I mentioned sometime shortly after I moved my blog away from The Devil a few months ago that I was going to come up with a new pen name for my online blogging presence. I promptly forgot about it and did more important things like play Angry Birds.
Then last week the need to come up with a nickname (and aesthetically spruce this place up a good bit) became a time-sensitive necessity. I narrowed my choices down, threw up a poll, and was –><– this close to making Roxy Saucebox official. I was so sure that I was going to go with Roxy that I’d even changed my Twitter handle.
But the next morning, I woke up to a lengthy PLEASE DON’T BE ROXY comment and an even longer PLEASE DON’T BE ROXY email. FROM MY MOTHER.
Now, I’m a grown damned woman. I don’t have to do what she tells me to anymore. Let’s just let that be known right now. I’m a thug, dammit.
I ultimately decided against Roxy because I WANTED TO. BECAUSE I AM 33 MOTHERFREAKIN’ YEARS OLD AND I DO WHATEVER THE HELL I DAMNED WELL PLEASE.
Maybe it had a little something to do with the fact that someone pointed out that while it’s a perfectly legit word with a legit, rated-PG definition, “saucebox” has been Urban Dictionaried, subverted ghetto-style to mean a woman so trashy and loose that she is a receptacle for mens’…uh…sauce. Maybe the someone who told me this was my mother. Why the hell did she know this nonsensical slang, and I, of a much more youthful age, did not?
Did you see the part where I said I was a thug? Let me say it again in case you missed it: I AM A THUG WHO DOES NOT DO SOMETHING JUST BECAUSE HER MOTHER TELLS HER TO. WORD TO THE MOTHERFLIPPIN’ UP.
So, Roxy Saucebox was out. I had the sads because it was so perfect, and it meant I had to spend valuable time mulling shit over again when I could have been doing something productive like watching reruns of America’s Next Top Model. I knew I wanted something with an ‘x’ in it. I love x’s. They’re so sexxxxxy. The name also had to have a good degree of asskickery. It also had to be at least somewhat tangentally related to the word smart, for obvious reasons.
It was my sister Dani who came up with Moxie. I heard it and instantly owned it. I didn’t want it to stand alone, though, so then I set about the task of figuring out what to pair it with. And by “figuring it out,” I mean that I whined to Dani and Frank incessantly for ideas.
Given the fact that I am a gangsta, I thought of OG Moxie. I felt moderately inspired by the directions in which I could take being “Original Gangsta” Moxie. If you’re here, I consider you a part of my posse, and since this is
my blog my crib, well, I’m the OG. I even thought of doing a regular feature called, “Oh, Gee, Moxie!” BI wasn’t sold on it, though. ‘OG’ is as ugly as ‘x’ is sexy (and I could give two shits if you think I am weird for having emotional feelings about letters). I kept OG on the backburner while I continued to brainstorm for alternatives.
I sat at the kitchen table talking to myself, to Dani, and to Frank, and after about 20 minutes I realized that Frank wasn’t hovering nearby anymore. He has this way of being present and then suddenly he’s NOT. The thing is, he has this quiet way about him which makes his presence almost ethereal in nature, so we sometimes don’t realize that he’s gone until you look up and notice that he’s not there anymore. When this happens, it’s usually because he’s slipped out of the conversation quietly so that he can go take a shit.
We call it taking a Frank-a-dump. It’s a running joke in our family. When you suddenly realize that someone seemed to just disappear, we joke that they probably went to go take a Frank-a-dump.
This little segue is relevent to the topic of my name, because when he glided back into the kitchen 30 minutes later (rubbing his stomach in a congratulatory job well done manner), he stopped in the center of the room and said, “JW.”
And I’m all, “Jaydubbleyoo what, dude? What the heck are you talking about?”
“JW Moxie. That’s what your name should be. It stands for ‘Just Write, Moxie.’ You’re always talking about how in your wildest dream, you wish you could just write about the things you love and be able to build a career on it. “JW. Just Write. It’s just right.”
Apparently, my man does his best thinking in the bathroom. My eyes lit up and I knew it was who I was supposed to be, because it is me. I loved it and it was mine. I immediately saw all the artful ways in which I could play off the name and make it a source of inspiration for writing themes.
And it doesn’t hurt that I can easily add some gangsta swag to it.
My name is JW Moxie. But you can call me Moxie or J-Dub.