Over the weekend, I had occasion to take a friend to the emergency room for a few staples in the head. (It sounds more dramatic than it was. Snowboarding accident, one-inch long cut, no biggie.) When he was finally summoned to see the doctor, I tagged along to listen and take pictures. Hey, it’s a head wound, c’mon!
Anyway, as we’re chatting with the doctor, he starts listing warning signs we should look for later in the evening, some of which call for an objective observer (unusual behavior, belligerence, that sort of thing). So, the doctor turns to me and says, “You’re his… father?”
My friend is 35. I’m 38. His father? Fucking hell! Okay so my hair has an increasing amount of white in it, but still!
Grumble, mumble, gripe.
Yerp!
Of course, I feel that way anytime someone calls me ma’am.
feeling parental…
I have a 20-ish friend who is a musician. One night a little over a year ago she had the misfortune to be booked at a bar that catered to college students, during winter break. My partner and I were almost the only people there. We were also the only people not on stage wearing black retro-gothic-ish clothes. The bartender assumed we were her parents. She didn’t disillusion him.
As for the “ma’am” thing– in face-time or on the telephone, anyone serving me or selling to me is should call me ma’am– and unless you’re over 60, it’s “ma’am” not “miss.” Why, yes, I am an anachronism, thank you very much. (Any fantasies involving a man in a french maid outfit are not necessarily your business.)
Better than Mommy
Well, you could have said “I’m his sugar daddy” and probably left the doc speechless.