"Be Kind and Rewind": My Elaine-from-Seinfeld Blockbuster Moment

As Blockbuster closes its stores, I'm reminded of the time I discovered they had a note about me in their files.

"What does it say?" I asked.

The guy at the register said: "Doesn't rewind tapes."

What?!?! It was ONE time, I told him, knowing full well the "incident" (quotes intended) was the time I had to rewind one of their grimy VHS tapes before I watched it.

Knowing their tapes tramped through hundreds of VCR machines, I felt I should not have to rewind it twice on my pristine machine. So I dropped it in the return box, kindly explaining on a yellow sticky note that I had to rewind it once, so I didn't rewind it when I was done.

I asked the guy to remove or at least amend the blemish to my record. I have no idea if he did, but I'd like to think their little video profiling practice had something to do with their demise.

*evil laughter*

NOTE: Lest anyone take my "ire" too seriously, I did find this funny. Elaine-from-Seinfeld funny. I actually feel kind of bad for Blockbuster.
*evil laughter*
Kidding.

The Call of the Sirens

 
I was in high school, a girl consumed and mesmerized by the glossy pictures in her glossy magazines: Glamour, Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue. I kept them like precious jewels. I lived by them. I found hope in them.

The models, oh they were so perfect, so pretty, so inspirational. And maybe, just maybe, I too could look like that. Maybe just a little.

It was a red strappy dress. Just that right shade of red, not too orange, not too blue. It was perfect against the model’s warm, lightly tanned skin. It was casual yet sexy and oh so effortless looking. It graced the model’s slim figure with a loving and gentle embrace.

She had dark blond hair with natural waves. She was pretty in that high school girl way, like Kate Moss. I wanted that look.

If I could have, I’d have dived into the pages and lived there. Looking just like that. Glossy. Perfect. I knew that was not possible but some part of me still longed for a world like that.

I found the dress. My God, I actually found the actual dress. It was in a store a few miles from my home. I don’t need to just dream, I thought. I can actually attain this.

My heart was full of hope as I discovered it in my size on a rack in one of those trendy little stores, the kind with bright lights and loud colors that carries clothing we see in magazines, clothing that lures us hopeful young women like Sirens, those beautiful creatures who in Greek mythology lured sailors with their songs to shipwrecked deaths against rocky shores.

I took it into the dressing room. It hung lifeless on the hanger, its color less warm and aglow under the sunless light. It was just a few feet of material, not the gorgeously draped fabric on the model’s perfect figure. It seemed cheaper than it did in the magazine.

But I wanted to believe the dream so I denied that bit of disillusionment as I undressed then stepped one foot after another into the sundress I’d imagined could change my life.

 I felt as if someone smacked me in my face when I faced myself in the mirror. How could this be the same dress? My figure was not the model’s. My white skin was not a tanned, glowing canvas. The dress fell unattractively on my body, not caressing the perfect lines as I expected.

I felt betrayed. Worse, I felt stupid.

How could I have been so miseld? I left the store without the dress, and along with that I left behind a bit of a dream and a certain amount of my innocence was smashed against the rocks.

Shipwrecked.

Never again, I told myself those many years ago and yet, I still hear the call of the Sirens. And I find myself wanting to believe.

I want to believe that if I buy those perfectly fitted jeans on the model with mile-high legs that I’ll look like that, too. That life will be glamorous and wonderful if I buy those shoes, start using that face cream or makeup or get that hair style.

I still get swept into the dream until I remember — and I always remember — that strappy red dress.

Charles Revson famously once said of the cosmetics they made in the factory: “In the drugstore we sell hope.”

Now an adult for many years, I know this, we all know this. Even the models in my fashion magazines are not so perfect. Air brushing, Photoshop, special lighting and other tricks make the already impossibly beautiful even more so.

It’s okay to want to look pretty, in style, polished. But I need to keep it real. I’ll never look like anyone but me. I’ll never have longer legs, flawless golden skin, hair that is always perfect.

And that's okay. That has to be okay. It’s all I’ve got.

So when I do hear the Sirens call — and sometimes I’m lured again — I know better.

I remind myself of that strappy red dress and steer myself clear of the rocks.

Another Year Goes By

I am off to the same writing event as I was off to the last time I posted on here. I cannot believe how fast nearly 12 months has flown.

At that time, a year ago, I mentioned the incredible amount of life challenges I'd faced and been witness to — the pains, the gratitude, everything. I was hoping I was ready to roll up my sleeves and begin working on some essays.

But more challenges awaited.

I am still in the midst of these new events and new adjustments, including one I never would have imagined I'd face. Nothing I'm ready to talk about here. Not yet, at least.

So I am off to imbibe in some inspiration.

I have many stories to tell. And I will.

Getting Back to Telling Stories

I'm heading to a blogging conference and it occurred to me the other day that, while I've not been very good about blogging lately — though I want to and, as a writer, need to and plan to (which is why I'm going to a blogging conference) — I should get some business cards that actually show off my blog.

A good friend and fabulous designer offered to help during a spare hour or two at work and this is it. The other side has my contact info.

But then it occurred to me that if I give this card out, which I totally plan to, people might actually go to my blog to see what it's like.

Which is when I basically realized I have nothing to show. Well, that's not true. I have posts here. And I like to think most are evergreen. But the last post is from April and the one before, well, too long to say.

My reasons are good. Life has been filled with unexpected turns for the past two-plus years — most of those turns unwelcome, from one family illness to another to a colony of cats of which I had no choice but to take control.

As I tell people, because I feel it's apt, it's like my life was like one of those dioramas you make in grade school. You know, like in a shoebox, you create a little world.

For whatever it's worth, messy or neat, my life was that diorama, I tell people. Then, gesturing as if I'm holding an open shoe box, I shake it violently before dumping the proverbial contents onto the floor. That is what I feel has happened to my life as it was.

Dramatic maybe. And I blame no one. Life happens. But that's how I felt.

Not all the changes have been bad. Though I would not choose to repeat any of them if I could go back. But I have tried to find lessons and gifts and quite often humor from each experience, each heartache, each disappointment. And that is what I want — what I need — to write about.

As a girlfriend told me two years ago — after I told her everything I was dealing with, so much it brought her to tears: "You have to write about this. You could help so many people."

I hadn't thought about it like that. As a writer, I knew it was certainly great material. So that is why I thought a blogging conference was just what I needed right now.

Well, that and the inspiration you get from handing out business cards telling people to "look here."

Spring Fever

Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offers us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time. — Albert Camus, Notebooks

I don't know what Spring Fever means to most people. I only know I was so overcome with a feeling I could not understand one day as I walked home from school that I decided: This must be it.

I was eight, maybe nine when I found myself in the midst of a moment so perfect it caught my breath.

The sky was impossibly blue, the air gentle and warm. The clouds so perfectly white and soft I could have curled up and slept in them.

And the trees, with their brilliant green buds and flowers so delicate, so sublime — rose, white, pink, lavender — I wanted to leap into the branches. There is something maternal about a tree.

Part of me ached to embed myself in the moment. Maybe forever.

This was visceral. This was intoxicating.

What I felt was profound. Ineffable. Maybe it was even an epiphany. Only I wasn’t sure what exactly I was realizing.

I do know I was strangely conflicted, in awe of such beauty, such perfection, something so ephemeral it hurt.

I wanted to cry.

At once I felt joy. Love. Happiness. Melancholy. Sorrow.

I felt it all.

I was overwhelmed.

This, I decided, is the fever. The ailment. The ache. The Spring Fever.

Maybe I recognized my own impermanence and the inevitable passage of time. That we cannot hold onto things forever but can only recognize them now, in the moment. Or forever miss the opportunity.

I like to think I connected with something deeper than myself. The world. Nature. All the time that ever was and all the time that will ever be.

Hold on. Look. Listen. Smell. Feel.

Take me with you, make me part of you.

I wanted to live in that moment. To possess it. To keep it. But of course, I could not.

Spring, this time of new life, would pass. Yes it promised summer but that too would pass. And on it would go.

We all age, die, move on. Though I wanted to stay, I could only behold this moment.

And in that I ached.

I don’t get so overwhelmed these days. My mind, I imagine, is filled with more thoughts that get in the way.

Today I went running. I passed a church along my route, whose sprawling lawn nurtures broad-branched trees, begging you to linger.

One with delicate white flowers swayed in the breeze like a giant dandelion puff. It captured me.

I did not want to cry. But I did slow down.

And I thought:

Hold on. Look. Listen. Smell. Feel.

(I originally posted this June 22, 2007. Then today I came across the quote by Albert Camus which expressed my feelings perfectly.)

Pedestals

I had a bit of an epiphany the other night.

I was crouched down hooking up lines on my dad’s home hemodialysis machine to make a batch of solution for his next day’s therapy, a nearly four-hour process I have been assisting him with every other day for more than two years.

The thing is, he usually does that particular part himself. I’m usually — or “should be” — home or socializing or doing something “fun.”

I guess.

I mean, isn’t that what most people are doing? Spending their Friday nights dressed up, looking fashionable, or at least relaxing with friends or family.

Whatever.

Not doing this.

So I was feeling a little sorry for myself, because let’s face it, the past two months have been unusually challenging.

My father broke his hip in mid-November, which had me running back and forth between checking on my mom and visiting him during his nearly three weeks in the hospital. When he came home, he couldn’t be alone or take the stairs in their two-story house so I have essentially moved in with him in the condo where he does his dialysis. I’ve helped with everything from pulling on and off these outrageously tight orthopedic socks morning and night to grocery shopping and drug store runs.

Just about the time we felt my dad was okay to be alone overnight, my mother, who’d been staying in their home with the animals, suddenly was feeling sick. On New Year’s Day I took her to the local ER. It wasn’t terribly clear what her problem was, other than signs of infection and a pain that moved around in her abdomen from one day to the next.

A week later my mother had both her gall bladder and appendix removed. For the next two weeks, she had one thing or another — from an incision that wouldn’t heal properly to chest pains that resulted in one test after another to ensure it was due to heartburn and not her heart.

It was nearly three weeks before she was discharged, so weak now she too could not be home alone.

So here we are, three of us, in my dad’s dialysis condo, me pulling socks on and off, helping my mother with her medications while encouraging her to do what’s necessary to regain her strength. Oh, yes, and now running to their home daily to retrieve mail, feed and water three indoor cats plus several she’s given refuge to outdoors. There is the dog, too, now also at the condo so I can let her out morning and night.

Somehow in the midst of this, I actually find time to do my work but not much else.

So there I was on a Friday night, not in the latest fashions or hairstyle but in the same uniform of jeans and a dark shirt, hair in a ponytail. Far from sitting in some trendy restaurant, I was sitting on my heels hooking up surgical tubing.

And then it hit me.

Sure, this kind of sucks. But I am doing something terribly significant. And not saying no to it or avoiding it.

I looked at myself as someone else might and thought, Wow. She’s awesome.

Here I was putting all these people I imagined were doing what I thought I should be doing — living the good life, looking like some image in a magazine — on a kind of pedestal.

Not that my family is living the good life right now. It is what it is. But I’m doing what I need to do, putting that first.

And in that, I realized I’m the one I should be putting on that pedestal. Along with so many others who do what is necessary rather than what is fun.

We just might not look like it at first.

Stopped

In all the years when I probably could have been stopped by a cop for a wee bit more alcohol in my system than should be in anyone behind a two-ton machine, it never happened.

Well once, after a very late night at a bar sometime shortly after I graduated from college, I did pull out in front of a car a bit closer than I should have. It happened to be a cop and I did get stopped. But he let me go after a quick chat. And frankly, I was more tired that intoxicated anyway, something he probably knew.

No, I tend to get pulled over for weaving when I’m perfectly sober. It’s now happened twice.

The first time was years ago when I was driving through Michigan’s upper peninsula with my mother. It was late. We were exhausted. We were coming home from Montana. I was driving my father’s boat-like Mercury Grand Marquis. I knew I was tired but was in the zone where you don’t grasp just how tired until you fly over small hill a bit too fast — like a roller coaster — and find yourself gripping the wheel as the car makes a slight screeching sound rounding a curve. Even my mother perked up to say, “Watch it.”

And then came the cop. Thank god. He surely thought I was DWI until he saw us, me worn out looking in a baseball cap with my mother beside me. “Get some coffee and some sleep,” he urged us before letting us go. And we did.

That episode came back to me in the past few days as I was ruminating about what happened last Thursday night when I was stopped on my way home from a visit to my cousin’s house.

Let’s start with the facts: I had a mild headache, I was quite tired, though not sleepy, and I was, though I admit I should not have been, chatting on my cell phone. There’s more: I was wearing my glasses (which I’m not as used to as I am my contacts) because my eye was healing from an infection. The roads were dark and it seemed I kept coming upon construction zones and orange barrels placed in ways that I found confusing in terms of which way to go around them. Plus, I was driving on a road I’m never on, even though I was by now just a few miles from my home.

Oh, yes, I’d had a couple of beers, but that was early in the evening, at least two to three hours earlier, followed by water and soda pop and about half a can of mixed nuts.

So there I am, sitting at a light, a big bright red left-turn arrow signal. I don’t see those too often so I was especially diligent to heed it. As soon as it turned green, but not too soon, I proceeded through the light to turn left and head south.

Then I saw the lights. “It can’t be me,” I thought as they continued tight behind me.

“You’re kidding,” I said, a little irritated as I pulled to the right of the southbound lane stopping as close the curb as I could. By then I’d realized it could be something as simple as my tail lights not working.

A female officer appeared at my window as I grabbed for my wallet. “Can I see your license and registration and proof of insurance please?”

“Sure,” I said, adding a bit incredulously: “Did I do something wrong?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

What’s the big secret? I thought as she walked back to her car, my mind fumbling for what I’d done, thinking it can’t be the alcohol. I’m fine.

She came back to my window. “Where are you coming from?”

I told her the city where my cousin lives, probably 10 to 15 miles away.

“What’s in That City?” she said in what sounded like a mocking sing-song voice.

“My cousin,” I said flatly.

“You were weaving and then when we stopped you you nicked the curb.”

Weaving?? Where? I thought. And hitting the curb? On a dark road, with a cop tight behind me with blinding lights and no shoulder to pull onto. Are you kidding me? I nick curbs all the time, I wanted to say.

I don’t even remember if she asked if I’d been drinking but I knew that’s what she thought.

I felt mild panic as I told her I had two beers much earlier, that I’d had an eye problem and didn’t see as well with my glasses, which I was not used to wearing. Then there was all the construction, unfamiliar streets, the headache, the tiredness. I almost said: Feel free to breathalyze me. Then thought, don’t be stupid. What if…??

“Are you using eye drops?”

“Yes,” I said, wondering what that had to do with anything.

She shined a light in my eyes and asked me to follow it.

Then she asked me to recite the alphabet “without singing it.”

By now I was feeling guilty. My heart was beating a bit faster. I was even nervous about reciting the alphabet.

I think I did okay but all of a sudden after V and before W I sort of wondered if I did something wrong. I think I did okay.

“Without looking at your watch or clock can you tell me what time it is?”

I said I thought it was about 10:30/10:45.

The second she walked away, I looked at my clock: 10:30 on the dot.

She returned for more. This time asking me to step out of the car and walk back right into her bright headlights. By now I saw she was with a male partner, who was letting her run the show.

I was almost finding this comical had it not been so unnerving. Still tired and headachy and not feeling 100 percent, I was putting my energy into being as normal as possible.

“Do you have any weapons on you?”

I nearly laughed as I said, “Of course not,” as she — with the first bit of humanness I’d seen — said as she PATTED ME DOWN: “Sorry but I have to do this to everyone.”

Then she asked if I had good balance.

“Well, I do yoga…”

“Oh, then you have VERY good balance,” she interrupted, again sounding slightly mocking.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s THAT good. I don’t normally do yoga in these shoes,” I said looking at the black wedge sandals on my feet.

“You can take them off if you want.”

“No I’ll try like this first, I’m pretty comfortable in them.” I didn’t want to stand barefoot, which felt naked, on the concrete road.

I did as she told me, hands to my sides, one leg up straight in front of me several inches above the ground while counting until she told me to stop.

I got to about 19 before she said stop. I was still on one foot. Steady. I was pleased.

She wanted more. She told me to walk toe to heel for nine steps before turning around and walking back nine steps in as straight of a line as possible.

Now these things can be a challenge if you have had NOTHING to drink and feel fine, are in the comfort of your own home and have no one judging.

Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.

See? It’s not so easy, is it?

So there I am thinking, nothing I do is convincing her. I wished I could have been a fly on the wall to see what I was actually like.

I did the heel to toe. I thought I did fine, especially considering how I felt and now with the added stress of being treated like a criminal, out in the street with blinding lights on me.

I kept waiting for them to let me go. What more did they want? I was not drunk. I knew that. I didn’t know if I had some trace of alcohol in my system. What does .08 feel like anyway? I have no idea. I wish I knew. But I knew it couldn’t possibly be what I had in my system.

It wasn’t over.

She led me up from the curb onto the grass where her partner was standing. She put the light in my eyes again, asking me to track it. I thought I followed it fine.

“How am I doing?” I finally asked.

“We’ll let you know.”

Again, what is the big secret?

Suddenly, her partner is asking me to take a deep breath and blow though this plastic straw.

Finally, I thought. A breathalyzer. Why didn’t we just do this from the beginning? At the same time I hoped those two beers two to three hours earlier weren’t in my system more than I thought.

I finished. He looked at the instrument and said, “You’re free to go.” With that they both turned and hurried to their car.

I was a little stunned. “What was it?” I called to them as they moved away from me.

“Zero,” he called to me.

They barely turned back.

I felt vindicated as I called something to them about being sure to be careful and alert on my drive home, something I’d have expected them to offer to me. I mean, after all, here they went through all this thinking I’m intoxicated, but when I blow a zero, they just take off? Suddenly the “weaving” they saw as enough reason to stop me wasn’t worth a word of caution for any other possible reason?

At least that cop up north cautioned us to get some coffee and sleep and be careful.

I felt used.

It also left me wondering if they really did suspect I was intoxicated. Were they just cracking down on everyone? Practicing their skills?

So many questions.

At least I know one thing. I can handle a couple of drinks as long as I don’t have any more within a couple of hours of hitting the road.

And, it’s not a good idea to be chatting on your cell phone when you’re behind a two-ton machine.

And those are lessons worth knowing,