Everyone in my family got nicknames, whether you wanted them or not. It seems to have been a southern thing because none of my other classmates had nicknames, at least none that I heard. Although we were born and raised in the Chicago area both of our parents were from the south, like from forever.
Our southern grandmother imprinted us with clever little sayings such as, "It's so good it will make you smack your grandmammy!"
Yeah, that good.
My mother's nickname was Pinky and her brother was Giemo. My dad somehow escaped the nickname phenom. Perhaps because he was orphaned at a young age and raised by an uncle who saw the boys as built-in field hands.
My grandmother's names for my sisters were actually their real names, usually reserved by my mom for times when you were REALLY in trouble, Cynthia and Pamela. My brother was Bob-O-Link. Well, you can guess what his name was.
Me? Well, I was the odd man out because my grandmother called me Grace. Yep, Grace. Can you guess why? She told me she'd never met another person who could tie a throw rug in knots in one pass. She was right. There's not a rug that I pass over that doesn't look like a tornado has hit it when I get to the other side. Certainly I have a problem picking my feet up.
But rugs are not my only problem. Basically I am not a telephone person. I do not make phone calls to chat, my calls are mostly getting down to business calls. It is for this reason that my family is fearful when they see a phone call coming in from me because usually it means a trip to the emergency room. Yes, I'm a small accident waiting to happen.
My minor accidents are the thing of legends. A half inch of wooden and lead pencil imbedded in the bottom of my foot. Don't ask. If you've been around here for awhile you'll remember my encounter with a gasoline explosion. Here's my answer to the ER doctor:
"I plead the Fifth Amendment on whether an accelerant was involved."
I should have registered at the ER desk as Grace.
How about you? Does your family members have nicknames?