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.