Denise McDonald Dorman

Posts Tagged ‘Sociology’

The Bree Van de Kamp of Butt Crack Maintenance

In Life Observations on June 15, 2010 at 7:59 pm

Per usual, my phone conversation this morning with BFF Christina Bouvier devolved into talk of bodily functions. Today’s topic: the proper way to wipe one’s ass.

There is no more hotly contested debate in our home than the one my hubby and I have over wet butt wipes. Dave is against them. I am for them. My argument–and it’s a sound one–is that no one uses dry toilet paper to wipe the ass of a baby.  Why on earth should that change when we become adults and there’s even more ass crack real estate to divide and conquer?

Dave’s biggest gripe is that I have influenced our son, who flat-out refuses to poop away from home unless he knows that wet wipes are awaiting him. This sends Dave non-linear. I say hey, it’s not like he’s asking for wipes moistened in unicorn tears! Pick your battles! (I have the same issue about pooping away from home, but that’s because my ass knows when it’s sitting on its own toilet. I’m not alone in this– traveler’s constipation is the #1 complaint amongst my friends. Every girl’s-only vacation, this gets discussed ad nauseum.)

My friend Julcia confided one day that her neighbor is the true Bree Van De Kamp of Butt Crack Maintenance. Julcia’s neighbor gives her ass the Silkwood Treatment every time she poops, literally spraying rubbing alcohol onto her toilet paper. I find people’s quirks downright fascinating. The quirkier, the better. Her MacBeth-like obsession is giving “Out, damned spot!” a whole new perspective.

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The FREAK in the Hot Tub

In Life Observations on June 11, 2010 at 6:25 pm

One magical summer during college, BFFs Christina Bouvier, Dee Meister and I really took advantage of our memberships at a local health club. It quickly became our second home. Our routine was a vigorous game of racquetball followed by the hot tub, and finally, the ultimate cool down: a dip in the Olympic-sized pool. Since this pool was renowned for its very showy competitive divers, it didn’t take much coaxing for me to do my dramatic Nadia Comaneci gymnast march across the lower diving board, reach the end, pause, pinch my nose with one hand and do a gigantic, splashy white trash cannonball. Even the lifeguard would look away, snickering.

Oddly enough, the hot tub was co-ed, located in an awkwardly shared space between the men’s & women’s locker rooms.  For a woman alone, this was not a safe place to be. Whoever came up with this brainchild must have been the person behind naming the Fifth Third Bank. If the hot tub was occupied by some strange guy, we simply walked past it and proceeded straight to the pool.

But here’s the thing: I’m the original freak magnet. If something bizarre and socially awkward is going to happen, the likelihood of it happening with me present is statistically and inordinately high. My colleagues theorize that I have a friendly face, and this somehow attracts it.  I think it goes beyond that. It’s some sort of aura I give off unwittingly: Freaks are Welcome Here. If there are 10 people in the frozen foods aisle and I’m the one with my ass sticking out of the freezer whilst inspecting the fish sticks, it will be my shoulder that gets tapped by a stranger asking the time of day, or which aisle houses the anti-itch creme. One day as I paid for my gasoline, a cashier proceeded to tell me about her abortion. I just nodded politely, a deer-in-the-headlights captive audience desperately in need of an exit strategy. Perhaps I missed my calling as a therapist, since people find the need to seek me out and assault me with their life’s non sequitirs.

Back to the health club. On this given day, BFFs Bouvier, Meister and I were all sitting around the perimeter of the hot tub, soaking our legs from the knees down. A Speedo’d man in his thirties entered the hot tub, and proceeded to go underwater in the middle of our threesome, holding himself in a tightly wound little ball. Bouvier, Meister and I all exchanged our WTF look, pretending to converse as though nothing were amiss. A minute went by, and we all started getting highly anxious. What the hell was this Man from Atlantis doing? And why?  And even more worrisome, did he require our assistance?

After some spirited debate, Meister came up with the best solution: “Let’s all hold our breath, and when we can no longer hold our breath, we will grab this guy and pull him out of the water.” Agreed. Brilliant. The three of us sat there, our cheeks puffed out like Louie Armstrong, reddening until we could no longer stand it. Bouvier was the last to exhale. We three stood up simultaneously to go into the water together and rescue this ass clown. He suddenly burst forth out of the water violently, like an angry, sebaceous cyst being popped. Although startled to the point of perhaps leaving a few drops of yellow water behind, we avoided making eye contact with this guy and continued walking past him and out of the hot tub, as though exiting was our original intention.

To this day, we remain perplexed by this incident. Every year, I check the Guinness Book of World Records. Thus far, the person with the record for holding his breath under water bears no resemblance to our guy. I’m just chalking it up to yet another stranger who felt comfortable letting his freak flag fly proudly in my presence.

Our Version of a Secret Society: The S.H.I.T.S.

In Life Observations on June 4, 2010 at 5:28 pm

One night I was on Ooovoo.com, doing a live Webcast on the topic of  “What I’d Do Differently” with 5 other women. My business phone rang in the background, so I ducked out of the Webcam shot for a moment to answer it. Reporting in were my Kotex Mafia, BFF Christina Bouvier, and our old Texan tennis drinkin’ buddy, Misty. They two of them had been imbibing–which is usually when they came up with these rock solid ideas–and decided we needed to start our own secret society.  In the meantime, my image online looked like the opening graphic to The Brady Bunch, with my talking head missing in action.

I ducked back into the Webcam shot, while still trying to speak to them out the side of my mouth like a ventriloquist. The electronic feedback gave me away,  disrupting the Webcast. In 30 seconds’ time, I helped them “brand” the club, which is what I do regularly for clients, so the hard part was done. I christened us the S.H.I.T.S.  (Shenanigans, Hijinks, Immaturity and Tomfoolery Society).  It was official. (I was never asked again to do a Webcast with that group of 5 woman, so my disappearing act must have created some discord.)

The first S.H.I.T. Tuesday meeting was just us…three kindred spirits. We jammed out to a competitive game of Rock Band and we wrote our S.H.I.T. S. Magna Carta.  That evening, as part of her hazing, Misty shared a personally embarrassing story. It certainly made me rethink any desire I once might have had to take up running. You see, Misty runs long distance every morning before sun up. Invariably, this agitates her bowels like gym shoes in a dryer. One morning she was just two houses away from home when she realized she could no longer hold it. She pulled one ass cheek of her silky micro running shorts aside and let that steaming missile drop like a WWII bomb over Dresden. Within a day, her husband was reporting that the neighborhood was abuzz with rumors of a potential coyote, wolf or bear who left its calling card in the neighbor’s front lawn.

So…lesson learned. If  my flat feet are preventing me from plopping biohazardous material in my neighbors’ yards, it’s likely for the best.