Teaching Lessons To Old People

There is nothing better than a feisty geriatric. My grandmother is 97 years old and still cruising around at 80 year old speed. But what's better is that after nearly 100 years, she's earned the right to say and do pretty much anything she pleases. She could skewer a baby and microwave it and everyone would say "Awww, look at her push the buttons with her little old fingers!" And don't think for a second you can get away with gaining weight around this woman or you'll hear, "You're getting a big butt." and because she's older than dirt, it's perfectly acceptable for her to say that. I mean, what are you going to do? Turn around and look at this adorable little old woman and tell her to "Shut the fuck up before I slap the wrinkles off your face, woman!"? No, you smile and you say, "I know, Mammaw. I've been eating a lot of donuts lately. I'll try harder. Love you!"

Sometimes I just want to be old. Really super old. Not like 70. Seventy is the new 60. Nobody cares if you're 70. You can't get away with shit when you're 70 unless you're on your deathbed and with the life expectancy constantly lengthening that isn't likely. Why, you ask, would I want to step forward in time 70 years? Because I want to get away with shit. I want to say what I want to say without eyerolls or judgement. I want to get hugs for screaming profanities, insulting people and violating social mores!

Speaking of being seventy years old and violating social mores, I'd like to share my "What the fuck?!" moment I experienced yesterday. Allow me to set the scene:

So, I'm on my way to Cincinnati to audition for a commercial I'm likely to get called back for but never hired for...when I get hungry. Since McDonald's is so vegetarian friendly (FALSE), I decide to stop there. I pull up to the speaker and begin to order my balanced meal of a medium fry, a fruit and walnut salad and a medium Diet Coke when I notice that the car in front of me has stopped short of the pay window and the driver (a SEVENTY YEAR OLD WOMAN) has exited her vehicle and is slowly approaching my car. Oddly enough, I become frightened. What is she doing?! Is she going to shoot me?! Mug me?! Scold me for not eating enough protein?! AAAAH! The closer she gets, the more nervous I get. She might be dangerous! As I'm ordering my food, I'm cautiously watching her every move out of the corner of my eye, until she gets right.up.to. my rearview mirror and stops, apparently waiting for me to finish ordering. As soon as I'm done with my order, she leans into the speaker and says, "EXCUSE ME! I FORGOT TO GIVE YOU MY ORDER! I NEED A VANILLA MILKSHAKE!" By now, I'm sure the poor girl taking my order is completely confused because clearly this is not the voice that just ordered the medium fry, fruit and walnut salad and medium Diet Coke. Not only that, but this crazy not-old-enough-to-get-away-with-doing-shit-like-this woman is impeding my progress to procede in line by standing directly in front of my rearview mirror! By this point, I am too flabbergasted by this series of events, I can't even summon the courage to say, "excuse me, ma'am" or "get the fuck out of the way", so I drive slowly past her MOVING her with my rearview mirror. Nothing stands between me and food. Not even old ladies. Let this serve as a PSA: I don't care how old you are, if you get in my way in the McDonald's drive-thru, I will run your ass over.

Now, I'd just like to offer the disclaimer that if this woman had been, say, 107 years old, I would have given her a piggy back ride back to her car and fed her her vanilla milkshake because she would have been on this Earth long enough to earn such luxuries. However, because restaurant drive-thrus have been around for the greater part of the life of a seventy-year-old...this behavior is just unacceptable. It's not cute, it's annoying and I will not tolerate it.

Mannequin

Let the record state that I absolutely HATE shopping. Just thinking about stepping inside a mall makes me want to slit my wrists. I hate the music, I hate the people, I hate the salesmen and women and I hate the overwhelming selection of merchandise. However, I don't mind shopping when I have a $100 gift card. I can suck it up long enough to go on a mini shopping spree on someone else's dime. The only thing I (normally) hate doing worse than shopping is shopping with my two year old. But, like I said, yesterday I had someone else's money to spend and I wasn't about to let them down, so I bundled up my bundle of joy and headed to Macy's. I actually don't hate Macy's as much as, say, Abergoddamnedcrombie, because the music is much more subdued, the salespeople look like they actually eat and I'm not asphyxiated with the smell of bottled teenage libido. I digress.

As we walk into the beautifully decorated Macy's, with their garland and giant Christmas balls (I just wanted to say balls) and pretty, tranquil Christmas music, I am transported into nostalgia. I pretend that I am wealthy and that I live in New York City and I'm shopping at THE Macy's. Even though I'm in Castleton, Indiana and the woman next to me is missing one of her front teeth and is riding a Rascal. I am instantly at peace. Then my fantasy is interrupted by a tiny little voice.

"Mommy, whassat?!"

"What?"

"Dat!" she says as her tiny little finger points to a beheaded male mannequin knealing on the floor decked out in his best winter gear.

"Oh, that's a mannequin."

"What's he do-ning?"

"He's modeling some clothes."

"I like him. He's wearing a chacket (jacket)!"

"I know! He has a nice jacket. C'mon, let's go shop!"

We walk 50 feet and I hear the little voice again.

"Mommy, what she do-ning?"

"What's who doing?"

"The mexican!"

"The Mexican?"

By this point I was horribly embarrassed by my blatantly racist child, until she pointed to an emaciated female mannequin modeling a slutty outfit in the junior's department.

"Oh! You mean the mannequin!"

"Yeah, the mexican! I wanna touch her!"

"Ok, nice touches. We don't want to play mannequin dominoes."

We made our way around the entire store until she had touched nearly every mannequin. She particularly loved the ones with bare midriffs.

"Looka her belly! She has a belly button!"

It was clear that these large, petrified humans were very real to her. Our story takes a sad turn, however, when my sweet little girl had the innocence ripped right out of her little heart as she stopped in her tracks and pointed at some very unfortunate mannequin.

(Sad voice)"Mommy, wha-happen her hand?" she asked when she spotted one who's hand was screwed on all askew. "She needa band-aid?"

And with that, her fantasy was interrupted by a loud nasally voice.

"No, honey, she's not real. Her hand just screws on."

I'm Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

Hello, dear readers! I'm back! Quiet now. Calm down. Ok, more cheering! More! Ok, stop. You may be asking yourself, "Where the hell has this bitch been?" or "How did I survive without her for this long?" I will address these questions in reverse chronological order: I'm not sure how you survived without me, but clearly you did because you're reading this. I hope you feel better. In response to your (very rude) first question, I can't tell you where I've been because I'm now a part of the witness protection program. What? Blogging is a bad idea if you're trying to fly under the radar? Whatever, shut up. For lack of better excuses, suffice it to say that I took some time off to get older. This may be demonstrated by the fact that I will be turning 29 for the second time in four days. That's 31 in old people years, but whatever...this is my blog and I'll be 29 if I want to. In celebration of the second anniversary of my 29th birthday, I have created a timeline of my life for your reading pleasure. Because I'm really good at counting by fives, and exciting things (or not) happen every five years of my life, I will arrange my timeline as such. Shall we? (Cue time travel music)

YEAR 0: I was born on what I would presume was a very cold day in December of 1978. Make that the 11th. It very well could have been unseasonably warm that day, but stories of births are always much more fun when it's cold outside. So, anyway, it was cold. I popped out of my mother's birth canal at approximately 8:50 pm on a Monday (I think) night. I was probably gooey and bloody and screaming and according to records, I weighed exactly 8 pounds and was 21" long. I was a cute baby. My mother claimed to have tried to breastfeed me, but she didn't try hard enough and ended up feeding me sub par 1970's baby formula, which most assuredly contained Mercury and other cancer-causing carcinogens. I will never forgive her for this.

YEAR 5: Now, years 0-4 of my life were spent being cute, but something happened on year 5 and I started to eat more. I was still cute though and had very long (as in Fundamentalist Christian length) blonde hair. Despite the fact that I was a fat child and spent the greater part of the year in a cast because I decided to walk backwards down a hill and broke my ankle (thank you, 1970's baby formula for making me smart), I had a lot of success in kindergarten. I learned to share with others and even experienced my first kiss on the school bus en route to a fieldtrip. His name was Christopher and he had red hair and freckles and was about a foot shorter than me. We were a match made in misfit heaven. Kindergarten is also noteable because of what we'll call "The Worst School Picture Ever". I was in the process of losing my first tooth, but my baby tooth wouldn't get the fuck out of the way and make room for the larger tooth behind it, so I looked like I was wearing Billy Bob teeth. A fat baby with Billy Bob teeth, dressed up like a Fundamentalist Mormon on school picture day. My mother finds great joy in my kindergarten picture. I will never forgive her for this.

YEAR 10: Did I say that kindergarten was the year of "The Worst School Picture Ever"? That was a lie. By 5th grade, I was in full-fledged awkward mode. Not only was I taller than every.single.person.in.my.class., but I was fatter. And I had a bad perm. Also, do you remember those sweet-ass pink plastic framed glasses that were all the rage in the 80's? Yeah, I had those. And remember the Billy Bob teeth I was sporting in my kindergarten picture? I still had those, but by this time they were permanent. I also switched schools in 5th grade to a more hoity-toity school where the children didn't appreciate my kitschy awkwardness as much as those at my other school. Also, my teacher was a man. I had only had women teachers up until this point. I enjoyed my 5th grade teacher, because he cleaned his ears with his car keys in the middle of class. I thought he was an awesome guy, but a few years later he killed his wife and then himself. Not so awesome. Moving on...

YEAR 15: Ah, things are getting a little better on the awkward front. By this time, I had had braces and they were off. I lost weight and my perm grew out. I was actually kind of cute again. But despite the fact that I was cute, I was still a weird child (shocker, huh?). Always one with a desire to be "different", I experimented with odd combinations of clothing usually acquired at Goodwill. This always solicited snickers from snobby girls walking behind me in the hall, but whatever because I got my first boyfriend in 9th grade! We'll call him "Horrible Kisser" to protect his identity. Horrible Kisser invited me over to his house to watch The Last of the Mohicans and make out. He tried to put his hand down my pants, but I put him in an arm bar to foil his advances. He went to school the next day and told everyone that I clamped my legs shut. I will never forgive him for this.

YEAR 20: We'll call this the "Year of Poor Decisions". By 20, I had completed my first year of college, met a guy we'll call "Practice Husband" and became sperminated. Now, let me clarify that I don't consider my son (the product of said spermination) a "poor decision". Well, at least not until he pisses me off or doesn't clean up after himself. But for the most part, I consider him a "sound decision". Practice Husband, on the other hand, was a bit of a poor life decision. For the record, getting married at 20 is generally a bad idea. We hated each other and our marriage ended in violence. I gave him a black eye. Serves him right...I told him about the wire hangers, but he just wouldn't listen. That's not the real reason, but it's much funnier than the real reason...so for the purpose of storytelling, that's the reason. For the record, I HAVE forgiven him and we get along swimmingly now.

YEAR 25: After my divorce and a few years of reckless abandon, I finally started to act like a human around this time. Started to, anyway. I ALMOST fucked my life up royally by marrying a guy I'll call "Complete Douchebag". We were engaged for a whole month before I realized that my life would be over if I married him. Luckily, I got out of that one by the skin of my teeth and quickly moved on to the love of my life, my current husband who we'll call "Captain Awesome". We met on match.com. We're both cute, so we'd make an awesome commercial. We dated for eight months and decided to throw reason and good sense out the window and get married. So far, it's worked out pretty well. And we made another person. She's cute and she's 2 and she asks a lot of questions and has her father's eyebrows.

YEAR 30: Nothing really noteworthy happened this past year, but I finally feel like I'm "coming into my own" as they say. It sounds cliche, but despite the wrinkles slowly creeping up on my face, I feel like I truly am aging like a fine wine. Or 1970's baby formula...(pastey white and lumpy in spots?)

Whaling

So every once in a great while, I get fed up with my slovenly behavior and decide to clean. Since this is a rare occurance, I take the opportunity to clean my entire house as if my life were dependent on passing a white-glove test. It's a little obsessive-compulsive thing, this binge and purge cleaning cycle I go through. Anywho, so yesterday was Cleaning Day. I started upstairs and carefully worked my way downstairs, covering every inch. This took several painstaking hours and just as I was rounding the homestretch, dusting the bookshelf in the living room, I look out my front door and see an older neighbor lady I'd never met before, approaching the door. Through the storm door, she says, pointing to the playground 50 or so yards away:

"Is that your little boy down there?"

My first inclination when I hear this statement is, goddamnit...what has he done? He has ran over this poor old womans flowers with a scooter or taken a shit on her lawn. She's coming to have a "talk" with me about my poor child-rearing skills. But, no. I follow her pointing finger with my eyeballs to the playground, where indeed I see my son.

"Oh! You mean the one lying facedown in the dirt with the red shirt on? Yep, that's mine."

Old lady: "I think he's hurt. We saw him fall off the swing. My husband's down there with him...we didn't want to try to move him."

Because from my vantage point, I can't see him moving. I immediately went into panic mode. Oh god! He's dead! I frantically place my naked toddler, who was happily helping me dust, onto my hip and march down to the playground, where I assess the scene. My son is lying sunny-side down in the mulch and dirt, immobile. His shoes have flown off in some kind of protest to his defiance of gravity. One lies next to his head and the other 20 feet away. Again, I'm thinking 'shoes don't just fly 20 feet away unless someone's dead', but then he moved. Thank you baby jesus, he's alive....and WAILING. Not just crying, WAILING. I might even call it WHALING because it kind of sounded like someone was killing a large sea creature.

I ask him if he can move. No he can not. Where does it hurt? His arm! BADLY!

I ask, "How are your legs? Do they hurt?" (The legs don't hurt.) "Well, we need to get up so we can get you to the emergency room."

"I CAN'T MOVE!" (WHALE!!!)

I help my poor, freshly-paralyzed child to his feet, organize his transient shoes and thank the neighbors. I notice that he has a bloody nose and that the ARM HUUUUURRRRTS! He can't move it and is splinting it with his other arm. I get him home where he decides he wants to sit in the garage on a pool floaty and WHALE while I get myself and Naked Baby dressed. Mind you, the process of getting the both of us dressed only took about 10 minutes, but apparently when you have a life-threatening arm injury, 10 minutes seems like an eternity...and he let me know this by announcing (screaming) to our entire town, "MOOOOM, WHERE ARE YOU?!?! IT HUUUUUURRRTS! HURRY UP!"

At this point in time, I'm positively certain that he has snapped his arm bone in half, so I rush him to the emergency room where they set him up in a cozy triage room and give him an ice pack...which, of course, doesn't help at all and only makes it HURT WORSE! The nurse announces that she is going to take his vitals. He panics:

"What are vitals?!"

She explains what "vitals" are and he calms down...until...she begins to put the pulse monitor on his finger. He flinches:

"What's that?!" She explains what it's for and he is finally at ease.

Meanwhile, The Baby That Is No Longer Naked is screaming, "HUNGY! HUNGY!" I inform her that it is a bad time to be hungry, but she doesn't care. The Patient is also hungry, so the nurse is kind enough to give us graham crackers and peanut butter to keep everyone quiet. I administer crackers until the radiologist, Tequila, comes in to take pictures of The Boy's arm. Yes, her name was really Tequila. Because Tequila's job description includes contorting painfully injured limbs into creative positions in order to take photographs, she did just that...which led to more WHALIIINNNGG!

After 30 minutes of waiting (faster than Walgreen's!), our pretty arm pictures were developed and....

IT'S NOT BROKEN. What?! Take those pictures again! Did you hear him screaming? I want a do-over. This has to be a compound fracture!

Nope, he's fine! Here...have a sling and some drugs and give us $100!

Thank you, doctor.

America's Next Top Bottom

I sometimes think that I may be a gay man stuck in a woman's body. Exhibit A: I've never met a gay man I didn't like. I think that is because inherently, they know I'm one of them. Exhibit B: I like men. Exihibit C: I am part producer, part writer and acting full time in a show called America's Next Top Bottom.

As you can probably guess, ANTB is a spoof of America's Next Top Model. You'd be right. When I tell straight people the title of the show, I usually get that look where they cock their head to the side and their eyes glaze over. I've had a few women tell me that they'd be a great fit a contestant in our show because they have well-endowed derrieres. Nice try, ladies...but this ain't that kinda show. If you're still among the confused, allow me to apply some logistics to the situation. There are two (possibly three) types of gay men: Tops, Bottoms and the laid back ones that will either top or bottom (though, I've heard these are merely men of folklore). For you old-school folk, we're talking about Pitchers and Catchers. Still confused? Go ask your mom. I don't have time to teach you these things.

I digress. Our show is a competition aimed at crowning America's (or at least Indy's) Next Top Bottom (that'd be the Catcher for you slow-pokes in the crowd). Audience members will squeal with delight at they watch Tyra Skanks (Jay Hemphill) and Janice Dicklessone (yours truly) battle it out to stay on Top (baddum bum chhhhh!), ten diversified and hilarious bottoms vie for the crown and perform a dance routine with special guest choreographer Little Richard Simmons. I can honestly say that I have never laughed so hard doing a show as I have during this one and I can't wait for it to open tomorrow night! If you have good bladder control and think you can handle the gay-ity, make your reservations at Theatre On The Square, 317-685-8687!

Sexy Van

They say that the lord giveth and the lord taketh away. Well, back in 2003, the lords at a kind dealership in New Castle, IN giveth me (after the ink dried on that sheet where I said I'd pay several thousands of dollars) a bright and shiny new royal blue Dodge Neon complete with charcoal grey interior and a sweet-ass spoiler on the back to slow me down when I drove too fast. She had 84 miles on her when I bought her and I instantly fell in love with her. She might not have been the coolest ride in town and I was reminded by several dates that I had throughout the years that I owned her that only very, very fat girls drove Neons, but I didn't care. She and I were a team. She was there for me when the painkillers wore off after my boob job and I was coherent enough to drive, she drove me through my tears as I cried about the countless assholes that I dated in my single years and she took me to Steak 'n Shake on my first date with my husband. From there, she didn't complain when said husband and I asked her to take us to Georgia, where we lived for nearly two years and never grumbled when she had to carry us back to Indiana and then forth to Atlanta several times over the course of those two years. We took good care of her and she ran like a dream...until late last summer when I was driving downtown and she started to cough and decided she couldn't drive another mile, but she was still running. Her spirit was still alive, but the life in her was waning. I pulled over and delivered the news to my husband, who by the way loathed her very existence, that Blue Car was dying. We had her towed away from that dark parking lot that I managed to pull her into and later found out that her heart had failed (the transmission crapped out). We immediately called Dr. Car, my dad, who stepped in and performed emergency bi-pass surgery on her and she was up and running once again. What a trooper that ole gal was. She lasted another nine months and finally left this cruel, cruel world a couple of weeks ago. She left me, as I sat in her driver's seat, driving down the road...just like old times. Again, we had her towed to a transmission shop in hopes that we could afford a heart transplant, but alas we couldn't afford to save her, so we sold her dead body to the shop owner for a few hundred dollars and left to grieve in our own ways-my husband gleefully cheering on the inside and me, looking sullen and withdrawn. She kicked the bucked with 140,000 miles on her. That's my kinda girl...

We foolishly thought we might be able to swing another vehicle on our combined salaries, but since I only make a few hundred bucks a month at best, it was just that-a foolish thought. So, after a couple of days trying to figure out what the hell to do (we definitely need more than one car because Husband travels a lot and needs reliable transportation to the airport), we remembered that my father-in-law had an old van that still ran taking up space in his driveway. So, we called groveling, and ended up buying the van for $175 from my in-laws. This is the part where the proverbial lord giveth...

I never thought I could love a car as much as I loved Blue Car, but I'm like a giddy teenager in lust. If you ever get the opportunity to meet Sexy Van (as I now lovingly refer to him), you'll understand. Mind you, personality will always trump looks for me and if Sexy Van has anything but personality, I don't know what the hell it is. Sexy Van is a 1989 Ford Aerostar mini-van. Tan like the sexiest pair of chinos you've ever laid eyes on and replete with taupe, maroon and grey racing stripes down the side so it looks like you're going really fast, even when there is no hope of that ever happening. He's a MANual with the biggest stick-shift I've ever seen, sultry brown cloth interior and loose seatbelts. He smells like a cross between a mechanic's shop and old people and I fucking love him. He and I embarked on our first adventure together when I took him to Lebanon, IN for a play rehearsal. He was such a good, reliable boy and only misbehaved when I let go of his clutch in the Starbucks drive-thru. He doesn't like when I do that. Also, I learned that he screeches if I tried to put him in reverse and press on the gas without letting go of his clutch. He can't help it-he's an old cantankerous bastard. He also gets jealous easily. I swear I saw him snarl his grill when a shimmery new Caravan parked next to him, but he quickly calmed down when I pet his hood and told him not to pay any attention to those new-fangled soccer-mom sissy vans because he is the ORIGINAL. And that is exactly what he is and why I believe that I have such strong feelings toward him...he is original. He has sexy bumper stickers and a sexy sticky steering wheel but he's all VAN!

The Process of Natural Selection

Well, you might be wondering where I've been (or not, in which case...screw you). For the past week or so (or however long it's been since I last posted), I've been in Zimbabwe feeding tiny helpless orphans and helping old women cross the dusty, dirt covered streets. What? Oh. You've seen me since I last posted? Well, screw you too. The truth is, I've just been lazy. That and the longer I wait to post, the more glorious, exciting posts you get to read. I've decided to harvest the little gems that make my little mundane life worth living and stuff them like a squirrel would stuff acorns into his cheeks, like he's just waiting to vomit them all over you...covered in squirrelly slobber. Prepare thyself.

I fancy myself much like a cat with nine lives when it comes to irresponsible behavior. I am a bit of a risk-taker and luckily, to date the Darwinian gatekeepers haven't served me my "Weakest Biological Link" papers. I like to think that death by irresponsible behavior is simply natural selection in action. Perhaps the reason I haven't killed myself is because I am a prime member of the species with keen survival skills!

Allow me to cite examples:

Last week, after enjoying a rousing night out with one of my best friends EVER (whom hereinforeto shall be referred to as The German), I was pulled over for not using my turn signal. This is something I'm not good at doing anyway, but when you've had a couple of drinks, it's REALLY not a good idea to forget this important driving tidbit. Now, let me just state for the record that I was in absolutely no way drunk at all. I had three beers and several waters in a matter of approximately 6 hours. I was completely fine to drive and was in no way worried that I might go to jail. Well, that's kind of true. Why is it that no matter what you're pulled over for...even if you know you're not going to get in trouble...getting stopped by the police makes you shake uncontrollably, make stupid jokes and have to poop? Ok, maybe it's just me. So anyway, the cop takes my license and registration and begins to head back to his car when he stops just short of the back of my car and says, "Ma'am, I smell the slightest bit of alcohol...have you been drinking?" I explain to him the three drinks, many waters and six hours mathematical formula. Just as a precaution, he says, he wants to do the "pen test". I pass, he goes back to his car only to return, sans ticket, and request that I do the heal/toe line walk test. I explain that this is a lot to ask of me, as I'm not a graceful person anyway. He didn't care. He also didn't want me to hold my hands out like I was walking on a balance beam. Note to self. Despite the fact that my legs were shaking uncontrollably from nervous energy which probably made it appear as if I were drunk, I passed that test too and was sent on my way, unscathed. Whew!

Fast forward to the fourth of July. May I just mention that this holiday is the one day of the year when natural selection is out in full force? July 4th is natures way of thinning the herd. I'm not one much for statistics, but I bet a whole bunch of dumbasses die or are injured in some way on July 4th. I would like to state for the record that I am NOT a dumbass, hence (again) prime member of the species. Case in point: my family and I are enjoying a nice quiet evening sitting like a bunch of loyal rednecks would: in my brothers driveway, on folding chairs, Miller Lites in hand (cue Deliverance theme music). The men (notice I didn't say the women...) are head of the Fire and Festivities committee and are offering us the best show $10 can buy-bottle rockets, the things that make the little parachutes and the phallic looking ones that shoot up brightly colored balls of fire into the air. I'm sitting in my fancy Wal-mart foldy chair enjoying one of the phallic looking ones that shoot up brightly colored balls of fire into the air when said penis firecracker falls on it's side like a limp little penis fire cracker...but then continues to SHOOT BRIGHTLY COLORED BALLS OF FIRE RIGHT IN OUR DIRECTION! Let it be known that I HATE fire. It terrifies me. I won't even come within ten feet of a sparkler, but at this moment a giant, angry penis sparkler was threatening to kill me (and everyone else around me). So, what do I do? I RAN! In the opposite direction of oncoming death, knocking over Foldy Chair, tripping on my blanket and giving my friend Kelly a sharp elbow to the gut (he's fine). People, I was simply avoiding death...and what do my friends and family do? They LAUGH at me and make fun of me! Silly Carrie, running from fire! What a dumbass! Then I thought for a moment. I'm actually NOT a dumbass at all. My fight (or flight, in this case) response kicked in. I RAN FROM DEATH, while you sat there waiting for it, assholes. I WIN! I tried to explain this to all of them, but they only teased me more. Then my friend Kelly said, "Carrie, you can't spend your entire life living in fear." To which I responded, "Oh yes I can. It's served me well for 30 years!"

Lesson learned. Be smart. Be afraid...be very afraid. Darwin would have wanted it that way.

You're so vain...you probably think this blog is about you...

Today's topic, kids, is vanity. Doesn't a blog, by its very nature, represent vanity?

I'm very vain. As a matter of fact, just today, I threatened to end a relationship with one of my best friends if she continued to tag me in unflattering photographs on Facebook.
I can't control my vanity. I was raised by a very vain woman-we'll call her Mom. I would sit for what seemed like hours to my tiny little brain, watching my mother meticulously apply her make-up. I had her routine memorized. Always the same order, same colors, etc. She went through a particularly long, tramatic phase we'll call the Blue Eyeliner Phase. We line the top lashes with one socially acceptable color and the bottom INSIDE eyelid with bright Blue Eyeliner. Always the bottom, inside. Why, I don't know, but this phase lasted well into the '90s when everyone else stopped wearing Blue Eyeliner. I tried to talk her out of it because I knew she was misguiding me. I think I tested the Blue Eyeliner theory one time and that's when I knew she was wrong. I could devote an entire blog to her hair, as well...but I'll spare you. However, despite her misgivings, my mother created a vanity monster. I am a big advocate of plastic surgeries and wrinkle creams. I would have pickled myself in formaldahyde at 22 if it wouldn't have resulted in my immediate death (death isn't pretty!).

Another result of the vanity gene is the constant need for others to recognize me for being vain. This is where being an actor comes in. Acting feeds the monster. I like to blame everything on my parents, so in addition to blaming my vanity on the hours I spent watching my mother apply her face, I tell people that she didn't hold me enough as a baby and that's why I vie for everyone's attention. A new actor-friend of mine said something along the lines of, "Is it just me or do all actors have a micro-orgasm when they read their name or hear someone say it?" You're not the only one, new actor-friend. Did someone say Carrie? OH! Yes! Right there! Again! Yes! OH! OH! See?

So, I would like to dedicate this blog to my mom. Thank you mom, for teaching me that you should always meticulously apply your face before gracing the world with your presence for the day and for subsequently taking so much time applying said face that you forgot to hold me, because I turned out so much better for it!

I have and infestation of bathroom gnomes. Once every two or seventeen months, I get the urge to scrub my bathroom top to bottom and organize all of my toiletry items that line my expansive bathroom counter. Then, without fail and in the balmy darkness of the night, the evil bathroom gnomes start infiltrating. Their favorite thing to do is wreak havoc on my countertop. They take lids off of things, leave make-up, Q-tips and accessories everywhere. When I say "bathroom gnomes", I mean me. I keep a messy bathroom, I'm not gonna lie. Actually, I'm a messy person in general, but my bathroom sloth is the one I take most pride in. The bathroom is where I create. An artist cannot be bothered with organization. At least that's my motto.

Getting to my point. Last night, I came home from an evening with friends, perhaps still a bit tipsy. Now, I've come to realize that the greatest revelations occur when you've had a few drinks and last night I had just such a revelation. Before I began washing my face and performing the pre-bed ritual, I needed a bobby pin. Just one bobby pin...

I like to make a game of finding bobby pins in my bathroom. It is one of my favorite things to do. If I were an organized person, this wouldn't be a fun game at all because I would know exactly where to find the bobby pins-all neatly stacked in a row on the manufacturer's card or in some tidy little plastic tote or a girly little basket...you get the idea. Well, fuck that. There is nothing that I love more than fishing for bobby pins in Lake Bathroom. It's much like hunting. Not that I've ever hunted, but I get the general idea of how it works. The hunter stalks it's prey, lurking in dark places, being all stealthy. Only, I don't hunt like that. I shove shit out of my way, throw things on the floor, over my shoulder. Land where it may, I'll not be stopped until I find that one, glorious little bobby pin. And never fail, I ALWAYS find one. They're everywhere. Like thousands of little fish in the sea. It's one thing in my life I can always depend on-I never lose at bobby pin fishing. Admittedly, I do promise myself that I will at least attempt to keep them neatly stacked on the little card they come on, but I don't even know why I bother trying. I think next time I'll just pull them all off the card as soon as I get it home, close my eyes and throw them up in the air. It's like restocking the pond...

Hello Fellow Aliens!

Last night I got an eyeful of one of the best movies I've seen in a long time, Religulous. I'm a little slow and it only occurred to me right before the movie started that "religulous" is a play on "ridiculous". I know...I told you I was slow.

Just to offer a little background on my beliefs, or lackthereof as it were...I am an atheist. I have no qualms about admitting that. I believe that long, long ago some space particles made sweet explosive love and things just kinda started happening. I don't believe in any sort of intelligent design whatsoever. I have many more intelligent things to say on the topic, but I'll spare you. That being said, I wasn't raised practicing any sort of organized religion. God was rarely, if ever mentioned in my family. To date, my mother claims to believe in god, but loathes organized religion and the last conversation I had with my father on the topic, he claimed to align himself with some sort of ideology loosely based on Scientology. I think he made it up, I'm not sure. All I know is it involved us being aliens from another planet. And you wonder why I ended up the way I did? Ahhh, I love my dad...

Anyway, back to Religulous. So in the movie, Bill Maher travels around to various religious hotspots in the world, interviews various persons affiliated with said religious hotspots and attempts to blow holes through their logic. It is at the same time, hilarious and mindboggling. I subscribe to the same school of thought that Mr. Maher does: How on Earth can an otherwise completely intelligent, logical, reasonable mind believe in something so absurd? Of course, if you're a person of faith, you might ask the same about me (that is if you believe that I am intelligent, logical and reasonable). At one point in the film, Bill interviews a high (very liberal) priest at the Vatican and asks him how you can convince believers of the incredulous loopholes in their belief system. The priest says something to the effect that you can't...you just have to let people continue on believing their crazy ideas. I accept this and you, dear readers will have to accept this of me and I will, unfortunately have to continue allowing my father to believe that he's an alien. Oy.

Missed Connections

How does that saying go? "Don't frown because you never know who is falling in love with your smile"? I was going to write a big long post about how my kids woke me up too early this morning and how I'm in a grouchy mood, but instead I decided I would share with you one of my guilty pleasures and an awesome lesson that it taught me.



A friend of mine once told me about the trainwreck/hot ghetto mess/awesomeness of the "Missed Connections" section of craigslist and now I'm addicted. For those of you who aren't familiar, this particular section is for people who have met or seen someone in passing and didn't have the balls to speak to them at the time, so they place a Desperately Seeking Susan ad on craigslist in hopes of finding them. The ads are at times hilarious, heartwarming, sad, completely ambiguous and often a little frightening...



Last night I introduced this little gem to my husband and started reading some of the funny ones out loud in different voices to amuse him. Fun times. Then I came across this particular ad:

Friday Night at the Vollrath - m4w - 27

We were standing next to each other at the bar on Friday night, hoping to eventually get the attention of one of the bartenders. You tried to make small talk with me, but unfortunately, I'm about as good at small talk with a cute girl as I am at...well...at coming up with similies, since I can't think of one that's appropriate for this situation. But let's just say it's bad. You might have picked up on that when I failed to make eye contact, or when I rudely went ahead and ordered my drink before you, or when I walked away without even introducing myself or offering to buy you a drink. Yeah...I fail THAT bad.

The problem is, I already noticed you a couple of times, and everything about you made me weak in the knees. The cute patterned skirt, the grey tights and flats, the tattoos, the adorable
smile. So I was immediately aware that the super cute girl was standing next to me at the bar and I didn't know how to proceed. You were even nice enough to give me a second chance to redeem myself by flashing me another adorable smile in the pool room later in the evening.
Obviously, I blew all of my chances though, since I'm now looking for you through Craigslist.

I don't know if I was even reading your signals right. Maybe you were just trying to make idle chit chat and have someone to keep you company during the lengthy wait. But if you're so
inclinded, you should get in contact with me. Or perhaps I'll see you at the Vollrath again
soon?

By the way, so I know it's really you, tell me what the tattoo on the back of your left arm
and/or what drink I ordered that prompted your response of "Oooh, fancy, fancy".

I swooned like a little school girl when I read this. How freakin' adorable is that story? Not only that, but it teaches us some very valuable lessons. 1) Looks can be deceiving. This poor girl, who was trying her best to get this clueless man's attention, probably just thought he was disinterested, when in fact he was pining after her too and just didn't have the balls to say anything. 2) I can't stress this enough, gentlemen. When you see a cute girl...say something to her! Introduce yourself! What's the worst that could happen? She might kick you in the balls...but to my knowledge no one has ever died from that. Also, if she turns you down, all you have to say is, "Whatever, I was just kidding." and then knock her drink onto her dress and walk away. It really is a win-win situation...3) Always be the best person that you can be. Be kind. Be genuine and don't frown...because you never know who is falling in love with your smile. :)

Foster's Home For Real Neighborhood Children

Recently I've felt an awful lot like a foster mother minus the nice accompanying stipend normally paid to foster parents. It's not an easy job raising all of the neighbor children, but I'm hanging in there like a champ. As a matter of fact, today I inherited another subdivision orphan. He's smallish and hopefully won't eat as much as the rest of them...

Fortunately, all of the children that my son invites over are well behaved...almost to the point of being comical. As I was feeding half of central Indiana the other day, I made the mistake of mentioning to my son and in the presence of the neighbor girl that I has strawberries for LATER. To which said neighbor girl responds longingly, "Oooooooooooooooh, I just LOOOOOOVE strawberries. They're my favorite." Note that I don't want to give everyone strawberries, but rather would like to reserve them for a delicious family treat LATER. I wipe the sweat from my brow when I realize that Hungry Neighbor Girl's strawberry craving has apparently subsided...until five minutes later when she asks, "So, where are those strawberries?" Bless her little heart...she fought back the temptation monster as long as she could. So, being the sucker that I am (thank you Carol Brady), I gave her strawberries. I just really hope that the government realizes what a service I'm doing for the poor destitute children of my community and starts to throw some cash my way, 'cause now I'm out of strawberries...

Joan vs. Carol, ROUND I

Welcome to Thursday, kids! You made hump day your bitch and now you're well on your way to conquering yet another day in your quest to reach the weekend.

I have absolutely nothing exciting to talk about today, so I'll just go ahead and talk about boring stuff and make it sound interesting....

Last night, I informed my children that bedtime would be promptly at 9:30 pm. I've been pretty lax about bedtime so far this summer, so naturally...

"(insert whiney voice) Whyyyyyyy?" asks my son.

"Because Mommy needs quiet time," I say.

"That's not fair! You're gonna make us go to bed early so you can have quiet time?"

At this point in the game, I'm losing. He's got a point. But then again, I'm the Mom, damnit! You'll go to bed at 3:30 pm and like it! No, bad Mommy. It's summer, let them stay up late.

See, I perpetually deal with this internal Mom-struggle. It's like I've got Carol Brady on one shoulder and Joan Crawford on the other. Carol won last night-I didn't get the kids to bed until after ten. Then, Joan wanted a beer. We were out. Carol won that one because good Mommies don't get drunk after the kids go to bed. Then...

Joan says, 'Ooooooh, let's watch Secretary!'

Carol: Oh, I dunno. That's kind of soft-core, isn't it? S & M? I don't know...maybe we should just enjoy a quiet evening of a little chit-chat with Facebook friends and then an early bedtime.

Joan: Carol, stop being such a twat. WIRE HANGERS!!!!!!!!!

Carol: Noooo! Please! Not the hangers again! FINE! I'll cover my eyes when they show the dirty parts...

Joan: 1/Carol: 0

Secretary is a really good movie. I highly recommend it...

Spoilers, Screaming and Cocktails

If you're reading this, you survived a day without my glorious blog. Congratulations, you get to move onto the next level!

I was incommunicado yesterday because I was being filmed for a scene in the Indy indie, Freight. It's a quaint, heart-warming story about four people who attempt suicide to escape their sordid existences. I do not portray one of the four, but rather a church-going woman implicated as having an affair with the pastor of my congregation. I don't wanna give away too much, but the pastor is actually doing my husband and so then the pastor attempts suicide to keep his naughty secret hidden. Oh wait...I've revealed too much, haven't I? Whatever...you weren't going to see it anyway...

So today I'm home and my husband left this morning for another business trip. Yippee! I get so accustomed to having his help tag-teaming with the kids, that when he leaves I sort of feel like I'm riding a feral rodeo bull naked and without a helmet. Remember in the movie Dumb & Dumber when Lloyd breaks out his "most annoying sound in the world"? Well, obviously the writer of that movie has never heard the resulting ear-splitting screech of a two-year-old girl being chased by her ten-year-old brother. I truly wish that my son understood the meaning of personal space, because clearly my desperate screams to "STOOOOOOOOOP!!!! STEP FIFTY FEET AWAY FROM YOUR SISTER BEFORE I KILL YOU!!!!" are not getting through to him. If you have any handy tips on how to accomplish this, please leave them in the comments section. Also, if you have any tips on how to explain to your bawling toddler that the shoes she is trying to fit on her chubby little feet are too small for her and aren't going to fit no matter how much you cry or how many times I try to "Hepp you! Pweese!", leave those too. Mommy is not the magic cobbler. If I were, I'd create some special shoes that would teleport me to the bar, because Mommy needs a cocktail.

Munday, Mundane

Goodbye exciting weekend. Hello Monday old hag. Whomever created the ever-loathed first day of the week should be shot. That's not an opinion, that is a fact. Since Mondays suck so badly, I'll fondly reminisce about my weekend...

Ever lose something for a really long time and then, like magic, it reappears randomly? I had that happen on Friday with a necklace that I've been missing for months. It was lying all by itself in the bottom of my closet like a little worm on the sidewalk after a rainstorm. I like to think this was a pleasant gift from Karma Claus, because on Thursday I bought a gallon of gas for a broke pregnant woman. See? I told you karma existed. Also on Friday, I was cast on the spot for the Indy Fringe Festival play, Stetson Manifesto. The script is great and the message is awesome. Can't wait! Directly after my audition, we had our best run ever of Sorry, Wrong Number. I'm declaring this past Friday the new Good Friday.

On Saturday, I got to experience the Indy Gay Pride Festival. It was a lot less naked than I thought it would be, but there was no shortage of shirtless, hairy, obese men in black leather-so I was not disappointed. I now believe the the cure-all for bitter, angry people is to attend Pride. I am a doctor and that is your prescription. Regardless of how you feel about the gay community-I don't even care if you're a Southern Baptist-White Supremicist, something at Pride will make you smile....even if it's just the bright colors. I have to admit that I'm a wee jealous of the gays and their monopoly on the rainbow, but as my friend Bill says, "Yeah, but you guys get black, tan and gray..." I do love me some neutral colors. Touche, Bill, touche.
Saturday evening proved to be very educational at my friend Daniel's party, where I was burned by someone's ear (yes, it can happen) and taught my friend Ben that six-pack abs are, in fact, NOT genetic and do not lend themselves to the evolution of our species. I'm useful!

Sunday was dia de recovery. That's "recovery day" for you non-Spanish speakers. Boy, was I dragging ass. Somehow I pulled it together for our Sunday matinee (is it just me or does the word matinee look a lot like manatee if you cross your eyes and shake your head back and forth really fast?) of Sorry, Wrong Number. Afterwards, I came home, exchanged pleasantries with the in-laws for a few hours and crashed at 10 pm. Which leads us to ...

Monday morning. Screw you.

Happy Dances Galore!

It's a VERY exciting time! Reasons I am excited:

1. Tonight, I am auditioning for what promises to be a great Indy Fringe play, Stetson Manifesto. I've never met the director, but according to him I inspired him to do the show. Because of that, I think it's only fitting that I get a role in it. If not, I'll punch him in the Adam's apple and run.

2. Tomorrow I get to experience the Gay Pride Festival for the first time ever. I can't begin to tell you how thrilled this makes me. I love gays and I love festivals and when you put the two together, add the quadratic formula and multiply it by pi and booze, that equals magic and nudity. What could be better?

3. Tonight and Sunday I get to dress up like a trollop from the 1940's and wear red lipstick in Spotlight Players' production of Sorry, Wrong Number. Red lipstick makes me happy.

4. Myself, along with Ron Spencer (artistic director of Theatre On The Square) and fabulous fellow actors, Jay Hemphill and Dannon Crews are writing and producing Indy's premiere of America's Next Top Bottom-a theatrical reality spoof of America's Next Top Model only with more fabulousness! We're holding auditions on Monday and Tuesday June 15th & 16th from 7-9 pm at Theatre On The Square. Prizes will be awarded to the winner, so if you (or any other attention whore you know) think you have what it takes, be there! It's going to be ridiculous (in an awesome way!)

5. One of my doula clients is about to pop! Yay, babies!

Have a splendid weekend, readers!

Reasons You Should Have Children...

As I'm typing this, my 10 year-old son is cleaning my bathroom from ceiling to floor, including the toilet. Don't worry, I've spoken to Kathy Lee Gifford and I'm not violating any child labor laws...she should know.

See, I normally don't ask my son to do many chores other than to clean his room on occasion. However, this week he's grounded because of an incident we shall refer to as "The Incident". He was bad, very bad. His grounding was to extend until 4:30pm tomorrow (one week from the time of "The Incident"). Then the dim little lightbulb over my noggin popped on with gleaming brightness (that means I got an idea). Utilizing my superb negotiating skills honed from several years working as a buyer, I approached my supplier. "Son, you're bored and want to be ungrounded so you can play outside and watch T.V...Mommy has a filthy toilet. Wanna clean your way out of little boy hell?" We shook on the deal-he's ungrounded as soon my bathroom sparkles. It worked like a charm and he's doing a fabulous job! I should ground him more often...

When Dr. Phil Molests You

Benadryl does funny things to the sleeping mind.

First of all, I would just like to sing the praises of Benadryl as a sleep aid. It's non-addictive, practically harmless and makes you sleep like a hibernating bear (at least it has that effect on me, but I could pop a baby Tylenol and it would knock me out).

Let us back up for a moment, shall we? Notice how I said that Benadryl is "practically" harmless? That's because last night I got stuck in an elevator that spun like a washing machine and was molested by Dr. Phil. It was one of the most frightening dreams I've ever had. Getting stuck in an elevator that spun top to bottom and made washing machine sounds paled in comparison to a wild-eyed Dr. Phil frantically chasing me down a corridor trying to grab my goodies. He was ANGRY and I was screaming to any passersby, "Stop Dr. Phil! Bad touches! Bad touches!" I feel sorry for his wife if this is the way he is going to behave. Not very gentlemanly, Dr. Phil. Ask me out to dinner and I might think about it. As a matter of fact, I think that bastard is the one that rigged the demonic elevator to stop with me in it! What I wanna know is where the hell was Oprah when all this was going on? She would have saved me, right?

The good news is Dr. Phil never caught me or touched my goodies because in my dream I could run at the speed of light. Oh, and I got an awesome night's sleep. Thank you, Benadryl!

Karma Is A Dirty Whore

I believe in karma much like a ten year old boy believes in Santa Claus. You know it's not really real, but you're going to keep on pretending that it is because it's fun and you get presents. Only, in the karma sense, your presents can be pretty shitty sometimes. Yesterday I was vomited upon by karma. Apparently, somewhere along the way, I unknowingly tripped an old woman and then kicked her on her way down or messed up The Dalai Llama's chi or something, because boy did I ever get it...

The highlight of my day was when, at 9pm, I arrived home to find that I'd locked myself out of my house. I've locked myself out of lots of things, but an entire house is not one of them. So, naturally, I called my husband (who is in Atlanta) for help. Instead of immediately hopping on a plane to come unlock our front door, he instead sends me to the neighbor's house for a phone book and maybe some handy tips on breaking and entering. Unfortunately for me, this couple are nice upstanding members of society not adept at burglary, but they did have a phone book. So I call the first number under "Locksmith". They're fast and efficient, assigning me a "technician" almost immediately. The guy says he'll be to rescue me in 25 minutes. Twenty-five minutes come and go. It's now past 9:30 and I'm hanging out in my driveway with a hungry, sleepy, spastic two-year-old that insists on pushing every single button on the dashboard of my car, so I call the guy. Mr. Guy barely speaks English and promises me he'll be to rescue me in 7 minutes. Seven minutes come and go. Mr. Guy calls. He's lost. After a few interesting rounds of "spell the name of your intersecting streets" and with the help of his GPS device, he finds me. Yay!

Now, when I think of the word "locksmith", I envision a man melting metal and pounding out fancy skeleton keys with mallets and such. I figured he would have some handy-dandy metal contraption that he would insert into my door knob and effortlessly unlock my door, charging me $15. When he inserted what looked like a blood pressure cuff into the door jamb and charged me $160, I was subsequently jarred from my little medieval fantasy world. Did you say $160? Because I was going to suggest that I pay that much. Thank you, sir...my ass still hurts.

Hopefully, I'm free and clear with Karma Claus, at least for a while. I'm going to go save some orphans for good measure...

Grrrrrrrrrrrr!

Sometimes I wake up pissed off and looking like a Basset Hound, despite the number of hours of sleep I've had. Today is one of those days. Usually, this "condition" wears off after a few hundred cups of coffee, but I thought I'd let you experience the storm before the calm...

There are a few reasons for my wrath this morning. A. I have PMS. B. It occurred to me before I even took my pink polka-dotted eye mask off (yes, I wear one...don't you judge me), that I have several library books that are so overdue it might be time for them to take legal action. This complete disregard for library book due dates is a little compulsion of mine. I don't think it's entirely voluntary. Something in my brain says "fuck you" to that little date printed on the receipt they hand me with my books. I don't normally resist authority, so I think this is my brain's feeble attempt to be a hotshot. After this, I've got to go sell one of the kids on craiglist to pay the fine. Thanks, brain. Asshole. C. Unreliable people. Yeah, I know that totally just went off on a tangent about how unreliable I am, but do as I say...not as I do. Besides, libraries don't have feelings...people do. In other words, people, shit or get off the reliability pot! D. My husband is out of town AGAIN.

*Sigh* I feel better now. Things are starting to look up! After all, the absence of my husband means I don't have to clean a damn thing until an hour before he comes home, and then I'll pretend I've been slaving away keeping the house tidy the whole time *giggle*. Also, I've got a meeting tonight to go over plans for an awesome new theatre project (details coming soon)! And just now, I have a beautiful little girl with a big blonde afro staring at me with big brown eyes saying "HUNGY! HUNGY!" So, I guess that means I need to go feed her. DCFS looks down upon you if you starve them...

Have a swell day, readers!

Angry vegetarians, etc.

So, this is my eleventy billionth attempt at starting a blog. Ok...that's a lie. This is only my second time, but this time I have made a solemn vow to myself and anyone who chooses to follow my blog, to be nothing but entertaining. If you've come to my blog looking for structure, well, you'll be sorely disappointed. Some choose to blog about one particular topic. Not me. No, sir. Welcome to the garbage disposal that is the "Life of Rainbows and Sausages". Prepare to have your sensibilities offended...

A wise, chubby, little kid on the hit reality show Wife Swap once said, "Life ain't all rainbows and sausages." And thank goodness, because who wants a bunch of greedy leprechauns and pissed off vegetarians running around ruining everyone's day (disclaimer: I have nothing against vegetarians, pissed off or otherwise. I have lots of vegetarian friends. I even tried to BE a vegetarian once, but it turns out that I really like meat a lot). I digress. This fat little kid was onto something...life certainly isn't all "rainbows and sausages", but that's not going to stop me from pretending that it is!

Who the hell does the broad think she is? Well, dear reader, you've answered your own question. I am nothing more and nothing less than a "broad". My self-censor is in the shop. I'm cranky. I'm crass. I curse. I drink tea with my pinky tucked IN. I'm a crunchy free-thinker, a birth doula, an awesome mom, a lousy housewife, an actress and playwright. I'm eccentric and I don't fit the mold. I'll keep you on your toes and make you laugh. I might even offend you. Enjoy!