Nicknames are so last century.

Nicknames are so last century.

Growing up I had a slue of nicknames. Some not so age-appropriate (Mrs. Captain Morgan before I was of drinking age). Some just plain bizarre.

Moose Chicken. It was my email address from the day I created a Hotmail account to the day I started applying for "real life" jobs out of high school. The moose spurred from a session in a mall photo booth where I couldn't resist but to give myself antlers. In every picture. Unflattering.

Chicken. Oh chicken, chicken, chicken. OG nickname came from my inability to conjure the normalcy nerve to ask for something as simple as a ketchup packet at a restaurant. I was a baby. A big fat, everyone else should do it for me baby. Who knows if when I asked that lovely McDonald's cashier for an extra packet of ketchup, that it would be the day he decided to flip a switch and toss hot french fry oil all over my sweet seven year old head?! I was a cautiously, imaginative seven year old. Very imaginative. Okay, paranoid. I was paranoid alright!!

The evolution of the Chicken in Moose Chicken came when I had the metabolism of a race horse. I swear my right leg was just a hollow dump site for any type of food I consumed. Upon entrance of the empty limb, said food would disappear. Poof! Straight into another dimension that I'm sure is equivalent to that where unicorn farts and fairy burps are the epitome of passe. Not to mention super classy and highly lady-like.

I had chicken legs. Itty-bitty, brush 'em with a feather and they'll break chicken legs. They were replaced with honking elephant legs when I was pregnant with Nugget and not until thumbing through last weeks photos did I realize that...

 

...hells to the yes! The chicken legs have returned. (We still need some work on the bat wings.)

Let's be honest here, Moose Chicken has a far better ring to it than Moose Heffer.