Curses!

Prepare yourself for the worst: I have...a black spot.

Its origins are less than mysterious: I was shelving a can of Chef Boyardee extra large meat ravioli* when I pinched the skin of my finger between said can and the shelf on which I was trying to put it. I think most people would agree that this is simply a minor blood blister sort of situation, and that any attempt of mine to put my affairs in order and start looking at coffin models is a bit of an overreaction.

*I just don't understand the concept of extra-large meat ravioli in a can. The can is the same size. You are eating the exact same amount of food. "But I'm extra hungry!" you might say. Well, my suggestion to you would be to eat a meal that you cannot buy for a dollar-fifty and does not fit in the palm of your hand.

However, I am nothing if not a pop culture junkie, and pop culture has taught me that black spots--any black spots--have dreadful consequences, particularly if one is on board a pirate vessel of some kind.

So while part of me continues to live life like a normal human being, a small, irrational part of me keeps waiting for Bill Nighy-as-an-octopus-person to come up behind me and blare "Yeh owe meh yer soooooul!" right before my spot jumps ship to go seek its fortune and marry another black spot. My one comfort is that Rory and Pirate!Hugh Bonneville managed to make it work for them on Doctor Who, and, as everyone knows, a television show about a time-traveling alien is always a proper yardstick by which to measure your own life. (Side note: your life is, and will always be, inadequate compared to Doctor Who. True story.)

Further side note: Did you know that, of all the black spots in film and television, the only one I could find a video of was the 2011 Doctor Who episode "Curse of the Black Spot?" Do you believe me now? Give it enough time, and the Black Spot (maybe it merits capitalization?) will destroy everything it touches, including media depictions of itself!

Whoa, it just got all meta up in here, didn't it?

I blame the spot.

Don't call me 'sweetie'

If you've read the rest of this blog at all, you'll know that I work with the public. It is truly delightful, believe me.

But over the past four years I've become more and more annoyed with one particular aspect of my interactions with customers. I'm sick and tired of being called "sweetie," "honey," "baby," "hon," "dear," and/or "darling." And I think I'm approaching a breaking point here. Every time one of the offending pet names is directed at me, a boiling hot feeling of frustration and helplessness starts in my heart and spreads through my entire chest until I'm clenching my hands and trying so hard to keep my mouth shut and smile politely. Because that's my job: to take whatever a customer throws at me--within the realm of reason, of course.

And let me tell you, I put up with a lot of crap from a lot of jerks. But part of what irks me about the pet names issue is that it's not exclusively jerks who use them. In fact, most of the customers who call me by a pet name are otherwise pleasant, friendly, and appear to be all-around good people. So maybe people just don't realize what's wrong with pet names. Maybe you don't either. Maybe you think I'm overreacting. I can see that--but I'm not. Let me explain.

Pet names are for people you are close to. They are for children. They are for beloved pets. They are not for the adult woman who handles your money. You  don't know me. I am not your 'sweetie,' your 'honey,' or anything else except your cashier. If you absolutely must address me directly, I have a big honking name tag. Use it.

My problem with pet names is that they are infantilizing, and I'm not okay with being infantilized. I am a twenty-two year old college graduates who works, who travels, who makes her own decisions. Please don't put me on the same level as your yappy little dog or your not-yet potty-trained toddler.

Furthermore, pet names are familiar. Like, too familiar. Would you be freaked out if I addressed you by your first name after seeing your credit card? Probably. When you interact with someone in a professional setting, you expect to be addressed accordingly: "sir," "miss," "ma'am," etc. You and me, this thing we're doing here? The one where you buy things and I make change? It's a business transaction. I didn't just make you a macaroni necklace, so stop acting like I'm just standing here to be adorable.

This whole pet names thing often comes up in the context of feminism, and it's not terribly difficult to see why. Look at the pet names that are considered "masculine": "son," "man," "sport," and, if you're surfing off the coast of California, "dude." When they don't immediately point to a truism about the guy's status ("son"/"man"), they're connecting him to an admirable trait (like being a good sport) or bestowing on him some modicum of coolness ("duuuuuuude").

Girls get stuck, more often than not, with the words that paint us as doe-eyed fragile beings wandering around a forest glade somewhere: "sweetie," "honey," "baby." Ugh.

But I hear guys get called "hon" and "sweetie" at work almost as often as I hear girls called the same thing. And it makes me annoyed for them, too. Because they are working just as hard as I am, and they are just as worthy of respect.

Let me put it to you this way: would you address the brain surgeon operating on a loved on as "dear"? If you ever met him (or her), would you call the president of the United States "baby"? If you were having dinner with your significant other's parents for the first time, would you christen them "sweetie" and "darling"? Of course not.

I know I'm not a brain surgeon or a president or anything, but I'm still a human being worthy of decent treatment. And guess what? I don't want to be known as "baby"; I want to be respected as an adult. I don't want you to call me "honey"; I want you to call me "miss," because that is my title. I don't want to be called "sweetie," because I'm not interested in being sweet. I'm interested in being a person of substance, a person whose ideas and opinions and personality are acknowledged and respected. I don't care if you think I'm a "sweetie" or a "honey"--if you don't know me personally, that's not for you to decide. All that matters is how I--a thinking, money-making, tax-paying adult--choose to define myself.

And I am not your "sweetie."