Calling her by food,animal names

 

My wife, luckily, has a name.

Her good parents gave her a name, and I like it… very much. I like it so much, because of her, that wherever I have seen or heard it, I have added value to it by telling those called by it that it is a name not just every female child can be called by. 

In fact there is a song I loved before I appreciated it, just because the singer is called Susan Ashton.

 

So tell me, with a name I love that much, why would I be caught calling my wife by food or animal names? If I would not be excited to see an animal called Susan, why should I excitedly call her Pet? Pet? With all the furry, ‘squeally’, ‘nibbly’ and other implications which come with pets as we know them? Not my woman.

 

Yet many women die for the lovey-dovey moments when their men call them by animal and food names. Honey… Peanut... Sweet Kammonde (Irish Potato ha ha)…

 

Sweetie… Yummy… ha ha ha! A man cannot help laughing out loud! So I sit here and think to myself; if it is okay for this woman to be called Peanut, why is it wrong for her to be treated as peanut?

 

If it is sweet to call her Honey, that thick, sticky andoverly sweet, to the point of pungency, why should it not be good to handle her that way — avoid her getting all over your garments and not have signs on your person that you have been eating honey? Okay, I know thacould sound tricky, but even then…

 

I find this duality of interest and taste rather indefensible. And this is where dealing with (some) women becomes a shaky job. You know it is okay for you to call her Sweet Pie, but when she is dropped for being ‘too hot’ and the pie holder flees, she disintegrates.

 

She demands to be taken for a mature, respectable person, but is okay with being taken for a baby. Baby? Have you seen and dealt with babies? Is that what you want – to be treated as a baby? C’mon Baby (there we go)!

 

Let us talk briefly about babies: They are those adorable, normally smooth-skinned, chubby-cheeked beings we love to carry, cuddle and take around in push-chairs. They are fed – either through a human nipple or on a bottle; they cannot talk intelligibly and cry over everything, including nothing… Come to think of it, maybe the baby reference is not entirely wrong. 

Let us drop that one off the not-appropriate list, I suggest.

 

Sweetie. The ones we tell our children are bad for their teeth, but they hear their dads call their mothers by. So when the child hears you call out from the bedroom,

 

‘Sweetie, where is the….’ s/he thinks, ‘there goes the one who is bad for my teeth’.

I love to respect the women around me. I love to call them Marcella, Maria, Eva, Annette, Gabriella, Doreen, Cathy and Grace. I love to call them Madam and Miss.

 

To know they are human, and not something you can eat and throw the wrapper away. I love to relate with them and know they can reason (as indeed majority do), challenge me and contribute to intellectual debate, offer solace where necessary and accept solace, love and care; which babies cannot do.

 

As a guy, I love to go after a girl and know she is not the product of the wanton activity of busy bees, but of careful, deliberate planning of responsible parents. I want to know that though she knows I am right about these things; she will not insist that it is okay to defend her peers who want to be called banana, toffee, éclair and chocolate, just because she desires to perceive herself as sweet and irresistible as those items.