Rude Things I Wanted To Say, As Told By Cute Animals

Whenever I want to say something rude, I get this weird feeling like my grandmother is listening in from heaven, so I chicken out. But if there’s one thing we’ve all learned from the internet, it’s that cute animals make everything okay, right? Well, that and a few things about porn that I really wish I didn’t know, but “Rude Things I Wanted To Say, As Told By Porn Stars” would involve a lot of really awkward photo editing and would probably still end up being rude. So here are the rude things I’ve wanted to say lately, as told by cute animals because that makes it okay:

1. While in traffic:

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2. While waiting in line:

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3. While in the park:

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4. While on a date:

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5. While at a stoplight next to a driver who’s playing a song that’s mostly bass:

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6. While in a meeting:

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7. While at a family reunion:

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8. While watching reality television:

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9. While stuck in a waiting room with The Guy Who Wouldn’t Shut Up:

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10. While on hold with my phone company for the fifth time:

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Whew, I feel much better now! I hope this was as cathartic for you as it was for me. If it wasn’t, I’d tell you what I think about that, but I’m out of cute animal pictures, so you’re just going to have to guess.

[all images are in the public domain and available on pixabay.com; text added by author]

May 10, 2016littleblindgirl 2 Comments

Miracles, Audrey Hepburn Movies, And Other True Stories About My Mom

image in public domain via pixabay.com; text added

Mother’s Day snuck up on me, which seems appropriate because my mother often does the same thing. I wanted to write a Mother’s Day post this year, partly because ~~I’m running out of blog topics~~ I have a fantastic mother who’s always worth writing about and partly because I’ve had particular reason to appreciate her over the last year. I wasn’t sure quite how to approach it, though. My Sainted Mother has made a number of appearances on this blog already, and most of the stories she wouldn’t mind me telling the entire internet have already been told.

Fortunately, I found inspiration in the news. I try to stay educated on current events because, appropriately enough, my mother raised me to believe that it’s my duty to stay informed as a voter and as a member of society. I also like to check to see if we’ve gone to war with anyone new since yesterday, and I wish I meant that as a joke. So I took a look at the news and oh, the news, the news did not disappoint.

At first I thought it did, and not because of headlines about serial killers, though there were headlines about serial killers. The news I’m talking about was equally shocking, but it was also, somehow, horrendously mundane. I read articles about political sniping and voters trying to decide which candidate for leader of the free world is the least worst; interviews in which global atrocities were politicized and romanticized, and in the process trivialized; and editorials in respected publications demanding that the moral beliefs of private citizens be enforced as law. How can any rational being not be disappointed in news like this?

Inadvertently, however, all that muck made it obvious to me how I should approach this Mother’s Day post. My mother is everything that’s missing from the news today. She’s intelligent, free-thinking, non-judgmental, and familiar with the rules of grammar. (She’s also, and this is really neither here nor there when it comes to the news, very good-looking. When she went abroad as a young woman, snobby Parisian men lost their snobby Parisian heads over her in spite of her being an American. True story). What stands out to me most clearly right now, though, and what has lasted rather longer than the dew on her skin and the gloss in her hair, is how classy she is. Life with my mother is like an Audrey Hepburn movie: it’s beautiful, it’s fun, and it’s clearly better for having her in it. It’s also simply not the same with anyone else.

All my life, whenever I’ve gone somewhere with my mother, I’ve seen the people around her just bloom, and I’ve tried for years to pin down why. Other people can be nice, polite, thoughtful, helpful, all those same attributes my mother has, and they don’t have the same effect. You can do the exact things she does and say the exact words she says with all the same tones and inflections, but you won’t get the same results–trust me, I’ve tried; it’s like the beginning of Peter Pan without the fairy dust. But when you’re with my mother, something about her makes the world start acting like a dusty summer garden when it finally rains; all the beautiful things can lift up their heads and flourish, and they do.

In hotels, when she travels, she knows the names of the concierge, the manager, the assistant managers, the coffee shop baristas, the housekeepers, the gardeners, and the maintenance staff. She doesn’t learn their names to curry favor, she does it because she wants to know their names. She knows which waiter in the hotel restaurant has a child applying to colleges and whose grandmother is recovering from surgery, and she also knows which colleges and what kind of surgery. When someone is in distress, she asks if she can do anything and hopes the answer is yes. She’ll read this, I know, and she’ll think I’m painting a picture of a rosebush and leaving out the thorns. I’m not. Even my mother can’t deny that I’m not the kind of person who leaves out the thorns. I’m just the kind of person who recognizes what she’s got, and I’ve got an exceptionally classy mother.

This blog post was almost very different, though, because the twist in this particular tale is that I’m adopted. I suspect that, no matter what the circumstances are, most adopted children never really stop being afraid that they’ll be rejected, and that’s still my biggest fear. Rationally speaking, I know that my adoption is probably not going to be undone after thirty-five years, but tell that to a kid who grew up knowing she’d been returned to sender once already. My mother (and father and sister) gave me a home and a family and I will never stop being grateful for that, but a home and a family couldn’t soothe my fear because they’re the very things I’ve been so afraid I’ll lose. It would take a miracle to banish that fear. So my mother performed a miracle. She raised me with a love so strong and so good that it overcame every fear and doubt, and made me believe. She made me hers.

My mother gave a motherless child the impossible gift: total and unshakeable faith in her love for me. I will always be her daughter and she will always be my mother. She told me so, and she lives her life with such honor and grace that I could never doubt her. She made room for me in her home and her heart, and she’s my mother not by blood or even by court order, but by a lifetime of love. She’s a class act if ever there was one, and no matter what else is going on in my life or what horrible things are in the news, all I have to do to find the good in this world is think of her. I know that my sister, her biological daughter, feels the same. I’ll never be able to repay my mother for what she’s done for me and been to me. All I can do is say thank you.

Thank you, Mom. I love you so much. Happy Mother’s Day.

May 6, 2016littleblindgirl 8 Comments

Modern Dueling, Or: How To Use Up That Spray Cheese

retro-1310390_640 7 I recently got into a debate over whether dueling could be considered ethical. It was the kind of debate you only get into when you start discussing philosophy late at night with people you just met, which is one reason I like philosophy so much. What else will get you in a no-holds-barred fight about the epistemological implications of reality television (translation: are the Kardashians making us stupider, or do we just feel stupider for having watched them?). But, really, dueling? Surely we can all agree on that, right?

And then I got to thinking, which is an unfortunate side effect of philosophy, and I wondered–could there be a place for dueling in modern society? And then I got hungry, which is another side effect of philosophy, especially when done at 2 AM, and I sought revelation in that temple of modern worship, the refrigerator. Even the knottiest metaphysical conundrum becomes easier to unravel when you’ve had a nice sandwich. Left-over chicken breast with mustard, maybe, or a nice peanut butter and jelly…

Oh, no. New and much more pressing conundrum: all I had was spray cheese and whipped cream. Oh, I also had all sorts of healthy ingredients with which I could have cooked any number of dishes, but that’s not what you want at two in the morning, is it? You want something easy, preferably unhealthy, possibly something past its expiration date. Or chips. No self-respecting philosopher cooks at two in the morning! What could I do with spray cheese and a can of whipped cream?

That’s when it hit me, an idea so big it answered both my questions at once. Question 1: Is there a place for dueling in modern society? Question 2: What could I do with spray cheese and a can of whipped cream? Answer to both: it’s obvious! This is how we can fight modern-day duels: with aerosolized edibles! It resolves questions of honor while simultaneously helping you clean out your pantry. So much quicker and less expensive than lawsuits, plus you’ve got a tasty snack for after. Well, you do if you pick the whipped cream.

The entire code duello fell into place after that epiphany. The person challenged has choice of foodstuffs, but the challenger can reject the choice if the challenger presents medical documentation of an allergy to the selection. Seconds will ensure that the weapons have not expired (it is recommended, but not required, that all duel-related edibles be purchased no more than three days before the date of the duel and still retain all tabs and plastic rings). Cooking spray may be used in the event of a post-holiday spray food shortage, and it is acceptable to use well-shaken cans of soda if both parties agree, but no person of honor should ever profane beer in this manner. Unless it’s PBR, in which case, spray away.

When aiming the chosen comestible, one must avoid the face and neck. The best practice is to wear about one’s person a set of appropriate agreed-upon targets, such as strawberries or crackers, the choice of targets being dependent upon what food will be aimed at them. It is recommended against using ice cream for this purpose as the target items will tend to become difficult to distinguish upon melting. The first participant to hit each of his opponent’s targets with the spray food wins the duel. Either participant may forfeit at any time by eating his remaining targets. It is considered bad form to continue firing while your opponent is still chewing.

I think this could revolutionize modern society. Who wouldn’t want to watch a couple of supposed adults attacking each other with spray cheese? We could televise the duels, have commentators discuss the relative merits of name-brand vs. store-brand and the strategic placement of crackers. Then we could have late-night philosophy debates over what’s making us dumber: dueling with spray food or keeping up with the Kardashians. Any resulting quarrels could be resolved by dueling or, in the alternative, attempting to keep up with the Kardashians.

But if the Kardashians decide to duel each other with edible spray paint (in gold, of course, while naked), I’m not responsible for the resulting global collapse of meaning, logic, and reason. In fairness to me, I’m pretty sure that’s already happened.

Embed from Getty Images

May 5, 2016littleblindgirl 3 Comments

Rules I Broke Before They Existed

I always thought my legacy would be something grand and inspiring, like discovering the cure for cancer or being the first person to read Naked Lunch while completely sober. Technically, I suppose I could still end up doing either of those things, but that’s not how I’ll be remembered. My claim to fame, the reason people will remember me after my death, lies in all the things I did in school that now have specific rules against them because some authority figure got ticked at me for doing them. I’m surprisingly okay with this, so much so that I’m sharing a couple of my favorites:

1. You’re not allowed to defend your thesis before you write it

Defending my thesis [image in public domain via pixabay.com]

I was pretty notorious in school for waiting until the last minute to write my papers, but even for me, this was pretty extreme. I’d done everything else I was supposed to do–gotten approval for my honors thesis topic, outlined my arguments, researched my secondary sources, done everything other than write the thing–when it came time for honors candidates to present and defend their papers. In front of the entire faculty. The day before they were due. I hadn’t written a word. Did I mention it was supposed to be twenty pages long?

In my mind, this wasn’t a problem. I didn’t have to submit the completed thesis until the next day and I already knew exactly what I intended to say, right down to the citations. So I blithely dashed off some speaking notes and made sure to lead off with a joke about Derrida, and my defense went very well due to my cunning strategy of a) picking an obscure topic only my thesis advisor really understood and b) going last. I then had some dinner and went to bed early, meaning to get up at midnight and write my thesis, which was due at noon.

I recognize in retrospect that this was already a bad plan, but there’s no denying that it went from bad to flat-out disastrous when I overslept and woke up at 5:15 AM. I remember seeing the clock, feeling undiluted panic, and getting tangled in my comforter with unfortunate results as I tried to jump directly from my bed into my computer chair. After that, it’s a blank until about 10 AM, when I finished the first draft. I then breathed, which I don’t think I’d been doing, and spent the next hour and fifteen minutes alternately editing my thesis and cursing my own name.

I’m sorry to say that I then coolly walked the paper over to my professor’s office to drop it off and stayed to snark with the prof about all the students who didn’t turn in their papers until 11:59. I did indeed get honors, and I’m fully aware that this is one of those moments that’s getting played on the Celestial Jumbotron when I try to convince St. Peter to let me in. At this point, my strategy is to end up with so many of those moments that St. Peter never gets a chance to make up his mind. I think it’s my best bet. But no one else from my school will have to wonder how to explain that particular offense while at the pearly gates because you can’t do it anymore. They made a rule later that year, and that’s my legacy.

2. Wearing costumes to class on days that aren’t Halloween is strictly prohibited

I think there’s still some leeway for Friday classes when Halloween falls on a weekend. What I did that you’re no longer allowed to do at that school was to go to class in costume in the middle of February. I didn’t do this just for kicks, although I would have if I’d thought of it. I had an evening seminar that ended at 9:30 and there was a costume party that night that I wanted to go to. If I’d waited until after class to go back to my dorm, style my hair, put on the necessary makeup, and wiggle into my outfit, I would have missed my ride. I therefore did all of that before class and went to my seminar dressed as Xena, Warrior Princess.

Xena by Indy-Lytle on deviantart http://fav.me/d8208ot (license CC BY-NC-ND 3.0)

I want to emphasize that no part of my costume was against the school’s dress code. I also put on a jacket so I’d appear at least somewhat conventional in class. The first problem was that, given the relative lengths of my jacket and the costume’s skirt, I ended up looking like I was wearing the jacket, thigh-high boots, and nothing else. Focusing on the positive, the next problem actually fixed the first one: the seminar met in the basement of an old building, and it got a little stuffy and overheated. During a break, I went to the parking lot outside and took off my jacket to cool down, at which point it became obvious that I was, in fact, clothed (and possibly a dominatrix). I was in a school parking lot during school hours, minding my own business, and I don’t think it’s fair to blame me for what happened next.

The building my class was in shared its parking lot with an athletics building. Now, I like sports as much as the next person who can’t see the playing field, but I don’t think I should have been expected to know that an Ultimate Frisbee tournament between teams from several schools had just ended and that fifty buffed-out, worked-up, 20-something guys were about to pour into the parking lot toward the giant buses parked right in front of me. True, I didn’t have to pose for pictures with them, but it seemed like it would be rude not to, and I didn’t want to present my school in a bad light. They were all very nice and most of them were perfectly polite, if a bit sweaty.

I was a little late getting back to class, and quick life lesson: it’s hard to slip into a room unnoticed when you look like you forgot to put on pants, but both class and life went on and I didn’t miss my ride to the party. The lesson I took from this experience was, don’t wear a costume that requires body makeup because you’ll never get it off your sheets. The administration obviously took something different from it (although it really is impossible to get that stuff out of your sheets), and now there’s a rule. Sorry. This probably wouldn’t have happened if I’d gone to the party as Bill Nye.

So that’s my legacy. What do you think? Icon for iconoclasts? Symbol of all that’s wrong in the world? Or just a girl who’s smart enough to know that she’s only got a small window of time when she can pull off a tiny leather skirt? And let me tell you, I did pull it off. Fifty guys have the pictures to prove it!

May 3, 2016littleblindgirl Leave a comment

All The Stars In The Sky

image in public domain via pixabay.com

One of the bad things about posting to a blog late on Friday, or at any point over the weekend, is that most people don’t read blogs on the weekend. Blogs are for coffee breaks, or lunch breaks, or the-boss-isn’t-around breaks. However, on the theory that when life hands you gators, you may as well make Gatorade, here’s the up side to that: it’s Friday. My blog post can be as bizarre and embarrassing as my little blind heart desires because no one’s paying attention. As long as I publish another post early Monday morning, chances are my Friday post could be about how I think all the cutest kittens should have their fur shaved off and be shot into space (the kittens, not the fur) and it would pass without a single comment.

I don’t think cute kittens should be shaved and shot into space, by the way, just in case this no-one’s-looking thing ends up backfiring. I think that’s what we should do with the CEOs of companies that use those full-screen pop-up ads that completely obscure whatever page you’re trying to see and have no apparent way to close them out. I’d shave those bastards myself. It’s Friday, so I can say things like that. Ironic side note: while I was checking online to make sure I was using the right term for that ad, one of those ads popped up. The real irony is that it popped up while I was viewing a site describing how to block pop-up ads. Though you never know; maybe pop-ups have become sentient and that ad was just acting in self-defense. The internet is a postmodern Neverland.

Meanwhile, back at my original point: since it’s Friday and no one is paying attention, I’m going to tell you something about myself that I wish weren’t true. Here’s where I usually chicken out and write something like “When I’m on a plane, I look at the other passengers and decide who I’d save in the event of a crash based on what book they’re reading and how annoying their kids are.” This is true, but I wouldn’t waste a wish on changing it. If I had a wish to spend, one I could only use for something selfish and fun (like with birthday money when you’re a kid), I would wish I could remember what the stars look like.

Let me explain that a little: I’m surrounded by things I can’t see, but I know sort of generally what most things look like because I make sure to take a good squint at them when I get the chance. In the event I don’t get the chance, there’s always Google Images. It’s kind of nice, actually, because while it’s true that I can’t see any of the flowers in my neighbor’s garden, the garden I picture in my head has all of my favorite flowers in perfect bloom year round. In the garden I see, there are no weeds, no bare patches where you can’t get anything to grow, no creepy garden gnomes, and (this is key) no chrysanthemums. That’s the flower for the month of my birth, and I’ve always felt gypped in that regard because I think they look frumpy. So when I walk by a garden, no, I can’t see it, but in my head it’s full of daffodils and roses and orchids and violets and tiger lilies and more daffodils, and no one gets pricked by thorns and all the bees are too happy to sting anyone and there are no chrysanthemums, ever. It’s hard to call that a disability.

I’ve forgotten what the stars look like, though, and I can’t find a picture or video that does them justice–I may have forgotten what they look like, but I still remember how looking at them made me feel, and no image I’ve seen even comes close. Sometimes I almost remember them, or I remember being cold while I watched them, or I remember where I was one time when I saw them. But the times when I saw the stars were too long ago and too many things have happened since then, and although I clutched those memories and hoarded them for years, one day they were just gone. Dissolved or fell apart, or crowded out, I don’t know, but conspicuous to the point of indecency by their absence, and gone forever.

This is by way of an explanation to my friends (who will read this post despite its being published on a Friday), who have never understood how I can be afraid of heights but always want to live on the top floor. It’s an explanation of why I kept climbing all those trees and convincing my aforementioned friends to help me sneak onto the roof of every building on my college campus, and by the way, I’m sorry about all the roof violations. I just wanted to see if getting closer maybe jogged my memory or even helped me see, but I could never get close enough for more than a few faint gleams that in retrospect were probably airplanes and satellites. What’s gone is gone.

Eventually I stopped climbing trees and sneaking onto roofs, and you can make whatever metaphor or broader theme you want to out of all this, but for me it’s simply the literal truth. I wish I could remember what a starry sky looks like. I’ve made my peace with my fuzzy worldview, and I made Gatorade out of all the gators I could get to sit still long enough, and I’m not asking for a miracle cure that lets me see again. I just want to remember. Sometimes I’ll wish so hard that I’ll dream about them, and I’ll think ‘It’s only a dream, you’ve had them before, this isn’t real.’ And then I’ll think, ‘No, this time it’s real, I can tell, I’m awake and I can see the stars.’ And then I wake up and I can’t even remember how they looked in my dream. It’s cruel and it hurts, and I wouldn’t stop having the dreams if I could.

So if I had a wish that I couldn’t use for world peace or perfect vision or an honest politician or any other fairy tale, that’s how I’d use it. Who knows? The future is nothing but possibility, and I’ve learned to be careful about words like “never” and “always.” I embrace the maybe and I keep hope alive. I also still want to live on the top floor and I will always, yes always, keep looking into the sky at night, and I’ll never, yes never, stop trying. For all I know, there will be a way in my lifetime for me to go and see the stars up close, and then I won’t have to remember. And if that happens, let me just tell you how I’m filming the entire freaking thing in whatever they’re calling high-definition at that point, and I’m storing copies of the video in at least ten different locations, real and virtual, just in case I develop amnesia right at the same time that there’s a fire, a flood, and a tornado and also the entire internet gets erased. I’m not taking any more chances.

Van Gogh, The Starry Night [image in public domain]

Happy Friday. I hope you enjoyed my confession. Now, if it’s Friday night and you’re actually reading this blog post, do me a favor: go outside, look at the stars, and leave me a comment telling me what they’re like. Do it again tomorrow night, and the night after that, and just every single night for the rest of your life because watching a starry night sky is one thing you should never, never, never take for granted. And after you’re done, put on something fabulous and go have some fun! That’s what I’m doing. It’s Friday night, after all.

And if you’re asking yourself how I’m going to make this wish when I can’t see a star to wish on: that’s what faith is for. I can’t see the stars, but I know they’re there. How’s that for a broader theme?

April 29, 2016littleblindgirl 4 Comments

10 Things I’d Rather Do Than Go To The Gym

image in public domain (pixabay.com)

Any time I need motivation to do some chore I’ve been putting off, all I have to do is tell myself to go to the gym, and like magic, I’m suddenly cleaning the bathroom grout. I don’t know why I hate going to the gym so much. I don’t hate actually being at the gym. Once I’m there and I’ve started exercising, I usually get into it. I certainly don’t hate the self-satisfied glow I get after I’ve been to the gym. Plus, then I get to stop off for a post-exercise smoothie and say, “I always hydrate after I work out,” and watch everyone who wasn’t at the gym look guilty.

I’ve had to start facing facts now that I can’t fit into any of my jeans. I don’t know why, but as far as getting myself to put on gym clothes and head toward the shiny, pretty building with the shiny, pretty workout equipment and the shiny, pretty people, I’d rather chew off my own hand at the wrist and use it to punch myself in the throat. Heh. I’d rather tattoo my entire face hot pink than go to the gym. Ooh! I’d rather walk through a room full of clowns than go to the gym. Hey, this is fun! I wonder what else I’d rather do than go to the gym?

Top 10 Things I’d Rather Do Than Go To The Gym

Give a bath to five feral cats, all at the same time.
Prepare, bake, and eat a dirty-sock pie.
Find that video of me from my fourth-grade school play, the one where I’m wearing some sort of metallic tutu and have glitter on my butt, and post it on YouTube.
Take a selfie. Any kind of selfie.
Find the source of that weird smell in the refrigerator and lick it.
Trim my toenails with my teeth.
Run a resort for obese exhibitionist nymphomaniacs.
Tell my parents what really happened to the Mercedes.
Go through natural childbirth.
Write a blog post about things I’d rather do than go to the gym.

I’ll be honest, that got a little disturbing. But we’ve all got our dark secrets; some of us just choose to make them available to anyone with an internet connection and basic literacy skills. So what is it that you would rather eat a dirty-sock pie than do? Clean out the garage? Get a tetanus booster? Go see that play your significant other is in that you’re trying to be supportive about? Come on, leave me a comment with your shameful confession. It’ll be just between us! And if you believe that, I’ve got a truly impressive workout routine I’m going to tell you I did. Now, to round up five feral cats….

April 27, 2016littleblindgirl 8 Comments

Tax and Technicalities, by Rocky and Bullwinkle

I’m sure you all enjoyed tax season as much as I did! Now here’s something I hope you’ll really like. This post is what starts going through your head when you do your taxes while watching episodes of Rocky and Bullwinkle. If you don’t know who Rocky and Bullwinkle are, a) this post will make no sense to you, and b) get thee to Hulu! Also, sorry in advance to all Ke$ha fans. It’s only a joke!

image in the public domain

Melodramatic Narration: When we last saw our hero, the Little Blind Moose-Girl, she was submitting the tax returns prepared for her by Rocky, the Squirrelly Accountant, of Fly-By-Night CPAs–

Rocky: Hey! You make it sound like I’m the villain of this blog post!

Little Blind Moose-Girl: Yeah, we only call him the Squirrelly Accountant because he handles all kinds of nuts.

Rocky: I thought it was because I help you squirrel away your money!

Little Blind Moose-Girl: Well, if that’s it, how come you let me pay you in cashews?

Rocky: Don’t feel bad; most people pay me peanuts.

Melodramatic Narration: *ahem* As I was saying, when we last saw our hero, she had just submitted her taxes. Little did she know, as she went back to her daily routine of rescuing small puppies and giving them to curly-haired orphans, she was about to become a pawn in the latest scheme of that villainous secret enemy agent, Grigory Gudenov, and his new partner, Ke$ha Fatale.

Gudenov: So, Ke$ha, you are really secret agent, like me. I should have guessed. Are you related to legendary Natasha Fatale, who worked with my uncle Boris?

Ke$ha: Yes, she is my sire–I mean, mother. She is my mother. But wasn’t your uncle’s last name Badenov?

Gudenov: Yes; he is my mother’s brother. My mother married into Gudenov family of government workers and changed last name, so her brother my uncle is not Gudenov.

Ke$ha: You can say that again, dahling! Now, what are Fearless Leader’s orders for us?

Gudenov: Have you forgotten already?

Ke$ha: No, but the blog readers have.

Gudenov: We have crucial role in Fearless Leader’s greatest scheme yet. After decades of failing to take over country by force, he has finally come up with foolproof plan: he will get American people to elect him president!

Ke$ha: But Grigory, the American people will never elect Fearless Leader as president. He’s been trying to undermine their country his entire life!

Gudenov: Ah, but you see, Ke$ha, he will be running as Tea Party candidate. Is perfect disguise!

Ke$ha: Yes, what a brilliant plan! Ah, but wait: the President has to be a natural-born American citizen, does he not?

Gudenov: Of course! Fearless Leader always carries gun, blames failure on underlings, and reacts with violence when authority is questioned. What could be more natural-born American than that? Now, our assignment is to get money for Fearless Leader’s campaign, and I, master no-goodnik that I am, have perfect fiendish plan: we will pose as IRS agents conducting audits.

Ke$ha: (gasps) IRS! Audits! Oh, no, Grigory, even we cannot be so evil.

Gudenov: Is for greater good, Ke$ha, is for greater good. After all, is not like we have to be real IRS agents.

Ke$ha: That is true, Grigory. We have to be able to sleep at night. Now, tell me the rest of the fiendish plan.

Gudenov: We will pretend to work for IRS. We will tell people they owe us money and must pay right away or we will take them to gulag–I mean prison. If anyone asks questions, we will say is part of new executive order. No one will suspect we are not actual legitimately, and by time real IRS figures out plan, Fearless Leader will already be in office.

Ke$ha: Now I understand why our hackers stole all those tax returns! Grigory, how did you think of such a cunning scheme?

Gudenov: Is all right here in Villain’s Handbook. See? Page 415.

Ke$ha: I can’t read a word of that.

Gudenov: Of course not–is written in Tax Code!

Melodramatic Narration: Meanwhile, back at the offices of Rocky the Squirrelly Accountant, our heroes are facing what looks like certain doom.

Little Blind Moose-Girl: I can’t understand why I’m being audited. I submitted copies of all the travel receipts.

Rocky: I don’t know, Little Blind Moose-Girl, maybe the IRS isn’t sure what a “Professional Johnny Depp Whereabouts and Activities Blogger” is.

Little Blind Moose-Girl: But I included the transcript from the stalking trial!

Rocky: Well, it says here that you owe them $86,753.09 and that if you don’t pay it right away, they’re going to take you to prison.

Little Blind Moose-Girl: Prison! It says that?

Rocky: Yes, see there? Right after the part where the word “gulag” is scratched out.

Little Blind Moose-Girl: Can they really do that?

Rocky: It says in the letter that this is part of a new executive order, so I guess they can.

Little Blind Moose-Girl: Wow. I must have missed that episode of “Schoolhouse Rock.” I always knew not watching more television would come back to haunt me.

Rocky: Oh, look, the auditor’s here. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.

(enter Grigory Gudenov, dressed in non-specific law enforcement uniform and sporting a badge, a gun, a truncheon, a crossbow, some ninja throwing stars, an axe, several sticks of dynamite, and a spreadsheet)

Gudenov: Allow me to introducing myself: I am Officer Gregory of your IRS Police Department. I am here to take away your money. I am sure we can all agree, is better to do this with peacefully, yes? No one wants to go to gulag–I mean, prison.

Little Blind Moose-Girl: You’re a police officer?

Rocky: He must be; look at all those weapons!

Little Blind Moose-Girl: Well, Officer Gregory, your letter really surprised me. I still don’t understand how I can owe that much in taxes. I mean, that’s practically a year’s supply of Red Bull!

Gudenov: Perhaps you would like to call my supervisor, just to be sure all is on up-and-up. She can answer any questions you have. Her number is on letter we send you.

Rocky: (looking at letter) Oh, yes, here it is. Let me just give her a call. (Dials number)

Ke$ha: (on phone) Hello, Agent Fatale speaking.

Rocky: Hello, Agent Fatal, this is Rocky the Squirrelly Accountant. I’m here with Officer Gregory, and I’m just calling to confirm that the Little Blind Moose-Girl owes $86,753.09 in taxes.

Ke$ha: (still on phone) It’s Fatale, and yes, Mr. Squirrel, that is correct. Moose-Girl must pay immediately or I am afraid Officer Gregory will have to take her to the gulag–I mean, prison.

Gudenov: There, you see? All is legitimately and above-the-board. As for payment, I can take cash, check, credit card, bitcoin, gold, jewelry, authenticated antiques, or healthy organs. I cannot take stocks or young children–too much risky for return on investment. You are understand, I am surely.

Little Blind Moose-Girl: But I don’t have enough of any of those things to pay this bill. Does that mean I have to go to the gulag–I mean, prison?

Gudenov: Oh, that is unhappy to hear. It makes me crying sad, this part of my job, to ruining lives of good people like Moose-Girl. Are you sure you cannot pay? Perhaps you apply for credit card?

Little Blind Moose-Girl: No, I guess I’d better just go with you. Do you have a gulag–I mean, prison–that can accommodate my disability?

Ke$ha: (still on phone) I beg your pardon?

Gudenov: There is disability with Moose-Girl?

Rocky: That’s right, if you’re going to take the Little Blind Moose-Girl away, your gulag–I mean, prison–must by law provide suitable accommodations for inmates with disabilities. I learned all about it at a presentation the ACLU gave at lunch one day. That won’t be a problem, will it?

Gudenov: Oh, no, no, of course not, we love ACLU, is all perfect fine–oh, look, is miscalculation. Moose-Girl does not owe taxes and there will be no need for ACLU to asking about disability person in gulag–I mean, prison. Allow me to seeing myself out. Have nice day! (runs out, followed by dust cloud and sound of slamming door)

Rocky: Well, that’s good news! It’s nice to see that our IRS employees are so honest and conscientious. Will you thank Officer Gregory for us, Agent Fatal? Agent Fatal, hello? I guess she hung up.

Little Blind Moose-Girl: I didn’t know you’d been to a presentation by the ACLU. Are you a member?

Rocky: Oh, yeah. I don’t know what I’d do without the Accounting Calculations Looker Uppers. You know, I’d forgotten all about your disability, Little Blind Moose-Girl. I wonder what accommodations the gulag–I mean, prison–would have to make for your blindness?

Little Blind Moose-Girl: Who said anything about blindness? I was talking about my antlers!

Melodramatic Narrator: Have our heroes escaped the fiendish pseudo-audit? Will our villains return to take the Little Blind Moose-Girl to the gulag–I mean, prison?? Or will our heroes have to face the even-more-fiendish ordeal of an actual IRS audit??? Stay tuned for our next episode, The Price of Lateness, or: It’s High Time!

(Ke$ha Fatale:)

Embed from Getty Images

April 25, 2016littleblindgirl 2 Comments

Prince Was My First

dove [image in the public domain]

How do I post to a humor blog on the day Prince died? This is not the same world that existed yesterday. The sky is not the same sky, the air is not the same air, and I am not the same person. It stands to reason, I suppose: everything Prince did changed the world. Of course his death has done the same.

Prince was my first for a lot of things. He sang the first song I couldn’t stop listening to, the kind you keep playing in your head even when you’re in church confessing your sins. I remember my younger self waiting for a confessional to come available, time I was supposed to use to contemplate what bad deeds I should list for the priest, but instead I was playing “I Could Never Take The Place Of Your Man” in my head. My turn at confession came right after the part where Prince is telling a woman that she wouldn’t be satisfied with a one night stand. I had to scramble into the booth and try to remember all my sins off the top of my head, and my voice was shaking so wildly that I was sure the priest could tell I’d been engaging in near-sacrilege just a few moments before. Luckily, he regarded the stench of my guilt as a sign of desperate contrition, took pity on me, and told me I’d offered the most genuine confession he’d heard in a long time. That’s how Prince gave me another couple of firsts: the first time I realized that priests aren’t all-knowing (yes, I feel bad about tricking the holy man), and the first time I understood that sometimes the things and people that scare me may actually be on my side, if I let them.

I had several other memorable firsts with Prince. When he changed his name to a symbol and wrote the word “slave” on his face to protest the way his record company treated his work, it was the first time I understood that art can not only convey a message but also fight an entire war that most people will never realize even happened. Art history lectures in school tried to convey the same point as I nodded and took notes and memorized for the test; when Prince lived the message while I watched and listened, then I understood, and I never forgot. Another first came from his cover of Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You,” which was the first time I saw how the same thing can be perfect in more than one way, and how interpretation can be a form of authorship as valid as any. My sister can correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the first time we bonded over music our parents would definitely in no uncertain terms never understand, it was Prince. And, yes, Prince was acting as a musical Cyrano de Bergerac the first time I had sex; for those of us of a certain age, that was practically mandatory.

It’s hard to explain Prince’s allure to anyone who doesn’t already understand, but since this is basically a eulogy, let me try to tell you why this isn’t simply a transference of nostalgia and why I’m grieving over a man I never met. My childhood was sheltered, relatively privileged, and safe. Then Prince came along, and he was unlike anyone I’d ever seen or heard. He assumed his audience was intelligent, he considered danger to be essential to creativity, and he could write a four-minute pop song that had shape and texture and heft. All the songs I’d heard B.P. (Before Prince) were sanded flat, polished smooth, and as insubstantial as the air that carried them. A lot of what I hear today is the same. But Prince’s music always made me think, made me feel, and made me dance–enthusiastically, if not very well. It’s true that Prince wasn’t the first artist to pitch the rulebook and do something different, but he was the first who made me want to throw my own rulebook away. He showed me how to find my path away from the ordinary, and then he showed me how to dance along that path while rocking five-inch electric blue satin platform heels, and now he’s gone, and the world will never be the same.

Prince being Prince, though, I don’t see death stopping him from doing his thing. I think he’s just got a new audience. In fact, I take strange pleasure in the thought of the Heavenly Host suddenly confronted with The Artist. He’ll probably be using a halo as some sort of percussion instrument and asking where he can find a pair of wings with glitter. In my mind, I see the angelic choir looking on in seraphic condescension as Prince gives his first celestial concert, and I can’t help laughing a little at the shock they’re going to feel when they turn and see God the Eternal and Omnipotent dancing on His throne, rocking out to Purple Rain.

R.I.P, Prince Rogers Nelson. You were my first, and you were the best.

April 21, 2016littleblindgirl 2 Comments

The Tweet Life

In my continuing quest for adventures that accommodate a screen reader (for those who didn’t catch the name of this blog, the blog subtitle, my username, or my avatar, I can’t see very well), I’ve recently begun to be active on Twitter. I’m still learning my way around while pondering the revolving questions of why someone stopped following me and also why anyone follows me in the first place–hey, wait, don’t get mad and un-follow me! I like it! I just don’t understand it. I also don’t understand Ozzy Osbourne, but I still like Black Sabbath.

Moving on, before I drive away any more followers: I really just wanted to post some Before and After pictures of my burgeoning Twitter addiction, sort of like those pictures of healthy vs. diseased lungs that people show you to make you stop smoking, or those “this is your brain on drugs” commercials. I anticipate that this blog post will have a similar success rate. So, kids, before you pick up that smart phone (the first tweet’s always free), remember my tale of woe. Before I let Twitter take control, this was my life:

Fotosearch_u16853217

Now, this is my life on Twitter:

That last image is specifically of me from when I accidentally tweeted a celebrity and I couldn’t understand why I suddenly had fifty notifications that people I’d never met had liked tweets essentially calling me an idiot. My friend Chuck drew it to cheer me up, and I paid him back with that post about clowns (a high price, but Twitter habits aren’t cheap).

Please, learn from my example. I know you think you’ve got it under control–a few tweets a day, with friends, just for fun; you can stop any time you like. But it doesn’t take long before you’re waking up in the middle of the night jonesing to check your Twitter feed; then you start losing followers and can’t remember how. After that it’s just a matter of time before you’re recklessly retweeting memes and wondering why your mother blocked your account (hint: it may have something to do with all the memes).

Actually, in all seriousness, it’s turning out to be a lot of fun, but I do advise tweeting responsibly. When it’s 3 a.m. and you’ve had a few drinks, it’s going to seem like a good idea to tweet your ex-BF’s new girlfriend “just to warn her.” It’s not. Trust me on this, for I am now an expert on all things Twitter (I am not an expert on all things Twitter). Also, stop tweet-stalking your ex-BF. That’s just rude, and I’m definitely an expert on being rude!

April 20, 2016littleblindgirl Leave a comment

You Can’t Say That In Catholic School!

Not me. I’ve got red hair. [image in the public domain]

I attended Catholic school in my halcyon days, and before you ask, no, I don’t still have the uniform. Despite being a bright student, I somehow gained a reputation as a troublemaker and ended up in hot holy water surprisingly often. I didn’t exactly mean to be difficult in school, at least not most of the time, but even then I tended to be both curious and rational, which is just awkward around nuns. It’s especially dispiriting when said nuns have the ability to punish you for perceived disobedience when you’re asking what you think is a perfectly fair question.

My most frequent punishment was probably praying the rosary, which the nuns claimed was intended for reflection and self-correction and I claimed was more likely to produce tedium and resentment. For which I was punished. Not with the rosary, though, which was at least a change of pace. Anyway, I thought I would share with you the things I said that I remember getting me in the most trouble in Catholic school, and what my punishment was for saying them:

6. What I said: (regarding Adam’s lineage through Noah) I just don’t think a family tree should be shaped like a circle.

Punishment: Pray the Rosary and contemplate the nature of faith. I’m still not sure how this addresses the problem of repeated inbreeding.

5. What I said: (regarding the virgin birth; for full effect, imagine this as being said by a bratty 7-year-old) See, my mom used to teach sex ed, so I know that’s not how it works.

Punishment: Ten Ave Marias and an essay on the Holy Trinity. I think there may also have been a letter to my parents.

4. What I said: (regarding the Beatitude that ‘the meek shall inherit the earth’) What if the meek don’t want the Earth?

[Side note: a fundamental flaw I failed to grasp at the time is that you can’t really count on the meek to be forthright about that]

Punishment: repeat the Beatitudes and reflect on the sinfulness of pride, which didn’t really answer my question

3. What I said: (regarding the Great Flood) What about all the animals that could swim?

Punishment: Pray the rosary and reflect on God’s omnipotence. Again, not terribly instructive. Could have used another hint.

2. What I said: Wait a minute. If the Bible says the Earth is less than ten thousand years old, and you’re telling me that the Bible is right about everything, then how come we have a test this afternoon on dinosaurs?

Punishment: For this one, I only had to stay in at lunch and study for the test, which worked out well because I hadn’t actually done any studying up to that point. Note: That was probably not the intended moral lesson.

1. What I said: If God and Heaven are above us and the Devil and Hell are below us, how come we look down when we pray?

Punishment: I don’t remember what my punishment was for this one, I just remember being really, really sorry.

These were all genuine questions. Except for #5, which was more of an objection, but an entirely genuine one. I think that’s really how the Protestant Reformation came about; Martin Luther kept trying to ask the nuns about things he didn’t understand, but they kept making him pray the rosary, so eventually he just nailed his objections to the church door. I, being much less enterprising (read: lazy), am posting to my blog. I’m also not starting a new religion (see earlier parenthetical comment re: lazy). Also, commenters, please have mercy and don’t reply with serious explanations to Past Little Blind Girl’s theological questions. I’ve been punished enough.

April 19, 2016littleblindgirl 5 Comments

the adventures of the little blind girl

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