Okay, I was fat, ugly, smart, wore glasses and had braces. There are far too many names to repeat them all here, so we’ll stick to the unusual:
Dragonbreath - evolved from having the last name Drago (no, not from having onion breath or anything, although that might explain my gum chewing fetish now)
Puff - evolved from the short, curly afro I had in 9th grade, a somewhat unusual phenomenon in your general population of Scottish/Italian white girls.
Gordita - this one was given to me by an ESL student in high school, who tried to make me think it was a term of endearment by saying it sweetly. I think the snickering behind my back was what gave it away.
::slinks off bitterly, having remembered childhood injustices::
Peeps or Peeplet - These started at work when one of my co-workers decided that my blonde hair resembled a yellow marshmellow peep. I hated it at first(my hair isn’t yellow), but I’ve grown to like it.
Blondie - 'Cause I have blonde hair.
Webby - My real name is Debbie (short for Deborah, yes spelled with an “O” and an “H”), and my friend just thought it would be cute to call me Webby a la Ducktales.
My name is Theresa. My great aunt Ruth, (everybody called her Baby Ruth. They always had so it wasn’t a candy bar thing) was a big fan of nicknames and took to calling me Tesa. That was bad enough, but for some reason she decided she like Tizzie better.
Grrr…
I hated it.
At least it wasn’t Terry. I will still take someone’s head if they try to shorten my name to Terry.
Margaret
Hear me out.
Now, no offense to the wonderful people with the name Margaret.
My paternal grandmother was named Margaret and was not a wonderful person.
She would cry at the drop of a hat, or when watching her “stories” (soap operas), - gawdforbid if anyone dropped a hat during a soap opera; we’d all drown.
And not one of those pretty cries, the really scrunchy-faced ugly cries.
I used to cry a lot.
Mom would call me “Margaret”, and in that mocking tone of voice.
Ya know, you think she’d know better, since she and gramma didn’t get along - nothing like traumatizing your own child.
Mom finally quit it years later. Okay, a few years ago.
Ooooooooooooooh, I know what you mean. My name is made of two separate names cojoined by a ‘spelling error’ (my term - thanks mom, now I can never get anything personalized :mad: ). I hate when people shorten it to just the first of the two names. Now I just go by my initials, which really torques mom off - “I didn’t name you that!” (my revenge for the above hehehe!).
I will skip the unimaginative epithets of my schoolmates and go to one that still bothers me.
As per Medea’s Child:
Do not call me Kimmie. Ever. I don’t care if you use the diminutive for every one of your friends, don’t do it to me. I promise you I will ensure a long, painful, humiliating death for you. Either that, or those pictures you were so worried about will suddenly appear as full-length posters in various public restrooms around town.
Kimmie’s are usually bright blonde, under 21, under five feet tall, relentlessly cheery, and have big tits if past puberty. Less usual, but still appallingly frequent, is the IQ of a rutabaga.
I am none of the above.
Kims, on the other hand, rule. Just ask us.
The only person that calls me Kimberly is my Mom. Usually in conjunction with my middle name, and you know what THAT means.
My dad’s name: Motormouth or Mightymouth - both my sister and I talked a lot.
Dad’s family name for me: Shelly
My sister and friend’s name for me after I got my 6th grade picture taken with my new pink-framed glasses: Simon (as in Simon from Alvin and the Chipmunks)
My sister’s name for me: Smelly or Smell (i.e. Smelly Shelly). She still calls me that. Makes my husband laugh. She’ll walk in the house and say “Hey, Smell, what’s up”. I don’t even think about it anymore.
The name that absolutely broke my heart when I was a young teen-ager was “Pizza Face”; my uncle called me that (not often, but often enough). Actually, I had pretty good skin as a kid but I guess he had to pick something to be cruel with. Man, that hurt. I mean, teenage girls are anxious enough as it is about their skin/looks, the last thing they need is some moron bringing attention to small flaws.
I was “crip” in high school due to the fact that I had 3 broken ankles and 1 dislocated ankle in my last 2 years. This name was pasted on me by a guy with the world’s worst given name, so I can’t figure out how it caught on. CB, if you’re out there, please kiss my pimpled ass.
My name is Robin. My family calls me Rob. That one’s OK. In school I was called Rockin’ Robin (tweet tweet tweet). Also Robin Red Breast. Also got the infamous, “Hey Robin! Where’s Batman?” a lot. Even though I’m not Jewish, I got called Robinski and Robinowitz. The last got shortened to Binno by a good friend. None of these bothered me too much, though.
My last name is George. Thus, I got “George Washington,” “George of the Jungle,” “Georgey Porgey” and all the other variations on the name George you can think of. It’s only annoying because I’m a GIRL.
I also got a couple guys who STILL make a point of doing the Bugs Bunny thing about “I will love him and hug him and squeeze him and call him George” at me, only of course they say Her instead of Him. That’s not annoying in and of itself, it’s just annoying that the guys in question say it.
My dad still calls me Shorty, even though I’m almost as tall as him and I tower a half a foot over my mom. I don’t mind that, though.
Hi! My first name used to be Margaret, too. I hated it. My mother called me “Shaggy Maggie.” Ewwwww!
I have a cousin (living) and a grandmother (not) named Margaret. My cousin is real nice: a little on the strange side sometimes, but nice. My grandmother (dad’s mom) was a gem. I remember sitting on the side of her bed when I was 6, reading her the comics. She was bedridden, for reasons I don’t know. I never saw her again after my mother and dad split. When my dad and I caught up again, I found out she had died in 1982. I cried.
My other nickname was Medfly. We were doing Senior Slave Day to raise money for homecoming. I was dressed as an alien. My friends said I looked like a Mediterranean Fruit Fly. It stuck.
Monkey for me because I had an underbite (I would walk down the hall and there would be cries of “Hey, Monkey!”. And for a few days near the end of seventh grade I was called Fish for the same reason, just because I couldn’t play volleyball in P.E. and my team hated me for that. I ran home crying that day because they were taunting me so bad. I was very sensitive about my underbite because, unlike my personality, I couldn’t change that about myself. In Eighth grade, at my new school in a new town in a new state, I was called “Captain Hook” for the same reason and the boys would say, “Arrgh,” everytime I walked by. Luckily I got braces in ninth grade and it’s all fixed now.
mine too! Not even my family can spell it right. (Julianne) And there’s some people who insist on calling my Juli (no E) just because there’s no E in the middle of my name. So?? It’s still Julie. And “anne” is not my middle name! It’s part of my first name.
The nickname I hate? P.P. Puff Puff, given to me in elementary school by my 2 best friends . At recess we all used to play this game where we would try to push each other off of this balance beam type thing which was on the ground. Since I was bad at it and they were good, they were the dragon and the tiger. And I was puff puff, which later got lengthened to p.p. puff puff, the extra p’s stand for puff puff too I think.
Well, it was more annoying than anything, but I had a friend who was fond of calling me Slob-Rob. His reasoning for coming up with the name was…it rhymed. Anyway, he called me it a lot, for a long time, and it really got on my nerves.
Also, at the time I was a “Robbie.” In fact, I was a Robbie until entering high school. Then, I kinda made the change to Rob or Robert. Now, I’ve completely changed to Rob. Anyway, somehow, someway, “Robbie” has stuck with me with certain people. Some people still call me Robbie all the time. I don’t hate it, it’s just so weird and a little surreal. I don’t have the heart to tell them that I’d rather be called Rob, since those that call me Robbie have known me for years. Not as long as most of those that call me Rob (and know that I’m not a fan of Robbie) but they’re friends.
Sorry to go on like that. I don’t hate those names, but…I’m not a fan of them.
B Jones. First initial, last name. I don’t particularly mind. It actually started as an insult from this guy who doesn’t like me, but it caught on. Lately, a couple guys have taken to pronouncing it in Spanish: Beh-Hon-es
hehehe!).