Donate a Mirror to a Celebrity

There are all manner of appalling, heartrending tragedies all around the globe.  Here at iliketheworldfuzzy, we’re highlighting the sadly-neglected plight of celebrities without mirrors.  Throughout the year, but especially now during awards season, it is painfully obvious that many celebrities do not have that basic staple so many of us take for granted:  a mirror.  It is also clear that many do not have true friends who will tell them when they look completely ridiculous or when an outfit or hairstyle simply does not suit them, but there are some problems even the Little Blind Girl can’t fix.  So we’re taking up a collection to bring relief to the needy celebrities who appear to have no idea what they look like when they step outside the door and fall prey to the ruthless paparazzi.

These poor celebrities have no points of reference when attempting to apply the always-tricky smoky eye makeup technique.  They have no idea that the floral pants craze currently circulating among those with more money than sense looks absolutely horrendous and that such prints should stay on the bedsheets in the spare room where they belong.  Even the obscenely good-looking are not exempt.  Oh, Jessica Alba, beloved of this blog, had you no reflective surface before you got dressed in the morning?  Were you so distracted by your rugrats that you forgot to check your reflection before you left the house?    Or are you one of the many unfortunates deprived of that basic celebrity necessity?  Look at those pants!  We are in a state of emergency.  The need for mirrors among celebrities is dire, and the problem is only getting worse.

We can’t hope to fix the problem overnight, but we can give what we’ve got to help stem the tide of fashion and beauty disasters currently flooding the streets of Hollywood.  There are those whose bangs more resemble a crew cut than a soft fringe.  There are those who look at us innocently from behind raccoon eyes of excessive eyeshadow and mascara, unaware of their hideous plight.  How can we turn our backs on these suffering idols?  Take out your checkbooks, dig through your attics for old mirrors, and give back to those who have given us so much.  Give a celebrity a mirror, and help make the world (as represented by that cultural mecca, Los Angeles) a better place.  We here at iliketheworldfuzzy thank you, and with your help, we will put a mirror in the home of every celebrity.  Never stop trying, and keep on seeing the world fuzzy!


How I write for my blog

Deutsch: Der Denker durch Auguste Rodin. Grubl...

Image via Wikipedia

My legions of adoring fans often ask me, how do you write such incredible blog entries?  Well, two people have asked me what goes into keeping a blog.  So I thought I’d post a breakdown of how I spend my time while drafting a blog entry:

1.  Trying to think of hilarious ideas for blog post:  15 minutes

2.  Criticizing all ideas thought of as lame, boring, and/or ridiculous:  10 minutes

3.  Picking least lame/boring/ridiculous idea and beginning blog post:  3 minutes


4.  Drafting first half of blog post, thinking, “Actually, this isn’t half bad.  I’m really quite brilliant.  This is going to be hilarious!”:  20 minutes

5.  Finishing draft of blog post, thinking, “Good God, this was a suck idea.  What on earth possessed me to write about this?”:  15 minutes

6.  Saving draft of post just in case:  2 minutes

7.  Surfing other people’s sites for inspiration and becoming increasingly dispirited at how much better their blogs are than mine:  20 minutes

8.  Wandering off to get a snack and maybe watch some videos of frogs playing Itunes apps on YouTube by way of distracting myself from my inferiority:  30 minutes

9.  Playing Itunes apps on ipod and trying to beat frog’s high score:  15 minutes

10.  Reorganizing my shoes:  15 minutes

11.  Reluctantly returning to my blog and re-reading my blog post, thinking “Well, I doubt I’ll come up with anything better, so I might as well go with this”:  10 minutes

12.  Finding suitable image for blog by typing into Google such word combinations as “cat sock surgery” and “funny sunglasses restaurant”: 10 minutes

13.  Reviewing finished draft, looking up whether “alcohol-induced” has a hyphen (it does) and hesitating over whether I want to reveal to my readers my lack of talent once and for all:  15 minutes

14.  Publishing post:  1 minute

15.  Responding to comments and apologizing to people I’ve offended with said post and comment replies:  well into next day

So there you have it:  a typical blog post routine.  To those I’ve offended or will offend with my replies to comments, I apologize in advance in the hopes that I can save myself some time tomorrow, because I’m going to need it in order to think of another idea for the next post.  The blog, she is always hungry!

Why I would make a good spy

Spy vs. Spy

Image via Wikipedia

It’s always good to have a backup career, just in case, and I think that if I weren’t doing what I’m doing, I’d make a good spy.  For all the government types trolling the blogs, looking for hints or clues or chatter or whatever technical term you’re using these days, here’s why:

1.  I have my own trenchcoat.  From the extensive research I’ve done, by which I mean all the movies and television shows I’ve watched, this appears to be essential.  We’re in cost-cutting mode, of course, and I think it says something about my dedication that I’ve already invested in this crucial piece of equipment.  I’m always looking to help out with the federal deficit.

2.  I wear sunglasses all the time already, even indoors.  No one thinks twice about a blind girl wearing sunglasses; she’s supposed to.  It would be weird if she didn’t.  I suppose the sunglasses on spies are supposed to mask where their eyes are looking, or make sure the glare from the sun or the artificial lights doesn’t interfere with vision, so hey, I’ve already got that covered.  Man, it’s like I’m a spy already!

3.  My seeing eye dog could be trained for super-secret spy stuff.  I don’t actually have a seeing eye dog, but I’m eligible for one, and I could train mine to sniff out drugs and bombs and maybe to alert me to the presence of surveillance technology.  Dogs get trained to do all sorts of things these days.  Do you think it would be too much if I named the dog Q?  What about 99?

4.  I can run flat out in four inch stiletto heels.  I’ve learned this not only on my long string of first dates, but also from constantly running late while on the job.  I can run surprisingly quickly while in heels and carrying an armful of books, files, and papers.  Imagine what I could do in a sexy dress with a gun.  Go on, imagine it!

5.  I have super awesome hearing.  I can’t see a darn thing, but I can be sitting at a table halfway across a crowded cafe and eavesdrop on a conversation in lowered voices without anyone realizing I’m doing it.  I’ve already put this to the test in a few casual situations, with the result that I’ve learned that it’s honestly best not to know most of the time.  But hey, for the good of the country, I’m willing to suffer through.

I’d make the most awesome spy.  Federal agencies, you are On Notice.  I expect the men in black to show up any day now, offer in hand.  Of course, since I will have heard them coming, I’ll sneak up behind them in my trenchcoat and sunglasses, with my superdog and my four inch heels, and murmur, “Looking for someone?”  At which point they will jump five feet in the air, panic, and shoot me immediately.  Oh, well.  Maybe sneaking up on secret agents isn’t the best idea.  I guess I’ll just open the door.

Sleep, be not proud

English: A Sleeping moon in a cap.

Image via Wikipedia

Ah, sleep, my coy mistress.  Stay a while, lay beside me, share my bed.  You’ve been so shy of late, I wondered if we had quarreled while my back was turned.  I missed you as I lay awake last night, remembering the sweetness of your caress.  I am no fly-by-night lover, no one-night stand; I dream of a life-long commitment, a bed shared nightly, perhaps a few late afternoon trysts in the warm sunshine.  I dream of a lingering touch, of selves entwined, no union more perfect than ours.

Did I make you unhappy when I dallied with a daydream?  It was a passing encounter, over before it began.  It could never rival the bond we share, who have lain so many nights together, shared so many dreams together, been afraid together, been warm together, been restless and peaceful and content together.  What could a daydream, a frivolous, fluttering daydream, know of that?  Was it only the other morning I left your side, unwilling, grudging, craving only to remain?  Come back, sleep, to where you belong, and I promise no daydream will ever come between us again.

Drowsy, I stumble to bed, wishing only for your companionship.  I lie in the dark, waiting, hoping, needing.  I endlessly devise seductions and abductions to bring you back to my embrace.  Sleep, sleep, what have I done that you would treat me so, what harm have I inflicted that keeps you from my side?  Come back to me, sleep, grace me with your attentions, wrap your languorous limbs around me and stifle my lecherous lamentations.  I humble myself before you, my own, my beloved, my absent mistress, sleep.

Beware the frog

For the waiting, who asked for a post on frogs.  There are so many apps and games featuring frogs in all sorts of undignified settings; I think it’s high time the frogs got a little of their own back.


I can’t wait to see what happens with Angry Birds!  Also, does anyone else get the idea that this is the frog that was supposed to be their prince?

Crackdified Trivial Pursuit

When we were in school, my friends and I played Trivial Pursuit in the snack bar.  There was only the one edition, year after year, so we eventually came to know all the answers.  Rather than moving on to another game, however, we just morphed that one into its own beast.  We would rope in more and more people into something that became an amalgamation of Charades, Twenty Questions, and Truth or Dare.  We called it Crackdified Trivial Pursuit.

The rules of Crackdified Trivial Pursuit, as far as there are any, are as follows:  you keep to the normal game directions until it comes time to give the answer.  If the person whose turn it is to answer the question is unable to think of the answer right away, those who know the answer because they’ve played that edition about a hundred times will start giving clues.  For instance:

Questioner:  What is the capital of Peru?

Peanut Gallery:  “Blank” beans!  “Blank” beans!  Oh, what do you mean you can’t get the answer from that?  All right, all right:  the flavor of Sprite is lemon-a, “blank”!

If the person still couldn’t get it, the rest of the players would start acting out the answer a la Charades.  “OK.  1 word, 4 letters.  Rhymes with…Wonder Woman?  Buffy the Vampire Slayer?  Oh, Xena!  The Warrior Princess??”

The person trying to answer the question could also ask questions to try to narrow down what the answer might be.  This was especially helpful in categories like Science and Nature, but less so in History; it doesn’t help to ask “Alive or dead?” if you’re trying to figure out the answer to “Who won the battle of Waterloo?”  At least, not unless your educational system has completely failed you.

Nachos with Chilli

Image via Wikipedia

We usually had a pretty good crowd going, so we could almost always get it by this point, but if that didn’t work and the person gave up, they had to take the questioner’s pick of Truth or Dare.  If the crowd was feeling restless and we agreed that it was the questioner’s fault, then the questioner had to take his victim’s choice of Truth or Dare.  Being starving students, we would also allow the person to avoid this by getting appetizers for the table.  Loaded nachos were favored, but resulted in some truly disgusting cards by the time graduation rolled around.

What strikes me most about this, though, is that there weren’t any teams and yet we were all trying to help each other win.  We just wanted to have a good time.  I’m not sure we ever even finished a game.  I miss that attitude.  I miss those nachos.  Also, I racked up some seriously inane knowledge this way.  Nobody needs to know what a thin layer of chromatography is.

P.S.  For those of you who are of age, this makes an awesome drinking game.  Play Crackdified Trivial Pursuit responsibly!  Can you believe my spellcheck doesn’t like the word “crackdified”?

The return of the evil hamster

The Little Blind Girl has gone out to run errands, so I, the Evil Hamster, will be writing today’s blog entry.  Yes, let the sycophantic cheers and the wailing and lamentations from the unbelievers echo through the streets:  the Evil Hamster is back!

I see that my soft-hearted mistress has been tagged with an Internet Meme and, being the shy and retiring creature that she is, has been reluctant to take up the challenge.  But I, who have no such inhibitions, shall gladly put forward this manifesto of Ten Burning Questions as tagged from Sunny Side Up!

1.  Describe yourself in seven words:

Genius, Visionary, Brilliant, Terrifying, Awe-inspiring, Legendary, Furry.

2.  What keeps you up at night:

Perfecting my plans for world domination.

3.  Who would I like to be?

How could I want to be anyone other than myself?  There are those who weep and gnash their teeth because they cannot approach the glory that is me.  But if I had to be someone else, I suppose I could deal with being Napoleon.  Had I been fighting the Battle of Waterloo, history would have taken a very different course.

4.  What are you wearing right now?

There is no apparel in this world more magnificent than my fur coat.  Cruelty-free, of course; all my cruelty comes from inside!

5.  What scares you?

Nothing!  I am fearless, I am what the monster under the bed has nightmares about.  I stalk the streets in the certain knowledge that the worst thing lurking in the shadows is me.  When you turn out the lights and climb into your warm, comfortable beds and close your eyes at night, remember that somewhere out there, preparing for his great moment, is the Evil Hamster.

6.  The best and worst of blogging:

I see my mistress slaving away at the blog and wonder at the effort she puts in to a mere four or five hundred words nearly every day.  She starts out each post saying, “This is going to be the funniest post ever!” and ends it by saying, “I’m not even sure I should publish this.  It’s garbage!  No one’s going to laugh at this.”  I have never experienced self-doubt, but I think it must be the worst part of blogging.  The best part, of course, is the comments, which is probably why my mistress keeps at it every day.

7.  The last website you visited:  I’ve been asked to be the keynote speaker.

8.  What is the one thing you would change about yourself?

I am the pinnacle of evolution!  Everything about me is what life has been striving to create for billennia!  But now that you mention it, I think I’d make myself a bit…taller.

9.  Slankets, yes or no?

My God, man!  What sort of a blog do you think this is?

10.  Tell us something about the person who tagged you:

Lori Ann Franks, who writes Sunny Side Up, is not personally known to me.  However, since my  soft-hearted mistress regularly reads and laughs uproariously at her blog, I suppose I may spare her come the revolution.  She appears to be a very erudite, humorous writer who possesses both common sense and a sense of the bizarre, a rare and worthwhile combination.  I may install her as court jester, or perhaps as personal groomer; I will definitely not, however, make her the official driver!

Our training program is still in its infancy

Ah, I hear my mistress at the door.  I must leave you now and return to my training camps to inspire the recruits.  Remember, when you hear a tiny click-clack from somewhere behind the walls and you wonder what’s creeping about, the Evil Hamster is laying his plans!  You will never know what is coming until the blow falls!  Viva la revolución!

Yoga in the time of ramen

Yoga Wii

Image via Wikipedia

I’m a devotee of yoga.  I especially like how I can do it indoors with the heat/air conditioning going full blast.  Also, no special shoes required.  As a matter of fact, no shoes required at all.  I’ve attended many classes over the years, but when I first started learning, I used an instructional video of a yoga “class” and played it in my friends’ dorm room as we all stretched and focused our minds in innocent ignorance of what was to come.  For, alas, I had chosen a Power Yoga video.

The instructor was a little weird, but I suppose most video yoga instructors are.  This one was a guy with long curly hair pulled back into a ponytail and the most ill-advised tank top I’d seen in a while.  He liked to start demonstrating a pose, then have his assistants finish showing how to do it while he rested his hand on one of their asses, which would inevitably be shoved up toward the ceiling while their wrists and ankles intertwined in some unfathomable and presumably mystic way.  I should add that all the assistants were young, attractive women.  Nice work if you can get it.

So my friends and I dutifully settled ourselves on the floor of the tiny dorm room with two beds, two desks, a dresser and a sofa crammed into an area the size of a utility closet.  We saluted the sun and felt the spirit of the earth pervade our limbs.  And then the serious poses began.  “Ow,” I heard muttered quietly somewhere behind me.  Then, “OW! (*crack*)  Oh, that didn’t sound good.”  Then, “Wait, what are we supposed to do?  I can’t see the screen while my head is under my knees.”  Then, “Ow ow ow, I don’t think I’m supposed to bend that way!  Pause the tape, I can’t get my legs off my neck!  Crap, I’m gonna fall!”  WHUMP.

If you haven’t already guessed, that last one came from me.

The next day, I signed up for proper yoga classes in a spacious gym with an older female instructor wearing a tee shirt and stretch pants.  I explained things to her, and she promised solemnly that she would not let me fall, nor would she rest her hand on my backside.  If she laughed at my sorrowful tale, she had the grace to wait until I’d gone. But, oh, the bruises I got from that first time!

Oh my God, I ate a sock!

This post is dedicated to Jane, who wanted a post about cats and socks:

Once upon a time, I had a cat named Beatrice.  Beatrice, from the time she was a tiny kitten who could climb up the legs of my pants, liked to chew on clothing.  It was mildly exasperating, but nothing more than that until I came home to find her sitting on the floor with a peculiarly unsettled expression on her face.  It was a mix of extreme discomfort, desire for relief, and unwillingness to admit what she’d done.  I came to know this expression as “Oh my God, I just ate a sock.”

I took her to the vet who found that, yes, Beatrice had eaten an entire sock and it had gotten lodged in her digestive tract.  In order to avoid a lingering and painful death, she had to have small animal surgery that cost more than six months’ rent at the time.  As it happened, I’d panicked a few months earlier over what turned out to be nothing and had gotten pet insurance that covered most of the surgery.  Still, when Beatrice came home, I sat her down to have a Talk with her while she was too dopey from the painkillers to run away.  It went a little something like this:

Little Blind Girl:  Beatrice, you know I love you.  You know I’d give you anything to make you happy.  But you can’t go around eating socks.  They’re not good for you.  Why did you want to eat a sock, anyway?

Beatrice P. Cat:

LBG:  Well, if you say so.   I can’t say I’ve ever found them very appetizing, myself.  But the point is that they’re off limits.  How did you even get to the socks?  I put them away in a drawer specifically so that you couldn’t reach them.


LBG:  Not buying it.  Try again.


LBG:  Nope.  One more time?


LBG:  All right, clearly you’re not giving up the trick.  Level with me, kittenface, what’s it gonna take to keep your mouth out of the sock drawer?


LBG:  Too late, I pretty much exchanged all my cash to get the half-digested sock out of your intestines.  And no, before you ask, you can’t have it back.  I don’t know, Beatrice.  Are you mad at me?  Were you trying to get back at me for something?


LBG:  Geez, kitten, that was a joke!  I didn’t actually suck out your brain, I just told you I did.  I’m pretty sure, anyway.  You’re such a talented cat.  Can’t you find a hobby other than snarfing my hosiery?


LBG:  Perfect!  I’ll sign you up for some lessons, maybe you can get an agent, show some paintings in a gallery…this has to qualify for a talk show or two.  All right, promise me no more socks, and I’ll give you a free pass on the next three non-litterbox urinations.  Deal?


Should have seen that one coming.  You can’t tell a cat anything.  That was the last time Beatrice ate a sock, thank goodness.  The ‘P’ in Beatrice P. Cat stands for ‘Pest’, by the way, something dreamed up by my Sainted Mother.  All cats share this middle name.  So, Jane, I hope you enjoyed the post.  I’m trying not to turn this into a cat blog, of which there are many many excellent examples already, as you can tell from the pictures, but this post was fun.  Let it impart the lesson:  Be careful what your cat eats!  You never know what it’s going to end up costing you.

Famous paintings discuss current events

This is what I like to imagine that paintings get up to in their spare time:

Girl With A Pearl Earring:  Did you hear that Congress is thinking about trying to regulate the internet?  It’s total censorship!  They can’t do this to us!  They’re infringing on our artistic expression and ability to get stuff for free!



The Scream:  No!  How will my nonprofit grassroots community protest group get the message out now that we won’t be able to stream copyrighted material on our website?  We can’t pay for these things; we’re already operating out of Whistler’s Mother’s basement!



Whistler’s Mother:  You could always try to get a job.




The Scream:  It’s just that sort of apathetic, bourgeois attitude that creates an atmosphere of entitlement among the power players and the authority addicts!  Information is free!  Ideas can’t be regulated!  Occupy the Internet!  Oh, and could you pick up some toaster pastries on your way home?  Van Gogh’s self-portrait ate the last one.  Greedy bastard.


American Gothic:  We deeply oppose any legislation that would interfere with our ability to find free porn and download movies currently in theaters at three in the morning while net surfing in our underwear.  It’s un-American.



The Old Guitarist:  In my day, we didn’t stand for this sort of oppression.  You book the venue, I’ll write the protest song.




Mona Lisa:  Can I make a recording of your performance and post it on my website as a free download?




The Old Guitarist:  What are you, crazy?  This sh*t ain’t free!





All opinions expressed in this post are those of the individual paintings and not necessarily those of the Little Blind Girl or of the blog in general.