When I was little, like LITTLE little? I used to play in this dirt hill we had back in Washington in our back yard. I would to find the most awesomest bugs while digging back there. Once Ieven found this green/silvery looking caterpillar, and a HUGE tomatoe bug that smelled like bacon. Almost ate it too.
My grandma was staying with us at the time. I loved the thought of knowing that she was only feet away, chatting with my mom in our kitchen. She had the most beautiful blonde hair that a grandma could ever have, and a nice grandma ass. She used to take me on walks and let me pick up dead things on the sidewalk that my mom would never even DREAM of letting me touch. She picked fruit from trees growing in the neighbor's yards and cut the worms out of these said fruits with this nifty paring knife that she just happened to carry around on her person at all times. I loved how she always wore this "jean dress" ensemble, and smelled like oatmeal and Mary K products. She had a southern accent, something I wasn't accustomed to, so that only added to her illustrious charm.
There were a lot of horrendous things going on in my childhood back in the "Seattle days". Things that my five year old mind just could not fathom at the time. Things I am dealing with now in therapy, 25 years later. She took me away from those things. She took me to a place inside of myself that was so hard to reach. She opened up my tastes for nature and wanting to become independent. Little did I know she was going through her own struggles in life during those times of our bonding. She was on the run from an abusive relationship, but when your a kid, you just don't comprehend things like that. It wasn't till much later in life that my mom confided in me the "details" of our former life, details describing why my grandma stayed there with us for so long. Funny, but I can remember thinking to myself, in my own little private realm of child-like realizations, that she was an angel sent to take me away from my 5 year old hell.
Kids always complain of itching, here or there or everywhere. They have no reservations about complaining JUST WHERE those itches are either. So when I came in from the backyard, just a little kid, mind you, complaining of my butt itching, my grandma turns to me and asks, "Have you been diggin' in that dirt pile again honey?"
To which I reply nonchalantly, "Yep!"
She asks if my butt has been sitting on top of the dirt pile too, and of course I say "Yes". What other way could there be to dig in the dirt for Christ's sake?
She then explains to me that "pinworms" have magically traveled up through my pants/underwear, and traveled far and wide into my butthole, therefore making my butt itch.
(Nevermind the fact that she is secretly giggling and sneering to my mom when I'm not looking.)
I stand there, dumbfounded, for I think my grandmother the patriarch of science and all things natural occurring.
~She has diagnosed my itchy butt prognosis~
So that now, and forevermore, when my butt doeth itch, I will always remember my grandma, and proudly proclaim to anyone within hearing range,
"Hey everyone. I got pinworms in my butt".