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Wednesday, October 31, 2007Sweetie?October is Get-Your-New-Tags month for the family Hunk. (That's Jonathan's not-so-affectionate nickname for our '98 Toyota Sienna.) May I just say how much I hate this? It's a pain to go for the emissions inspection and it's a pain to pay for the new tags and registration. I. Hate. The. Establishment. Several years ago, when my then-only-four children were rather on the young side, I pulled up at the end of a very long line at the inspection station on the last day of October. I had seven dollars in cash and my registration papers -- everything I needed to get the stupid test done. We crawled our way up to the entrance road, where a large sign announced, "FEE: $10." My stomach dropped. I didn't have ten dollars. I had seven dollars. And it had taken me at least twenty minutes of waiting and creeping forward to get that far. I burst into tears and pulled out of the line in order to jam my bank card into the nearest teller machine, profusely apologizing, between sobs, to my perplexed offspring the whole way. It wasn't pretty. I've evolved since then. I promise. But I still hate Get-Your-New-Tags month. This year it was a matter of complete brain fartage, which I blame on sleep deprivation and newborn care. I simply could not remember to get the emissions test, though I have a standing promise to myself to never (never!) wait until the last day of the month again. Not since that bursting-into-tears fiasco. Today I bit the bullet and took the Hunk for the test right after Molly's 10:00 feeding. (It's awfully nice having built-in babysitters.) I braced myself for a long line, an interminable wait. Wonder of wonders. There were only a few cars ahead of me. Not only that, but these guys were uber organized. Each of three terminals took two cars at a time from three separate lanes. And an Emissions Guy was walking ahead to the waiting vehicles in order determine the mileage and secure the ten dollars, which he stuck, along with the registration papers, underneath everyone's wiper blades. The administrator in me was pretty excited by all this. "Hey there," the Emissions Guy said as I rolled down my window and handed over my stuff. Amazingly chipper, he was; not at all what you'd expect from an Emissions Guy on the last day of the month. He took my mileage and my money, tucked the goods beneath my wiper, and then he said it: "We'll get you right up there, Sweetie." Sweetie? This wasn't some old, grandfatherly dude who was reminded of his granddaughter when he saw my smiling face. Emissions Guy looked to be about thirty; definitely younger than me, though not young enough to call me "Mrs." There's no way, at my phase of life, that he might've mistaken me for a cute, little sixteen-year-old driver. And considering the fact that I've just had my hair colored, he couldn't have mistaken me for a seventy-five-year-old grammie, either. Yet I was "Sweetie." I'm sorry, but that was just weird -- even coming from a Southerner. I mean, my sister calls her husband Sweetie. I often refer to my children as Sweeties. And I will occasionally start an email with "Hey, Sweetie" when I'm writing to a girlfriend for whom I have a particular fondness. I don't equate "Sweetie" with a trip to the Emissions station. True, it was better than "Ma'am," which always makes me feel at least twenty years older than I am. And at least it wasn't something pejorative like "Moron" or "Trainwreck." But..."Sweetie?" I am not a feminist -- nazi, neo, or otherwise -- so I'm not up in arms about a man's use of a diminutive nickname. I'm just...puzzled. Bemused, really. Because being called "Sweetie" at the inspection station wasn't something I was prepared for. I wish I would've said, "Thank you, Sugarcakes." But he walked away too quickly. That, and I was too stunned at having been called "Sweetie." Nineteen years in the South and I'm still a staunch Yankee. I'm a lot happier when folks aren't sprinkling artificial sweetener all over the place. Still. At least he was friendly. I think I'll give him high ratings on the little survey card they gave me. And I'll sign it, "Sweetie." Labels: life |
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I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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7of my readers are feeling chatty:
That's funny :) Several years ago when I was largely pregnant with my third child, I went to get the oil changed in our car. When it was finished, the boy who came to get me(about 16 years old) came in the waiting room and said "your vehicle is ready Miss" then he left. I stood with difficulty and quipped to the man seated next to me "Well, that's the first time I've been called "miss" in my condition" He said "He's just not very observant" Obviously. LOL
I hate that too. I usually get it from gruff diner waitresses that look like their 3 seconds short of dead, and have been there since time started.
Hellooo, forget the "sweetie" bit, Are you telling me that you just get in a line for an instantaneous $10.00 inspection?
Tennesseans don't lose the car for an entire day while it undergoes extensive inspection that typically ends with at least 2 things that need to be fixed before it will pass said inspection, the loss of the car for another two days, and a minimum $200 bill???
Bleh. You've got a [jaded and jealous] friend in Pennsylvania. ;-P
I just call everybody I don't know either "ma'am" or "sir". That takes care of that. ;)
Maybe he meant it as a compliment? Er, looking like a sweetie is a good thing, right? :o)
We don't have inspections in Idaho. Darn cold here in the winter though :)
Thankfully, Illinois doesn't have such things. I didn't know how blessed I was.
You know, I wonder if they have different guidelines for sexual harrassment in the south than up north. Not that I think that him calling you sweetie was sexual harrassment, but I'm sure someone would find reason to take offense at that. And yet, as you say it's pretty commonplace in the south.
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