I don’t consider myself a drama queen anymore, but I used to be one.
Nope, not much of a drama queen anymore. I like to keep things calm and peaceful.
Now that’s not to say that I never lose my skillet occasionally and have a conniption fit when shit ain’t going down the way I like. I am female, after all, and can stomp my feet thusly.
I’ve slammed a few cabinets in my day. Maybe a few doors, too.
But my 17 year old daughter, if you were to stick a pin in her, would literally seep drama. This kid is almost constantly in a state of disapproval, and lately, oddly petulant. She amazes me, how she can turn a blister on her foot into life shattering news.
She asked me yesterday to take a look at her booboo. Was it infected?
I peered over my glasses, and checked it out. No, all clear. Are you putting Neosporin on it? I asked.
Sheepish look on her face. No, she forgot.
I choked back a tremendous sigh. Well then, put some on it, for fuck sake.
But is it infected? she asked again. It hurts soo much, she whined.
I have a owie, mama.
I bit my lip, and imagined myself on a beach somewhere, drinking a mojito. From my peripheral, I swear I saw a cabana boy, cooling me off with banana leaves.
No. Not infected.
Are you sure? It’s all red and looks yucky.
I can’t help myself now. I tried, you have to at least give me that.
Maybe we should go to the ER, I quip. They might have to remove your foot. Let me just grab my car keys.
She gives me the most snarkiest look, and my inner bad ass mom does a cart-wheel. I can only pull off imaginary ones.
Whatever, she replies querulously. Where is the Neosporin, anyways?
Probably in the bathroom. Duh, I want to say so badly, but if I push her too far, she might use my razor to shave her legs. Gross.
No, she can’t find it. Do we have any band aids?
It’s about this time when I grab my one hitter. No, I say slowly. We will have to get some the next time we go to the store.
When? Can we get Hello Kitty ones?
I don’t fucking care, I respond. Hell, I might just go hog nuts and get some with Spongebob.
Shut the hell up, Spongebob.
She still can’t find the first aid cream, so this means that I have to go in search of it myself. I now understand why she has never been very good at Hide and Seek.
It’s in the junk drawer in the kitchen, for some unbeknownst reason. I hand it to her triumphantly.
She takes it from me, her tragically infected wound forgotten. I’m bored, she says.
Schools out for the summer. Joy.
Then go somewhere, I respond, now at my wits end. It seems simple enough to me.
But I have no friends, she wails mournfully. (She does.)
Then go walk the yellow line, I say sweetly. (I channel my own mother for this oldie but goodie. It is my legacy.)
Whatever. She storms off, and I go into the laundry room for a little smokey smokey.
It’s going to be one long fucking summer, my friends.