I was nervous. I rocked back and forth upon my heels and crossed my arms, grabbing my elbows with clammy hands. I was situated at the base of the stairs, where I heard the mindless clanging of kitchen ware. "She's needed help before," my worrying heart interjected. "Go to her." But, I wanted her to succeed...I wanted her to succeed so very badly.

I heard brisk footsteps cross the floor. A door opened and closed and opened and closed again. Footsteps drummed upon the linoleum once more and a scraping sound ensued. I bit into my lower lip to keep from crying out. The anxiety was debilitating, but as I forced myself to breath, the ulcer-making mechanism in my gut huffed in frustration that it could never quite get the job done.

CLANK!

I heard a metal bowl bark as it met the countertop. I discerned the opening of the microwave door. "Oh, no!" I whispered fervently. "She's given up!" My hand was steel wrapped around the railing and my leading leg airborne as I heard the familiar whir begin. My grip loosened and my foot met the floor once more. I rolled my shoulders and stretched my neck side to side. Another audible huff sounded from somewhere around my midsection.

I remained perched there, ready to ascend the stairs at a moment's notice, as I head the trembling crescendo. A hard rain to a pane of glass, nothing has ever sounded more beautiful, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The microwave sounded, yet the tapping harmony played on. "Oh, butter," I mumbled, an explanation dawning.

A few moments later, all sound ceased, then fleeing footsteps once more. "And now, peace," I thought. Suddenly devoid of muscle tension, I slithered to the floor and let my tongue loll to the side. "She did it, she really did it!" I managed, albeit weakly.

Brenda, you see, has mastered the popcorn popper.