Let Me Call You Sweetart...

Being female, for most of my life, people who didn't know me addressed me as "Miss!" I was well beyond my 50th birthday before "Miss" began to be replaced with any regularity by the dreaded "Ma'am". Just as I was beginning to get used to "Ma'am", though, another appellation has begun to be applied, and it's one that I like even less than "Ma'am"...for the life of me, I don't know WHY, but I've begun to be addressed by strangers as "Sweetie". I LOATHE this appellation. I assure you, I am NO Sweetie. Among my friends, I'm known for my tart tongue, and a good friend once said I reminded him of a cactus: he said I was prickly on the outside, required the sparsest sustenance, and bloomed, quite unexpectedly, at odd times. I still think that's a wonderful compliment, and I still think it's quite apt.

So imagine my chagrin when I went for a doctor's visit a couple of weeks ago and the regular nurse, a 60-something who's been around the block a few times, and who knows me and addresses me by my name, wasn't there, but the 30-something substitute filling in for her addressed me as "Sweetie". As in,

"OK, Sweetie, sit up here on the table, this won't hurt a bit..." and
"Oh, Sweetie, your blood pressure is VERY good, VERY good..."

"How good?" I asked.

"Sweetie, it's VERY good," she repeated, as if I were an imbecile.

*Sigh*

I sat there thinking, "Dammit, I have co-authored a chapter in a med school textbook; do NOT "Sweetie" me!" But I was nice to her; I didn't say anything.

My liver enzymes are funky, and have been for some time, so my doctor is methodically ordering tests to rule out various disorders. She started, quite reasonably, with a blood test for hepatitis, which I do not have. Next, she suggested a sonogram of my liver. The insurance company required that I pre-register for the procedure. "What procedure will be performed?" and "Why was this procedure ordered?" were two of the questions I was required to answer as part of the pre-registration process. I had no problem answering those questions, but I did wonder if the average bear is prepared to answer them.

This morning I went to the hospital to have the sonogram. Going to the hospital as an outpatient is pretty much like going to Chili's, except that there is no mouth-watering smell of grilled onions and fajitas as you wait; but I was given the same sort of paging device and told to wait until it went off, which I did. Eventually, I was directed to the "Imaging" area of the hospital: a rather shabby, dark, warm corridor, at the end of which was a room, outside of which stood a nice young woman, perhaps 25, the sonogram technician. She smiled at me and said,

"Hello Sweetie! Come on in..."

I complied, and she said, "Now Sweetie, tell me why you're here today...what am I going to do, and why am I going to do it?

She looked at me expectantly, and I smiled brightly...and came oh so close to saying, "Why, I want to find out the sex of my baby, of course!"

Happy Valentine's Day.