Until I was about 12 my grandmother, my dad’s mom, lived upstairs in the first row home, so it was like she had her own apartment. The walls upstairs hadn’t been broken through yet, so to get upstairs in her house, we had to walk down our stairs and up her stairs. After she died we moved the kitchen upstairs into what used to be her bedroom. And she died in that bedroom. Is that weird? Not for us. But while she was still alive, her kitchen was downstairs and ours was downstairs and those walls were already broken through, so her kitchen was literally about 10 feet from ours. FYI, before we moved the kitchen upstairs, if there was a funeral in progress, we had to go out the back kitchen door, walk down the spiral staircase that led into the alley and walk around the side of the house, around the front, and in the door of the third row home to get to the upstairs where we lived. I know that might sound confusing and complicated, but there was no other way to get upstairs. It sucked in the winter, and back then, we had to be especially quiet during meals because the funeral goers were right on the other side of the kitchen door that was covered by a red curtain.
Anyway, my mom would routinely do nice things for my grandmother. She’s all about killing people with kindness, something she tried to teach me and failed. I told you I love food, right? Well, as a kid, I loved shrimp cocktail and my mother would walk over to Bywood Seafood, a little local seafood store that stunk! This one time, she bought a bunch of shrimp and prepared a nice shrimp cocktail for my grandmother and put it on her kitchen table. What she didn’t know is that I was watching her the whole time and plotting my crime. I snuck into my grandmother’s kitchen after my mom left it on the table, ate all the shrimp and took off. But here’s how I was stupid; I left the empty plate on the table. I didn’t hide the evidence. My grandmother came walking over with an empty plate in her hand and asked my mother what it was. Somehow, my mother knew I was the culprit and fingered me for the crime. I didn’t leave my grandmother one shrimp. Like I said, I’ve never had a whole lotta self control when it comes to food. One night last year I was craving cupcakes so I decided to make some, and I love cake in case I forgot to tell you. I really love cake.
I bought RED velvet cake mix and butter cream frosting and immediately got to work. Once they were done I couldn’t even wait for them to cool. I just slathered some frosting on and started shoveling them in like there was a gun to my head. I stopped after about ten…or when I felt sick, whichever came first (they were mini cupcakes, by the way). The next day (I’m about to get personal here) I went to the bathroom and ummm…. did you know that there’s red food dye in red velvet cake mix? I didn’t. I also mentioned my hypochondria, right? Well, I thought I had colon cancer. FYI, ten cupcakes worth of red velvet cake mix looks like blood on the way out. I immediately called my mother, the nurse. My mother said if there was no pain that maybe it was something I ate. I googled red velvet cake mix and somehow found out that there’s red dye in it, which eased my mind. But I will tell you that the internet is a dangerous thing for a hypochondriac. It allows you to self-diagnose until you find the disease you’re dying of, which in my case was colon cancer.
Speaking of colon cancer, it happened again! Except this time I didn’t have any red velvet cupcakes, but when I went to the bathroom one day, I thought there was blood, I freaked out and made an appointment with the doctor. Later that day I remembered that the night before I had Nyquil (bright red) because I had a cold and wondered if I was possibly freaking out needlessly. It wouldn’t be the first time. I went to the doctor two days later and it hadn’t happened since, and I only had Nyquil that one time.
My brother drove me to the doctor because I was a little nervous and I had told him what the problem was. I also told him I was scared the doctor was gonna put her finger in my ass. You see, I’ve never had anything in there, contrary to what you might hear on the street.
So, my brother is in the waiting room and I am in with the doctor which is on the other side of the wall. I asked her if she was going to stick her finger in my butt and she said yes, but at least she said with a look of remorse on her face. I told her I never had anything in there. I wonder if she believed me?
She told me to roll over on my left side, which means I’m now facing the wall that is shared with the waiting room. She stuck her finger in and I gripped the pillow and let out a noise something between an “Owww” and an “Ahhhh.” Just a groan of discomfort. More like an “Ohhhh,” the sound of an uncomfortable surprise. I made the noise a few times while she was “in there.” Thankfully, it probably only lasted about 10 seconds and then she slipped her finger out and said, “I’ll be right back, I’m going to analyze this” meaning her glove I guess. As soon as she left the room I grabbed my phone and texted my brother, “She just fingered my anus.” He texted back within seconds, “Hahahahaha. I heard it.”
The walls of that doctor’s office were so thin, my brother heard me getting anally probed , but I guess that’s fair since I had to see his ball that time. (you can read that story again here) “https://death-to-hollywood.com/2011/09/02/the-ball”
Anyway, the good news is that it was nothing and she thinks I might just be sensitive to red dye. Do you feel like you know me just a little bit better now? When was the last time someone stuck a finger in your anus?
On that note, have a wild weekend!