If There Was a Key to Happiness I'd Probably Forget It

Cigarettes. Glasses. Money.

That was my mom’s recitation before she left the house. Those were the things she couldn’t be without when she went into Loblaw’s or Lawsons or Guy’s Drug Store.

After locking myself out of my house twice in two months since moving here, I’ve had lots of time to think about why Keys weren’t on my mom’s exit list.

It’s actually simple: She never locked the doors to the house, and her car keys were in the car. Even when the greenhouse across the street was robbed and Ed and Mrs. Owen were tied up and their house ransacked for egg money. Even when a prison moved in 2 miles down the road. Even when Ed’s Greenhouse was robbed again. And if by chance my mom did lock all the doors in the house when she left? She could just grab the keys that were in her car. The unlocked car. In the driveway. Two miles from the prison. Across the street from the robby place.

Obviously the time and place in which I live now is just a little bit different than Hubbard, Ohio, in the 1960s and ‘70s. It seems that each time I move, I get further away from Hubbard, both geographically and Mayberry-spiritually.

In my most recent move, before I could even put on my list Find place to hide house key I had already locked myself out of the house. It happened right after I was handed the keys by our Realtor after the final closing. He met me in our apartment parking lot and handed me a bottle of champagne and a white envelope full of five house keys. I was so excited to get into the house and walk through it without being followed around by someone in a jacket holding brochures that I threw some stuff in the car and drove right over there.

My first time pulling the car into such a narrow driveway on such a busy street was made more complicated by the three garbage cans lying willy nilly and in my path. So after going into the house, setting up the wine and wine glasses on a scarf on the living room floor in front of the fireplace (nice touch, I know. Thank you.) I decided to go out and put the garbage cans back in their place.

The fact that I did not leave my cell phone lying on the fireplace mantel with all five house keys was God’s way of saying Oh crap, Diane, you’ve just answered my question Can you be any more stupid?  The answer being, Yes, I could have also left my cell phone in the house.

Did I have a key hidden? Did I know a neighbor who might have had a key? Did I know a neighbor period? Nope to all of the above.

So I called my Realtor, who was in a meeting with an almost dead cell phone, but he managed to get me a locksmith, who came and opened the house for me. Because, you know, there were no other keys that the sellers held back for later middle-of-the-night break-ins.

After that debacle, I was afraid to leave the house for fear I would get locked out. I walked around with four keys in my hand, reasoning that if one of them fell, one of them vaporized, and one of them teleported to a parallel universe, I would still have a key to get into the house.

We eventually came up with an emergency lock-out plan, but by then I was obsessed about where the extra spare keys should go. Their placement - their very existence - became as crucial as if I were given the holy grail inside the ark of the covenant and asked to hang on to it for a sec while an epic battle was fought. Or something.

For about an hour I walked around the house trying to figure out what to do with the other spare keys. Took me at least 45 minutes to conclude that of all the places in the galaxy, the single worst place to put your spare house key is anywhere inside the house. So deciding which drawer to put them in was a big waste of time.

And after all that obsessing, I still locked myself out again. Next time, I’m going to be sure to at least have cigarettes, glasses and money, so I can walk down to the sidewalk cafe and have a drink and a smoke.

~~~

If you like Diane's humorous take on moving, you'll love her book Home Sweet Homes: How Bundt Cakes, Bubble Wrap, and My Accent Helped Me Survive Nine Moves.

Even Barbie is Moving

Have you heard the news? Barbie is moving! I know I’m always saying that everyone moves eventually, but when I heard the this news, I must admit, I was a little surprised. I mean, honestly, she’s putting on the market a house with a mirror that pulls down and becomes a bistro table? That’s gotta be tough.

But it’s true. Barbie is moving. Evidence: I was walking along the Embarcadero looking at t-shirts and jewelry with my daughter and son when I saw what looked like a pink moonbounce that could hold the U.S. House of Representatives. What Barbie madness can this be? I asked myself. Then I saw the sign.

#BarbieIsMoving

“I’m gonna have to go in here,” I apologized to the kids. I talked to the Hashtag Barbie Is Moving doorman/bouncer and he told me to register and I could get in and also qualify for the big drawing for a free Barbie dream house “for your daughter.”  (He gets points for not saying “for your granddaughter.”)

“But where is she moving?” I asked, more concerned about Barbie’s mental health and stress cardiomyopathy than a free dream house. We had already donated our old Barbie dream house to the Jenkins kids across the street before moving to Florida. I didn’t need another one. I’m running out of girly girls in my life.

“We’ll announce it Labor Day,” Barbie’s bouncer said. “We’re doing this national tour and then we’re going to announce it. Would you like to guess where she’s moving?”

Are you kidding? Of course I want to guess where Barbie is moving. But first I had to ask, “Where does she live now?”

“Uh, Malibu.” His eyes added, duh!

Right. The tan, the long blond hair, the fake boobs, the fake . . . everything, what was I thinking?

I know for sure she’s not going to move to San Francisco. An in-state move would be so anticlimactic. Plus she wouldn’t last 15 minutes in those stiletto mules walking up our hills from her job at the veterinary clinic/ airport/ school/ bank/ pediatrician’s office/ hospital/ NASA space station.  According to this Vogue article Barbie has held down 125 jobs. Moving to the Bay would require foot reconstruction surgery so she could wear ballet flats, and the last time I checked, she can’t have built up enough vacation or sick time, with all the job hopping she does.

I’m going to say Barbie is moving to the Midwest. Her publicists have most likely ruled out the South for being too politically divisive, although one of those Southern belle accents would suit her. She’s definitely not relocating to the East Coast; New York Barbie is so expected it’s almost cliche. (On the NYC part of her tour? I hear she spent a lot of time at the Pleasure Chest in the West Village, if you get my drift.) And you can forget Alaska or Hawaii. Non-mainland Americans don’t have enough collective enthusiasm to deserve to be Barbieville. And let's get real: The woman lives on wedding cake and champagne. The Alaskans would probably put her to work on a fishing boat. And what shoes, in God’s name, would she wear then?

No, I’m convinced it’s the Midwest. It’s the only place in the U.S. where she can afford a house with a walk-in closet and a man cave for Ken.

So the big announcement is set for Monday. The tour, which started in June and ends Sunday in Newport Beach, California, is not only “pinktastic,” it’s full of other cringe-worthy quips.  Your daughter will look “a-doll-able as the new Barbie BFF!”  “Join Barbie on her dolltastic road trip.” “Your Barbie girl will yell OMG . . .” Can you imagine how exhausted Barbie must be, after a summer of grinning through all the Toys R Us stores, Walmarts and KMarts across North America, and that’s before she even starts her house-hunting, staging her Malibu place for that killer market, packing, inspections, and filling out all those home mortgage forms.

Based on my experience, which as you know is vast, she's gonna need to prepare herself mentally and physically for this move. I think it's time to open up that little plastic bottle of wine and fill up that tiny wine glass.

~~~

If you like Diane's humorous take on moving, you'll love her book Home Sweet Homes: How Bundt Cakes, Bubble Wrap, and My Accent Helped Me Survive Nine Moves.

She WILL Have Her Burger

Home Sweet Homes friend and fan Janine, who is involved in a move of her own right now - and I mean right now, as in, while I write this she's probably forgetting to pack something -  read my chapter about temporary living and, as expected, topped my stories.

Remember when I talked about how I failed miserably at choosing what to take to the temporary apartment and what to send into storage? It takes a special kind of fail to break apart something and take one piece and not take the other pieces.

Read Janine's story:

"Okay, okay. Redneck grilling.  When we moved to our temporary home in the resort we only brought the bare minimum because the home we are staying in has most everything we need. It is a fully stocked and supplied three bedroom home that you might remember belongs to Steven's parents and we have vacationed here in the past.

So, yeah - we didn't need a lot and most of our stuff is in storage.  Even our grill.  Except, oddly. . .the grill pan to that grill moved here with us.  Just the grill pan. [Fitz you can stop laughing now.  I just kept picturing your temporary moves as I stared that grill pan down.]"

Yep. The grill body, the grate - nothing moved with us except the pan that holds the smoker chips.  Whatever. We made hamburgers anyway.  I am nothing if not resourceful.  I keep good company. Women, like you, that teach me to make do or do without.

And I wasn't doing without grilled hamburgers on Sunday."

 

Looks to me like pieces of broken up asphalt and a cookie cooling rack. We are talking Resourceful with a capital RESOURCEFUL.

What did you forget to take to a temporary apartment, and what MacGyver moves did it bring out in you?

~~~

If you like Diane's humorous take on moving, you'll love her book Home Sweet Homes: How Bundt Cakes, Bubble Wrap, and My Accent Helped Me Survive Nine Moves.

A Moving Fish Tail

Tracy of Buffalo, New York, read our story about Lipstick, who lost his groove and his color during our move from Illinois to New Jersey, it reminded her of her moving saga with her daughter’s goldfish Jerry.

“I have to share with you the story of Jerry (partner of Tom who died almost immediately) the 50-cent goldfish Lucy got for successful completion of potty training. We emptied most of the water out of the 10-gallon aquarium in our second-to-last move, but left just enough for him to swim inside the hard plastic Little Mermaid figurine Lucy placed in there to keep him company. (The kind that sits on top of Disney Princess themed bubble bath.) The thing had fallen onto its side so he had a nice dark place to hide while getting sloshed around in our back seat.

Since Lucy had school the next morning, I had to get her ready and so never really noticed what the fish was up to. But of course she saw it on her way out the door that next morning. I figured he had gone in there to end it all and rushed her out of the door assuring her he was only sleeping, prepared to deal with breaking the news later.

By the time I got back the stereo/TV guys were there to set everything up and once I pointed them in the right direction, I went over to deal with the task of scooping Jerry up for his final flush. But of course I discovered the little bugger was still alive and just stuck, and I mean STUCK, in the Little Mermaid and he desperately wanted out.

What ensued was about an hour and a half of trying to pull a slippery as hell goldfish out of a very inflexible plastic toy. The stereo install guys ended up getting involved, and oddly emotionally attached to the fish. It was like a whole other sort of Disney movie at this point with the heroic pet rescue theme. It took a variety of tools and time that was costing me at least $75 an hour for the glorified AV guys, but Jerry got out of there, a few scales less and a little short on the dorsal fin, but by God he made it and lived at least another year (during which I never cleaned his tank once.)

Toughest fish EVER.

Had to share after reading about Lipstick.”

~~~

If you like Diane's humorous take on moving, you'll love her book Home Sweet Homes: How Bundt Cakes, Bubble Wrap, and My Accent Helped Me Survive Nine Moves.

A Doggone Move

I have to give a tip of my hat to my dog, Abby, who has survived a coast-to-coast move and is seemingly adjusted to her new life. Poor Abby started out as a neglected and abandoned hunting dog in South Carolina, then moved to Florida where she rocked suburbia, was introduced to the ocean, neighborhood litter and lizards invading her space.

Then, as still a young pup, she was packed into a huge dog crate and flown across the country to the big city. She was introduced to eating dead crabs from the Bay, sniffing the sleeping homeless guys in the park, and peeing on the sidewalk.

And last night she visited a movie set around the corner from our house.

My husband was taking her on the fourth-shift walk when they stumbled on a scene from Dawn of the Planet of the Apes. One of the security guys took a shine to Abby and even walked her around a little bit.

The movie comes out in 2014 and stars Kerri Russell and Gary Oldman. It’s about a “group of scientists in San Francisco who are struggling to stay alive in the aftermath of a plague that is wiping out humanity, while Caesar tries to maintain dominance over his community of intelligent apes.” The guy in charge of foliage, who I talked to this morning when I strolled down there with my coffee, told me that most of it was filmed in New Orleans, where they could block off whole neighborhoods willy nilly without city officials getting on their case. But to make it look San Francisco-y, they had to shoot some scenes here.

Abby is jazzed about this and has put the original Planet of the Apes on our Netflix queue so she can get some background.

Living on the same block as the filming of a movie about an animal species that takes over the world is just one of the things that make Abby’s move here worthwhile.

Getting her here was a feat. We had to join an alliance with Pet Relocation, a company that specializes in moving your animals. They did a great job, as far as I know. Like all dog-related services, you can’t rely on your dog to tattle-tale. Who’s going to tell if they just pushed her on the plane without eye contact or a Milk Bone?

We’ve moved other pets - dogs, aquatic frogs who celebrated the move by eating each other, and Lipstick, our goldfish who was immortalized in Home Sweet Homes. But their moves were always by car. Putting a dog on a plane is concerning.

My husband was slightly distressed when we were saying our goodbyes to her in Florida.

“Be a good girl and we’ll see you soon,” he said, giving her a full-body hug.

“We’ll see you on the other side!” I said, cheerfully. “I mean - um - ...”

Tim looked at me with horror. “Don’t say that!” he hissed, covering Abby’s ears. “You may as well have mentioned the rainbow bridge!”

All of his worrying was for naught - we think. Our only clue was that when she got out of the van her tail was wagging, which means it was still attached and her heart was still beating, so I labeled the whole operation a success.

For what it cost us to move her, my husband and I both could have flown first class to China and back. With Go-Go Inflight and cocktails. But it was totally worth it, because we have quite possibly the only Treeing Walker Coonhound South Carolina hunting dog in Nob Hill.

~~~

If you like Diane's humorous take on moving, you'll love her book Home Sweet Homes: How Bundt Cakes, Bubble Wrap, and My Accent Helped Me Survive Nine Moves.

I'm New in Town So Naturally I Wanted to Spend the Day at the DMV

I had such high hopes. My hopes were as high as Coit Tower. My hopes were higher than the hill I have to walk up to take my dog to the park (which is high, just ask her, that panting dog-breath machine). My hopes were as high as the guy who sat next to me on the bus last week, one of the people who didn’t get the memo that the Summer of Love ended more than four decades ago.

I had called ahead to the California DMV to clarify a couple of things before I made the trip out there to get my California title, registration and license plates for my car. I was thrilled to little pieces when I found out that in California, you get an appointment, an actual day and time that is reserved for you at the DMV. I let myself entertain the possibility that instead of gray plastic chair hell, all flavors of BO, and long waits just to be told I didn’t do it right, that I might be escorted to a DMV teller by a smiling man in a jacket and tie, that I might be able to rate my experience on Yelp.

I wanted to make sure I was doing it right, because not doing it right causes fatigue, headache, irritable bowel and sexual side effects. I speak from experience. I had already registered my cars in six states. So I embarked on my seventh state of car ownership by opening up a big can of smug.

When I called, the guy was all laid back California.

“Your website doesn’t address the issue of in-person registration,” I said, reading off of my typed list. “If the car is in my husband’s name, does he have to be physically present to register the car?” I did not mention that I forge his signature better than he does. Or that we’ve been married so long that we are starting to look alike, so a quick trip to Supercuts and I could probably pass as him.

“Nah, you can do it for him,” the guy said. “It’s all good.”

“OK, so about this inspection,” I continued. “Do I get the inspection first and then go to my appointment? Do I need another appointment for the inspection?”

“Nah, you’re good. Just come for your appointment and they’ll take care of ya.”

I love living in California, I said to myself. This is going to be so great. My book, Home Sweet Homes, devotes the bulk of a chapter to my experiences at the DMV. I used to think you could judge a state by their libraries, but truth be told, a state can only be as good as the way they treat their newcomers with cars. I figured if I lived through New Jersey, I could certainly handle California.

Nevertheless, when I got in the car to head off to my appointment, my stomach was in knots. By the time I pulled into the parking lot, I was nauseous with fear that the California DMV was going to discover my old speeding tickets, my two DUIs, the fact that I stole the car, the body in the trunk, and that annoying vehicular homicide I have on my record. None of those things exist, but that didn’t keep me from worrying myself sick that I was going to get caught for doing something wrong. For not doing it right.

There’s got to be a hitch, I thought. You can’t just walk into the DMV with an appointment and get your license plates without some complication.

That’s right. You can’t.

First, I saw the long line of people snaking around the building. But I thought we all had appointments.

Second, I saw a line of cars presumably in line for inspections. But I thought we didn’t need an appointment for that and it would all go swimmingly, I thought.

Third, I couldn’t find a parking spot. After 10 minutes of being third in line of a parade-speed line of cars circling the parking lot waiting for someone to come out and move, I left the parking lot and found street parking. The fact that in 10 minutes no one came out of the DMV was concerning. I wanted to say to the people in line, “You might eventually get in there, but you’re never coming out. Run! Run for your lives!”

Fourth, when I got into the building the first thing I saw was a sign that announced that fighting with a DMV employee was a federal offense. Not a good sign, literally.

Fifth, I got yelled at by a guy who wouldn’t answer my question as to which inside line I was supposed to get into. But . . . but I have  . . . but I have an ap . . . but I have an appoi . . But I have an appointment! I said in the non-serial killer voice that I’ve been practicing.

Sixth, after getting called up to the window, I was told to go back outside, get my car and get the inspection. Got in that line just in time for the late-morning break, when all of the DMV inspectors apparently went home for hot lunch and a nap, but eventually got the inspection, and had to park illegally to go back inside.

Seventh, got a new number, and then waited, the whole time worrying that now I actually had done something illegal. The relief of finally getting my California license plates was nothing compared to seeing that my car had not been towed.

My husband is about to go to the DMV to get his California driver’s license.

“Hey, could you check that out for me?” he asked. “Let me know what I have to do and what to take and what's involved.”

“It’s all good,” I told him. “Just go in and they’ll take care of ya.”

What, I should be the only one to suffer?

~~~

If you like Diane's humorous take on moving, you'll love her book Home Sweet Homes: How Bundt Cakes, Bubble Wrap, and My Accent Helped Me Survive Nine Moves.

People to See, Places to Go, Butterflies to Save

I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, and like most people, the more I have to do the less willing I am to actually do even a tiny bit of it. 

So at this point, when I’m dealing with just having moved into a four-story house where nothing is on the proper level, learning the San Francisco transit system, publishing a book, learning Marketing 101, mastering new TV remotes, and trying to figure out what those big bulbous green vegetables are that are selling all over Chinatown, I’ve made it my Number 1 priority to save butterflies.

Not real ones. That would actually be worthwhile. I’m saving colorful, sparkly pretend butterflies on Bejeweled on my iPad.

When I got my iPad, I hesitated to put games on it, because I have a history of video game abuse. I almost lost my middle class lifestyle and a couple of toddlers over Tetris back in the ‘90s. But enough time had passed, I thought I had outgrown some of my obsessive behaviors. I was an idiot. I haven’t changed a whit since I was 10.

I started out playing regular Bejeweled. Zapping colored gemstones was satisfying enough, but then when I was working out a hand cramp, I stumbled across the other modes.

You would think that Zen Mode would be soothing and mentally nourishing. Wrong.  The sounds are waterfalls, trickling stream and other stuff that made me want to go to the bathroom behind a big tree in the woods. At the bottom of your screen flash encouraging spiritual reminders.

I will meet my healthy weight.

I like long walks.

I let fear pass me by.

I am up to any situation.

I love courageously.

I deserve abundance.

The Universe is safe and friendly.

Being a former fan of TM, I have my own mantra. I can’t tell you because it’s a secret and if I told you, I’d have to kill you in the most peaceful Zen Buddhist way possible. Like slowly strangling you with a 100% silk pastel scarf.  But I relied on the soothing reminders of my self worth, since it’s kind of hard to repeat your mantra when you’re zapping colorful jewels. Things catch fire and explode and stuff.

Zen Mode also has a heavy breathing option. I get to choose the speed from the slowest - Darth Vadar breathing that sounds like someone on oxygen who may not make it – to the fastest - my dog mouth-snoring when she’s dreaming of chasing a raccoon.

But enough about Zen. Let’s talk about Butterfly mode, which makes me a super hero.

There’s a big black spider at the top of the screen. If a butterfly gets to the top before you can save her, she is eaten by the spider and the game is over. There are strategies and points and levels and badges, blah, blah, blah. I care about one thing and one thing only when I’m playing Butterfly mode: How many butterflies I can save.

I’ve made up more incentives for me to do a better job saving the butterflies by creating a story in which the Spider cabal is holding millions of these colorful butterflies prisoner in their lair. Every time I play a game, I get a number of them released onto the game board and I have a chance to save a bunch. If a game ends with fewer than 100 butterflies saved, the spiders’ power increases. But if I can save more than 100 butterflies in a game, I start to shore up power and the evil spiders start to weaken. If I save 200 butterflies the spiders’ ability to catch more butterflies starts to wane. Once I topped 300 butterflies saved in one game and I was so excited I almost got myself a tattoo and a tiara. In real life.

I love to torment that rotten spider. As the butterflies get closer to the top, they start to shake. The spider, that asshole, hovers nearest the one that is closest and it fidgets around. You would see its mouth water if it was a real spider. (Although if it was a real spider I would smash it with a big shoe and that would be the end of it and all the peril with these beautiful butterflies.) I love to play my jewels so that a butterfly gets almost within reach and then I make a big play and save it and seven of his friends.

“That’s right! Suffer you stupid vulture!” I mutter in the dentist’s waiting room. The fact that everyone else is on their iPads reading Maya Angelou and The Iliad is beside the point. I’m saving freakin’ butterflies here!

When my movers were moving things into my house, I sat by the doorway and checked numbers off a Bingo sheet. In between, I played Butterfly mode Bejeweled.

The mover I had nicknamed The Professor saw my iPad and said, “Bejeweled?”

“Yep,” I answered.

“My wife is addicted to that game,” he said.

“Well, she sounds like an amazing woman,” I said, matching up a glowing fiery yellow stone and saving five butterflies.

“Yeah, she sits on her iPad all day playing that game. I swear she’d play it in her sleep if she could.”

“Perhaps your wife would like to join forces with me and together we can shut down these nasty ass spiders once and for all,” I said, my voice rising. There was a pause. Then a more awkward pause. And then another mover walked in with a box strapped to his back and said “Yellow 228!” I put down my iPad and picked up my Bingo sheet and colored in the box.

The Professor was suspiciously absent the next day when the crew came back to unpack.

~~~

If you like Diane's humorous take on moving, you'll love her book Home Sweet Homes: How Bundt Cakes, Bubble Wrap, and My Accent Helped Me Survive Nine Moves.