Tag Archives: humor

Adopt a Little Blind Girl

Free to good home:  one Little Blind Girl, lightly used.  This rare and exotic breed is known for its endearing clutziness, comically mis-matched clothing, and inconveniently good hearing.  This particular Little Blind Girl is fully housebroken and ready for show.  Her skills include running in four-inch heels, applying makeup with her eyes closed, and finding creative ways to reach the highest shelf.  As with most Little Blind Girls, her diet consists primarily of raw foods, though this specimen has mastered the art of boiling an egg and has demonstrated prodigious skills with the microwave.

Prospective owners must demonstrate their ability to care for a Little Blind Girl, including extensive first-aid skills and the ability to get condiment stains out of dry-clean only clothing.  All applicants must show proof of ownership of a high-end stereo system and be trained to handle the occasional tantrum when the Little Blind Girl gets a new toy but can’t read the assembly instructions written in 6-point font.

Little Blind Girls are well-known for their easy-going attitudes regarding what channel of television to watch, though they can develop attachments to certain actors if seen before their vision problems set in.  This Little Blind Girl will insist on watching anything with Johnny Depp.  Should a Pirates of the Caribbean marathon come on the air, do not attempt to get between the Little Blind Girl and the screen unless properly attired in protective gear.  Simply supply her with popcorn and Milk Duds, check on her at commercial breaks, and wait for the marathon to end, at which point the Little Blind Girl will resume her normal behavior patterns.  She is very loving and affectionate and would be a good addition to any home.  Except one with small children, which she will not see and may possibly step on.  Please leave a comment if interested.

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The future’s so bright, I’ve got to wear shades

A friend of mine posted this on my Facebook page:


 

 

 

 

 

I’ve suspected for a while that this is what’s really going on!

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Little blind girl vs. the smoke detectors

Remember when I posted about my apartment?  I mentioned in that post that my apartment has cathedral ceilings: it makes changing bulbs for the recessed lighting a little tricky, but I manage.  So what do I come to find out but that the smoke detectors, which are my, the tenant’s, responsibility to maintain, are located right up there next to the ceiling!  Two of them!  One of them cunningly located at the very highest point of my ever-rising sloping wall!  Good joke, Management, very funny.  And I find this out when?  When they start going off and won’t stop because the batteries are running low, of course.

Now, I want to be clear about this:  little blind girls and ladders do not mix.  I can about manage a stepladder to reach the cabinet that some genius put right above the refrigerator (really? really?), but anything more and the world gets so fuzzy that I might as well be standing in a cloud, one step away from falling thousands of feet to a gruesome and very messy end.  So the smoke detectors were beeping and I ascertained that there was, in fact, no fire, no smoke, no alarm test, no nothing, definitely low batteries, and it was, naturally, Friday evening, right after Management packed up and left for the weekend.

It being Friday evening, I’d stopped for supplies on the way home, and by supplies I mean beer.  So I broke into the supplies and paced back and forth, sucking down the beer and trying to locate the smoke detectors which, until that evening, I had never thought to look for.  Having found them, and upon realizing I had no way to reach them, I assessed the situation, chugged the rest of the beer and started immediately upon another.  And here we come upon one of the magical properties of beer:  it can help you out of seemingly impossible situations.   As I slumped on the kitchen floor, clutching my bottle, both smoke detectors going full blast, an idea came to me.  Yes!  This will work!  There is nothing at all wrong with this idea!  Beer, you’re the best.

My fabulous plan entailed me, all 105 legally blind pounds of me, pushing my 5-drawer bureau across my apartment, over to my hallway, and using my stepladder to climb on top of it to reach the first smoke detector.  I then, and this is where it gets good, pushed the bureau back across the apartment over to my built-in wardrobe, put a small stool on the bureau, and used my stepladder to climb onto the bureau, then onto the stool, then onto the top of my wardrobe, from which I could just reach the highest smoke detector situated twenty feet above the floor.  There is no way I could have done this sober.  I distinctly remember the stool wobbling on my way down.  But I did it and I climbed back down, stumbled over to the couch and collapsed.  And had another beer.

The adrenaline has long since worn off by now, as has the alcohol.  But I still have my bureau wedged in between my bed and the wardrobe, and I can’t get it out because a) it’s at a really bad angle and 2) I weigh 105 pounds!  What was I thinking?  It may just have to stay that way for a while.  On the upside, I’ll be ready to go the next time the batteries in my smoke detector run low.

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Why little blind girls don’t travel much

A CTA Brown Line train leaving the Madison/Wab...

Image via Wikipedia

With the holidays coming up, my friends are all talking about their travel plans.  Me, I’m staying put for various reasons, but I keep thinking about the time I wanted to see my father for his sixtieth birthday.  Now, I don’t drive, as I’ve mentioned in an earlier post, and I live in a fairly rural area without mass transit or a train station.  My father lives a couple of hours away near a Major Metropolis, too far away for a taxi.  So what is a little blind girl to do?

Well, hey, there’s this bus that runs from our town to a neighboring town that has a train station.  Would I be able to take this bus to that town and catch a train to somewhere near my dad?  From what I heard, the train only hit that town about once a month.  I’d have better luck riding there on a cow.  Plenty of those around.  But wait!  The train was leaving in the middle of the afternoon on the actual day my father turned sixty; perfect!  So I’ve got it all planned out:  taxi ride to the bus stop, bus to the train station, train to Major Metropolis, mass transit to a stop near my father’s house, and then my stepmother can pick me up and give me a 5-minute ride to surprise my father for his birthday.  And it will only take four hours!  That’s only twice the amount of time it would take to get there if I could drive!  It’s the little things in life.

Now, I really should have seen this next part coming.  The day came; I took off work and was waiting for the train, for which I had already purchased a ticket.  Clutching said ticket and two forms of identification, I waited, waited, waited…checked on the train status…the train was expected to be an hour late.  Sigh, call stepmother, let her know.  I waited, waited, waited…checked on the train status again…the train was expected to be three hours late.  Panic, call stepmother, eat lots of junk food.  This is what I do when I’m upset.  By rights, I should weigh four hundred pounds.  Finally, three and a half hours late, the train pulled into the station.  I threw myself on board before anyone had a chance to leave me behind, curled up in my seat, and thumped my head softly against the window.  There’s probably a scientific explanation for why that seems to help with stress.  Maybe to give you a physical explanation for the pounding in your head? But I was on my way.

Glitch #2:  Fare cards were required for mass transit.  Crap.  What, seriously?  You don’t take credit cards?  Detour to ATM for cash withdrawal and fare card purchase.  Pounding in head near critical levels.

I arrived at Major Metropolis a mere six hours after leaving home, exhausted, wrinkled, and thoroughly fed up with my fellow human beings, especially the ones in the travel industry.  My stepmother had been delaying dinner and attempting to keep my father from getting suspicious, but even stepmothers can only be so devious.  She snuck out on a pretext, snatched me up, and bundled me back to the house driving at what seemed significantly higher than the speed limit, but I couldn’t be sure because it had gotten dark out by then, despite my having left before noon.

By the time I showed up on my father’s doorstep that night, I’d taken a taxi, a bus, a train, mass transit, and bummed a ride from family.  I felt like I should have thrown in a canoe trip somewhere, just to complete the list.  You know the stress most people get from traveling?  Yeah.  Multiply that by about fifty thousand.  So I rummaged through my bag, pulled out my father’s slightly squashed present, walked through the door, and said “Surprise!” to my darling dad.  And you know what?  He was really surprised and really happy, and it all became worth it right then.  It wasn’t until I smelled dinner that I remembered that I’d only eaten a banana, a muffin, and five pounds of sugar over the course of the day.  In retrospect, maybe not the best diet while traveling.

So remember me when you travel during the holidays, you lucky b*stards.  When you’re in your comfortable cars and planes and going straight from point A to point B, think of me.  And all you guys who have to travel from New York to Chicago to Los Angeles to eventually get to Atlanta, I feel you.  And bring painkillers, because it’s going to start hurting after a while when you’re banging your head against the window.  Oh, and go easy on the sugar.  Trust me on this.

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This is Republican Idol!

It was performance day here at Republican Idol, and all the contestants were nervous. Even Mitt Romney appeared to be sporting a light sheen of sweat, though his maintenance crew later claimed that it was condensation due to a malfunctioning cooling duct.  It’s been a long struggle for these hopefuls, with a grueling tour schedule that has had them onstage in cities from Florida to California.  Despite singing essentially the same songs in every performance, each contestant has had setbacks and each contestant has a story to tell, except for Rick Perry, who can’t remember his story.  But it all comes down to how they connect with the voting audience.

First up was Newt Gingrich.  Widely derided in the beginning as past his prime, Newt has modernized his repertoire and gone from Golden Oldie to Golden Child.  Now seen as a frontrunner, Newt belted out his popular hit, “Hey!  I’m Not Mitt!” to cheers and applause, many audience members joining in.  In a rare display of party unity, Rick Santorum and Gary Johnson were seen with their arms around each other, swaying to the beat and singing along.  Santorum later released a statement to the press clarifying that he was, in fact, extremely heterosexual and that he was merely caught up in the moment, a little curious, and that it meant nothing, nothing at all.  Gary Johnson posted a reply on YouTube indicating that his next-door neighbor’s dog was more heterosexual than Santorum.

Next up was Michele Bachmann.  She put a conservative twist on the Howard Dean classic, “I Swear I’m Not A Crazy Nutjob,” beginning with a quiet ramble and building to a final, climactic scream that brought the live audience to its feet but had the judges rolling their eyes, and left many viewers at home wondering if her handlers were hiding her medication.  She remains a strong contender and a media favorite, but will her followers find her entertaining enough to send her to the finals?

The night ended with embattled favorite Herman Cain, who turned in a raucous rendition of his popular “I Said 9! 9! 9!”  The audience joined in and, though many got the details of the words wrong when it came to the verses, they all came together to shout “9! 9! 9!” on the chorus.  Critics have speculated as to the ultimate meaning of the song, which remains unclear and has therefore generated a great deal of buzz.  Even buzzier are the allegations of improprieties with female fans after performances.  However, an investigator looking into the allegations was heard to comment that it was the only way the poor man was likely to see any action, and to have a heart.

Votes will be cast, dreams will be dashed, and one of the contestants will go on to the final show for a chance at a four-year contract and a whole new life.  Who will it be?  Only time will tell, but one thing is certain:  we’re in for many, many more performances before we finally choose a winner.

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I like my posts like I like my men, short and funny

Because that last post was a bummer and I like to leave you guys with a laugh:

Little blind girl walks into a bar, goes up to place her drink order, has the following exchange:

Random guy:  Nice shoes.  Wanna f*ck?

Little blind girl:  Um, no thanks.

(turns around, walks to friends’ table)

Friend:  Man, that guy was really cute!

Little blind girl:  That explains a lot.

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Communication breakdown

phone

Image by mike r baker via Flickr

I have certain phone conversations, I’m not saying with whom, that will go on for an ungodly long time about something that really takes about five minutes to say.  I recognize that, sometimes, people just need to talk, but honestly, after about forty-five minutes, my ear goes numb.  I learned pretty early on that I’m not always needed for these conversations, either.  A few interjections of “I hear you” and “you’re kidding” and the occasional “Oh, how awful” and they’re good to keep talking for a while.  I listen for key phrases, but otherwise, it’s grocery list time.

I’ve taken this opportunity to improve myself in a number of ways.  For instance, I’ll pick a scandal and follow it obsessively on the internet while telephonically smiling and nodding. Britney Spears, Tiger Woods, Congressman Weiner; I’m an expert in all these topics.  I could give lectures, and man, could I make killer powerpoint presentations to go with them.  Or, I’ve learned how to make paper boats.  It isn’t origami, you can do it with regular paper, so I can just take my legal pad, start folding, and end up with a fleet by the end of the conversation.  I like to name the boats after people I don’t like and then shred them. There’s the crossword, of course, and sudoku, both of which will pass the time for a while, but it’s all so pedestrian, and at the end of it all you have is a piece of paper with some scribblings and no new information.

That’s why I’ve taken up Russian.  It’s perfect:  I can practice while on the phone by using flashcards to review vocabulary, by making flashcards to review during future phone calls, and by taking notes on my phone conversation in Russian (this has the side effect of teaching a lot of slang, swear words, and insults).  If you try this, it will give you the added benefit of letting you know who’s been reading your notes.  All you have to do is look for the person who keeps shooting covert looks your way like they think you’re a spy. Thinking in one language and listening in another is also a great brain exercise, even if it does make you go a little cross-eyed. Just make sure you remember to speak in English whenever you’re called upon to make a response.  You never know when Big Brother is listening in, da?  Unless you’re talking to a telemarketer, in which case, go for it.

If the men in black show up and this is my last post, someone look up the Russian for “It’s been real”, will you?

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Oh, I’m gonna hurt some feelings, all right

Psychologically, I think I’m a guy.  I’ll pick a movie with things that blow up in every other scene over one with a cute kid in glasses every time.  I think I don’t need to go to the hospital if it stops bleeding in under twenty minutes.  Hugging makes me extremely uncomfortable and forces me to retreat into back-patting and well-I’ve-got-to-be-going comments.  The last time I made a dirty joke, my guy friends blushed.  And I think the “Hurt Feelings” report is hilarious.  You’ve all heard about the high school football coach who resigned after it came out that he made his players fill one out?  Yep, that’s what I’m talking about.

That’s right; if you come to me upset because someone hurt your delicate little feelings, I will make merciless fun of you until your mommy tries to call my mommy because her little precious came home in tears.  Actually, I’ll probably do that just if I catch you listening to top-twenties radio.  I don’t hold hands, I don’t sing kumbaya (or Miley Cyrus), and I don’t care if what I said brings up those abandonment issues you have from when Daddy left home. Suck it up.  Do you need a tampon?  I can give you a tampon if you need one, but that’s as much as you’re getting out of me.  Sorry, Gloria; it’s a cold, cruel world and I’ve got better things to do.

Am I a bad feminist for this?  I just don’t like criers.  I don’t like it when people use psychological or emotional issues as excuses not to do things they really can do if they would just…well, man up.  When I get my feelings hurt, I either a) bottle it up and numb it later with alcohol or b, which is much more fun) start yelling.  I favor the yelling approach. Feel free to yell at me if it means we don’t end up hugging it out.  Just be aware that I’m going to give as good as I get–yelling it out, if you will.

But if you use one of those Hurt Feelings forms that includes derogatory terms for homosexuals, you’d better not let me find it.  And, you know, I get the idea that the people who put together those versions of the report (and yes, I just checked, that football coach is one of them) are just the kind of people who are going to need to fill it out once I’m done with them.  I’m just not sure I have that many tampons.

Interestingly, that guy is still employed at the school as a guidance counselor.  Yeah, cause when my parents are getting divorced or my grandfather is molesting me, or I just don’t know what I want to do with my life, that’s totally the guy I’m gonna want to go to.

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There’s no place like home

virtual closet upper right empty

Image via Wikipedia

I have no closets.

I took this apartment without looking at it first because there was someone living in it at the time I signed the lease.  I realized there would be quirks, and I’ve learned to live with the slanted floors, the recessed lighting in the cathedral ceiling (making my life hard, here), and the tiny oven that won’t fit a cookie tray.  I mean, what, do single people bake fewer cookies at a time or something?

But the closets?

There’s a wardrobe with a few drawers and some hanging space, but dude!  I’m a chick.  I’ve got clothes.  Like, serious clothes.  Not to mention shoes.  Did I mention the shoes?  I should mention the shoes.  There are a lot of them.  But that’s not even what gets me.  I arrived with a vacuum, a mop, two Swiffers, three boxes of electrical cables, two computers I no longer use, and a box of accumulated Christmas gifts that I don’t actually want but can’t get rid of because family members who presumably love me gave them to me.  I had a partridge in a pear tree, but I threw it out, because I had nowhere to put it.  That’s right, after lugging all this stuff up to the top floor, I discovered there was nowhere to store all those things that everyone puts in their closets because, yes, all together now:  I have no closets.

It gets better.

I have a really long hallway that has become a sort of de facto closet.  The ceilings are very high, and I have a hard time replacing the lights in the ceiling when they burn out.  So, the very last bulb blew just before I left on a weekend trip, and I was rushed for time, so I left it. I forgot about it until I came back from said trip, opened the door, and traversed the hallway-closet while carrying two duffel bags and a half-empty soda.  Well, attempted to traverse the hallway-closet.  This next part happened exactly as described, hand to God:

I bumped into the vacuum, cursed, fell backwards from the weight of the duffel bags, overbalanced, tripped over a box of Christmas decorations, stumbled forward while trying to keep my balance, stepped into the bucket with my cleaning supplies in it, jumped around on one leg for a while, and fell against the wall where I lean my–wait for it–mop and dusters, which smacked me in the face in the very best vaudevillian fashion.  At this point I gave up, dropped the duffels, groped around to make sure I wasn’t going to sit on an old set of steak knives or something, sat down, and finished my soda.

What else can you do at that point?  Welcome home, little blind girl.

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In the eye of the beholder

 
 
Beauty Products

Image by OrangeCounty_Girl via Flickr

I’ve received some questions about how a legally blind girl manages with makeup, so I thought I’d post a typical day’s beauty routine.  Maybe it will answer a few questions; probably, it will raise a few more.

7:00 AM:  Alarm goes off.  Pretend I don’t really need to get up yet, hit snooze several times.

7:21 AM Look at alarm clock in panic, jump out of bed and into shower.

7:22 AM Debate whether to use volumizing or hydrating shampoo.  Think, do I want to go for a Kate Middleton look or an Angelina Jolie look with my hair today?  Realize likelihood of either look actually panning out, sigh, reach for whatever’s nearest.

7:25 AM Carefully massage conditioner only onto length of hair as have been told to do by trade journals, a.k.a. beauty magazines.  Let conditioner soak in while hesitating between exfoliating face wash and deep pore cleansing face wash.  End up using same orange goop have used since high school.

7:32 Take life in hands by attempting to shave while blind and with hot water streaming in eyes.  Cut self, curse, repeat.

7:41 Step out of shower, dry self, bandage wounds.  Look closely in mirror.

7:42 Sit sobbing on toilet, asking self why self looked in mirror just out of the shower.  Am hideous, am ravaged by age, am doomed to die alone.

7:46  Gather courage in hands, apply makeup with trowel, check in mirror again.  Am slightly less hideous, now willing to face public exposure.

7:54 Carefully avoid scale.

7: 55 Apply volumizer, shine enhancer, heat protector, styling spray, styling gel, blow dryer, curling iron, and product from Home Shopping Network am unwilling to name as is too embarrassing.  End up with hair resembling neither Kate Middleton nor Angelina Jolie, but closer to Olsen twins during their celebrated Bag Lady period.

8:12 Get dressed, eat breakfast, check news to make sure we aren’t at war with anyone new since yesterday.

8:15 Leave for work.

8:30 Arrive at office.  Boss arrives at same time, says to self “oh, you kids, you can just roll out of bed and look pretty.”  Feel all was worthwhile.  Proceed with rest of day.

I think the lesson of this post is, beauty is never in the eye of the beholder when the beholder is looking in the mirror, even when the beholder can’t actually see herself clearly.  Maybe especially then.  Anyway, there you go:  fairly typical for women, I think, regardless of visual acuity.  I think the part my colleagues will find funniest about this post is the part where I claim to arrive at work by 8:30…

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