How I Got My Snark Back

Dear Weird Guy I Met At The Bar,

girl-1064666_6402I want you to know that, even though I wouldn’t give you my phone number or my real name, I’m so glad we met.  Not because you said you liked my hair; although that’s usually a solid move with a girl, I’d recommend against using the word “fetish” within the first half hour of conversation.  I appreciated the super-clear warning sign, don’t get me wrong, but maybe ease into that a little more slowly next time.  With someone other than me.  But that’s not why I’m glad we met.

It’s also not because we had a deep and meaningful conversation about the relevance of Eastern philosophies on contemporary Western living.  We might have, if you had been able to pronounce the words “Bhagavad Gita,” but even if your speech hadn’t been slurred from what you initially claimed was your third beer and eventually admitted was your seventh, I doubt we would have ended up discussing the theistic aspects of moksha.  Also, the “main dude” in the Bhagavad Gita is named Arjuna, not Arwen, and that’s still not why I’m glad we met.

I did get some entertainment out of listening to you try to convince me that you like doing yoga because you enjoy the female energy and that you never even notice the boobs of the women in your class.  It was especially amusing because, for the ten minutes before you gazed into my eyes and made that earnest declaration, you’d been addressing most of your intoxicated musings to my cleavage.  Not an original move, no, but the fact that you clearly had no idea you’d just been doing it gave it that special something so often missing from drunken ogling.  Well done, sir!  But that’s still not why I’m glad we met.

I’m glad we met because, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t just smile awkwardly while secretly snarking at you in my head.  This time my smile was one of real  enjoyment.  I don’t know whether I was responding to some quality in you or whether there was just magic in the air that night, but when I heard you talk about actualizing your inner tranquility,  I was finally able to give myself permission to snark out loud.  You can’t imagine how good it felt after denying myself for so long.  It was snark without shame, reckless and abandoned, and it was bliss.  You gave me the best night I’ve had in a long time.  You gave me my snark back.  I’m so glad we met.

And if I didn’t say it last night, thanks for buying me the drink I was nursing while I mocked you to your face.  It was delicious.

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Snarks and kisses,

The Little Blind Girl

 

[images in the public domain via pixabay.com]

 

 

How Not To Be A Workout Buddy

floor-exercises-825064_640So you’ve decided to get serious about going to the gym?  You know, one of the best things you can do to improve your exercise routine is to get yourself a workout buddy.  Studies have shown that people who exercise with a partner are more likely to reach their fitness goals.  After all, no app, tool, or supplement can give you the kind of motivation you’ll get from a workout partner who really knows you:

Little Blind Girl:  Hey, I know we’re supposed to go to the gym right now, but Skeeter’s Taco Shack is having this contest called “Guess the Fish” where you eat free if you can—

Friend:  Nope.  The last time we skipped our workout, you made me swear on Season Two of Grey’s Anatomy that I would never let you do that again, so go squeeze your doughy butt into some spandex.  We’re hitting the gym.

Little Blind Girl:  Nah, I’m gonna bail.  Sorry, but there is nothing that could get me into my gym clothes right now.

Friend:  (thinks for a second)  Remember how you wore your fishnet stockings to that party the other night, but they’d gotten so tight that you had little criss-cross marks all over your legs the next day?

Little Blind Girl:  Hand me that sports bra.

When you exercise with a buddy, gym time isn’t just more fun; it’s also more effective.  Your friend will know when you’re not challenging yourself and can give you that extra push you need:

(while going for a run )

Friend:  You sure you can’t go any faster?  Okay, okay.  Oh, hey, I’ve got a call.  (talking into cell phone)  Hello?  Oh, hi, Grandma.  How’d the surgery go? (pause) Me?  I’m just out for a run with the Little Blind Girl. (pause) Sure, you can join us!

Little Blind Girl:  Very funny.

Friend:  (still talking into phone) No, Grandma, your wheelchair won’t slow us down.

Little Blind Girl:  Your phone isn’t even on!

Don’t forget that you and your exercise buddy can help each other outside the gym, too.  After all, no matter how much energy you put into your workout, you won’t see results if you don’t maintain a healthy diet:

(at Skeeter’s Taco Shack )

Little Blind Girl:  Well, Skeeter, I’m impressed by the addition of sushi to your menu, especially at that price, but today I’m more in the mood for the pasta carbonara platter—with extra parmesan, of course— and if you could bump the portion size up to “Last Meal On Death Row,” that’d be great.

Friend:  Guess how long you’d have to stay on the rowing machine to burn off all those calories?

Little Blind Girl:  I’ll have the grilled chicken breast, please.  No sauce.

And when all that effort finally starts paying off, no one will appreciate your hard-earned hard body more than the person who was with you for every rep:

Little Blind Girl:  Check out my new arm muscles!

Friend:  All right. (puts hand on Little Blind Girl’s bicep) Okay, flex.

Little Blind Girl:  I am flexing!

Friend:  Oh.  Are you sure?

The buddy system isn’t just for crossing the street.  When it comes to diet and exercise, there’s nothing like a partner to keep you motivated and on track.  So if you’re serious about fitness, make sure that when you head to the gym, you bring along the most important equipment of all:  a friend.

 

[Image is in the public domain via pixabay.com]

Insulting E-Cards By Shakespeare

Because I’ve had five migraines in the past two days and I’m not feeling very nice right now, and also because I love Shakespeare.  Migraines, these e-cards are for you:

1. First migraine, lasted six and a half hours

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2.  Second migraine, woke me up from a dream in which I was a secretary for Johnny Cash, but he would only talk to me in song

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3.  Third migraine, had me seriously considering a DIY icepick lobotomy

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4.  Fourth migraine, I admit, made me its b*tch

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5.  Fifth migraine, took my joy, my dignity, and my will to live, mixed them in a blender with some ice cream and chocolate syrup, and drank them

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I hope you enjoyed the results of my pain!  Hang on, I feel another migraine coming on.  Awesome.  I’m gonna go not compare it to a summer’s day.  Peace out, ye fat guts (Henry IV, Part 1.  Sort of).

Lies My Bedtime Stories Told Me

aladdin-1299675_640My parents, like many others, used to read me bedtime stories in an attempt to get me to fall asleep.  This almost never worked, but they couldn’t think of anything else and they weren’t allowed to dose me with whiskey, so they kept doing it.  What I didn’t realize until much later is that those stories my loving parents told me night after night were filled to the brim with lies.  By this, I don’t mean the talking animals or the magic beans—nothing so easily identified.  Here are some of my bedtime stories and the lying lies they told me:

Cinderella

Cinderella, if you truly need a recap, is the story of a beautiful girl whose evil stepmother forces her into a life of drudgery, making her work all the time and never letting her have friends or go to parties (she may have just been a tiger mom, I’m not sure).  Fortunately, on the night of the prince’s grand Let’s-Find-Me-A-Wife ball, Cinderella’s fairy godmother magics her raggedy clothes into a party dress and turns a pumpkin into a carriage so Cin can go get her freak on, with the warning that the carriage will turn back into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight and it’s a long walk home in glass slippers.

carriage-1295752_640The lie this story told me was that you’re going to know exactly when the carriage will turn back into a pumpkin and you can totally plan around it.  The truth is, it can happen at any time.  You could be just walking in the door in your perfect magic ballgown, with everyone looking at you and the prince asking his courtiers, “Who’s the hottie,” when suddenly everything goes poof and you’re back in your raggedy dress, the prince is chatting up your stepsisters, and someone just made your carriage into a pie.

When things are about to turn to crap, you don’t have until the stroke of midnight and you don’t get a warning.  It just happens, fairy godmother or no fairy godmother, and the lesson you should really take from all this is to learn how to drive a pumpkin.

The Ugly Duckling

This is the story of a bird hatched out of a mother duck’s egg that everyone assumes, reasonably enough, is a duck.  The presumed duckling is so much uglier than the other ducklings that all the animals bully it and tease it until it runs away, lives in wretched isolation for a while, and finally decides to kill itself.  Fortunately, before it does so, it gets a glimpse of its reflection in the water and realizes that it has grown into a beautiful swan, and it flies happily away along with all the other swans.

swan-9489_640One of the lessons this story taught me was that, no matter how miserable you are as a child, as long as you grow up to be gorgeous, people will respect and admire you.  In addition to being disturbing and unhealthy, this is also untrue.  You may or may not grow up to be gorgeous, but even if you do, everyone back home is still going to think of you as the ugly duckling.  You could go to your high school reunion a week after appearing on the cover of Vogue and the first thing you’ll hear will be, “Look, everyone, it’s Ugly Duck!  Hey, Ugly Duck, remember how ugly you were?  Man, I’ve never seen a duck look that ugly!”  You can swan around all you want.  To them, you’ll always be that freak who tried to pass herself off as a duck back in the day.  On the upside, you’ll be able to beat them to death with your wings, so it’s not all bad.

Another lesson this story taught me was, maybe don’t be so mean to others that you make them want to die.  I think that lesson was pretty solid, though, so I’m leaving it off the list of lies.

The Little Red Hen

This is the story about the mother hen who found a grain of wheat and asked the other farmyard animals to help her plant it.  They all touched their snouts and beaks and said “Noes goes,” and the hen had to plant it herself.  The same thing happened when she had to harvest and thresh the wheat, mill it into flour, and bake it into bread.  Once the bread was ready to eat, the other animals were down to help, no problem, but the hen snapped her beak and said “Nyah, nyah,” and she and her chicks ate all the bread.

The lesson I learned from this story is that I’m the only one who has the right to enjoy the fruits of my labor.  I then discovered that this was a vicious, heartless lie when I got my first paycheck.  You see, no one had explained to me about tax withholdings.  It came as a nasty surprise when the government, noticeably absent from the planting, harvesting, threshing, milling, and baking portions of the proceedings, got very interested in my bread once all the work was done.  They got so interested, they snatched it right out of my hands.

chicken-45944_640Before I got even a crumb, the government had taken nearly half my bread and given it to all the barnyard animals who’d called nose dibs when it was time to do the work, because it didn’t want the poor things to starve.  I didn’t exactly want them to starve, but that was my bread!  I made it myself!  I should decide who gets it.  I’m still bitter about this, in case you can’t tell.  Stupid lying hen.  I hope she got ergot poisoning.

By the way, did you see what I did with the “bread” reference?  ‘Cause bread is slang for money?  Okay, I’ll stop.

Honorable Mentions:  Sleeping Beauty and Snow White

In both of these stories, it’s viewed as totally cool that the guys mack on the girls while the girls are unconscious.  It’s really not.  Like, at all.

These are just some of the lies my bedtime stories told me.  Parents, I’m not saying you’d be better off dosing your kids with whiskey to get them to go to sleep (that’s probably also a bad lesson to teach your kids).  Just, maybe stick with Good Night, Moon, or better yet, “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”  That one’s nothing but truth.

 

[all images are in the public domain via pixabay.com]

My Granddad And The Summer Of The Flying Bears

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The Favorite (Georgios Jakobides); image in the public domain

When I was little, I spent most of my summers at my granddad’s house, and my favorite part of spending time with my granddad was listening to his stories.  He would never say a word until I’d finished my chores, and I used to hurry so fast through all the scrubbing and dishwashing that my grandma said I should come with my own caution sign because the floor around me was always wet.  But I just wanted to hear the stories.

He didn’t tell his stories to just anybody, either.  People would come by the house and ask about this story or that one, and mostly my granddad would answer them, but sometimes he didn’t.  When I asked him about it, he said he didn’t mind telling a story just to pass the time, but talking to a person who’d already made up his mind not to believe you was just plain dumb.  I was still young enough that I didn’t understand what he meant, but looking back, I guess he wasn’t wrong.

The summers I stayed with my grandparents, if I wasn’t begging my granddad for a story, I was begging him to let me play with the flying bears.  I’ve never heard of any other place in the world where the bears could fly, but where my granddad lived, you almost couldn’t get them to stop.  It got to be a problem after they built an airport near the town; pilots would look up to see a bear in the sky ahead of them banking left, and they’d be so busy staring at the bear that they’d steer off course and end up halfway to the next state before they thought to look at the controls again.  Of course, these days all the controls are automatic, so that isn’t a problem anymore.

The flying bears loved hearing my granddad’s stories as much as I did, and it was a rare night when we didn’t see at least one bear touch down in the garden.  It just about drove my poor grandma crazy because they’d always land in the vegetable patch and trample the vegetables, and she couldn’t get anything to grow there until my granddad built a little landing strip for the bears in the field out back.  Even then she’d still mutter about paw marks on her linoleum, but I saw her putting out a bowl of acorns and pine nuts once or twice when she thought no one was looking.

I used to play with the cubs while the grownup bears visited with my granddad.  I don’t know how many times I got told to stay on the ground, but you can’t expect a child not to ride on the back of a flying bear cub and do barrel rolls just above the treetops when the chance is right in front of her.  We used to fly way up near the stars, and I would tell the cubs all the stories my granddad told me about the constellations and what they meant.  The cubs tried to teach me how to sing bear-song a few times, but I don’t think I ever got it quite right.

I asked my granddad once how the bears learned to fly, because the cubs said it just sort of happened, like walking or swimming.  My granddad told me that, back when he was young, the bears couldn’t fly at all.  One day, though, a bear cub climbed almost to the top of a tree when the branch he was standing on started to creak, and he realized the branches that high up were too small to hold him.  The cub got scared and couldn’t climb down, and his mama couldn’t climb up after him because she was too heavy and the branches would break.  None of the bears knew what to do.

The branch kept creaking and the bear cub kept crying until his poor mama was half out of her mind.   Finally she couldn’t take any more, and she reared up on her hind legs and jumped as high as she could toward her cub.  Instead of falling back to the ground like all the other bears thought she would, though, she just kept going higher and higher.  She flew all the way up the tree until she was high enough to grab her cub just as the branch he was standing on snapped through, and if her landing was a little clumsy, well, no one thought any the worse of her for it.

My granddad got that story from the mama bear herself, though she never shared it with another human being.  She told my granddad that she wasn’t scared at all on the way up, but the whole time she was flying back down, she was convinced the wind was blowing off all her fur and she was going to crash to the ground as bald as a baby field mouse.  She didn’t, of course, and by the time a week had passed nearly all the bears could fly, except for the very old and the very, very young.

(When I asked the mama bear why she told that story to my granddad and nobody else, she said it was because, after she got her cub down from the tree, she took the cub to my granddad to have him fix up some scrapes and cuts, and somehow she found herself telling him everything.  I used to go to my granddad with my scrapes and cuts, too, so I understood.)

I got a little older and started going to a different school during the rest of the year.  It was a very good school, where they made us wear uniforms and tested us on things we hadn’t learned yet, but the teachers there weren’t very nice.  At my old school, my teacher told me he always looked forward to reading my essays about what I’d done over the summer, so the bears and I made sure to do things my teacher would enjoy reading about when classes started up again.  I used to save the essays and read them to my granddad when he stayed with us during the holidays, and he liked them, too, and said he guessed my teacher must be pretty smart.

At this new place, when I wrote my summer essay, my new teacher made me stay after class and lectured me about how stories have no place in works of serious nonfiction.  I tried to explain about the mama bear and her cub, but my teacher said everybody knew bears couldn’t fly, and then she told me it was time I grew up and made me write a new essay where I copied out the encyclopedia entry on bears.  When I got to the end and found out that my teacher was right and bears couldn’t fly, I felt just like that cub did when he climbed too high in the tree, except the mama bear couldn’t rescue me because everybody knows bears can’t fly.

My parents didn’t understand why I was so unhappy that fall at my new school, and I never told them.  I didn’t want them to know how childish I’d been.  The next time my granddad came for the holidays, he asked to hear my essay and I gave him the copied-out encyclopedia entry.  He read it all the way through, frowned at the paper, and then frowned at me until I told him the whole story.  When I finished, he frowned at the paper again and threw it into the fire.  I asked him if it was true that everyone knows bears can’t fly.  He said, “Of course everyone knows bears can’t fly.  But the bears don’t know it, and don’t you go telling them.”  And I felt better.

My granddad passed away not long after that, and it wasn’t more than a few days after his funeral that the bears flew for what turned out to be the last time.  Before then, I’d never seen more than two or three in the air together, but that day so many bears took to the sky at once that they blocked the sun and turned the town almost as dark as midnight, though the clocks said it was 12 noon.  In every home and office and store, people stopped what they were doing and went outside to watch the flying bears.  We all knew they were telling us goodbye.

I was staying with my grandma when it happened.  I saw the bears as they skimmed over buildings, circled once above the graveyard, and then flew in a long, slow procession over my grandparent’s house.  I saw all the young cubs I’d played with, now almost grown and looking far too dignified ever to have done barrel rolls.  The bears flew down to skim low over the landing strip behind the house, but never landed, instead climbing higher and higher until it became impossible to tell one bear from another.  Then they turned toward the west and flew out of sight, and none of them ever came back.

I haven’t seen another flying bear since that day.  I haven’t even been to the town in years.  We sold the house after my grandma died and I never had a reason to go back after that.  To own the truth, I don’t much want to go back.  I don’t want to see how things have changed since the summers I spent there as a child, and I don’t want to know what the town looks like without my granddad somewhere in it, telling his stories.  If I go back now, I’m not sure I could still believe that bears ever flew there at all.  Some days I know they never did.

But the bears don’t know it, and I’m not about to tell them.

The Friend Card

batman-312342_640Among any group of really good friends, you will always find some version of the Friend Card.  The Friend Card is sort of like the Bat Signal; you can only use it in an emergency, but when you do, your friends have to drop what they’re doing, get in their bat-mobiles, and come help you however they can.  They don’t have to show up in a superhero costume (although bonus points if they do), but they do have to show up.

Not all Friend Card-worthy emergencies are harrowing tales of woe, of course.  A lot of them are the kind you eventually end up laughing about. For me, the memories of times I’ve played the Friend Card have turned into some of my favorite stories to tell.  For instance, there was the time I went on a date and had to have a friend come to the restaurant to rescue me:

The Time I Went On A Date And Had To Have A Friend Come Rescue Me

It’s not that the date went badly, it’s that I’d worn an old pair of pants that split down the back seam halfway through the night. Yes, it was hilarious.  Are you done laughing yet?  Okay, how about now?  Good.  So, in the Not Great column, I was in a crowded restaurant with my “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” underwear on full display (stop judging me).  In the Could Be Worse column, I was in the ladies’ room when it happened, which I’ve always taken as proof that God is a chick.

After I got done freaking out, I called a girlfriend who was about my size, invoked the Friend Card, and skulked in a stall until she could bring me some pants that didn’t violate public decency laws.  It took a comparative eon and a few months off my life, but my friend finally got to the restaurant and headed discreetly to the bathroom, where she handed me a nice pair of her own pants to change into and then immediately left so I could continue my date.  She even snuck my ripped pants out with her so my date wouldn’t see them—star power!

The rest of the night went very well, and I’m ashamed to say that my friend’s pants got pretty badly wrinkled by the time I returned them the next day.  No, that’s not true.  I’m actually not ashamed at all.  So, under the circumstances, I think that was a solid use of the Friend Card and a fine performance by my friend.  She still makes fun of me for it, but she gets to because she came through in the clutch.  And because I wrinkled her pants.

Then, of course, there’s the time I decided it was a good idea to skip the salon and bleach my hair at home:

The Time I Decided It Was A Good Idea To Skip The Salon And Bleach My Hair At Home

I was trying to save money, and I’d thoroughly researched home hair bleaching techniques on the internet.  With what I now realize was undue faith in YouTube tutorials, I followed the instructions exactly, settled myself by an open window, and tried to ignore the way my scalp had caught fire.  When it was time to check under the hood, so to speak, I looked in the bathroom mirror and omigod my hair is orange panic panic panic ask google what to do

black-1299077_640I followed my Google search result’s instructions for mixing and applying a violet-colored toner to cancel out the (pumpkin freaking orange) brassiness, though with a little less faith than I’d had in the YouTube tutorials from the previous step.  I washed out the toner, looked in the bathroom mirror and omigod my hair is purple panic panic panic why does the internet hate me panic panic just shave it all off and buy a wig–

Before I went completely V for Vendetta, I figured I might as well try playing the Friend Card.  To set the scene, this was 5:40 on a Sunday evening and the stores all closed at 6:00.  My friend took me to the drugstore, said nothing about the three scarves I had wound around my head, and calmed me down long enough to grab some hair dye in a fetching shade of normal.  It worked thank you sweet baby jesus i’ll never bleach my own hair again and, although my hair was basically straw for the next two months, it was straw of a normal color.  I’m calling that a win.

Of course, I’ve also been the one upon whom the Friend Card was played, and I think I’ve come through pretty well when it was my turn.  I mean, not everyone would be willing to pry the nails out of a coffin-sized wooden box her friend found in the basement of her new house and open it up to see if there’s a body inside:

The Time I Pried The Nails Out Of A Coffin-Sized Wooden Box My Friend Found In Her Basement And Opened It To See If There Was A Body Inside

The problem with living in a big city is that, when you move into your new home and find a large wooden box nailed shut and stowed in a dark corner of the basement and you call the police because the box is just the right size to contain a body, they tell you to open it yourself and not to call back unless the box turns out to, in fact, contain a body.  My friend learned this the hard way.  She couldn’t bring herself to open the box, though, so she friend-carded me— and then I got to learn it the hard way, too.

My friend had tried her best to work up enough courage to open the box on her own. However, in a case of what turned out to be monumentally poor planning, we had just celebrated her last night in her old house with a horror movie marathon that included Nosferatu.  After several hours of staring at the creepy mystery box and clutching a hammer that she was more ready to use as a weapon than as a tool, my friend finally caved and called me to come over and open it for her.  By then, it was closing in on midnight.

Of course I came over, and I brought a crucifix, some garlic, a wooden stake, and my neighbor’s handgun (just in case).  The wooden stake was really just one of my mixing spoons held the wrong way round and the garlic was the kind you buy in a jar, but I hadn’t had much notice.  As I pried out the last nail, I wondered if this was the point in the movie when the entire audience starts yelling “Don’t do it!  Just run!” and then I shoved off the lid before I could chicken out.  My friend, who by this time had turned mint green, stood ready with the mixing spoon as I looked into the box to find….

potatoes-1183623_640Potatoes.  Dozens and dozens of potatoes.  Turns out the house’s previous owner liked to buy them in bulk and store them in the basement in a creepy wooden box because apparently that makes them “keep” longer.  He’d meant to take the box with him when he moved, which is why he nailed it shut, but that corner of the basement was badly lit and he didn’t see the box during his final walk-through.  Still, I didn’t know that when I looked inside, so I totally get the Friend Card win on this one.

Everyone has played the Friend Card, and everyone has had the Friend Card played on them, and I’ve never heard of someone not coming through.  In my opinion, it’s one of the better qualities of the human race, right up there with empathy, imagination, and the inability to throw out your kid’s crappy handmade presents.  It gives me hope.

And to those of you who like to store your starchy tubers in giant scary coffins in the basement:  LABEL . YOUR . BOXES!  Seriously, who does that?  Potatoes.  Good grief.

 

[all images are in the public domain via pixabay.com]

Johnny Depp Tarot

When I was a kid, I liked to play with tarot cards.  Sometimes I tried to do serious readings, but most of the time I’d just make up stories to go with the pretty pictures, which it turns out is more or less what you’re supposed to do in a serious reading anyway.  Then the nuns found me telling a boy’s fortune under the bleachers one fine afternoon, and my tarot cards met what I later learned was a fiery end.  Shame.  I’d paid full price for them.

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image in public domain via pixabay.com

That’s not what this blog post is about, however.  Despite all the holy hand-wringing over what I’m told was the Devil’s influence, I never lost my liking for making up fortunes based on pretty pictures.  I just learned to be more careful about what pictures I used.  For example, carrying around photos of cute celebrities also got me in trouble with the nuns, but it was the afterschool special kind of trouble where the grownups talk at you in understanding voices and tell you that you’re a special flower just waiting to bloom.  So, being possessed of a logical mind and absolutely no scruples, I stopped carrying around regular tarot cards and instead told the future using pictures of Johnny Depp.

In addition to being much easier to explain if discovered, the Johnny Depp tarot deck has the virtue of evolving along with the actor’s career.  When I first started doing this, over half the deck was represented by images of Edward Scissorhands (he’s still most of the suite of Swords, but that’s only to be expected).  I don’t do many readings these days, but I still indulge from time to time, and I thought I’d share the results of my most recent foray into fortune-telling.  It was for myself a friend, and my her question for the cards was, what should I my friend do about this cute guy who was flirting with me her the other day?  These are the answers the JD Tarot revealed:

First Card (represents the questioner’s current situation):  The Pirate

 

This card represents an unexpected opportunity, usually one that is both attractive and risky.  A handsome rogue has captured your attention and now you feel like you can’t breathe.  Your life, previously so tightly laced, now seems full of intrigue and adventure.  You’re interested, but you suspect he desires only a night of plunder.  He may dance and sing with you while the rum lasts, but will he set his sights on another horizon when he feels a change in the wind?  If you follow “The Pirate”, you may find the treasure you seek, but be aware that what you get might not be what you truly value.

Second Card (represents obstacles in the questioner’s path):  The Mad Hatter

 

This card represents what is not as crazy as it seems.  The handsome rogue currently using your heart for a mainsail met you at the bar on Karaoke Night.  His first impression of you is of when, after your fourth Long Island Iced Tea, you lurched onstage and gave a remarkably accurate—if slurred—rendition of “Sweet Transvestite.”  And, yes, you danced.  The entire bar thought you’d gone bat-poo.  Fortunately you can stay on key even while plastered, you managed not to fall off the stage, and it turns out that your guy is a fan of Rocky Horror Picture Show (as, luckily, was the bouncer). This obstacle is not as bad as you think.

 Third Card (represents advice for the questioner):  The Man Himself

 

This card represents what is definitely as crazy as it seems—crazy awesome!  This guy flirted with you after you’d channeled Dr. Frankenfurter in front of a hundred strangers.  He already knows you’re bat-poo.  The Johnny Depp Tarot advises:  steer into the skid.  Show him your collection of Pixies memorabilia.  Tell him about the dream you had that was basically When Harry Met Sally, except it was When Bigfoot Met Sasquatch.  Play Strip Pictionary.  Be the inimitable, incomprehensible pile of awesome you are.  Just, maybe don’t show him the blog right away.  There are limits, after all.