The Does

I can always spot my kind from a mile away.

Last night, I saw them from the window at a bar in Sandestin. In the middle of an all-American moment (ice cream cones! Matching Polos!) there were purple and neon blonde wigs and tequila shots. 

Yes, my people. Having arrived at Sandestin a few hours prior, we were waiting for a table at one of the restaurants. So we ordered drinks and waited. Next to us sat these ladies, with their ginormous disco bling and loud laughs and martini glasses. 


When we were called to our table I did my usual "one minute" my family is used to. "I need to talk to them."

The women are called "The Does." They're from Louisiana, and they travel together. A women's hunting club. "That's why we're the Does, baby," one said.

"And you really hunt?" I asked. "Yep, and we're good shots," another replied, holding up her hand like it was a rifle. She blew away the invisible smoke. Got it. 

"We're in talks for a reality show." 

"We leave our husbands at home." "You need to come to Mardi Gras with us. I own ____________ Hotel in the French Quarter. Dolly Parton was on our balcony last year."

"I'm 67 and I can Hula Hoop. Did you see me out there in the courtyard?"

When I asked why they were at this particular restaurant, one said, "Oh honey, I own this restaurant. Just checking on things."

Dirty jokes were shared. And then, when I asked them about the genesis of their hunting club, they broke into song. (Please note the last thing said: "Not Doe-Hos, DoDos.")


I asked to have my photo taken with them, and one of them quite matter-of-factly said, "You can't be in our photo. Not to be ugly, but you have to be initiated first. Where are you from again?" "Birmingham."

"Ug, Alabama. Go on and say it: LSU. LSU!"

Then one whispered: "Don't worry. I have a spare wig in my purse." 

My kind.