Donna sauntered into the living room, hands on her hips, and surveyed the tableau spread out before her. Logan and John were engrossed in Mel Brooks’ “Blazing Saddles”—laughing at jokes that wouldn’t be allowed in the modern, politically correct, world—and didn’t notice her.
Since they weren’t paying attention, she decided to exercise her superpower.
Donna took a good breath, and whistled. The piercing shriek put teakettles to shame, and made the guys perk up like frightened Meerkats.
“Lazy men! Turn off the tube! Dinner is ready.”
“But, Donna, we were almost to ‘schnitzengruben’!” Logan complained.
“Logan Percival Manleigh, get your stretched-out, skinny, ass into the dining room this instant!” She pointed, and it was stuffed full of maternal authority.
John turned off the television, and regarded his old friend.
“Dude, she used your middle name. No one uses your middle name. We’d better go, or something bad will happen in a minute.”
“Like what?” Logan asked. He legitimately wondered what could be worse than someone using his middle name.
“Spanking.” John said, deadpan.
“She would, and you know it.” John stood up; he wasn’t about to run the risk of having his behind terrorized by Donna Abrams in the throes of justified vexation. “Come on… unless you want her to spank you. Do you?”
“No!” Logan sprang to his feet and scurried into the other room.
“Good one, John.” Donna commented.
“Really? You think so?”
“You have a talent when it comes to tweaking Logan’s latent masculinity issues.”
John preened briefly.
“Thank you, Dr. Abrams. I have studied this subject for many years. His neurosis is quite evident to me.”
“Asshole. Now, get in the dining room. Your wifey made the veggies.”
“Did she?” He perked up.
“Yes, carrots with wild ginger. I didn’t even know that there was wild ginger in Virginia.”
“My kind of girl!” John turned and bounded into the dining room, giving his wife a peck on the cheek before he sat down.
Donna kept her snide comment about married men and their bellies to herself, and took her seat at the head of the table. Logan was an odd duck, she mused, buying a table that seats eight, when he lived alone. Maybe he would marry Patti… and make really tall children?
She couldn’t help but worry for Patti’s future sanity, being the mother to a table-full of baby Logan Manleighs. It gave her a shiver to think about it.