(flangi -one’s spirit or fortitude Propped – support, egged on Flangipropped = to life one’s spirit, spur on, motivate)
Grammy Rymiller was mad. Papa Rymiller had told her he was watering her flowers every day she was gone taking care of emergency family matters. Granted he had had a lot to do while she was gone. But her flowers deserved priority and he said he was doing it! Then what does she find? A flower pot all hard and dried up. She was going to show him what a lousy job he had done. Carrying the pot, she started inside to give him a good flangipropping—telling him to get his flanges off that couch and help her do the watering.
She had to think how to be a bit subtle with her flangipropping because an outright flangipropping would never work. Grammy’s focus was on the pot and the flangipropping she would administer when suddenly she tripped over the crack in the walk; the pot went sailing and Grammy, arms out with hands gripping nothing, sprawled mostly right side down on the walk. Glasses thrown off, skinned knee and shoulder, she hurt but the hurt was minor compared to the mad. Screaming for help accomplished nothing; she found that if she just screamed without trying to say a word, she would be louder. But still it accomplished nothing.
She lay there realizing a cell phone or medic alert button might be good things to look into now that she was in her eighties. Maybe the kids would think to buy something sometime before she got old. She calmed down, checked her wounds, picked up her glasses, fitted the lens back into the frame, pushed herself up on her knees, said, “Thank you, Jesus, for no broken bones,” and repented for having gotten so mad in the first place. After all, she knew that was the reason she fell so carelessly. So feeling humbled, she hobbled to the door. It was locked. After pounding a sufficient time to bruise her fists, Papa Rymiller got off the couch let her in.
“Do you need something?” He asked.
“I needed my flangi propped up,” she wailed. “I screamed and screamed, but you didn’t hear.”
“Oh, I heard you,” he replied, “I just thought you would come in if you needed something.”
Now both hurt and mad, she exerted a mammoth amount of strength to march to the bedroom, slam the door, sit in her corner, and wail loudly between her moans and groans. After a time…listen, the TV is still on, he’s back on the couch. Oh, how that man needs a good flangipropping! But Grammy was tired. She decided to lie down and rest a bit. A bit of sleep might do some good….
Well, all’s well that ends well! You know how it goes—”Sorry, honey.” “That’s okay.” “Sorry I failed to help.” “That’s okay.” “I really should have come to check.” “That’s okay” “Sorry I didn’t pay attention.” “That’s okay.” “Love you, Sweetheart.” “Love you too, Sugar.”
It wasn’t until later that Grammy realized she had been flangipropped by that man again!
Moral of the story: Long marriages are due to one partner being so good at flangipropping, and the other never getting around to it!
……………………..Any similarities between Grammy and Papa Rymiller and Oneta and Sam Hayes is absolutely intentional based on a real event – only slightly exaggerated (Well maybe a little more than slightly.) ……………………
(written in response to using the made-up word “flangipropped,” and egged (urged) on by jacquelineobyikoc in http://acookingpotandtwistedtales.com/2015/10/03/his-flanges-got-propped-a-short-story/comment-page-1/#comment-3925)