June, at last!…Such a wonderful month.
It’s all about Daddies and Father’s Day. All about weddings and nuptials and blushing brides…
Well—maybe not blushing brides. Nowadays, the blushers are few and far between! They’ve turned into Drama Queens. Drama Diva’s. Drama Mama’s…They’re proud of themselves, too.
Which brings us to the subject at hand.
Daddies…Don’t let your baby girl grow up to be a Drama Queen. For the good of Society. For her husband’s sake. For all of humanity—for crying out loud!
And now, folks…I have a terrible confession to make. I think you ladies will understand. I hope. Maybe you can even learn something from my mistakes….
Recently I had a Drama Queen episode. It happened one night not long ago. I was feverish and sick with a bad cold. There’s really no other explanation for my poor behavior.
My husband had made me homemade pizza for supper—my favorite kind with pineapples and mushrooms. Michael did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. He took me on his lap so we could watch a good movie together. He patiently endured my sneezing and snuffling for many hours.
Then abruptly, Michael ruined it all. Without a word, he got in the car and drove away into the night.
Now, tell me. Where does a man go at 10:15 pm ?
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out. My feverish brain began to whirl with strange suspicions. I thought of all the ladies who find my husband fascinating. They gaze into his blue eyes. They look at his golden curls and glorious muscles. And they follow him around…asking him directions to the bank. The spa. The theater.
Hmmm. I thought about all those ladies.
Five minutes ticked by. Ten. Fifteen. That’s it, said the Drama Queen. I’m out of here! I can drive around in the middle of the night, too! And while I’m doing it, I’ll look for my lost husband.
Getting in my car, I drove into the dark countryside…still sniffling and sneezing and wheezing. But where do you go at 10:30 pm ? Our nearest town was five miles away…and I hate going to town—especially near midnight .
I drove around aimlessly, finally ending up at our mailbox. I looked inside.
Aha! I knew it.
In the mailbox was a suspicious-looking envelope addressed to my husband. A thick letter with a woman’s name in the corner. And what a name! “Mimi Stang” from King’s Valley. Who has a name like that!? Some voluptuous cowgirl! A Mustang Lady with a flying mane…prancing about in her fancy boots…prattling and flirting her eyes at my husband.
Mimi Stang, indeed. I’ll teach you, Mustang Lady!
I opened the envelope and glared at its contents. Hmmph! It was a flyer and a packet of info about a Family Reunion this summer. The annual gathering of my husband’s relatives at King’s Valley—where all the prestigious kinfolk get together each summer.
And Mimi Stang…? She was just a family spokesperson. A rather elderly one. No voluptuous cowgirl. No flying mane. No mustangs.
Well. I beg your pardon, Mimi.
Sheepishly, I slid the letter back into the envelope. Then I pulled my car into the driveway. My husband was home, by now, and he was waiting for me upstairs in the bedroom. There on my pillow was a brand new bottle of cold-medicine…A big bottle of Nyquil for his sick wife.
So…maybe I needed a good dose of common sense to go with the Nyquil. So…maybe I’m not quite sane. So…maybe I’m the worst kind of Drama Queen—worse than all the Drama Diva’s and Drama Mama’s combined!
Still sniffling, I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over my head. I wept. I snuffled and sneezed. This was all Mimi Stang’s fault. She was to blame.
My husband patted my shoulder and slipped me a Hershey’s chocolate bar. Just a little one. Not enough to make me fat—but enough to keep me sweet..
I’m glad to say that I’ve recovered from both my sniffles and my Drama Queen Syndrome. I really have. I know you folks don’t believe me, but I’ll share another quick story to prove my point….
The other day I was busy making dinner in the kitchen. Everything was under control. No disasters had befallen me, of late. The blueberry muffins were golden brown. The chicken looked splendid, and so did the salad. Spinach was simmering gently on the stove. Everything was perfect.
I was ready to call Michael to the table, when suddenly the spinach pan turned ugly on me. Its handle went into my side-pocket as I passed by the stove.
Splat! The pan hit the floor. Hard.
Well. I had a choice to make. I took a deep breath. I did not have a Drama Queen outburst.
Moments later, Michael came into the kitchen to find me calmly slicing tomatoes amid a splattering of chopped spinach. It was all over the stove. The floor. The walls. The cabinets. The fridge door—and everywhere in-between.
There was a long silence, then my husband leaned down and picked up the offending cookware. “Obviously,” he said, “you’ve had a Spinach Outbreak.” He looked at the pan. “A Pan-demic, wouldn’t you say…?”
“Indeed…” I said, stepping past the green blobs on the floor. “Are you ready to eat, darling?”
Michael sighed and didn’t say another word. He just got a handful of paper towels and went to cleaning up the mess.
You see, ladies…? That’s how you do it. No Drama Queen routines or Drama- Mama syndromes. Just stay calm, cool and collected.
Your man will appreciate it, I assure you….
Just ask my husband.