May 15, 2013- Volume 84: Why I Do Not Date (or at least the why I tell myself)

The Adventures of the Blind/Low Vision/Visually Impaired (BLOVI) Girl-Volume 84: Why I Do Not Date (or at least the why I tell myself)

I like to tell people that I have taken myself out of the dating scene. Mostly because I have not been on an actual date since September 2012. This is partly true. But it is also true that frankly, in Columbia, South Carolina, there is really nothing out there. Or nothing that looks good to me. The lack of interesting potential dating partners is the focus of this blog.  But first………….

My WTF of the week is the infestation of the flies--part three. Yes, for the third year in a row I have a fly problem. They are back and they are bigger than ever. There is an unusual and unfortunate story as to how the flies got into my house. And it is not pretty. My daughter is in her playroom trying to get out some art supplies when I hear a cry then horrible screaming—flies, flies. Here is what I see--large black things all over the floor, some moving, some not. She keeps horror movie yelling, “Flies, flies, get them.” So I move fast and grab the vacuum and begin sucking up the black insects I see which are partially on the floor and partially in a—wait, is that an Easter basket. It is the missing Easter basket from like 7 weeks ago. When I look in it I see lots of huge black things. They cannot be flies. They are bees or small birds. But somehow they are flies. Here is what happened, or at least my theory. The missing basket which had opened up plastic eggs and candies got trapped under something else allowing the flies to develop and feed off the sugar, making them the largest flies I have ever seen. Some of them died of gluttony and maybe lack of oxygen, but the strong survived. And they were monstrous. So I tossed the whole basket into the trash outside and continued sucking up flies. But, alas, some flew off, as flies implies. A friend arrived to bring over miniature knifes and swords for the diorama project (see next story) and I was still sucking up the dead and dying flies. She made a gagging noise at the sight. This was one of those moments I was glad that I don’t see so well. I wrote about that in my memoir. The fact that visual impairment makes gross things, like the state fair and operation shows, less gross. Now the loose super flies (not Superfly in a 70's way) are roaming freely about the house and I am guessing they are breeding. They are difficult to kill and I can see them well. It took me like 7 swats to bring one down. Another actually played dead and then arose to fly again. Vampire flies, and cunning too. There seems to be nothing I can do to avoid the yearly infestation of the flies. They very much like our house. Right now as I write I can hear one of them buzzing loudly and I need to kill it.

This week I can’t get enough of the fact that yes, oh yes; we finished the dreaded diorama project and turned it in. And we survived. But the last days of the project were tense. First, the Little Bear figure was late arriving. I had shelled out the extra 4 bucks to get it here between the dates of May 10 and 11. And yet, on May 11 he was not here. So I started tracking him. That day, when he was supposed to be at my house and being glued into the diorama, he was in transit heading out of Missouri. And this was worrisome. On Monday morning he was in Columbia being sorted. So I knew or hoped he would get here just in time to be placed in the diorama the night before the due date. I already concocted a backup plan of going on a hunt for a Native American figurine. When I got home Monday the mail had come and I tensely reached in to the mailbox, holding my breath. Yes, the damn little figurine was that important. There was a bigger package. That was my raw green organics detox products so I was momentarily distracted by my joy in being able to start my detox. But I saw no other package. CRAP. As I flipped through the rest of the mail there was a little bubble envelope. I knew it was our Little Bear and I ripped it open immediately and felt relief. But then came the task of getting him in the diorama. The day before my daughter and I had a meeting of the minds and decided there could possibly be other objects in the boy's pocket where Little Bear was brought to school. At first she said the book says there is nothing in the pocket, but the diorama needed to be jazzed up. So we glued coins and wrappers to the bottom because she said boys have change and gun wrappers in their pockets. And then she decided there should be a love note in there. Yes, still locking her up at 12. So the last step was Little Bear and his sword thing he would be using to cut his way out of the jean pocket. The day before my gagging at the flies’ friend brought over an assortment of play swords and knives (she has boys) and Sadie chose one.  And she gave us the idea to make Little Bear a marionette so he is the moving part. So we got the Popsicle stick and the string so he moves up and down to cut at the jeans. Popsicle stick, poke hole, string, easy peasy. Making it look like he was not hanging from a noose, not as easy. I gathered the string into a lovely belt and that worked. Last step, placing sword in hand. First I tried to tie the string around it, Impossible-could not see enough to do this. Then I tried to tape the sword in place. No go, it kept falling out. Then I tried regular Elmer’s glue. Also not working. I am gluing a plastic tiny sword to a tiny plastic figurine, how hard can this be. Really hard. An hour later I remember I have Gorilla Glue. I cannot read the label but know this stuff can hold anything. So I proceed to use the gorilla glue and get it on my hands which I think (looking back on the superglue peeling the stuff off your burning fingers days) is not a good thing. I can’t read the bottle but assume it says something like “Do not let glue come in contact with skin. If this occurs proceed directly to an emergency room where a plasma cutter may be needed in order to pry any stuck together body parts loose.” So I wash it off quickly and check the sword situation and it is still loose. There is no way this is happening. But then I held it there and blew on it and waited for some binding process to occur and after a few minutes the sword is no longer moving. And with a tug of the stick at the top of the diorama, Little Bear is bobbing up and down, sword erect, cutting the jeans. This is when I realize I forgot to make the cut in the jeans, which is also not easy but somehow gets accomplished. Victory is mine. Why does every project have to be so hard? Oh, I forgot, it’s because I can’t really see small things.  Another chapter in my book—my dislike of all things small like head lice, Playschool toys parts and of course, flies.

What I have written about thus far is much more exciting than the dating scene (for the over 35 crowd) in our famously hot city. A city which is less than tepid in the available not ugly, not unstable, not a cheater or a douchebag categories. My friend who does not go out much recently went on our ladies night out venture. She looked around and looked around and finally said, “If this is what is out there, I have not been missing much.” My friends and I often joke that if you throw a rock in Columbia you have no chance of hitting a decent looking guy. Take that rock to Charlotte and you can hit 10 good looking men in almost any bar or restaurant. There is also an adjustment in the hotness rating scale (1 to 10) for guys in Columbia. For example, a guy that is an 8 in comparison to other guys in Columbia would probably only be a 5 in Charlotte or any other larger city.  And I rarely go out and see an 8 or above Columbia rating. And if I do, the guy is like 25 and I could be his mother. So I do not date. Not because it would not be nice to go on a date, but because there are, or at least there seems to be, no date-able men. And also, as I have said time and time again, I am not very approachable. What I really think is that I am busy, selective and not at all willing to settle. I don’t have much time to go out and I am not crazy enough to Internet date again. The dating chapter of my book would scare any woman away from that.   So, I am going to meet someone the old fashioned way, through a mutual friend. And for a long time that just did not happen because none of my friends knew any decent available guys. But one day a friend did. And that may be a story for another blog. We shall see.

Keep Moving Forward,

Beth (BLOVI) Medlock

May 8, 2013-Volume 83: Query Quandary, Am I Really A writer?

The Adventures of the Blind/Low Vision/Visually Impaired (BLOVI) Girl- Volume 83: Query Quandary, Am I Really A writer?

In these past weeks, as I have been sending out queries trying to convince some agent, any agent, to want to represent my book I have realized that I am not very good in marketing myself. And, when it comes to being a writer, I have no track record. I am trying to sound convincing and self-assured and confident; things I usually am. But I am thinking, “What the hell am I doing. Am I really a writer?” That process of owning my identity as a writer is the focus of this blog.  But first………….

My WTF of the week is that we got two school projects in the last 3.5 weeks of school. And one is the dreaded diorama. I knew this would be coming at some point, along with the volcano project I had hoped would come later. All year I have finessed my way through helping my daughter with school projects and some have been challenging. But all of them I could manage with my limited vision. But a diorama is not an easy task because it contains small things. And I cannot see small things. The project came with four pages of instructions, which would have taken a long time to read with my magnifiers or the zoom camera. It is also on green paper, making reading it even more difficult. So I did the right thing and made my daughter read the instructions, given it is her project. Let’s just say she paraphrased the instructions so that I have some idea of what we are doing, but not really. We have a scene from the Indian in the Cupboard. It has to be three dimensional, and have at least one moving part. Great, small things with moving parts, not at all a problem. So we Google images of Little Bear (I thought that was an actual bear cartoon) and see that there is a Little Bear action figure from the movie, which is three dimensional and I am hoping has moving parts. This figurine came with the 1995 VCR tape (for you young folks, in the olden days we had tapes which came before the DVD) and they are collectible. But I manage to get one on eBay and pay a few extra bucks to get it here at the last possible second to glue him into the scene. Then we come up with a great idea for the diorama which involves my ripping up some old jeans. So even though I am still not sure what we are actually doing or will be able to really see the final product in its awesomeness, we will have some kind of diorama to turn in next week, And with that the first grade projects will hopefully be completed. I may not make it through second grade.

This week I can’t get enough of the fact that someone, somewhere has decided I am a local celebrity who will be walking in the local celebrity runway show at ColumbiaStyle Week. That is right folks; I will be walking my kind of blind ass down a runway. Let’s be clear, I can stomp down a runway-attitude and all. But I probably, with the lights down and cameras flashing (I am assuming it will be am actual runway show and that there will be paparazzi of some sort) there is no way I will be able to see the runway or the end of it. But you know I love a challenge and have a plan. I will count steps. One time or two down the runway making sure I stride the same way and in my best “Miss J would be proud” walk, I should be able to get to the end, look fierce and walk my ass back to from whence it came. And don't think I won't be jockeying for a really good outfit to wear. I will fight like it’s a Filene's basement super sale or one of those bridal dress smack downs. I am also having new head shots done. My last pictures are great and these really do, hopefully still look like me. But we all know that I have no clue since I can’t see myself that well. It has been 2.5 years and even though I have not aged a bit (I had some assistance here) it is time to have updated pics. So I have to make sure my hair is freshly colored, my eyebrows are not unruly, my manicure is flawless and my skin is glowing from a microdermabrasion. I have scheduled all these interventions with precise timing to be ready for the headshot day looking as best as I possibly can. Sadie is getting hers done too. She has decided to be the next a little less Latina version of Selena Gomez. So I am supporting her in her dream.  But since she just naturally looks good I will wash and straighten her hair and put some lip gloss and a little blush on her. Oh, to be young again. Recently she was doing a friends hair on the playground and the helpless little girl says, “Ouch, you are hurting me.” And my daughter says, “Beauty is pain.”  How did she learn this (it was not me)? But she is right. It also takes time and money. And you know what they say-it takes a village---people.

For the past few weeks I have queried agents, trying to get them to represent my book, which at this stage is only a manuscript. Like that bill, on Capitol Hill who wants to be a law someday. And my not yet a book is all about me. So I am trying to sell me as a central figure in a story and me as a writer. And I am trying to prove I have a platform which essentially means I can make people be interested in, fascinated by and ultimately care enough about me to buy my story. And I am thinking two things, one I am not very good at tooting my own horn and second, I have not considered myself a writer. So to sell myself as a writer is a double whammy of being out of my comfort zone. Way out.

I write. I put words on paper (well actually type them into a computer). My words taking the form of book, of poetry and of lyric. In all these ways I am expressing my creativity. But does that make me a writer, a poet or a songstress. I have published nothing. I have not even sung my songs or read my book or performed poetry in front of others. Very few people have seen my work. This includes this blog thing I do each week. But I am ready to share my manuscript. In part because some of it has been shared in blogs and in my talks and in part because I know what I did can have impact. But I have to see myself as writer to sell what I know. I not only have a damn good story, I wrote a damn good story. How did I do this?

The truth is, and I have come to realize, that I have been writing most of my life. I wrote in my super-secret journal as a teenager and also wrote sons and poetry in my 20’s. I wrote articles through undergrad and graduate school. I wrote countless papers, a comps paper, a dissertation proposal and a dissertation. After school I wrote an evaluation manual and countess evaluation reports, strategic plans and community assessments. I also developed at least 15 different training programs. As a life coach I have written workshop materials for 10 different workshops and almost four years’ worth of newsletters. I have written thousands and thousands of pages. Some of which, holy crap, have been published. But nowhere in those thousands of pages did I see myself as writer. I saw myself as angry adolescent, student, and consultant and life coach. It was work and it was academic or evaluation based or written for money at the end of a process. It was not creative expression of my thoughts or opinions. Or was it, because there is no way to be objective.

But not even when I began to blog and blog and blog did I even consider I was writing or that I was a writer. “I have a blog”, I would say.  When I was writing the book I still did not consider myself a writer. I was compelled to slice myself open and rip out my guts in a process of healing I thought could help others. My accident and its aftermath was a good story with lessons to be learned and maybe it was even inspirational. When asked if I would write other books my answer was always, and may still be, “No.” I am supposed to tell this story and it is the only one I have to share.

But again, that is not really true. Each week I write new material and think of other topics and yes, even other books. And I am compelled to write. I process my emotions through poetry and song first and then through narrative. And more than anything the need, the desire, to write words makes me a writer. And according to my creative coach Cassie, a good one.

So now that I am a writer I must put on my writer sash and mix and mingle with other writers. Holding my head high and wearing my heels higher. Dipping my toes in the waters of the published and learning their secrets. This means sharing my work and selling myself as author. And to do that I must write a new script for myself, create a new avatar. It looks like there is more writing to be done. And maybe another version of my query letter.

Keep Moving Forward,

Beth (BLOVI) Medlock

May 1, 2013-Volume 82: I am Crass and Past the Point of Caring

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 50^th 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

April 24, 2013-Volume 81: Time to Get Back in the Game, if I Can Find the Field

The Adventures of the Blind/Low Vision/Visually Impaired (BLOVI) Girl-Volume 81: Time to Get Back in the Game, if I Can Find the Field

I have been sitting on the sidelines for too long. At first the accident put me there, while I was fighting battles, healing and adapting to being non-sighted. But lately I have chosen to sit there and watch and observe and mostly to have the time to cocoon and turn inward and write. Sitting on the sidelines is making my ass sore and it is uncomfortable for myriad reasons. Those reasons and why it is time for me to get back on my game and in the game is the focus of this blog.  But first……………..

My WTF of the week is the fact that I find myself getting too involved in playground politics. I do this because I see others doing it, but the truth is I really want no part of the cutthroat world of 5 to 7 year olds learning lessons about power, gender roles, and other social and interpersonal dynamics. What confirmed this was yesterday when I watched a group of kids attempt to get the ripe fruits off a Loquat tree. They figured out ways to climb the tree and shake the tree and ask others for assistance, and then they shared and ate the fruit. And then I thought about my childhood and the Kumquat trees in our neighborhood and how all we did with those fruits is fight to see how many we could get and then pelt the hell out of each other with them. They were the perfect size and density to make nice round bruises. And so I concluded, the kids are alright. But still, I find myself interfering with these politics. But I only say part of what I would really like to say. Last night my daughter showed me the bruises on her legs (not from loquats) and when I asked how she got them she said the boys are pushing me down. Ok, so this is a gender issue and feminist mommy must say something so I say “Do not ever let a boy push you down, either stand your ground or get out of the way and as they try to run you down they will keep going forward and run into something else, like a tree”.  Here is what I wanted to also say “Look, try to be the girl that the boys don’t want to run over or push down, somehow convince them things will go much better for them if they are nicer to you and remember one day they will be the ones who will determine how hard and how fast you hit the glass ceiling. Be thankful these are not the days where you may have to sleep with one of them to get what you want.” In another situation there was some girl drama about name calling. One girl comes up to the moms and tells us someone has called her a name. The other girls, mine included, claim the name caller is no longer on the playground. At which point the moms say things like “we do not call each other names, it is hurtful and we do not point fingers, you need to apologize to the girl who was called names because her feelings are hurt”. OK, all of this is good and I do try to teach my child these basic lessons, but here is what I also want to say. “Look, don’t run to the adults every time you hear something you don’t like, you sound kind of kind of like a nark. You as girls need to figure this out on your own. If someone calls you a name then tell them how you feel and ask them to stop or don’t react at all because you don’t have to own it. This will not be the last time you will have to deal with women being bitchy to you so learn to deal with it and work it out. We as women are communicative and communal so figure out how to do that please. And no hair pulling or cat fights, those will come later.”

This week I can’t get enough of sexual innuendo or actually just making everything sound sexual. Lately I have been in a workout group where the women are really awesome about making sexual comments about anything and everything, which is easy to do when you are using exercise balls and pulling things and lifting weights. Every time someone makes a sexual comment another person says “That’s what she said.”  Examples, while doing a figure eight with a kettle bell a woman says, “I am having a hard time fitting this between my legs”. Other comments include “Is this almost over.” “These balls keep getting away from me,” and “I just can’t get into this position”. But of course I, with my mind in the gutter, take this banter to a whole new level. When one woman says she dressed up as a taco for a Moe’s run and beat the other two people who were dressed as burritos, I say “The taco always wins” and then add, “I assume the burritos were men.” Chuckles from the other women. Later when the trainer gets out the straps for stretching and has us get into this position where are legs are kind of over our heads, I say “This could be fun”, and then ask if she uses these at home because the straps seem sturdy. Oh, no I have crossed the line and taken the sexual innuendo to a whole new fifty shades of gray level. Now people just seem uncomfortable. And I am thinking if you want to play sexual innuendo hardball, get with the program.

I have a mission statement, “I leave people and places better than how I found them.” To me this statement implies action, doing, and impact. In my 15 years of consulting I was doing that every day. Working with grass roots and nonprofits facilitating, planning, evaluating, problem solving, training and educating. I felt that I was somehow changing things, having impact and being the change agent I think I am. It was visible and tangible and I could see progress. It was reinforcing.

Speaking and training and doing workshops in front of people in my interactive fashion is where I feel the most alive, the most myself and using the best parts of my gifts. And I have been doing little of this for the past year. I stopped because it got harder when I became visually impaired because I could not drive or prepare materials quickly or see my notes or power point slides. I stopped because there was no demand for what I did in the failing economy. I stopped to refocus on individual clients and putting out videos and articles and information. I stopped to do some of the things I always wanted to do and learn: the drums, salsa, rock climbing, etc. And those were all good reasons at the time, but now they are just excuses.

I am not a very good visually impaired person and maybe I have not learned how to be my best self and use all my gifts and skills as a person who is differently abled. I am at the point where I have adapted but I have not thrived professionally in this new normal. In these months of writing; the book, the songs, the poetry, it has been cathartic and shown me I can actually write. But you can only emote and rip your guts out for so long. And now the songs and the poetry and the book are there, but I am the only one who has seen them. So they do not fill my need for having an impact. I think the book is good and could be huge and could impact many and maybe fulfill my need to be impactful, but it is not there yet and the waiting has left me in need of a change.  I am not meant to sit on the sidelines--to create, to ponder--I am meant to play in the game, to be action oriented, to do and move and be my tenacious and competitive self. I am learning that, for now, it will take a rethinking of how to fulfill my mission.  The how of it will require yet another reinvention.

Now, my work, after the book push of the spring and summer, will be to reinvent myself and my business. My hope is that my book gets published and creates ways for me to rebrand myself and have a platform for my message. But that is out of my control. What I can and will do is reconnect with the world, with networks, with people. To put myself out there and be seen and be heard, something I have not done enough of in the last year, but something I know how to do well. Looking back it was a mistake. It was a mistake not to hold the women's event this year, it was a mistake not to continue to do workshops, and it was a mistake to not seek out opportunities to give talks. But I did what I had to do to write a book I felt I needed to write.

I am not sure how I will reenter the game, but I know it will look different and be exciting. It will be the whole me, with an honesty about who I am- a person who is differently abled. It’s time to share what I have learned and how I have changed in being differently abled and put that in the puzzle with all my other knowledge skills and talents. When I blend all the ingredients I am not sure what it will make, what I will call it or if it will be appealing enough to be marketable. That I will figure out as I go. The only thing I know is that I am not a person who was put here to sit on the sidelines of life, at least not for long. I am a person who thrives on communication, connection, stimulating ideas and dialogue and just getting crap done. So get ready, I am coming back!

Keep Moving Forward,

Beth (BLOVI) Medlock

April 17, 2013-Volume 80: All the Secrets Swallowed

The Adventures of the Blind/Low Vision/Visually Impaired (BLOVI) Girl-Volume 80: All the Secrets Swallowed

This week’s blog features two of my poems. In these last months there are many secrets I have kept, things I cannot talk about. When I swallow secrets and stuff down emotions I get sick. And so, to be healthy I find a place to put those feelings and emotions; a place where they are safe and where the secret is protected. And that place, for me, is a song or poem, a sacred place where truth is revealed, but the secret is safe. And in that, for now, I am protected. 

During the rage days, a heavy haze obscuring truth

When there is pain and no words a hurt soul screams

The kicks and thrashes and spits and bites, the proof

Of a dark secret not shared, trying to unloose by any means

Protracted rage opens a Pandora’s Box of secrets spilled 

Pain of body and soul revealed; the guilty and her transgression named

Brave old soul, wise and wonderful, spirit that cannot be killed

Those tasked to provide protection point fingers her way to blame

The mother lion roars, moves to protect, swift into action

Boundaries set and broken, forced to face her abuser

Accountability for the accused denied, scapegoating sanctioned

The mother lion waits, stalks, and when she bites, you are the loser

And in this next poem, boundaries are again a theme.

Sickened from secrets swallowed, a seeker sacrificed

Paternalistic process to protect the guilty (like the pedophiles?)

Investigation of truth becomes interrogation of you

Protection picks apart personal relationships without your presence, permission

Verdict: Fascinating chocolate candy siren enjoyed too much

Memo: Mind-f*cking is not f*cking, just being screwed over

Is that chaste, she asks

Flint lights a fire to frustration, friendship, feelings, the Faith

Look at the light in my mirror, rearview, when the hot heat no longer blisters and burns

Pain dumped in this prose, disappointment dulled by distance and the dimming

Escape, with my faith intact.

Keep Moving Forward,

Beth (BLOVI) Medlock

April 11, 2013-Volume 79: Some Lessons Learned

The Adventures of the Blind/Low Vision/Visually Impaired (BLOVI) Girl-Volume 79: Some Lessons Learned

This week a short blog (because I am actually trying to finish my book proposal) about some interesting lessons I have learned just in the last week or so. But first…………..

My WTF of the week is the fact that I fell headlong into the generation gap, one I kept denying was there in the first place. I consider myself cool, up to date; I listen to the Gen Y music, emulate their fashion, use strange terms like that is toats fab”, but I am learning they know jack about my generation. In a recent conversation with a  Gen Y person I mentioned that my recently relocated to NYC friend had an amazing celebrity sighting his second day in the city: Carol Burnett. I expected to get some kind of reaction like OMG that is huge, she is so darn famous. But what I got was “who is that”.  I repeated, you know the Carol Burnett show. Blank look on the face indicating no clue. So then I say, I think that was better than my Chelsea sighting of Jessica Lange and Sam Shepherd and again, blank look and “nope, I have no clue who they are”. Unbelievably I say, you know Jessica Lange, 70's King Kong, Tootsie, no, never seen those movies, no clue. How is this possible? It is possible because I am a Gen X’er in my mid- forties who grew up with these stars and these youngsters do not know or do they care to watch older movies or reruns. If I can walk and talk and know crap in your world, they should know crap in mine, right? My dauber is going to be retro cool, like me, who is obsessed with my mother’s late 60’s furniture and can sing along with the Best of Bread. SO she is watching the Brady Bunch.

This week that is what I just can’t get enough of, the absolute innocence and sometimes naivety of the Brady Bunch, which my seven year old daughter is now watching and enjoying. This is the antithesis of the Nick/Disney shows. The parents are in the show as central figures, the children are respectful and mostly kind to each other and when they made mistakes they actually feel guilty, show remorse and apologize. The parents are trusting yet fair and also let the kids work through their own problems. In a recent episode Gregg gets caught smoking and then a pack of cigs falls out of a coat that is not his. His parents totally believe him when he says they are not his (OK, so this would have never happened to me in the 80’s-my mom would have said something like I know those are yours, don’t give me that crap). But Tom and Carol say something like “well you have done some things we have not liked, but you have never lied to us before, so we believe you”. And then the kid whose cigs they are cops to it to both Tom and Carol and his own mother. This is amazing! I am using the Brady Bunch to teach my daughter useful life lessons which are mostly look how those kids respect and listen to their parents and how honest they are. Now if I could just find Partridge Family reruns for some good single parenting family situations.

I often give a talk about the things I know to be true, which is really positive and motivational. But there is a dark side to some of the things I know to be true, and that is what I want to capture here. A brief list of things I have learned on my walk on this planet and believe me, this is just a partial list based on recent incidents.

1)    When a guy says I know I told you that story and he did not and yet he insist he did, he is talking to someone else and does not remember who he told the story to-you are in a queue, one of the many.

2)    When people say they are trying to protect you but did not tell you what from and why they are concerned and have a meeting wherein you are discussed but no one will tell you what was said, they are really trying to protect themselves or their faith or institution-it really has nothing to do with you and you were probably in the wrong place at the wrong time.

3)    If people want you to leave town and they mention a lot of times how it is time for you to leave town and suggest you should sell your house “as is” and quickly and then you get an affidavit saying it is OK for you to move, then they are trying to get rid of you. OK, this is blatant and they are somehow of afraid of you.

4)    If someone, after talking to others about you, says they can't talk to you for a few days to decompress, this means they likely need time to figure out what and how much they are going to tell you, may feel guilty or they need time to make up an alternate version of what they said. Unfortunately I have found the latter to be truer, so check for tire tracks on your back.

5)    If you are told that you look good for your age, this is not at all a compliment. I want to look good for a 35 or 36 year old. This just means you actually look your age and are attractive and that is not at all acceptable. In addition if someone says that a cosmetic procedure could probably make you look better, book the appointment immediately.

6)    If you get accused of being things you are not or maybe just a little of, just a little of the time (and you are not in denial) it is likely someone is projecting their own issues onto to you. I call this the pot calling the kettle black conversation and I have had many of them. So if you feel projected upon which you will know from an icky slime coating and the feeling that what they are saying just does not apply, just start calling them Pot. Like, “that’s great Pot” or “you are so right about that Pot”.

These are six of the dozens and maybe hundreds of things I have learned and these are just from this week. Life is never boring and lessons can always be learned.

Keep Moving Forward,

Beth (BLOVI) Medlock

April 3, 2013-Volume 78: Seeker, Explorer, Quicksand Avoider

The Adventures of the Blind/Low Vision/Visually Impaired (BLOVI) Girl- Volume 78: Seeker, Explorer, Quicksand Avoider

I am a risk taker, a woman with tons of questions, a processor, a pusher of boundaries, a moving forward type of gal.  And that may not be expected, given my disability. I am learning that the chaos and crazy in my life, which I did not cause, nor can control, may be because of this.  I am shamelessly borrowing this analogy from my therapist; that me as explorer, as seeker means I get into dangerous places that may have slippery slopes or quicksand. My job is to quickly figure out how to get out of it or to go around it and that is the focus of the blog.  But firs……………………..

My WTF of the week is the resistance that has developed to doing my work of writing the book proposal for my book, which has a working title of EnLIGHTtened: How Losing My Sight Gave me Vision. Every time I go to write the proposal I get stuck or just sit there looking at the few outlines for the format and avoid sections I don’t feel like addressing, which in the end is the entirety of the proposal. So far I have written about a page of what should be a proposal of 30 to 40 pages and I have been “working" on this for 2 weeks. I went back to the book The War of Art which does a great job at discussing resistance and tried to figure out why it is occurring (boredom, fear of success fear of failure, etc.). And what I figured out is that writing a proposal is structured and tedious and not at all what I want to be writing. Nonetheless, I have rededicated myself to this proposal process because I am giving myself a reward when that and the query letter to literary agents is finished- a trip to NYC and maybe an I Pad.

This week I can’t get enough of the fact I have booked my first post-accident flight to NYC where I will spend my 45^th b-day with my partner in crime as I call her to visit my bestest  male friend (BMF) ever. . This is my first trip flying blind, so to speak, but since I am flying with a friend I could get no special assistance, because I asked. They also could not fill my request for making sure a good looking guy was sitting in our row, between us. I am staying with my newly relocated to the big apple BMF who recently said a great thing to me. I asked, when you move in with he who will not be named in this blog will we still be able to talk like we do. He said: Beth I would never let a man come between us.  I am also wearing his great-grandmothers diamond ring because he did not want to take it to NYC and I offered to provide a good and stable home for any and all jewelry. He was not sure it was real but today I confirmed that it is. When I texted him that the ring was real and according to the jeweler, a nice gift, he said I told you I would give you a diamond ring one day.  And now he will be living the fabulous single, no kids’ life in the big city that I secretly dreamed about living and I am a little jealous. But I plan to show up in NYC as often as they will let me crash at their place and I will bring a fabulous host gift, and maybe a friend or two.

March was a chaotic month (truly March madness) and this one has started off with a bang, and a crash and a burn and they are not happy accidents, they are train wrecks. The wrecks are over legal matters, relationships, friendships, parenting, home repairs, etc. etc. etc. I am left wondering, did I cause these, what was my role, or is it all just coincidence. Sure, I would like to think the latter, but this is a recurring theme and a theme means a pattern and a pattern means you are somehow accountable.  Recently I have been accused of and called many contradictory things; insecure, needy, too independent, not knowing how to ask for help, asking for too much help, running my mouth, not disclosing enough, vacillating, not giving people the benefit of the doubt, and letting people take advantage of me. My all-time favorite and admittedly at times true statement is that I am not being a very good blind person.   How can I be all these things and if I am all these things did I cause this entire sh*t storm.

What I know to be true is that I am some of those things some of the time and others none of the time, but what I am all of the time is the seeker and explorer, out there pushing limits, risk taking and turning over new ground and new leaves. And when you are an explore you are sometimes in unchartered water or territory and given I am visually impaired these are literally and figuratively hard to navigate. One situation that arose that I will just call a Baha’i Backdraft arose because of the lack of knowledge of a new territory.

When you are an explorer you must have gear and especially things that protect your head, but also your heart. From objects being hurled at you by your raging child or crap dropped on you by the douchebag of the day. In my book I describe my approach to relationships as jumping off a cliff and forgetting to put on the parachute realizing that device would have been useful halfway down, mostly to soften the impact. I found a parachute this last go round and I already have other tools for exploring and some I figure out I need while in the midst of the exploration.

When seeking and exploring you come upon dangerous obstacles, some which are obvious and others which are not. The quicksand, which looks like any other sand, is especially dangerous because you are in it unprepared and all you can do is react in the moment. Once you hit the quicksand you just do what I always tell people to do, do not struggle and let go. If you relax completely and move slowly it will let you go unharmed. Some people are quicksand, they draw you in and it is not until you are being sucked down that you realize soon you won’t be able to breathe. Other obstacles are more obvious once you get close to them so you can problem solve and grab the tools in your tool bag to scale the wall or cross the stream  or handle whatever is in front of you. In a situation with me ex-husband I am now backed up against a wall and will be using tools to get around it or knock it down.

So me, as seeker and explorer cannot help but come upon danger and chaos, it is inevitably unavoidable and in the final analysis, without it life would be uninteresting. I feel comfortable in this role but I am learning that it makes others uncomfortable, especially since my accident because a visually impaired person, even one who is passing, should not be acting this way. Hence the myriad manes and labels placed upon me as a push forward kind of woman, armed with sling blade, parachute and assorted ax grinding tools.  Deal with it, because I can, and I am not changing strategy or tactic.

Keep Moving Forward,

Beth (BLOVI) Medlock