Pet Names and Why I Fail at Them

I think I’m doing marriage wrong.

When people are in love, they frequently call each other by cutesy pet names: babe, baby, sweetheart, darling, or my husband’s least favorite: bae.

I kind of want a pet name, but we’re incapable of using them right. Look at this fight we had (seriously – we were actually mad, and this happened):

Andy: *says something stupid that I don’t remember now*

Me: Sweetie, you’re not understanding what I’m saying.

Andy: Don’t call me sweetie.

Me: Why not?

Andy: I know whenever you say “sweetie,” what you really mean is “fuckface.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! And then I started cracking up, shocked, because my husband drops f bombs about as often as our country drops atomic ones. Also, what the junk is “fuckface”? Not, like, “asshole” or “shithead” or some other normal profane insult? I’d never heard that one before.

Also, he was spot on. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but he was right: I only use pet names when I’m mad. He does too. That’s, umm…not how they’re supposed to work. So then we were laughing so hard that we forgot what we were fighting about.

Last night I said that I wanted a nice pet name so that we could, you know, pretend like we’re normal. He looked at me and said, “Well, you’ve got a great body. How about Boobs MaGoo?” Oh my word. Not exactly what I was going for. Can you imagine it? We’re out with a bunch of friends and he calls across the room, “Boobs MaGoo, you ready to go?” Not happening.

I don’t think pet names work for me. I’ve tried a few on like clothes that don’t fit right. “Babe” and “baby” annoy me, like, “I AM NOT A BABY! I AM AN EMPOWERED, INDEPENDENT WOMAN!” But that’s just me being overly-feministy. Excuse me while I go clean up the ashes from my bra bonfire.

I also don’t like getting called food names, because “honey” and “muffin” and “cupcake” straight up make me hungry. Like, “Mmm…cupcakes…” And if I want to have a Boobs MaGoo kind of body, I can’t stock up on cupcakes.

“Darling” makes us sound vaguely British. “Boo” is so very R&B. “Doll” makes me think of the movie Chuckie.

WHY CAN’T I HAVE A PET NAME? Someone please comment with a good pet name I can steal.

This is just great. We’re going to be “Boobs MaGoo and Fuckface: Best Friends Forever.”

How sweet.

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A Poem About What’s Wrong With Society

I think I’m finally in love

It’s just how they described

It’s what I have been dreaming of

For my entire life

 

I can’t take my eyes off his face

He’s beautiful and bright

My life before had a slower pace

So self-contained, finite

 

I can’t keep my hands off of him

And every time he speaks

I cater to his every whim

Even if I have to sneak

 

Some say this seems controlling

They say my love won’t be enough

But he needs me; I’m consoling

To help recharge when days are rough

 

What a love that money can buy!

I know I’ll never be alone

He is the apple of my eye

My wonderful iphone

The Most Romantic Thing Anyone Has Ever Done for Me

It’s weird to think that the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me went largely unnoticed until this past weekend.  I realized it while standing in a hotel suite, wearing a long cotton-candy pink chiffon dress, and putting on some lip gloss.

I was getting ready for a wedding I was in, and I’d gotten to know a few of the bridesmaids pretty well over this whole wedding-planning week (because we were dealing with things such as trying to support the bride when she found out her mother-in-law was going to wear a long white crop-top dress to the wedding. Oy.)

While putting on our makeup, one bridesmaid saw a pill bottle on the counter and said, “What’s this?”  I’d set it there while digging through my make-up bag for mascara earlier, and I’d forgotten to put it back.  I guess she didn’t know whose it was (there were a lot of us going in and out of that bathroom), or she was just being super nosy.  Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt and call it the former.  I hadn’t even noticed the bottle because pill bottles are such a non-noticeable part of my life.  It would be like someone coming up to you, looking at your hand, and saying, “Look! A fingernail!”  You’d be all, “Oh yeah, fingernails.  I forgot about those because they’re always with me.”  That’s me and pill bottles.

“Oh, that’s mine,” I said, grabbing the pill bottle and putting it back in my bag.  She looked at me questioningly, because I guess not everyone sees pill bottles as such a common commodity.  I was afraid she was going to burn her hair off with the curling iron while she stood there waiting for me to answer her questioning look.  I’m bad at lying and also pretty bad at saying, “None of your business,” so I said, “It’s no big deal…I have this tiiiny brain tumor that seems pretty bent on ruining my life, but I’m on it.  It won’t kill me.  I just take a crap ton of pills.”  I threw the pill bottle back in my bag and started putting on blush.  At that moment, my face was a bit red without it.

“Wait, whaaaat?”  The bridesmaid (thankfully) uncurled her curl and stood there with one piece of hair curled and pupils about as wide as her open mouth.  I hate this reaction, which is the one I get every time someone finds out about my health problems.  At least she didn’t say one of my least favorite lines, which is “but you look so healthy!”  Like I should apologize for not looking sick enough to have a tumor or bipolar disorder or any of the other issues I have.  SORRY FOR TRYING TO HAVE A NORMAL LIFE.  MY BAD.

I shrugged it off, because usually when I pretend like something is no big deal then people tend to roll with it.  She picked up another piece of hair to curl.  I dug around for my lip gloss.  Finally she said, “Wait…I know Elle said you had health problems in college…was this it?”

“Yep.”  I was still trying to avoid this conversation.  She didn’t catch it or didn’t care.

“Wait, so…you’ve been with your husband since you were seventeen….he’s been with you for this entire time?”

“Yep, since day 1.  I got the call the day after I moved into college.”

“Wow, that’s so romantic.”  She shook her head and unrolled the hair she was curling.  I stopped halfway through applying lip gloss, my lips in a perfect “O” of surprise even though I hadn’t been surprised until that moment.  I stopped and stood up, lips halfway glossed, and looked at myself in the mirror.  I had never heard my story called “romantic” before.  There’s nothing romantic about MRIs.  There’s nothing romantic about blood test after blood test after blood test.  There’s nothing romantic about countless doctors with countless treatment plans, most of which don’t work.  There’s nothing romantic about panic attacks or delusions where I think people are trying to kill me.  There’s nothing romantic about the extraordinary amount of drugs I’ve had to be on.  Nothing, I tell you.  Nothing.

Except…

Maybe there is something romantic about a guy who is willing to stand next to me through all of that.  It’s romantic that he is willing to take me to appointments so I won’t be alone. It’s romantic that he will bring me water and hold me when I’ve been so terrified that I cried until I threw up.  It’s romantic that he has never once complained about how difficult it is to be with me, even though I know it has a specific and difficult set of challenges.  There is something wildly romantic about that, and I’d never put that word to it until that moment.

It’s far more romantic than the fresh roses currently sitting on my dining room table.  It’s better than the cute notes he leaves in my bags when I travel.  I’d take that over any line from any movie or any surprise date he has ever planned.  It’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me, and I didn’t even know it.

While watching the bride and groom take their vows, I thought back to mine.  I thought about how when Andy said, “in sickness and in health,” he meant it.  I thought of how he’s made good on that promise again and again and again, far and above what should be asked of any man.  Then I cried.

Too bad about all of that makeup I put on.