You Never Even Called Me by My Name

One of my pet peeves (there’s a lot of them, believe me) is when someone I don’t know, usually a waitress or fast-food worker, calls me “Hun”, “dear”, “sweetie”, etc. I can accept it coming from a woman 20-plus years or older than me, but I still wince a little. Let it be someone younger than me, though (and it’s increasingly likely they’ll be significantly younger than me) and it just pisses me off. Why? I don’t know; it just sounds condescending to me.

And please spare me the justifications for this, if you’re so inclined. I’ve heard them all, and it just doesn’t wash.  “That’s just how I was brought up!” Well, I was brought up that those are terms of endearment for family members or maybe close friends, not total strangers. “We’re told that we can get better tips using these names.” Oh, I love when someone blatantly tries to manipulate me in such a generic fashion. I love it so much I’m likely to forget to tip at all. “I call everyone that; I don’t mean anything by it.” So you can’t be bothered to treat people as individuals, and to offset that lack of respect you bring attention to it by hanging some cookie-cutter label on them? “Oh, well, actually, you’re the only person I’ve ever called that.” Okay, now that’s just creepy.

I get it, too; I’m in a very small minority, at least in the near-south where I live. Apparently everyone else I know either doesn’t care enough to let it bother them or they eat it up. It’s hard to impress on your waitress that you don’t want to be called “sugar” by anybody but your wife or the woman you want to bang later (hey, they could be the same person!) when everyone else at the table is telling you to lighten up and stop being an old curmudgeon (thanks, mom.)

And to the young twit at Logan’s Steakhouse that night who continued to call me “sweetie” even after I twice politely asked you to call me either “Rob” or “sir”, it wasn’t my idea to even let you know it was my birthday dinner in the first place (thanks again, mom!) So I was long past the mood where I would have been willing to stand up while you and six of your co-workers stood around singing your version of “Happy Birthday.” And my god-damned steak was overcooked to boot! I asked for medium-rare, not shoe leather!

For a while I kept trying to come up with an answering “name” that would drive home the point that I didn’t appreciate this behavior, but with no success. Parroting back the same word to them, a “sweetie” for a “sweetie”, didn’t faze them in the least. I attempted to up the ante and calling them “lover” or “baby”, but even that didn’t get a rise. “Sugar tits” might have work, and some of the reactions were funny, but the bruising from all the punches the wife gave me when I said it wasn’t worth the effort.

Then it came to me: from now on, I will simply call the offenders by name. Not their name, mind you; just any name that comes to mind. It’s especially effective if they are wearing a name tag, because then I’m sure I won’t accidentally use their actual name.

“Here’s your soda, sweetie.”

“Thanks, Matilda.”

“Oh,” pointing at her name tag, “it’s actually Cindy.”

“Well, Jan, my name isn’t ‘sweetie’ but that doesn’t seem to bother you.”

*blink*

It’s effective, it’s fun, and I don’t get punched in the arm. Fair warning, though: it’s usually best to do this after getting all of your food served, and you might not want to ask for many more refills on your soda.

But I’m not a complete dick; there are parts of me missing. And after they go back and tell their fellow “Hun” slingers what an asshole that guy at table 3 is, they’ll find I’ve left them a pretty good tip.