I have to tell this story. It’s trite, but still makes me chuckle.
My wife is driving me in her old Ford Escort along some back-mountain road in Utah one winter. (We’d been married for less than a year.) This car has a history of deer collisions, from when it was her brother’s. It’s twilight, and the snow is coming down hard. We’re doing like 40 MPH with 25 feet visibility, and I’m getting a little nervous.
So we’re chatting, and the topic of conversation is pet names people give each other. (You can probably see where this is going. Stick with me.)
We pass a couple of deer munching on snow-covered grass by the road. My wife (who was born and raised in the area) casually mentions to me (this outsider who still thinks mountains have a sharp pointy peak at the top), that when you see more than one deer up close like that, they’re likely part of a herd, and you need to be extra careful when driving through.
We pass a couple more standing on the other side of the road. Wife, going back to the previous conversation, remarks on how she likes it when I call her “sweetie”, but for some reason “honey” is not so welcome.
That’s about when I spot dozens of deer immediately in front of us, covering the road. My brain switches into full-on drowning-man panic mode, and I start thinking in monolyllabe words. I shout out… (wait for it…)
“DEER!”
Wife turns to me and says, “what? You’ve never called me dear…”
“No”, I say, “DEER!”
She looks forward, and sees the wall of pre-factory venison in front of us. I thought we were, at best, going to smash the car and end up walking through this snowstorm to the next town, and at worst, not have to worry about filling out an insurance report if you know what I mean. Lucky us, her panic mode is several magnitudes better than mine. She does this amazing half-slalom, half-donut thing with the car and manages to avoid hitting a single one.
We creep out of the herd and back down the road. She’s still just as cool as the air outside, but I’m still trying to figure out whether I pissed myself. It’s about a half hour before our speed is up past 10 MPH again.
Later, when we’re safely at our destination, she tells me, “you don’t have to call me ‘dear’ if you don’t want to. ‘Sweetie’ is just fine.”