... is not mine.
My family thinks I have hemorrhoid issues, but I've been framed!
A couple of years back, while recovering from a tremendous surgery, the nurse gave me a bag of suppositories to prevent the nausea that accompanied the nearly DEA-forbidden-strength pain pills. I then left the capsules in my refrigerator, where they refused to spoil for the next 3 years.
My brother's girlfriend, discovering them on her quest for Ranch dip, promptly dialed my mother about my "hemorrhoid problem."
Later, when moving out of my Maryland apartment, the movers found a box of Tucks medicated pads in a dark corner of my closet. I had bought them for my father. They sheepishly handed them over. Sometimes I pick things up for my Dad... I mean, who doesn't?!
Just last week, while walking thru Target with my Mom and explaining my latest crisis du jour, I noticed an industrial-sized tube of generically titled "Hemorrhoid Cream" had appeared in my shopping basket.
I picked it up, and we started giggling. The our giggles turned into full-out belly laughs and pretty soon we had the whole aisle tied up, doubled over in laughter.
"I wasn't going to say anything because I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable," my Mom explained.