Everyone has a nickname in our family. Most of us have multiple nicknames. Even When I was pregnant the unborn babies were subjected to my odd sense of humor–and a nickname. Chief wasn’t being helpful with the names when I was pregnant with Big Monkey, so I told him that I’d call the baby “Frank” until he decided to cooperate. It’s a good thing we had boys because those were the only names we could agree on–with girl names we didn’t even come close. I called Big Monkey Frank so much that a couple of people thought that was his name–kind of. It was more of a hesistant, “I think they are calling him Frank…” Little Man’s nickname was “Wally.” I don’t know where I came up with these–they just came to me. They seemed to fit, too.
The dogs have multiple nicknames and songs that go with these nicknames. My recent favorite nickname is “Flavia”–who razzed me on my blog-slacking. She’s right–slacker! I’ve been in the cave of self-despair and gloom. It’s been difficult to climb out of it. I’ll blame it on the weather and my dry, dry, dry skin. Flavia–I didn’t even come up with that one–my friend who misread the cell came up with that one. I was so indecisive about a potential post yesterday that I just blew it off. It was a post about a commode, in case you’re wondering.
I was thinking about nicknames the other day because Big Monkey loves the story (I’m not sure why–maybe because it’s about him when he didn’t know himself?) about how I was really craving a Costco hotdog when I was pregnant with him and it gave me the stomachache of a lifetime. No joke–I felt like I was walking doubled over for the rest of the afternoon and night. We had a work-dinner meeting to go to, too, that night. Awful. Pure humor to Big Monkey. Go figure.
Sadly, it’s not the only time I’ve fallen victim to my digestive indiscretions, but just like the commode story–it’ll have to wait for another day!