I recently started calling my husband Carl. Not because it’s his name, of course, more because I feel like it. It kind of sounds like the first syllable of his name, I guess, but that’s not why either. I don’t call him Carl at any (ahem) critical moments, mostly for everyday stuff and especially if I’m mock-angry at him (I do a lot of mock-angry because he likes to tell off-color and not-funny jokes). He doesn’t particularly seem to mind. Although he has been threatening to start calling me “Carla” or “Jennifer”. (Those names aren’t mine, either.)
I don’t know why I do this. I went through a pretty strong “Lucas” phase, where the name Lucas became more of a term of endearment than anyone’s actual name. I called my cat Lucas, I called my nieces Lucas, but I never called my then-boyfriend Lucas. Lucas has kind of faded out, only for “Carl” to rear its (his?) persistent head. And I only call Carl Carl. It’s not an all-around term of endearment.
I half justify it by saying it’s only fair becasue he calls me “doll”. I’m clearly not a doll. I’m a real human girl (woman?). My dad used to call me doll when he was alive. Which was fine. And my mother called me “muñeca” sort of jokingly, because she’s not really the endearment kind and because she speaks Spanish. Carl’s been calling me doll since started dating. To which I protest. Not because I want him to stop, necessarily, but because what am I supposed to do? Agree? “Yes, you’re absolutely right, sugarpants, I AM a doll.” No way. Which brings me to the name of this blog. Albeit circuitously.
The truth is, I don’t call him Carl in retaliation, either. I just like to. And he has apparently accepted this completely. He’s in California for a week and he just signed an I-love-and-miss-you email to me as “Carl”.
Is that weird?
