dislike watching horses get whipped while breathing in the fumes of burning income. V. prescribed exposure therapy.
V. could not believe I wrangled a good time anyway. I do not believe unsavory characters exist. I do not believe secondary characters exist. I believe in a world where every living creature is the main marinara. I believe in high-fiving strangers. I believe the woman whose bosoms are escaping her blouse has wisdom that I lack. I believe she had reason to tattoo her collarbones with eyeballs. I would have asked her, if V. would have let me. I will ask her next time.
I believe mahogany behemoths with melted ice-cream streaks down their noses deserve better than running in circles. I believe the horse called “Fancy Cookie” was personally intended by God. I believe she looked in my eyes. I would have brushed her hair, if given the chance.
When I was young enough to be enormous, it was adorable to wear hair ribbons the size of pennants. Several decades hence, it will be adorable again. In the trough between childhoods, I bide my time. I shrink my bows to farfalle, but I do not stop wearing them. I wear them over Peter Pan collars and Willie Nelson T-shirts. I wear them to Communion and the casino.
I do not feel guilty for washing each finger individually after the racetrack. V. said I have a raging case of undiagnosed OCD. I reminded V. that I have not vomited in thirty-eight years. I informed V. that I have my sights on a Guinness World Record.
I invited V. to call me “Fancy Cookie.” I took selfies with Stella d’Oro biscuits in ShopRite. I changed my Amazon name to “Fancy Cookie.” V. tracked my reviews and scolded me for pathological exuberance on the subjects of sweat shorts and granola. V. said Amazon would assume I was some sort of bot. Amazon awarded my 250th review with a gift card. I purchased a bow the size of a helicopter and leggings covered in nebulas. I informed V. that I am intergalactic.
Bolax
The jalapeño boys in middle school treated me like Cindy Crawford despite my resemblance to an electrocuted hobbit. Other girls’ frizz was fair game. I was respected and radioactive. Only the boy wearing the Mean People Suck T-shirt made fun of my type 1 diabetes. The paprika boys and cayenne boys dealt with him. The cinnamon boys and nutmeg boys placed bets on my blood glucose and congratulated me no matter the number.
V. diagnosed a form of scurvy induced by inadequate exposure to discouragement. V. spouted extemporaneous dissertations on the ill effects of gentleness. V. offered citric shrieks of “blee-bloo-BLOOP!” when I entered a bolus on my insulin pump. V. began calling me “Bolax,” because I need boluses and don’t know how to relax.
V. said my type 1 diabetic friends on Instagram are bots and algorithms planted by the insurance company. Yes, even the “Diagodfather,” who personally checks in on each member of the diafamily to ask about our sugars and dreams. Especially the Diagodfather.
I believe the Diagodfather is a real man in Bath, England, who has lived with type 1 diabetes for sixty years. I believe wrinkled angels sent him to remind all the pancreas people that we can be ill and well and angry and jolly. I believe most adolescents are trying to savor all they can salvage from hours and days. I believe we can be middle schoolers and godparents and farina and jambalaya before our first cup of coffee.
V. decreed that, if I would not eat charred mammals, I was unfit to attend events entitled “barbecues.” I went anyway. I had unauthorized conversations with his mother about the beauty of the human soul, until she got scared and asked if I heard that Jennifer Lopez was going to divorce Ben Affleck. I asked V. to stop calling me Bolax. This was unsuccessful.
Little Peanut Ball
I complete my holiday shopping before Halloween. This ensures timely delivery of ceremonial potholders from Bulgaria and small-batch penuche formed in the likeness of my stepfather. V. described my gifts as “high-risk.” I was asking for a nuclear reaction. I was herding innocent recipients into discomfort while guaranteeing my own disappointment. A box of Turtles from CVS would save everyone some pathos.
V. only begins his holiday shopping once Santa Claus is airborne. I wrapped while he shopped. I put on Christmas music from Copenhagen. I convinced myself the Danish women were singing, “glad little peanut ball!” I sang it to V. I signed my Christmas cards, “your little peanut ball.”
V. called me Bolax. V. diagnosed me as overinvested in “little.” V. lamented that I overdo the underdog. We revisited the topic of medium-rare mammals. V. said I would be improved by the addition of twenty pounds. I informed V. that I am the moon. I reminded V. that three hundred bayou people perform knee-slappin’ bluegrass under my ribs every time I laugh. I asked if V. knows that I am God’s favorite ninja. V. asked me not to say things like that in front of his parents.
Blambo
V. was my first everything. I had not realized how excited I was to serve someone muffins. It surprised me how easily words like “Pumpkin” and “Sweetie” fell from my tongue. They had been baked into my lines when I wasn’t paying attention.
V. was vigilant. V. lamented my uncreative terms of endearment. V. reminded me that I am a writer and could do better. V. asked if I used so many clichés in my essays.
V. called me Blambo. I yelped like a cat with its foot in a trap. V. clapped his hands and said it louder. “Blambo!” I asked where it came from. V. said it was an epiphany.
I determined to love Blambo. Watching the international news, I suggested that the U.N. could send Blambo to Mozambo to broker peace. V. tossed me a styptic for my hemorrhagic empathy. At the casino, I asked if a win might buy Blambo a Lambo. V. said that we just needed to get me out of my lousy hatchback that I bought before we met.
I warned V. that someday fancy little Blambo might run off with Rambo. He said that was hilarious. I reminded him that, in Greek, “hilarious” comes from the same root as “blessed.”