Aunty Christ and the life she's always wanted

“Yes, do tell us what it is you do, Aunty. It’s so rare these days that I meet a woman of leisure—and in my own family, no less!” —my father, Mr. Charles Gordon Windsor, Sr., as played by John Cunningham, in the movie of my life, Mystic Pizza, in which I was a handsome man and dated Julia Roberts. The quote isn’t exact, but to be fair, I am on a strident hormone regimen these days, due to the sex change, and it fucks with the memory recall.

Before I get into a detailed description of what it’s like being a woman of leisure, might as well do this thing that every blogger seems to do, which is list the hilarious search terms that bring people to my site. Ready?

Aunty rape by older man
Aunty in shower
Fuking (sic) aunties by son
Low cut blouse aunty
Hot aunty in blouse hot scenes
Hot aunty
Aunty blouse
Rand aunty

Hmm. There seems to be a theme, only I’m unclear on what it is. “Aunty rape?” “Aunty in shower?” “Low cut blouse aunty?” Ahh—I know: Indians are perverted for aunties! Yes, that’s right. All the above searches originated in India—and, let’s be PC about this, I know that in this day and age we can’t just go around making rash generalizations about whole groups of people, so let’s be specific: Indians with internet access are perverted for aunties! Oh, so glad I caught myself. I’d hate to look like a racist or nuttin.

No, actually I suspect something is going on here that I don’t understand. Like, maybe “Aunty” is the name of a hot character on an Indian soap? Or a slang term for “woman”? Help me out here, guys … anyone know what’s going on?

And if it is that Indian dudes are attracted to women whose siblings have children, um, that’s okay, if random, and a little too late for me. Or actually, I’m very happy with Rich Bachelor, but I won’t say I can’t be tempted with bribes of naan and dahl mahkani. E-mail me for more info. (Kidding, kidding!) No, but seriously: I have a shower! And a blouse!

Umm, what else? Oh, okay—toilets and relationships and two strange stories about such. Story one concerns a dinner party I was at a few weeks ago at a friend’s house. Seems one couple at the party enjoyed each others’ company so much that they even went to the bathroom together. Which isn’t so strange as the conversation that occurred after they had absconded to the tiny loo: “Does she sit and he aims through her legs, you think?” Not that we—any of us, really, but especially me—thought too hard about the peeing sitch, mind you (though I do seem to be obsessing over it now, don’t I? Hmmm …), but while at the time the sitting/through the legs combo seemed the most obvious, I recently remembered this website or something like it, which I first found long ago while “fact-checking.” I never tried it at the time, but as someone who’s constantly got urine dripping down her leg, I feel its time has come. (Or, perhaps a better endorsement: “As a busy woman who’s constantly got urine running down her leg, I care a lot about public funding for the arts.” Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not that busy.) And, back to the night I was speaking of, can you imagine anything cuter than a hetero couple pissing in the same urinal at the same time? It’s adorable! It’s family-friendly! Better still, it’s Focus on the Family friendly (so long as it’s within the bonds of matrimony).

Bathroom story two starts off with a long urban hike and lots of bottled water and quite a few Boddingtons. Rich and I were in severe bladder-related distress by the time we made it to the restaurant, and the men’s was occupied—so we both went in the women’s, did our dirty sinful business (by which I mean, made peepee potty), and left. The weird part came as we exited. Of course a lady was standing outside, waiting to use the toilet. Of course she was. Thinking all kinds of dirty thoughts about things that we did not do, I hasten to add, but were all in her head. But what did she say? She said, “Oooh, fancy bathroom.” As though two people going to the bathroom at the same time makes the bathroom, all of a sudden, fancy. Go figure. Well, I suppose we might have been hanging crystal chandeliers in there. In fact, that was probably her initial assumption. (Crystal chandeliers = fancy.)

Now I suppose it’s time to talk about my life as a lady of leisure, though frankly that sounds a little boring after the two kick-ass potty stories I just gave you. Let’s see if I can sum up in a few words what I’ve been up to lately.

Alcohol, hikes, sex, restaurants, yoga, long drives to see beautiful scenery, movies, drinking, saving the world with my brilliant ideas (like I said), reading wine lists, listening to live music, buying a crappy bike and then not riding it because it’s probably cursed because it was made out of/on top of Indian graves (but not the kind with the naan and the dahl, the kind who have voiced an interest in my blouse—sorry, Native American), thinking about doing stuff, making plans, sitting in bars, running, not working, writing, doing crosswords, hanging out, looking cool, going to brunch, reading blogs, reading the newspaper, and drinking.

So that pretty much covers it. If it sounds ideal, then yes, yes it is. If it sounds like a big waste of time, well, yes, it’s that too, thanks for noticing. I’ll probably have to cry now or something, but at least you were honest, and honesty is always said to be appreciated around here. One thing in particular about blogging and not working is that I find myself to be a lot more sensitive about hurtful comments people make on those sites where hurtful comments are plentiful. For example, I’ll be reading a perfectly fine celebrity gossip site, and one commenter will set upon another. The fight starts off being nominally about some celebrity hottie or another, but next thing you know it devolves into a running commentary about whose penis is nonexistent and whose isn’t, and then some bright shining star steps in and types those words that cut me, verily, to the bone: “U loserz must be rilly bored 2 waste ur tyme on this stoopid board!” But really, after spending many, many hours reading about Britney and LiLo and Paris, and then many more crying because someone I don’t know has implied that I am “rilly bored” because I’m spending so much time reading those stoopid things, I’ve come to terms with the fact that not everyone can be lucky enough to sit at a desk all day, working and such. Perhaps it’s strange, but I’m coming to view this damn unemployment affliction as something of a blessing, and not the wonderful, carefree, happiest curse it surely is.

Anyway, the good times are over now. I swallowed a bug.