Broken Cell Phone

Anything can be turned into a method of torture.

Not a Wizard of Oz torture device either.  There's no hay tossing or dog-stealing or locking a completely helpless and useless character in a fully furnished room for 15 minutes while she goes about panicking and exhibiting her lack of intelligence and ability to be creative in her own dream.  What a protagonist.  The torture devices that I'm talking about are far worse than that.

Take anything in your room.  Let's see...broken phone.  And just turn whatever you've chosen into a person's name.  Adopt an orphan, and voila!  If you can tolerate the constant singing, obnoxiously red hair, and having to redo your laundry because someone keeps jumping in the bin, it's a one hundred percent way of effectively super-gluing a Kick Me! sign to little Annie's backside.

Before you go sending me to the nuthouse, several celebrities have already backed this plan.  It's already more sponsored than Paula Deen.  And are there some good ones: Apple, Blue Ivy, Blanket, and our most recent addition, North West.  I think Broken Cell Phone will just fit right in.  What's in a name? Just a water-damaged battery and a SIM card.

I'll give them credit, my parents did do a better job than Kanye West and Kim Kardashian.  (Don't be fooled by shouts in the hallways at school, my name isn't actually "Hey, Stupid!")  But, because I'm the ungrateful child that I am, I am inclined to point out the mistakes.

When my parents chose my name, they wanted something French that could be abbreviated.  The goal was to complement my French-Canadian heritage but give it a fun twist.  Business up front, party in the back.

Nikolette certainly can be abbreviated.  I've heard just about every way to abbreviate it: Nicky, Niki, Nicki, Nikke, Nycke (the last one was from Starbucks).  The only problem is, it's about as French as the fries.  Nicolette is French.  Nikolette is a Greek name.

It's a good Greek name too.  Back in elementary school during the "what does my name mean?" (and "why do I care?") project, Bobby would come in with his "bright fame" sunglasses and Stephanie would bring her princess tiara representing her name of "crown".  But, I would come in with a vast recreation of the battle of the 300 at Thermopylae. I'd be riding a stick horse and wearing a full suit of plastic armor, all the while skillfully fighting off the bad guys surrounding me.  Except in my version of the battle, the Spartans win.  Why? Because my name means "victory of the people".  Booyah.  Bring on your fame and crowns, I literally cannot lose.  To the victor go the spoils.

My middle name is much less confusing.  I guess you could say it's not all Greek for me.  It's Grace.  It's okay, you can laugh.  You aren't the only one.  My parents like to say that it's not a mistake they named me Grace.  After all, it's the only grace I have.  Yep, bring on the ridicule.

It's probably my their favorite joke against me just because of how often it comes into play.  Last Wednesday, I went to an indoor trampoline center with a few friends.  We quickly signed away our safety in a waiver and casually jumped around for a bit.  After awhile of watching six-year-olds jump circles around us, my friend and I decided that we should try to do a flip.  She eventually got it, but I was still having trouble.  I could flip all the way around, but I just couldn't stick the landing (that's the last time I ever make a snide comment about an Olympic gymnast).  Calling back my AP Physics knowledge, I thought that if I could complete the flip earlier, I could land on my feet.  I think I may have slept through that chapter.  On my next flip attempt, I over-rotated and landed smack on my nose.  I didn't realize there were that many vertebrae in my neck until I heard every one of them pop.  I rolled over, coming to understand the gigantic fool that I had just made of myself.  I did the only thing I could do: laugh with the pre-teens standing by in their Belieber shirts, marveling at my complete lack of coordination.  I don't think I ever got to introduce myself to them.  Although, I think that might have made it worse.  Nikolette Grace LaBonte.

So, here I sit.  My mother, the physical therapist, has finished poking and prodding my neck asking possibly the dumbest question known to man: "Does it hurt when I do this?"  Nope, your finger sticking halfway into my neck feels like heaven on earth, thanks for asking.  She's actually just run off to retrieve an electronic stimulation machine.  It shoots a "small" shock into your muscle.  She told me how it works, but I was busy worrying about the "small" electric shock.  I'll try to paraphrase: After the electricity has effectively microwaved the muscle and it has lost all sense of feeling, something will magically heal itself and then it's just peachy keen.  It sounds less and less like a deep tissue massage and much closer to Chinese water boarding for a strained neck.  Oh, no.  I think she's found it.  She's preparing the torture chamber.  I'm beginning to wish that she had just named me Broken Cell Phone.