Why I Should Never Live With Something Cute

I am a giver of nicknames. I can't help it. Without thinking twice I give nicknames to everybody. Maybe it stems from the fact that I've never really had a nickname myself (Oh sure...there were the Goon years and the Sharona years thanks to Dave and Jeremy, my Dad calls me She-Lynn, the girl that called me Olive Oyl in 9th grade because I was so skinny and...um...breastally challenged, and the unfortunate Hurl but none of these really stuck. Except for my Dad's and he's the only one that can call me that. And, if you ever call me Olive Oyl I'll...well...nevermind...it's true. I did look like her.) Anyway, perhaps my lack of nickname has caused me to overcompensate. The kids and Jeremy have at least a dozen each. And, of course, each pet has nicknames. But, poor, poor Maggie. She probably will never know what her name really is because I can't seem to call her Maggie. Smoochie? Yes. Nugget? Yes. Poopie? Yes. Baby Girl? Yep. And about a million others depending on my mood. It's sad really. She never even had a chance.