"What'd the five fingers say to the face?"

SLAP. Now that’s something that Rick James would say. My nephew, Rick Collins, on the other hand would say something along the lines of ‘Keepsin’ it reals’. I’ve never encountered another human being capable of so many name changes in such a short amount of time.

At the mere age of seven he grew tired of his birth given name, and decided he wanted everyone to call him “Flint” (this was his grandfather’s nickname on the track team). Flint had a ring to it, but not enough of a chime to carry him through middle school. Seeming a bit more established, he let go of the name Flint, and decided to go by ‘Rodney’. Always being a revolutionist of sorts, my nephew was a head of the game in so many ways. No sense walking this planet having people call you by anything other than your absolute favorite name. He was highly aware that his destiny was in his own hands.

Fickle to some, but a genius to me, he went back to his roots and let go of the name Rodney. Well, a form of his roots, and started to go by the name Rick. I’m sure his teachers couldn’t deny the logic in Rick being short for Patrick. Where in the spelling of Richard do you see Rick? If you’re going to shorten your name, and ‘go by’ something else, the reasonable etiquette should be… just cutting your name in half.

It would have been nice to have a ‘Rick Collins’ pave the way for me. I was abnormally envious of those kids, who corrected the teachers during roll call. They all seemed so smug, and why were they “so cool” to “go by” something other than their actual name. In reality it was just a club I wanted to belong to. At the age of seven, my nephew decided to topple this club and make it his own. He was able to fine-tune the rules, as he grew older, and extend its membership to his peers. I like to think he gave the David’s of Enterprise High School complete confidence in saying, “It’s not David; I go by ‘Vid”

The artist, formally known as ‘Rick Collins, is now going by RC Collins. I’m guessing college has broadened his horizons to this name game, making it clear that initials are yours for the taking as well. I’m not sure if the formula is as simple as previous name changes, merely cutting the name into half. It appears you just take the initials of your first and last name, move them once to the left, and re-add your last name for flair. Voilà. And there you have it. Seriously, how much cooler does TQ Quinlan sound? (Maybe the world viewed Albert Einstein’s Aunt a bit wacky as she went around talking about how great E=MC² was, but who's laughing now?)

Today RC Collins turns 21, and has already shown the world, that you can be whomever it is you choose. If you want to be of Russian descent, then so be. If you want your name to be Rodney, then so be. As Cat Steven's would say "you can do what you want, the opportunity's on." I for one am excited to see what other revolutions that RC has in-store. I know it's impossible to duplicate one of the best, but this world could use more cats like him. Keepsin' it reals' 24/7.




(Side note: I would have played a more 'crunked song to dedicate to you on your birthday - but these lyrics have one of your names written all over it.)

Dudas, Do Dat

[I originally posted this in my own blog in 2007, and several commenters noted our similar leaning posture. I hope to eventually steal her walk].

Tall (5'9"), lanky, and naturally thin, my mother eats more than any other woman I've ever known (my dad is the same way, but did they pass those stellar metabolisms down to moi?? Of course not.). She had a baby a year after I did, when she was forty-two and her energy level makes me wonder if she found the secret fountain of youth (if that's the case, I plan on aging badly, thankyouverymuch). My mother is a goddess and today is her birthday.

Although she's extremely intelligent, kicks ass at all things mathematical, has memorized bridge hands for the past 20 years, and has flawless grammar skills, she is still able to embrace her inner fruitloop. When I was an angst-ridden teen, these idiosyncrasies would annoy me because I always wanted her to be serious. And Martha Stewart, dammit. Years later, however, these are traits I find most endearing:

Her odd medical mystery tendancies, like watches breaking from her electromagnetic energy? And the fact that she was hypoglycemic until she gave birth (now she's fine), or that she gets asthma if she stops smoking. Mosquitos never bite her and perfume turns rancid because of..too much vitamin B?

She would, and still does, stare at me in the car, drying my hair, while talking on the phone..."you're so beautiful," she'd say, "I can't believe I gave birth to you." Now that I'm older with my own son, I see this for the true psychological torture method it is.

She would laugh, especially in public with my aunt Susie. Gleeful, uninhibited, loud laughter that mortified me to no end. Now when we're in a quiet pub or at home, I'm proud to be sharing a space with someone so capable of expressing joy.

We'd be having a conversation, or so I would assume, when her end of it would suddenly stop. Thinking that the was the end of the discussion, I'd retreat back to my head...covering a range of several other thoughts when she would respond to the intial conversation. "Yes, I think so, too." Uh...huh? What?

Every time she pulled the car into the driveway, she' d say, "Honey, we're home." Every. Single. Time. In my head, I'd be yelling, "Duhhhhhhhhh, where else would we be?" (because I was obnoxious like that), and it makes me laugh now when I still hear her say it.

One year, I saved my allowance for several weeks to buy her a "hot to trot" keychain because I thought it meant she was beautiful. Happy Birthday, mom, and I still think you're beautiful!

Good Irish Women

"Here's to good Irish women. May we know them, may we raise them, may we be them."

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I took a second look at this quote. For a moment I realized why every woman in the Quinlan family has a decoration of some sort starting that very thing. When I think of good women, I think of Quinlan women... and they so happen to be Irish.

Before I start my mushy gushy rant, my disclaimer is that just because I'm only talking about how wonderful the women are, doesn't mean the men aren't too. I happen to be female, so they get the blog for the day. Plus it is mostly the wonderful Irish women of my family reading this blog!

What does being a "good Irish woman" mean?

It means that when your Godson needs to come home, the United States Marine Corps doesn't stand a chance against you.

It means you move across the country to chase your dreams and take chances.

It means you house nieces and nephews while they get on their feet or before their mother's want to cut off their feet.

It means at 60 you are still plotting cross country trips.

It means you cry when you want to cry and you don't wear a bra if you don't want to.

It means you raise your kids, or your nieces and nephews with pride, humor and love.

It means you get kicked out of hotels in Las Vegas for laughing too loud.

It means you publish books, read poetry, make quilts, craft cards & produce movies.

It means you still have weekend long sleepovers with your sisters.

It means you protect the virtue of the ones who can't on their own.

It means you travel hours across two states to attend a funeral of a man you met once or twice because you wanted to be there for people you loved.

You teach, you empower, you tell it like it is, you cook for your family, you laugh at things that aren't even that funny, you wear purple.

Being a good Irish woman means you take risks, love until it hurts, and always, always, always look after one another.

Each aunt, cousin, sister & mother in my family took a part in raising this Irish woman. I have had the honor of growing up around good, strong, powerful women. I know them, they've raised me and therefore I can only hope to be one like them.

** I originally just wrote this for my own blog, but when I realized no one wrote something representin' the Quinlan's on St. Patrick's Day-- I had to spread the love. So if you read this on my blog, sorry for the repeat, but SOMEBODY has to pick up the slack on here ;)

Skeet's Wedding

Skeet is getting married next month. Actually on the 11th, 1 day before his 30th birthday. It will be small (to say the least). Him, Jenee, her parents, Al and me. An unexpected throw back to Wm. T, Ryan doesn't want any "Dog and Pony Show". Funny thing, marriages, births, deaths, we all have to take life as we are able to handle it. Taking it isn't nearly as hard as handling it...