Who Am I?

You've probably already guessed that I'm not really Bridget Monroe.

My dad used to say that he wanted to name me "Bridget Blodgett," which he thought would have made a mighty fine stage name, but my mother wouldn't let him. That probably wasn't true, but I heard the story enough times that it stuck with me and thusly* I've always found it a convenient name to hide behind when I want to be somewhat anonymous.

For years it was a joke, a name with the assonance of a made-up label, the sort of moniker I imagined a bimbo might bestow upon herself. However, recently I googled the name and found the top listing in the search engine to be a respectable-looking PhD candidate who conducts important research. How affirming to learn that even my "porn star name" is wrought with intelligence.

The "Monroe" part is a family name. I'd have to look it up to be certain, but I think it was my great great grandmother who was named Elizabeth Monroe. As a little girl aspiring to be an actress, I always thought that was the most beautiful name in my entire family tree. Of course, when you think actress and Monroe, the legendary Marilyn Monroe obviously comes to mind. Well Dad said we were related to her, too. I know what you're thinking:

Everyone knows that Marilyn Monroe was not born Marilyn Monroe. You're right. Norma Jeane Mortenson was born to a single woman named Gladys Baker. That didn't create a problem for my Dad's theory, but rather added what he considered to be pretty strong support to it. You see, my grandmother was a "Baker" and therefore it makes sense that this little girl, born to a Baker, when faced with the task of selecting a stage name would look into her family history and find a name that she thought was pretty. Monroe. It rolls off the tongue like fine silk.

Biographers confirm that the last name Norma Jeane selected was her grandmother's name. I guess there is a chance that Dad is right and we are related. It doesn't really matter, but occasionally throughout life, I've heard random comments (from people who know nothing of my alleged Marilyn connection) about things I've said or done that are in some way similar to the former Norma Jeane. Now that I'm getting older than she ever lived to be, such comparisons are rare, but I can think of one even within the past month. Hmmm, interesting... or not... you tell me.

So, we've established that Bridget Monroe is faux.

Who, then, am I? How about one more of my daddy's stories?

Here goes: My REAL first name (which I'm not going to tell you in order to protect the innocent... and the guilty) was selected, according to dear ol' Dad, for it's meaning. Ah, isn't that sweet? What is it? Precious child? Gift of God? Lovely? Sweetness? Joy of my life? Well, not exactly. In his own words, my first name, which he and Mom selected to bestow upon an innocent infant, means "a snare."

Huh?

Yes, you heard me right. It means, and I quote, "One who snares men with her beauty." Get out of town! What parent, in his right mind, would put such a curse upon his own darling daughter? "Glad to meet you, Sir. Allow me to introduce little she-who-will-cause-you-to-stumble-into-burning-meaningless-lust-as-she-hikes-her-skirt-up-dangerously-high. Isn't she cute?" What a mantel to be informed of right in the midst of the uncertainties of adolescence--that's when he told me... No, actually I don't think he told me. I think he told a man who had just commented on how I was growing up and did Dad have a gun to keep all the boys away? That's right. That's how it went down. I'm standing there in front of one of my father's colleagues whom I didn't really know, witnessing this conversation about me... followed by a deep ha-ha-ha. What on God's green earth is a girl to think? Now do you see why I decided to hide behind a pseudonym as I embark on my rambling cyber memoirs?

Through this blog, I intend to give myself a cheap form of therapy. Each time I write, I will recline myself on the couch and imagine you, the reader, sitting in a high-backed wing chair, hiding behind a yellow legal note pad, scribbling away furiously. Since many of my issues are rooted in the curse of the seductress' name, I will probably dwell on the men who have been in my life and all of the dysfunctional relationships I have had with them (or imagined having with them, or been painfully aware that I did not have with them...) I think you get the picture: This blog will be somewhat juicy, self-indulgent, and of questionable authenticity... that is when it's not whiny, depressing and morose. It will follow the journey of a small town late-blooming, flat-chested, insecure little girl from the Midwest all the way to Hollywood and where ever she goes from there....


* Sorry, I like saying "thusly"--it's one of my tics. The word "thusly" was introduced in the 19th century, most likey by humorists, who were "echoing the speech of poorly educated people straining to sound stylish." (thefreedictionary.com) Thusly, I think it's actually a very fitting word for me to use.