It was about the 500th sheet of paper I had to fill out.

The process of applying for student loans is rather painful, and I was ready to send the papers far, far away. I quickly dialed the number to the financial aid office in Boston, hoping that someone would be there to provide the last piece of information I needed. Luckily, someone was. He kindly gave me the much-needed information and then, because the school is very small or perhaps because he was lonely, he started asking me for personal information. I answered all the typical questions about where I was from, what graduate program I was starting and if I was enjoying the winter weather.

Then he asked me if I went by anything other than Kathleen.

I paused for a second. This was my chance. No one in Boston would know my name. If I wanted to, I could easily become a Kate or Katie or even a Kat. I could even try one of the many nicknames for my middle name, Elizabeth. With the answer to a simple question I would be able to recreate myself. It was as if changing my name would ensure me a fresh start. This idea was rather intriguing to me.

The thing is, no one who really knows me ever calls me Kathleen. For most of my life, my parents and siblings have called me Leen. This was changed for a while about 10 years ago, when my baby sister, Hallie, started calling me Eenie. My oldest brother, Jimmy, the king of nicknames, quickly changed this to Eenay. I found this to be a much more acceptable nickname than the ones he had given to my brother Rick (Dickster) and sister Rebecca (Butt Cheeks), so I never complained. My grandma, who we call Dear Dear, gave me the nickname Kitten when I was a baby because I was so small and cuddly. Thinking that perhaps it was inappropriate to refer to an 18-year-old as her Kitten, she shortened it to Kit after I graduated from high school.

My friends over the years have added to the nicknames provided by my family. Some combine Eenie and Leen and refer to me as Leenie. When I lived in New York City one summer, my friends called me Lena and would greet me on the streets with a loud, “Lena Baby!” My ex-boyfriend and his guy friends referred to me as Kathlyn, although I have since banned this nickname for obvious reasons.

Of course, there have been the embarrassing nicknames. As a young toddler, my loving father referred to me as his Toot Toot after a song titled Don’t Mess With My Toot Toot. I even had a T-shirt. Even though I’m 25 now, he does still call me by this nickname from time to time. Which really is kind of sweet.

One summer, in the midst of my softball career, friends of mine called me Bean. I think we were 10 and completely immature, so for some reason the nickname was really funny. I can still remember stepping up to the plate and having teammates yell this short-lived nickname. My sweet little sister later changed it to Strike-Out Bean. Luckily, this nickname didn’t stick.

Even my kids at school have changed Miss Ingraham into new names. One of my sixth graders, who I constantly wonder if he actually knows how to stop talking, calls me Miss England. He cleverly follows up my name with: “How’s the weather in England?” This received a few laughs back in August, but by October his fellow classmates began rolling their eyes and letting out loud sighs the second he started the joke.

My kindergartners, with their big eyes and limited vocabulary, often call me Miss Ingaroo and, though I explained to them that my name does not rhyme with kangaroo, once a five year old has made up their mind, it’s difficult to change. Besides it’s rather adorable to have a group of little kids excitedly yell “Miss Ingaroo, Miss Ingraoo!” the moment you walk into their classroom.

In the end, I told the nice man in the financial aid office that I went by Kathleen. It seemed wrong to make up a nickname on my own. Really, the best part of a nickname is the person who created it. While I would never choose to become an Eenie or a Toot Toot or even a Miss Ingaroo, the sound of these names always remind me of just how much I’m loved.

— — —

Kathleen Ingraham is currently living in Lawrence, Kan., where she educates children by day and works on completing her M.F.A. in Creative Writing by night.  When she finds a spare moment, she enjoys spoiling her puppy, Winnie Cooper.

Kathleen is a guest writer for This Ordinary Day’s Sunday Specials. If you would like to participate in Sunday Specials, please click here.

I had not planned on spending the entire weekend in my apartment. Sixty hours of solitude, from when I returned home Friday night after drinks with friends until leaving for work Monday morning. I did not so much as run to the bodega next door for milk, go downstairs to get the mail or even think about unchaining the lock. Besides a Saturday afternoon call with my friend Adrienne, I didn’t talk to anyone. (I did use my voice though, pretending that I was harmonizing with the Dixie Chicks or singing backup to songs on Pandora.

My self-imposed solo time was not for a lack of things to do or friends to do them with (which I’m sure someone has to be thinking). I had my last running class on Thursday but missed stretching because of a meeting at work. Stretching definitely makes a difference, and my body revolted accordingly. My legs were so tight during our class that I had to drastically slow my pace. And even Friday, it still hurt to walk. So on Saturday, I canceled a trip with friends to Brooklyn for cupcakes (we were even planning on taking a ferry!) because even thinking about the steep stairs leaving my apartment and at each subway station made my muscles hurt.

I could’ve gone out for a friend of a friend’s birthday on Saturday night, but at that point in the evening, I had not showered, had not even brushed my teeth yet (I know! Gross!). And I’d spend more time commuting than at the actual bar. (I never said I’d go out in the first place, so it wasn’t like I flaked out).

Between not taking the 11 a.m. ferry to Brooklyn for cupcakes (and a possible sidetrip to Ikea for a floorlamp) and not going out, I had a blissful day. First, I cleaned the bathroom. I can not begin to tell you how much satisfaction I got out of sparkling countertops (my Aunt Patty would be so proud) and vacuumed floors (courtesy of the DustBuster). I cleaned the kitchen after the bathroom was as good as it’d get. Then I read Something Borrowed, a book my friend Azita recommended after we realized we had a mutual love of a sappy blog and the Twilight series (especially Edward). I devoured the book over the weekend, and it was refreshing to not have to stop to leave the apartment, or to shove it in my purse when it was time to exit the subway. I had no distractions except my growling stomach and the hissing radiators, which at one point caused me to investigate my cousin’s empty room because I thought someone was banging on her window with a wrench.

In a complete geek-fest, I signed up for delicious, which is a social bookmarking site where you can save your bookmarks and see what other people bookmarked. I was able to combine all the random links I’d saved in my e-mail, web browser and Google Bookmarks into one account that I can access anywhere. I gave much thought to the kind of categories I wanted and wrote little notes in the form to remind myself of what thoughts I had about each page.

I didn’t set my alarm on Sunday either, forgoing church to lay in bed reading and then take a nap a few hours after waking. (I know, I’d had an exhausting 36 hours!) I read The Artists Way and took my time writing the prompts (which is how this post came into existence). I did yoga. I caught up on blogs. I added books to my library reserve. I started packing for Christmas vacation. I laid out my clothes for Monday. I watched episode after episode of The West Wing (season seven), forgetting occasionally that these fictional characters were in fact not my best friends. I daydreamed about what it would be like to work in the White House (for President Bartlett, of course). I got all nostalgic because the show ended in 2006, and every fiber of my being wants to be able to watch new episodes.

By many other people’s terms, I had the most boring (pathetic, uneventful… insert your adjective of choice) weekend ever. But there was something about taking my time, not rushing to be anywhere or dealing with train delays or crowds that was incredibly rejuvenating. There are times when I look at my planner and feel a sense of fulfillment from plans with friends and classes I’m taking and places I need to be. Other times a full calendar stresses me out because I don’t have any time to relax. And then there are times like this weekend, when I give myself the gift of solitude and could go another 60 hours without leaving home. I’m not suggesting that everyone frequently take a vow of silence, but I encourage to take time out of your schedule for yourself. The weekend might not be productive in the sense you’re used to, but you could be surprised at everything you fit in.

I drive a Buick Century.

If you don’t know what a Buick Century looks like, take a trip to your grandparents’ garage.

I’ve driven a Buick for a year now, and I still don’t have gray hair — although if you squint, I might have a few coming in.

I drive a Buick, and I don’t play bingo.

I drive a Buick, and I rarely go to bed before 8 p.m.

I drive a Buick, and sometimes I go 75 miles per hour, maybe 80 if I’m feeling rebellious. The Buick is the perfect cover. If a cop’s radar gun registers anything past 25 for a Buick, the cop assumes the device is broken.

My Buick has sweet burgundy interior, and the radio has big buttons so they’re easy to see and press. Plus, it has the controls on the steering wheel, so there’s no risk of throwing your back out leaning to change the radio station or turn the damn thing down.

The Buick is not the dream car for any 20-something. It’s built for 70-somethings. And I make many of these jokes at my own and my car’s expense before my friends can. But, really, I’m pretty happy driving my Buick.

Before my Buick, I drove a Toyota T100 truck, a pretty manly ride. I loved my truck. It had more than 500,000 miles on it, but it was reliable. Many college road trips were taken in that truck. Unlike my female friends’ rides, my truck didn’t have a name.* Regardless, it was a part of me.

*Have you ever met a guy who names his vehicles? Or, better yet, have you ever met a girl who doesn’t?

So why did I ditch my truck for the official ride of the AARP?

Well, two days before I started a new job with the Denver Post last November, I went outside planning to head to the gym. But I couldn’t find my truck.

I quickly discovered that it had been stolen, and I felt violated.

Not only did someone steal my truck, but they also got away with my childhood baseball glove and all of my CDs and my tennis racket and dog biscuits I kept for my sister’s dog Muggins. Someone was out there driving in MY truck, listening to MY tunes, playing catch with MY glove and feeding someone else’s dog MUGGIN’S biscuits.

And then there was one other big problem: I had no ride to take to work.

For the first month of my job, I rode my bike every afternoon to the light rail two miles from my apartment and then took the lightrail to work. Then I rode the lightrail back to the stop two miles from my apartment, arriving sometime past midnight and riding my bike two miles through the snow and the cold back home. In Denver the snow never melts, so yes, I was riding both ways through the snow. My calves have never been so strong.

It was only up hill one way, but still. I’ll have a story to tell the grandkids and I’m not even going to have to exaggerate.

Because I was in desperate need of a new ride, my grandpa found me a salvaged Buick that was a pretty good deal.

When my mom called to tell me about it, I said, “A Buick? Like a car that old people drive?”

But she tried to convince me otherwise. “It’s got a spoiler,” she said.

But I didn’t care if it was orange and had flames on the side. It had a motor, four wheels and a roof, and that was enough for me.

I’ve learned to love my Buick. The controls on the steering wheel are pretty convenient and fun to play with. The seats are pretty comfortable because they’re made for old people. And I also have always loved old people, and now I have an excuse to wave at them on the road. Because all Buick owners wave to each other — of course, that is, if we can see each other.

More than anything, my Buick reminds me to be thankful for what I have.

And this year I’m thankful that I have a ride that’s going to get me home to see my family and friends during the holidays, and a comfortable one at that.

— — —

I like to preface this with I think New Year’s resolutions are silly. If you want to make a change in your life or better yourself, then do it. Why do we have to wait until New Year’s? Why can’t we make a March 15 resolution or a June 12 resolution?

A common New Year’s resolution is to exercise more. Well, I think that would be a better June 12 resolution, because it’s easier to get motivated to exercise in the summer. It’s warm outside, so the exercising activities are more plentiful, and I find that I have more energy in the summer.

Also, I doubt most people live up to their New Year’s resolution. Oh, they do it for a couple weeks, maybe even a couple months, but eventually when maybe their friends or family are no longer going to hold them accountable, they stop holding themselves accountable.

My friend Megan recently made a resolution sometime in November to stop drinking diet coke. No reason in particular, other than she’s addicted, but she successfully quit. I like this. We should be making resolutions all the time to better ourselves — not just wait until the New Year.

So that’s my pessimistic view of New Year’s resolutions. I’ve never made one before, but since I’ve been asked to provide some resolutions, here’s my list:

1. Don’t procrastinate. This is going to be a difficult one, because I’m a writer and that’s just what us writers do. Plus, I think sometimes I work a little better under pressure. However, I think my life might be a little less stressful if I quit procrastinating, and it would probably make TOD’s Sammi pretty happy. This might be the most difficult New Year’s resolution to live up to that I can think of, but I guess the point of New Year’s resolutions are to challenge yourself. This is going to be a challenge.

2. Read more books. I have a problem. I’m a compulsive book buyer. I sometimes wander onto Amazon.com for no reason at all and I end up buying a book. I love to read, but I struggle to find the time. Most my reading time is devoted to reading newspapers. I currently have somewhere around five books I’ve purchased in the last six months that I haven’t even read page one yet. The only time I get a lot of book reading accomplished is on airplanes, and I cannot afford to rack up my frequent reading miles, so I’m going to have to find another way.

3. My last resolution should be a resolution every day I wake up in the morning. I want to be a better son, brother, friend, cousin, nephew, uncle and editor. I think about sums up all my relationships. I like to think I’m pretty good at all these things, but I can always be better. The other day I snapped at my mom. I was trying to be funny and sarcastic, but I think I came off as mean. So my resolution for tomorrow is to do something nice for my mom. And I’ll have a new resolution the next day on how I can be better as a brother or uncle or friend. This way, I’m always making resolutions – whether it’s Jan. 1, June 19 or Oct. 10.

Dear Natalie,

On behalf of all the days of 2008, below is a list of some of the things this year brought you. Just in case you were starting to feel entitled, we would like to remind you that these things are GIFTS, and that you should really be pretty grateful. We remember when you went around saying, “Doing great in ‘08!” and hope that slogan was realized. We’d like to remind you that you’ve been hollering, ” ‘09 is fiiiiiiine!” for a couple months now, and hope you are productive and kind and all that in the new year. And seriously, start exercising again.

To: Natalie

From: 2008

Better parallel parking skills

Reduction in fear of driving (especially when merging)

Fondness of spicy food (with graduation to Medium Salsa)

Decline in sharpness (with must-return-to-school guarantee)

Fascination with Mexican culture

Fondness of sushi (with habit in saying in yuppie voice, “Omg, I NEED sushi, I haven’t had it in FOREVER.”)

Vast improvement in grooming/dressing, including: Chi straightener, interest in jewelry, daily showering habit (in contrast to college), ability to wear heels for duration of workday, dark denim, Vegas dresses, itsy-bitsy polka dot bikini, high-waisted pencil skirt and increased materialism/susceptibility to shallowness/weakness for shopping

Increase in open-mindedness, tolerance, compassion

Two terms of tutoring gig, with ensuing increase of interest in teaching

Six visits from out-of-town friends/family members

Visits to San Francisco, Napa Valley, Boston, New York and three trips to Las Vegas

Ability to run 4 miles (completion of New Year’s resolution). Current status: Lost

Two-month (and counting) case of bronchitis

Leftward leaning on political spectrum

New brakes, rack and pinion and tires

Agonizing, prolonged, tear-inducing victory over insurance company

Ever-growing desire to learn Spanish

Six wedding invitations; attendance at four

Singlehood — for first time in nearly five years

First pro football game

Addiction to volunteering

Well, Natalie, there you have it. Don’t blow it next year.

Sincerely,

2008