Archive for the ‘Aunt Doodie’ Category




As some of you know, I have a swimming pool.

I have a pool because it came with the house.  Of course, this house also came with spectacularly cheap rent, a garage full of stuff the real owners (have forgotten they) are stowing, and the owner’s dog.  (She’s my dog now, though.  Mine!)

I don’t bitch much about the pool.  I can’t really justify complaining about it because (1) It’s a private pool in my backyard; (2) I live in Arkansas, where the humidity hovers around 1 million percent in the dead of summer; and (3) It’s a private pool in a relatively secluded area.  Besides, a significant reserve of real water is pretty much always welcome and desired in these parts, so long as it’s not infested with mosquitoes or water moccasins.  (My pool has neither.  Once I had a tadpole problem, but that’s because I left the creepy crawler in for, like, four days when I went out of town, and when I came back I had tadpoles.)

Regardless, I have a love-hate relationship with the pool.  It really is rather expensive to maintain a pool — even the above-ground variety — in a single-income (and often unemployed) household.  Yet despite the constant, time consuming, required upkeep of a healthy pool — water, chemicals, skimming, etc. — there is almost nothing I adore more than swimming naked in the moonlight.  (Or, more specifically, floating nude on my back while gazing at the stars.  But it is still a spectacular and singular experience,)

Still, having a pool — even an above-ground pool with a built-around-deck — is a shitload of work.  And I kind of hate that work.  (And yes, well, I hate most any kind of work that translates to physical labor.  Such is not a significant revelation.)  Yet maintaining the pool is mostly tolerable in the “open season,” though.  I mean, I’m not an “outside” person.  Sunlight mostly sucks except when it’s filtering lightly through my blinds and casting a much-needed healthy glow on Buffy’s visage on my TV during my repeated viewings of season six.

Nevertheless, I maintained the pool and stayed current with all that costly and time-consuming extraneous pool maintenance shit for — well, a lot longer than I probably should have — in 2008.  Part of that was because there is nothing more exquisite and pleasurable for me than lolling around naked in moonlit water.  As such, I took advantage of the fact that this Arkansas fall has been unseasonably warm and that the pool was still usable until late September.

But I’ll also admit to not giving two shits about some pool-related things about which others are far more militant.  In point of fact, I pee in the pool and encourage other people to pee in the pool.

It’s not totally gross, though.  Fact the first: urine is sterile.  Fact the second: there are tons of chemicals in that pool killing all kinds of microorganisms all the time.  Fact the third:  I would rather not have small-bladdered four-year-olds running across my hardwood floors 7.6 times an hour to go inside to pee, dripping water all over the place.  Fact the fourth:  I would rather not have drunk 40-year-olds lumbering across my hardwood floors 7.6 times an hour to go inside to pee, dripping water all over the place.  Fact the fifth: alcohol kills lots of stuff, and I’m fairly certain the beer-to-pee ratio in my pool was in my favor most of the summer.



Back in Black

I’ve been wanting to dye my hair a dark, dark, dark color for a long, long, long time.  But usually when I’d mention it, I’d get either stares of horror or well-meaning insistence that it Just. Wouldn’t. Work.

I had a theory, though.  First, my father’s family has quite a bit of Native American heritage, and it’s very, very obvious when you look at them: dark skin, dark or black hair, dark eyes.  This is true of one of my sisters, too.

But me?  Not so much.  Pale skin, blue eyes, and hair color that can only be described as, um, non-descript.  Honestly, I’ve been coloring my hair for so long that I have no idea what color it really is now.

The key here is that I have another sister.  And for better or worse, we look alike.  A lot alike.  In fact, I sometimes have this weird experience where I walk by a mirror, catch a glance of myself peripherally, and think for a couple of seconds that it’s my sister.  At first I always think, “How the hell did she get in here?  I’m sure I locked the front door.  Maybe I should check the garage.”  And then I think, “Wow.  We look a lot alike.  Except for the part where she’s several inches taller.  And has black hair.”

So I figured I could pull it off, you know?  Because, hello: identical.  (Except for the height thing.  She’s almost normal sized!)

And, as you know, I did it last night.  I didn’t have a particularly good reason, except that I was dressing up as a zebra and zebras don’t have red hair.  (FYI:  If your costume involves coloring your hair with permanent dye and wearing a banana clip in 2008, you might want to step back, take a minute, and reconsider.)

But it turned out okay!  There were a few touch-and-go moments, though.  When I tried to blow dry my unruly, curly hair out straight for the first time in what seemed like hundreds of years, there was a bit of a crisis.  Turns out I didn’t really remember how to use a round brush and it got completely entangled.  As a result, I stood in the bathroom with the brush ensnared in my hair and my hands on my hips while I debated whether or not to call Aunt Doodie and ask her to cut the thing out.  Once I finally muddled through that mess and realized that the round brush was a seriously bad idea, there was another problem — namely, that my hair was all crinkly and wiry from the bad blow job.  (Heh.)  So there I stood, looking exactly like Gene Simmons.  I debated forgoing the black and white zebra face make-up for something more appropriate — like this — but realized that I didn’t have a tongue prosthesis on stand by.

By today, however, things were looking up.  Some of the — well, whatever the equivalent of “brassiness” is with black hair dye — had given way to a color a tad lighter and less Simmonsesque.  And the ladies who came over for the post-belly dancing get-together were very complimentary.  I might keep this color for awhile.

Or I might go blue next week.  Who knows?

Note: I totally had this post finished before midnight, but I got all distracted by Justin Timberlake’s all-too-brief appearance on SNL that I had recorded earlier.  Oh, Justin!




1:52 pm · category: Aunt Doodie, Dog Days

Sometimes I help out at Aunt Doodie’s grooming shop. Since I’m not a groomer, the only thing I can do is bathe dogs.

But bathing dogs entails far more than you might think. For instance, every single dog has to have its anal gland expressed. You do this by grasping the tail and pulling slightly upward with one hand, then squeezing the gland behind the anus with the thumb and forefinger of the other hand.

It is exactly as disgusting as it sounds. Anal gland fluid is just like poop: it comes in all colors and degrees of viscosity and amounts. And the smell. Oh God, the smell.

After they’re bathed, most dogs are put under industrial dryers and/or fans to speed along the drying process. But some dogs — especially those with curly hair like poodles and Bichons — have to be hand dried. This is called fluffing. It’s tedious and time consuming, and the dogs usually hate it because they have what amounts to a giant blow dryer with a special nozzle aimed right at their faces.

So when I tell you I spent my day as a fluffer and digitally stimulated multiple anuses, I don’t want there to be any ambiguity.



Family Jewels

Aunt Doodie tells me that her dogs burrow under the covers each night and sleep nestled in her nether region.

“They do that because your crotch is the warmest part of your body,” I explain.  “If you’re ever in an avalanche or at risk for hypothermia, you’re supposed to buddy up and bury your head in each other’s crotches, sixty-nine style, because you lose the most heat through your head.”

“How do you know that?” she asks, the edge of suspicion clear in her voice.

“I learned it in the Army.”

“You weren’t in the Army,” Aunt Doodie notes.

“Okay, so I learned it in an Army movie.  Or maybe in Girl Scouts.  Anyway, that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

Aunt Doodie considers this.  “If I’m ever in an avalanche, I’m going to buddy up with Gene Simmons,” she declares.

“This conversation is over,” I reply, horrified.

The best part was when Aunt Doodie retold the story the following day and accidentally said she was going to buddy up with Richard Simmons.



Man’s Best Friend

11:59 pm · category: Aunt Doodie, Dog Days, The Whole Fam Damnly

I sometimes bathe dogs for Aunt Doodie at the grooming shop, despite the fact that I’m pretty much terrified of canines.  Sure, I’m slowly warming up to the species, but I’m still wary of them as a whole.

I have noticed that, much in the same way that married couples start to look like each other as they age, some owners and their dogs begin to present a more than passing resemblance.  I’ve also found a cocker spaniel that looks like my cousin Navy and a Pomeranian that could have been my mirror image.

Even more strangely, some breeds look like certain celebrities.  For instance, I have this theory that all pekingese look like Nicole Richie.  And springer spaniels who haven’t had their heads shaved look exactly like Jerry Stiller.

I call these dogglegangers.



The Night That I Fell in Love with (Being) A Roller Derby Queen*

Tonight I went to Bailey‘s (AKA “Daisy Fever‘s”) first roller derby bout, which was her first bout as a member of the Little Rock Derby Girls.

And, oh my God, I am in love.

I didn’t really catch on at first. I kept asking, “Who’s got the ball? I can’t even see the ball!” (FYI: There’s no ball in roller derby.)

But ten minutes into the bout I turned to Aunt Doodie — whose elbows were already carpet-burned from leaning and scraping against the “railing” at the rink during the bout — and delightedly exclaimed, “I have no idea what’s going on, but it’s all very exciting.” (If you can imagine a wide-eyed Anya delivering this line, you’ll have the gist of my tone and wonderment.)

I think what excites me about roller derby is the same thing I found appealing about professional wrestling way back when I used to follow WWE Pay-Per-Views around the Mid-South: the violence. Although I suppose that, in this instance, it’s more about the potential for violence. Let’s face it: girl-on-girl derby violence is a gozillion times more exciting because it’s for the sake of the game, rather than man-on-man wrestling violence for the sake of scripted entertainment. (Somewhere, a gaggle of niche feminists who just don’t get it are shrieking in horror.)

By intermission (Or whatever. There was a break, okay?), I had decided I had to be a derby girl. I was already envisioning my outfit and trying to come up with an appropriate name. There are just a few complications:

  • I’m old (34), and the vast majority of the derby girls I saw competing are in their early 20s.
  • I’m incredibly short and am not, in any way, an “imposing figure.”
  • I’m an overweight smoker who probably couldn’t make it around the track a single time, much less for two solid minutes in a pack of vicious young women intent on destroying me.
  • I can’t roller skate. (This is, um sort of a big barrier.)

But I’m still giving roller derby some semi-serious consideration, because there are clearly a lot of benefits: something to do other than work at the hotel and peruse the Internet; good exercise; an acceptable outlet for pent-up aggression — and much, much more.  (I’m assuming, anyway.  I’d probably get free nachos after the bouts if I were a team member.)

So this is where you guys get to weigh in. I figure I’ll at least give it a shot; that is, I’ll try to learn how to stay upright on a combined eight wheels, and we’ll see what happens from there. But I need a kick-ass character name to inspire me. There’s a looooong list of registered, in-use names here that can’t be used but might inspire. My favorites are names like “Sandra Day O’Clobber” and “Pound Anya,” which are nice plays-on-words that I find amusing. And I found an anagram-making site, which anagrams my name into “Rabbi Red Rots.” (I thought that was kind of cool and ironic, considering my “reverend-ness.”)

So, get creative and comment!

*Post title bastardized from the lyrics of a song by Jim Croce. And if you don’t have Jim Croce in your life, you are so missing out.



NOT Just Once in a Lifetime — Unfortunately

10:35 pm · category: Aunt Doodie

Tonight I watched 7 Things To Do Before I’m 30 on Lifetime. Zap2It synopsis: “One month shy of her 30th birthday, a down-and-out woman realizes she failed to accomplish a list of seven goals.”

I called Aunt Doodie to lament the fact that I was watching a Lifetime movie on a Saturday night. “Oh yeah?” she said. “Well, I’m watching the Miss America pageant. With Bailey and the baby. Because her husband’s out at a bar. Here we are — three intelligent, beautiful women — and we’re watching bad TV on a Saturday night. Which of us has got it worse?”

“Hmmmm. Bailey presumably gave her husband permission to go out to the bar, so she made a choice. And I worked all day and don’t really feel like doing anything, so I’m okay with it. I guess that makes you the saddest.”

“Well, don’t cry for me, Argentina!”

I don’t know why, but that made me laugh really, really hard.



Bored Now

12:37 am · category: Aunt Doodie, The Whole Fam Damnly

I don’t know what I was thinking with this whole NaBloPoMo thing. I mean, I don’t have 30 things to say, much less 30 interesting things to say.

Yesterday I had my sister post for me. (This involved giving her my user name and password, as well as dictating the post to her. If some crazy shit starts showing up here, it’s because of her.) I was too lazy to go home and was having too much fun continuing to gorge myself on leftovers to leave Aunt Doodie’s house. But I couldn’t not blog, because I’ve made this silly commitment and I’m kind of big on commitment.

In three days I’ll probably be writing posts that say, “This is my post for Wednesday.” But I will be posting.



Ta-Ra-Ra Boom-De-Ay

7:53 am · category: Aunt Doodie

Aunt Doodie (she of the mermaid hair) would like for you to know what she looks like right now, rather than what she predicts she’ll look like in 30 years.



Costume Party 2007

Rocco and I hosted a costume party on Oct. 27. Here’s evidence!

My cousin Mayme.

My cousin Bailey and her friend Paul (as Britney and Kevin).

Nick, Bailey’s husband (as Bailey, who’s on a roller terby team.)

Aunt Doodie (as herself in 30 years).

… and Rocco (as Robin’s gay vampire cousin*).

*That’s what he said he was dressed as. We just called him Dracula.