The BetsyG-Spot

By BetsyG

I had a piece in mind about pet names. As it started to form in my head, I noticed an alarming subtext. In thinking about it one day while melting butter for seven-layer bars, I decided I would try to write it the way it feels by putting the subtext in brackets. So let’s try this little experiment, which may result in a piece that falls short of perfection, but what the heck.

I’m seeing a new guy [for now at least] who I like an awful lot [for now at least] for all kinds of reasons, one of which is how good he is to me [for now at least].

I also like that he’s given me a pet name. Pet names have become a recurring problem for me over the past seven years, since Gary and I broke up. Gary and I called each other Sweetie. We slipped into the habit very naturally, probably because we both were just six months out of our marriages and still accustomed to having a spouse to call Sweetie. That’s what my ex and I called each other [so habitually that he accidentally called me that as he was leaving]. Gary and I had a natural rapport, and [other than the fact that he realized that he didn't actually love me] our relationship seemed to be heading in the general direction of marriage; the Sweetie business seemed right and easy.

But since Gary, I haven’t called anyone anything other than “hey you.” The two relationships that came after Gary didn’t seem to require it. Dale and I didn’t see each other very long, and I’m actually more apt to call him something with a little sugar in it now that we’re close friends. I felt more inclined to call Jonathan, who I didn’t respect, or probably even like very much, something that a bully on the playground would. That could be why I broke up with him.

When I was seeing Mike and it was clear we were developing serious feelings for each other [for the moment], I felt the urge to call him something [other than "that dick," which is how I refer to him now].

But during an appropriate time for a term of endearment (hmmm…), the word Sweetie stuck in my throat. The thing is, I’d already had a Sweetie—two even. To recycle the term for a third time seemed artificial and a little cruel, like wrapping up an older sibling’s hand-me-down and giving it as a birthday present.

Cookie was a possibility, but that was already in use with my children. There was even a bit of rivalry at home for that one: when I called my second son Cookie in front of my first, big M—then 3 years old— gaped at me with a look of horror. “He’s not Cookie…I’m Cookie!” The name was a hand-me-down he wasn’t ready to give up.

Honey is almost comically husband-wifey, Sugar just a little too southern belle for me, and nothing else came to mind. But it didn’t really matter; Mike and I broke up [of course we did] before pet names ever became a necessity.

Now I’m seeing Mr. S, and he gave me a pet name before we even met in person, one that’s stuck. It’s not something anyone’s ever called me—though coincidentally my parents did use the approximate Yiddish equivalent when I was a little girl—and it’s not recycled on his end either. I love the name and especially that it’s mine alone. A satisfied smile plants itself on my face whenever I think of it.

[But what about after he breaks up with me? Every time I hear that word, it'll be a painful reminder of him, just as Earl Grey tea reminds me of Gary. Do I even want this pet name I'm bound to lose?]

As my feelings for Mr. S grow, I feel the urge to call him something endearing, and I’m again stumped. Sweetie does seem to come naturally to my lips when I want to try to package my feelings of affection into one word—and Mr. S is actually the sweetest (in case you were wondering what the S stood for)—but I’m disinclined to reuse it.

So he’ll have to live with “hey you,” for now, at least until the right word comes along, one just for him.

[If we don't break up first.]