What is in a honey-bun?

16Oct09

I might have told you this story before, but bear with me. It starts with me being a kid, runny nosed and knit-haired. A girl, a friend, lived a few blocks over. Her house was such a fascinating place, for it was done with frills, and gilt. Stranger yet, her mother, when calling her father, called for “Dearest”. Even if only to say that it was Dearest’s damn turn to hoover the bright faux fine rugs.

It wasn’t the inter-parental love itself that seemed strange to me. My parents could stand each other well enough, among their minimalist black furniture. I learned early to recognise the subtle balance between Paris week-ends and the throwing at each other of quality steel kitchen utensils as the hallmark of harmonious adult love. But the public name-calling, the wording of the love was alien.

No kin of mine ever beloved or sweetied another. No matter how they’d beam at or beat each other, mom and pop always did it under their own sturdy northern names. In our house, nothing was ever swept under “Persian” carpets. Our floors were hard, wooden, unadorned.

I haven’t grown up the same. Quite the opposite. My relations build on aliases. I enjoy all the shrinking, shrimping, girly names given by boyfriends. They allow me to be the sort of simpering type who has one. Being called babe when slouching around in fat-day jeans, or doll-face when snot-nosed, is good for morale. Under another name, I seem, to the casual listener, a woman.

And I, in turn, herald friend and foe alike with a series of more or less heart-felt gorgeouses, babys and studs. If nothing else, it efficiently masks social incompetence. Greeting someone with a firm hug and a slick Darlin’ makes you look like you remember having met them, no? Whereas harking and humming Tom-Dick-Harry makes one seem ever so slightly a floozy.

(Funny story. I once dated a man for upwards of two years before finding out that I had got his first name wrong. The big reveal was one awkward moment, and pivotal to our not being married with kids today. I blame the silent haigh).

Any’ow. My point:

 This morning was not a super one. We scurried around the flat, trying to pack for a weekend away, while simultaneously fighting over the last of the Kleenexes (flu season) and the interesting bits of the paper (the financial pages – see yesterdays post).

True to form, I “Darlinged” in line for the bathroom, I “Darlinged” over burnt toast, and I “Darlinged” at the watery residue from the leaking garbage bag. Due to my shitty mood, they were increasingly nasty-toned “Darlings”, ending in a final one, phonetically very similar to “Damn you”.

To which the better man responded by putting down his suitcase, looking me in the eye, and calling me by my christian name. As in: “Christian name, calm the fuck down”.

It was relief. It was a home-coming. And most importantly it was recognition. He’s not living with Sugar anymore. And he still loves me.

Filed under: Home is where the heart is: buying and fixing up flat with boyfriend of dissimilar taste.   |  2 Comments
Tags: childhood memories, love, relationship advice