I’d say my spring break is going pretty well. I did some day drinking on Monday, spent most of Tuesday miserably hungover, and got a cavity filled this morning. It’s been pretty well rounded, a few ups and downs, but I would take a massive hangover and novocaine any day of the week compared to dealing with the children in school last week. Anyway, after my appointment this morning with the dental version of Doogie Howser, I decided to treat myself to a cold brew at Starbucks. As I was waiting in line, I suddenly wished that both of my eardrums were numb, instead of one side of my face, because I was treated to a conversation that went something like this behind me:
“Bae, what are you going to get?”
“I don’t know, babe, I think something iced.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking too, babe.”
When I turned around, I have to admit I was a little shocked. I expected to turn and see a high school couple behind me, full of angst and hormones and whatever else these kids are on these days, but instead, I saw two adults somewhere in their twenties studying the menu. I immediately rolled my eyes back to the front of my head and tried to block them out, but I could hear their pet names echoing through the store.
I don’t think those cute little nicknames – sweetie, babe, pumpkin, honey, etcetera – are endearing, adorable, or cute at all. I actually think they’re gross, and they can even be a little demeaning. I can’t stand it when people, whether I know them well or not at all, call me nicknames, from co-workers to a new waitress at my favorite restaurant. And I especially hate when couples use pet names. Some girls don’t like flowers – I don’t like pet names.
Am I less of a loving and affectionate person because I loathe pet names and baby talk? Maybe, or maybe I’m just practical. Your parents give you a name for a reason, and it’s my opinion that it should be used. I don’t think I’ve heard my one set of friends who are married call each other by their real names in almost a year, since the time one of them stepped in their dog’s shit. They have about ten nicknames for each other, each one more obnoxious than the last. It drives me fucking nuts. And I get it, it’s their thing. Maybe it was even something that started just between the two of them, and eventually, it slipped out in public. But these dumb nicknames and baby talk is freaking weird, and anyone who does it, I’m sorry, but it makes you sound like you suffer from some type of regression disorder. I won’t ever forget one of my college roommates’ ex-boyfriends turning and asking her, “Does Webecca want ice cweam, Wobby’s gonna get some ice cweam.” He must have forgotten that they weren’t alone, and quickly caught on that he sounded like a real ass because Wobby weft in a huwwy.
Call me crazy, call me a bitch, just don’t call me baby. I loathe pet names. I think it’s one of the most disgusting things that a couple can do. I would rather you shit with the door open then call me “babe, baby, boo, bae” or any version of the aforementioned. I have an actual name, and I would prefer that you use it. .