[This post is of a confusing sexual nature. Only venture ahead if you’re comfortable with sexual confusion.]
Do you remember the story I told you about how my Grandma called
vaginas vulvas, fuck it, vajayjays “petunia blossoms“?
Well, I have a continuation to the petunia blossom story. (I was writing about my therapy appointment today, but got too bogged down in it, and decided to go the lighter vajayjay route instead. I strongly recommend this route for any bout of writer’s block.)
My grandmother was rather protective of my petunia blossom. I would say that she wanted all of its petals to remain intact until I said “I do,” but it looks like the flower is just one giant petal, so she wanted its one big petal to remain intact until I said “I do.” (I’m sure one of you flower people can correct me on the proper terminology.)
Grandma did a great job with her petunia blossom detail up until I was 20. Just when it looked like my petunia blossom was going to whither up and die–judging from the looks I had gotten from my friends over the past two or three years when I revealed that there had been no fertilizing, this was sure to happen soon–Sam came along.
Even though Grandma had tried to push me into asking Sam out (I didn’t) and gave me hell about not kissing him the first two times he tried, when things got more serious and we started spending a lot of time together, she went into super protective mode.
Must. Protect. Petunia. Blossom.
I assured her many times that nothing was going on–and it didn’t for a while. Shortly before the one-year mark of us talking online and dating, I got sick with strep throat. Sam, who was trying to be a good boyfriend, wanted to take care of me.
Big mistake. You don’t take care of Grandma’s sick
20-year-old baby. She takes care of her.
I didn’t care, let ’em fight over who fawned over me the most. I was given all the soda and hot chocolate I could stand, was vaporub’d, force fed cough drops, forced to take my nasty medicine, had my temperature checked every half hour, etc. And then Sam had the brilliant idea to spend the night–he told Grandma he’d sleep on the couch–to keep an eye on me and get me whatever I needed if I woke up in the night.
Yep, all of that for strep throat. Not ebola or something really serious. Where the fuck is that treatment when I’m sick now?!
Well, in the middle of the night, I woke up to hearing them arguing. I was all “whatever” and went back to sleep.
When I woke up later that morning, I woke up to a rather furious Grandma.
Grandma caught Sam “sneaking out of my bedroom” in the middle of the night and accused him of staying there just to have sex. I was mortified. Sam told her that wasn’t true and that he had heard me coughing and had gone in to check on me and was coming out at the same time she had been walking in to check on me, also because she heard me coughing.
(Note: Sam’s amazing hearing ceased to exist when my pregnancy morning sickness occurred in the middle of the night. What a shame.)
So, Grandma called my dad up and told him to get out there because there was a problem. When he walked in, she told him how Sam had stayed overnight to keep an eye on me while I was sick and that she caught him sneaking out of my room and that we were obviously having sex.
My mortification reached epic proportions.
“Is that true?” my dad asked Sam and me, although he seemed rather mortified himself, as well as unclear on why he was being asked to intervene in his almost 21-year-old daughter’s alleged sex life. Sam, who was 26 at the time, was probably regretting the whole “date a younger girl” thing.
“No,” I told him. I pointed out that I had strep throat, and obviously, who would have sex while being sick with strep throat? (I later learned that strep throat or other illnesses don’t necessarily mean no sex.)
“No!” Sam said, with such a pitiful look on his sex-deprived face that it convinced my dad immediately that nothing had happened.
“Ask them if they’re having sex at all then,” Grandma said.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad more uncomfortable.
“No!” I exclaimed. This was true–if we can mix a flower metaphor with a sports metaphor, Sam had only made it to third petal. Venturing beyond that wouldn’t happen for a couple more weeks.
“Okay,” my dad said. “Mama, nothing happened.”
My grandma sat in her recliner just steaming mad. “I know it did.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips together. There was no convincing her otherwise–even when she brought it up after I had been married for a year and I told her she had been wrong, she still didn’t believe me.
So, if any of you guys out there have wonderful intentions and want to show your girlfriends how awesome you are by taking care of her when she’s sick–rethink that shit if she’s living with her grandma. You don’t want to be getting in a turf war with a grandmother. It won’t end well. Drop off some chicken soup and a movie and leave.