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. :)