Remember those childhood days when you screeched at some recalcitrant relative, “I’m telling Mom!”? After Momma passed to Glory, it was necessary for me to choose another Mom-like figure for such threats. I chose our family’s iron-fist-in-a-velvet-glove, Miss Priss (my sister).
I was in Poppie’s kitchen the other night trying to prepare a cake mix on the same counter as his toaster oven. At my request, he had earlier put two baking potatoes in the toaster oven.
I guess he forgot to poke holes in the potato skin. Or maybe I forgot to tell him to poke holes. All of a sudden, one of the baked potatoes exploded.
I was so startled, I screamed. Poppie, on the other hand, never budged from his recliner to find out what happened to me. At first, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Poppie doesn’t hear so good even with two hearing aids. I thought he might not have heard the explosion but by golly, he MUST have heard me screaming bloody murder. I could have been standing there in the boogie man’s stranglehold with a knife at my throat. Does Poppie bother to check? Noooooooo.
I rightly accused him of this shortcoming.
“You screamed,” he explained. “So I knew you were all right.”
My mouth agape, I put my hands on my hips. “What has to happen to get your attention? The potato firing out of the toaster oven like a guided missile? Do I have to create an earthquake by falling to the floor before you think something might be amiss?”
This went back and forth for several minutes before I became so exasperated I hollered, “I’m telling my sister!” I guarantee you, that shuts him up every time.