The Adventures of the Blind/Low Vision/Visually Impaired (BLOVI) Girl- Volume 82: I am Crass and Past the Point of Caring
Recently I was accused of being crass and I have decided to own it. I tend to say what I am thinking. I love to be snarky. And my mind can be in the gutter, I admit. To me being able to be crass and quick witted is a sign of intelligence. Think about Bill Maher, Jon Stewart, or Tina Fey. They are funny because they are wicked smart and they really don’t care about what other people think. I have some of this, passed down to me genetically. Two recent outings typify this point.
On a shopping trip yesterday my dad started reading the labels off my Trader José purchases and was I surprised. There is a huge perk in being visually impaired. I can’t tell what food is in the Trader Joe's unless I really spend time putting on my magnifiers and holding each item up to my nose. And that just looks weird so I don’t do it. This means I don’t go crazy buying chocolate covered anything. I tend to bit the same items over and over when I like them and memorize their location in the store. Thus, I don’t impulse or over buy. Being visually impaired also means I can’t read the labels. So I don't look at the calories or fat or carbs or sugar. I just tend to buy items that sound healthy and taste good. But then I went shopping with my Dad, reader of all labels and shunner of all things not good for you. And he burst my bubble.
Some of the labels he read in the store. After I put two containers of my favorite dip (the spinach and kale in Greek yogurt), he reads the label. “Oh no” he says. “What does that mean” I say. “You don’t eat some of these ingredients.” “What ingredients?” “It just has something in it you don't like”. “What is it”, I demand. “It has sour cream”. My dad despises sour cream, but I just don’t love it. “What about the calories” I ask. “You don’t want to know that” he says. A bad sign. After I place more items in the cart he ceases the label reading. But once we are unpacking at home it starts again. “Holy crap”, he keeps saying. “What is it now?” I say. “This trail mix has 1200 calories in the bag and these power berries have like 1500 calories and 150 grams of sugar.” That explains the day my daughter ate the whole bag and went nuts. After I shove about four pieces of the dehydrated coconut strips in my mouth he says “This bag is like 1300 calories and it looks like it has about 20 pieces.” And I am still chewing. And before I could stop and think I ask, “What about the Joe Joe's.” Another “You don’t want to know that; you really can only eat two a day.”
What prompted all the calorie talk was that my dad had watched a PBS special on health and longevity. He said that the conclusion was you are healthier and live longer if you reduce calorie intake to no more than 1600 calories a day. Maybe I am screwed in this case. I have eaten 10 to 15 Joe Joe’s in one day. And half the container of dip and about a third of the bag of chocolate covered power berries. I am so glad they were out of mochi that day because I still have no clue how many calories each one of those sugar doughy ice cream balls of wonder have and they have not been ruined by my knowing their dirty little calorie secret. I am going to continue to eat my favorite things and I don't give a damn what is in them or how many calories they have. Ok, maybe I will eat them in smaller portions.
Another fun outing occurred this past weekend. My once a month night out where I again realize I am old enough to say whatever the hell I want to practically anyone. I think I have just moved past the point of caring. My partner in crime and I are bold when we go out. On our last outing the night started out great when one of our favorite bartenders (and by this I mean really cute) has a wonderful reply to us asking if there are any specials. He says, “I am on special.” To which I say “I’ll take one of those” and my partner in crime says “to go please.” Ha, ha, we are all laughing. But really I will take that to go, please.
Next my partner in crime beckons over a man with a prosthetic leg. She wants to know what happened. He says “Iraq” and tells the story of what he does now, which is work for the company that sells his prosthetic. She asks how far it goes up and can she touch it. I must admit at this point I started to feel protective of him, thinking “don’t ask him that”. I think I identified with him because we were both disabled. And this is the first time I get that. He says “OK”, so she gropes him until she reaches his hip. Then we ask about when he does not wear the leg. By this point really in shape Italian guy from Pennsylvania who is a little handsy comes up to join the conversation. Turns out one of the times he takes off his leg is to let’s just say make love, although they seem to prefer using the f-word here. We ask him what would happen if it was on. This is when the other guy, who also sells the prosthesis, says “Because we could program it to do all sorts of things during the making love session like kick you in the ass.” This leads to a derriere discussion which led to us demonstrating our in shape parts and some patting. Which is also the most action I have gotten in a long time.
The conversation yields some gems. Talking to the veteran makes me think. Loss of limbs is the number one injury for combat veterans. Number two is eye injuries and visual impairment. Then, holy crap, I think of a totally new way to pitch my book. I also was not questioned when I said I was 36, got compliments on my looks and yes, for the first time in a long time how I looked like Marisa Tomei. She is always my Facebook doppelganger picture.
And that was just about 20 minutes of the evening. Other conversations of the night included artistry in grooming, strange pictures appearing on partner in crime’s phone, TED talks on internet pornography (watched it—The Demise of Guys) and how some guy, on his 50th birthday, was going to find someone half his age and punch them in the face. We saw him later an asked him, “Hey, have you found someone to punch yet.” “Why do you think I am walking fast” he says. Oh yes, another strange and funny might in the Cola town.
Next outing will be a mom’s night out I am organizing. I will be on my best behavior. And if I am not I am going to have some rules; Fight Club rules. The first rule of mom’s night out is that you don’t talk about mom’s night out. The second rule of mom’s night out is that you don’t talk about mom’s night out. I will blend that with what happens on mom’s night out stays on mom’s night out. If I don’t establish some rules I will never be able to show my face at my child’s school again.
Saying what I feel and being crass is part of my genetic makeup. Case in point, my mom says to me, after my last boyfriend dunked me, “I thought he looked like a stork, was boring and really did not look like he would be good in bed.” My grandmother had a recent hospital stay and my sister went to visit. She said she knew our grandmother was feeling better because “She is back to calling everyone a shit-ass.” The first song my grandfather taught me that I can remember was, “In 1492, Columbus had to poo. He sat on the grass and tickled his ass, in 1492.” And of course my dad and his siblings are the superstars of scatological humor. And my Dad is just snarky. After the Trader Joe’s trip my daughter shows him the bikini picture I have on the frig and says “This is what mommy wants to buy.” Dad says “Not if she keeps eating this crap.” And when I say “Tomorrow is May Day, and I am a maiden so should be dancing around a May pole”, he says, “Yeah, right.”
And I contend my snarky wit is because I am the offspring of a long line of smart, wise ass, quick witted ancestors who seemed to lack the ability to censor themselves. And I am glad for it. Except that my daughter has this gene. Maybe I will think differently about it as she gets less cute and mouthier.
Keep Moving Forward,
Beth (BLOVI) Medlock
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