You Don’t Have To Call Me Darling

       Basking in her entirely appropriate and resplendent pride, my friend proudly showed the impressive Powder Magazine photo and write-up of her tough, rad, supreme and beautiful ski champion daughter.

          “She still calls me ‘Mama’ ”, she said, beaming.

          “I call my mother, ‘Mother’”, said one of the girls in our little gathering.

          “My daughter still calls me ‘Mommy.’” said another.

          ‘Really?’ I thought. “My kids call me ‘MOOOOOOMM!!!’ ” (or ‘Are You Kidding Me?’ or ‘Not Fair!’), I said.

          So I started thinking about how we address people and how sometimes that initial address holds so much significance in setting the stage for the direction in which the conversation will flow. I truly think that the name we use to open a conversation with someone can determine….or at least sway the dialogue. In fact, I’ve heard psychologists say that even when a couple is engaged in serious ‘discussion’ (ahem…a fight), they should call each other ‘pet’ names or speak sweetly...or hold hands. Apparently, it’s a disarming tool, designed to charm or appease an otherwise resistant and irritated person. Ha! You’ve got to be kidding… I can’t say I’ve tried that relationship tool because frankly, if a discussion has escalated to the boiling point, the last thing I want to do is speak sweetly or hold the chump’s hand. And let me just tell you, I can make “darling” sound as discourteous and offensive as any word….

          “Honey….you’re a self-absorbed irresponsible idiot”.

          “Sweetie, I feel attacked. Would you please stop throwing plates at me.”

          Nope. No mollifying there. Who are these nutty shrinks anyway?

          But in other circumstances, the title that designates character or distinction really might make a difference. Like, perhaps if my daughter said, “Mommy dearest, could I bother you to please give me a ride to the theatre?”, I’d be more responsive than if she said “Hey! Can we go now?! Geez! You’re going to make me late to the movies!”

          But then again, Joan Crawford proved that those sort of demands on a child can backfire…and I kind of like the brutal honesty and directness of a 13 year old anyway.

          So, I guess I’m conflicted. I don’t really care what my kid or others call me, but I do think that a respectful dubbing can benefit all participants in a discussion….depending on if that person has a preference with which they are being addressed. Do they like Mr. Smith or John? Honey or Hey You? Does it really matter? I think it’s all about intent anyway, as I can make ‘honey’ sound pretty hurtful and ‘hey you’ seem quite alluring.

          There is however, one name I absolutely despise being called, regardless of the speakers intent or delivery. It’s ‘Ma’am’.

          I often forewarn waiters (like the poor sod last night) when it’s my turn to order, that being addressed as a ‘Ma’am’ will most likely send me into a verbal fury or dreadful sermon on why I don’t appreciate the label. Yes, it’s an appropriate address for some (like Southern ladies who apparently like the title), but for me, (who is anything but Southern), the word connotes an older, very plump and wobbly, slightly hunched woman with really poorly applied lipstick. A ma’am is beyond her prime. A ma’am is mean. A ma’am plays Bridge and wears nylons under her stretch pants! I just feel too young to be a ‘ma’am’….and I don’t play Bridge. Do I look like a ma’am? Besides, the word is just a Southern bastardization of ‘Madame’, which sounds so much classier….yet still old….and evokes images of whore houses, bunny ranches and Vegas when it’s uttered.

          So, the waiter last night didn’t heed my warning, and although he appeared very young and naive, and must have thought I looked ma’amish, he failed to understand the potential consequences that could befall him. In his defense, I think he must have thought I was joking about the whole thing… even when my kids and husband all started nodding in acknowledgement in an attempt to save the greenhorn from complete humiliation and a minimal tip. By this time though, I was on a role and my tired explanations and silly lecturing were holding him up and drawing attention from the table nearby. My family, used to my hang-up, barely squirmed in their seats, but I think I saw his eye twitching and sweat on his upper lip. And when I finally concluded my spiel by telling him that it would behoove him to call me ‘babe’, ‘honey’, or ‘duchess’ before ‘ma’am’, he looked over at my husband, perplexed (okay, probably a little scared), with his eyebrows raised in that ‘Can you help me out here, Sir?” kind of way. Of course, all my husband did was bob his head anxiously and encourage the confused and nervous innocent to go ahead with…anything but ‘Ma’am’.

          “And you?” he said pointing his pen peevishly in my direction. “What can I get for YOU?’

           Oh-Oh.

           He should have called me ‘Mama’…..!

      

         …..But I think he may have spit in my food.