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!