At Harbour House, dusty philodendrons dangle beside a pink neon sign, and the head waitress, Arlene Fletcher, calls customers "Sweetie pie" and "Hon".
Somewhere, a man with a television for a head tells me to "smile, sweetie".
You see this even when there is no actual dance, as in Wednesday night's opening section, "Hard Heads Make Soft Tales (a Sweetie)," a collection of traditional songs arranged by Mr. Wilson and sung a cappella by him and two of his longtime collaborators, Rhetta Aleong and Lawrence Harding.
"How you feeling, sweetie?" The other girls head to the kitchen to unpack the magazines and cookies we bought from a kiosk in the subway.
Don't let them take pride in making you and your sweetie cower, keep your head help high!
"Isn't she a little sweetie?" he inquires, poking his head out of his dressing room at the Virginia Theater.
"Why do you want to be gay, sweetie?" I asked, his little head still snuggled into me.
"Sweetie!" These virtual pats-on-the-head have become more and more common in the past few years.
Every night when I head out of the house to practice Aikido my sweetie Will calls out, "Don't get hurt and don't hurt anybody".
"So thAs the workershean finally keep one step aheadsouttheir againkerSamantha
