NEAPOLITAN MELODRAMA: Here describing an absolutely out-of-line and out-of-control psycho, dramatic, theatrical scene with a hint of passionate Italian blood and a sprinkle of female hysteria. Usually triggered by nothing at all and impossible to contain/subdue for the unfortunate man who finds himself passive spectator of the grand scene.

Well, yes I am the queen of Neapolitan melodrama. Although also my sisters-in-arms, all of them, sooner or later in their life played the role of the drama queen to the fullest. Because there is no woman on earth who can withdraw from this equation and the only women who have never played the drama queen once in their lives are transgender, therefore born male (just like with cellulites: if you don’t have it, you are not a woman). It lies in our feminine DNA, in our history, in our culture to erupt into a women-on-a-verge-of-a-nervous-breakdown dramatic scene, acting out à la Joan Collins in Dynasty (here’s a reminder of her feisty nature) rending our garments but especially rending the balls to the poor schumck who finds himself, sometimes unconsciously, involved in it. I always believe I can better explain this drama queen thing by telling one of my personal anecdotes. I am currently in love with a caring, attentive man, who, in turn, loves me dearly. He even kisses on the lips! Long, good, passionate kisses. He is not affected by chronic or traumatic inaffectivity, as my ex whom, to get a kind word out of his mouth and heart, I had to subject to unutterable ISIS-like tortures. Without even being sure of spilling some affection out of him. In short, I love a man who loves me and who keeps telling it to me, on writing and in oral (and by oral I mean in all the shades of it which is something not bad at since most men show some difficulties in insinuating their tongue in our jade gate, much preferring to jack-rabbit fuck her. No, you guys, the jack-rabbit fuck equals masturbating by using the body of the unlucky gal. An unbearable agony for us without any happy ending). Therefore, going back to my beloved partner, what on earth did he do to unleash the Erinyes-like bitch in me? Did he betray me? Did he beat me up? Did he abuse me? Nothing of all the above. The Neapolitan melodrama, as per description above, doesn’t happen for a good reason but out of nothing, if not out of our harpy nature. In my case, he simply arrived to our intimate date slightly late. God have mercy on him, I lost it. Not only did I rail at him over texts complete of the F word, did not answer his calls and desperate messages but when he showed up at my doorstep, I kept him waiting under the rain for ten good minutes. ‘Amore, please, what happened? I don’t understand. Would you let me in?’ And the truth is the poor guy had all the rights not to understand what the heck was going on. On my side, I kept putting up a stubborn and obstinate face, objecting to his pleas and shouting ‘Go home, get lost’. He did not give up (and I must honor my love for doing so, since another man would have told me to hit the road at that point, if not worse) and I caved in (shocking). Yet my apparent surrender was simply a decoy to further attack him in person, as I indeed proceeded to do once he entered with a sad stunned look on his face. Yet not subdued, as I have never fallen in love with a wet fish. And again he asked me what was going on: I fumbled something, but rather than giving in, I escalated my drama queen scene (after all, I am Italian so passion runs in my veins since childbirth) by slamming doors, screaming wildly and acting out as a nutcase. He tried to apologize and reconcile, in the vain attempt of bringing me back to reason. My dear men, when a woman goes into full rage bitch mode, there’s no way you can stop the performance without incurring in some truly risky business. The show must end on her terms or you will face some serious danger (take my word for it). In the middle of the melodrama (be aware: I am not talking about a fight that would require two actors participating but a melodrama only starred by the witchy woman), he understood that there was no way out and wisely decided to leave the scene. At that point, the diva – conscious that without an audience, she would pathetically resemble Bette Davis in What Happened to Baby Jane? – regained her senses but was indeed upset at the idea of letting go her performance while it was getting so heated and heartfelt, which usually means throwing things, accusing him of the most absurd and unjustified things (‘And then I am fed up of all your soppy texts like I love you honey, Good morning my love, Good night my dear, what the fuck!’ That is now the partner’s emotional availableness and generosity is mischievously used against him. Women are lunatics!) and in some extreme cases also threatening to abuse him physically (‘I will beat the shit out of you, I will kick your ass, I will melt you in acid’, of course we the fairer sex against them ‘brutal animals’). Seeing him on the doorstep, finally angry and about to leave, the queen of melodrama excelled herself by throwing herself at his feet and embracing his legs. An Oscar-worthy performance: ‘Amore, pleeeeeease forgive me. Hug me. Tight. I love youuuuu’. Like a diva of an 80’s Latin American soap opera. I challenge any woman to say they never behaved as such. My partner, who in the midst of all this emotional commotion, sometimes akin to a tornado, didn’t understand a damn thing (and not because he is an idiot but because there was nothing rational to understand) approached me with hesitation to return my embrace, whilst still fearing that the raging bitch might hold a knife or an ice-pick in her hands (Basic Instinct, anyone?). Nonetheless, he scrutinized me anxiously with a detached and worrisome gaze because he reasonably wondered whether or not he fell in love with yet another lunatic bitch. Oh yes, my love I am coming out to you: REDRUM, REDRUM, REDRUM! Therefore, how can you apologize to the man you love after such a melodramatic scene? Hell, no dear sisters, saying ‘I am sorry’ it’s not good enough because if a man put us through such a scene, at the very least we would demand La Perla lingerie, a Michelin-star dinner and a romantic getaway. Again, I believe it’s best for me to tell you what I did to redeem myself after making an ass of myself. I waited our next romantic encounter, to which he could have arrived three hours late and I could not breathe a word about it. I dressed up the part to play the role of the compliant and submissive geisha. I wore a China-Girl-style wig (yes I do know that geishas come from the Japanese tradition but I don’t own a Broadway show wardrobe), put on the right make-up, chose a silk negligee with an Oriental print and fanlike sleeves, put on high heels, grabbed a fan and waited his arrival. Silent and quiet, obviously doped with heavy doses of bubbles. When I heard a knock on the door, I entered in my character, I played China Girl by the late Bowie and, hiding my face with the fan, I opened the door saying: ‘Good evening, mastel.’ Fuck! It was my neighbor! ‘ROBBIE???’ Me: ‘Ah ciao, no worries, I went psycho melodrama bitch on my man and I am trying to patch it up.’ Being a woman herself, she immediately got the message, burst out laughing and just left. When he arrived, the apartment was lit only by candlelight (and with those fanlike sleeves and massive doses of champagne I risked being set on fire at least three times. The appropriate ending for the witch: burnt alive into flames!) and by the image of this mini geisha macro bitch. He was left speechless to then proceed to laugh out loud, raptured by emotions. I was a sight for sore eyes. Sincerely apologetic, I felt I wanted to mend the situation in a funny and sexy guise, just the way I, and they, like it. Mission Accomplished. Obviously I don’t kiss and tell so I let to your imagination wonder what happened afterwards, yet I would like to add another juicy detail: sometimes, girls, let’s wear those impossible net thighs with a hole in the middle. Well, maybe not to go out buying groceries but to please the sight of your man. Because men are very visual and also us women, by dressing up, can awake, instead of the beast, our inner whore. Sometimes let’s apologize the right and devious way, meeting our mistreated men’s desires. And always remember that besides words, there’s costume dressing up. Use, better abuse, them. The costumes, not the men. Or at least, not all the time!