My "Issue" with Keys

I have a real issue with keys. In fact, the key to many of my issues is my keys. And “issue,” as we know, is the politically correct term with which we seem to have replaced the word “problem” these days. So I’ll just say it like it is: I have a real problem with keys. I can’t find my keys, I lock my keys in the car and I lock my keys in the car with the car running. 

About the only thing I don’t seem able to do with keys is find them on the first try or without panicky rampages through my home and purse. It also seems that I require far too many self-administered pat-downs and am troubled by the fear that one day I'll enjoy the pat-downs and will resort to losing my keys on purpose so that I can justify another.

Last week I was with my son, Jon at the store. As we were leaving, I reached into my coat pocket for my keys and there was nothing there except my store receipt, three Chap Sticks and a puff of lint that didn’t even match anything that would have come from my coat.

“Huh, that’s weird,” I said. “They should be right here.” I checked my other coat pocket, came up empty, then dumped out the contents of my purse. Still I couldn’t find the keys. I peeked into the car to make sure they weren’t hanging from the ignition, but no. 

We walked back into the store and sat at the now closed-for-the-evening sandwich shop located near the store entrance. I did what women have done dating back to when we'd misplace our pelt-scrapers and dumped the purse out again. The same keys not in the purse before were not in the purse again. 

“I’ll just call AAA,” I told my son. “At least this store is open all night, so we won’t have to wait out in the cold.”

No sooner had those words come out of my mouth than an announcement came over the public address. “Attention shoppers, the store will be closing in 15 minutes . . .” Of course it was. 

Sighing heavily, I called AAA where the customer service reps actually manage to sound sorry that you’re one step closer to exhausting all your service calls and will soon have to purchase additional coverage. The rep told me that a truck would be there to assist within 50 minutes. I explained to him that I had a child with me and that the store where we were waiting was about to close, so he expedited my call. Now the driver would be there in . . . 50 minutes.

About a half-hour later, a truck pulled up and the driver rammed and jammed his way into my car. Once inside, I sweated bullets until I found the spare keys I was praying were in my satchel in the back seat. I tipped the driver with my last three bucks and drove home with my son, profoundly grateful.

When we got home, Jon and I shook off our coats, laughing about the whole thing. AAA actually was wonderful and the driver very nice. When my coat came off, I did what I often do when I’m standing up and have pockets; I shoved my hands into them – and pulled out my lost keys. I had forgotten that under my coat I was wearing a velour zip-up jacket with tiny little pockets on each side. If I hadn’t forgotten I had those pockets, I like to think I would have checked them. Unfortunately, this kind of thing is, as they say, “just like me.”  

Losing my keys always makes me think of a friend's father whose stock comment any time someone misplaces keys is: "If they were up your nose, you'd know where they are." But, of course, he doesn't say "nose."

           

And speaking of "noses," last year my ex-husband was in town on business and suggested that the kids and I meet him for dinner. So I took the kids and there we all sat over a long, leisurely dinner, followed by dessert, talking, coffee and more talking. 

When the kids and I walked to the car after dinner and it was running, my first thought was that my invisible chauffeur had started the car and was waiting in there for us. Then I remembered that I don't have an invisible chauffeur because I can't afford one. Then it dawned on me that I had left the keys in the car and that the engine had been running - for nearly ninety minutes.

Because he knows my history with cars and keys, my ex-husband vibrated with suppressed laughter. But he managed to hold himself together long enough to say he'd stick around until AAA sent someone out.

We traipsed back into the restaurant and sat on a bench, the kids next to me and my ex on the other side of the kids. I got on the phone with AAA and as I talked to the rep, a beep alerted me to an incoming text.

“Just a moment,” I said, “do you mind holding? Someone just texted me.” I took the phone away from my ear and checked the text. It read: “Ma’am, before we send a truck out, do you mind confirming that you have the jackass coverage?” Puzzled, I looked up as my ex leaned out so that I could see him past the kids – him and his phone and his uncontained glee.

A couple of years ago, a boyfriend and I were on our way out for the evening, and once again, I couldn’t seem to get my hands on my keys. The kids were right there, too, so I made this familiar announcement: “Hey everybody, listen up! I can’t find my keys! Everybody help me find my keys!”

With that naiveté found only in men, my boyfriend asked, “Why don’t you just keep them in your purse?”

“What are you, crazy?” I said. “Then I’d never be able to find them!”

The next day, he emailed me a cartoon of a mother kangaroo frantically pawing through her pouch and yelling, “He’s got to be in here somewhere!"

Sadly I admit that I left the keys in the car with it running two other times last year, and not just that evening with my ex-husband. I like to think it’s because my mind is gifted and busy and that this causes absent-mindedness. But I'm afraid it's actually something closer to the opposite.

But that’s alright; I still like myself. I’m me and that’s okay. And I provide a lot of enjoyment and a justifiable sense of superiority to all those around me. 

You can’t ask more from life than that. 

Knock, Knock, Knockin' on Heaven's Door

Some people say that when God closes a door, He opens a window. Now an atheist will tell you there is no God which would mean that if a door shuts, don't look at God. And for God sakes don't look at God to open any windows. 

So if there is no God, who does close our metaphorical doors and open our metaphorical windows? Beats me, but if I had to guess, I'd say it's one of those pesky gnats dive-bombing the human psyche - the gnats known as free will and fate. I'm not here to weigh in on either one other than to say I doubt both can exist - at least not simultaneously - and I have no idea which one does.

Anyway, one night I was out on a date with a man who was an atheist to his core. The very idea of God or religion filled him not just with disdain but with disgust. Even though we didn't see entirely eye to eye, he was such a bright man that I was enjoying his company just the same. 

He was tall, handsome, urbane and flawlessly articulate. He was as perfectly polished as the President's shoes except for the colorful discourse pouring from him on the topics of God and religion. Despite the fact that he was beginning to surmise I was too much of  a "believer," we were very much enjoying our talk. 

He turned to me where we were seated at the bar of a pricey little watering hole, pulled out his cell phone and asked if I'd like to see pictures of the renovations he was performing on his house. As he swiped through the photos, he explained the details as he went, finally stopping at a picture of beautiful mahogany-stained doors lying atop sawhorses.

     
"I'm installing these doors throughout the house," he said. As soon as I saw the picture, an evil troll banged a gong in my head.

    
"Did you know those are 'Christian doors?'" I asked, an innocent expression faked upon my face.

"I don't know what you mean," he said, gravely. Now, he was 6'2" and I'm 5'4", so one could say he really was looking down on me. 

"The doors you're installing; they're 'Christian doors,'" I repeated.

"No they are not," he replied emphatically.

"Oh, but they are," I chirped.

"No," he informed me as though addressing a well-meaning moron, "the correct term is 'six-panel doors.'"

"That may very well be, but they're also referred to as 'Christian doors,'" I explained. I honestly did like him and don't know why I wasn't behaving better. 

     
"Here, I'll show you," I offered. At this point I whipped out my own phone and Googled Christian doors.

     
"See? Look here," I invited. "Christian doors date back to the 1700s and are also known as 'frame and panel' or 'cross and bible doors.'"

     
I didn't even know they were called cross and bible doors until I read it to him and was practically giddy over it as I did. I could see him physically pull back and his posture grow stiff so I stuck my nose back into my phone - but continued:

"Okay, look. It says here that the configuration of the four panels on the bottom of the door creates the illusion of a cross. See? It's right there. It's so obvious when you know what you're looking for. And then, the two panels at the top represent an open bible, but actually, they make another cross too, don't they? Imagine that - two crosses on one door."

     
I looked up at him with the expression of an angel, which wasn't easy as it doesn't come naturally.   

"Well?" I asked, "Isn't that interesting?"

There was a long pause before he dryly remarked, "I am not going to let you ruin them for me."

     
And did I mention that his name was Christopher? It was, and may I be struck dead if I'm lying. 

Hand to God. 

Hope's Corner - Very Relaxed Road Kill

My dog, Hope - the Special of the Day at the Road Kill Cafe.

Kitt's Corner - Just Like Pussy Pasta

Sometimes Kitt throws herself at the wall just to see if she'll stick.

My Favorite Word is "Cup"

When I was married, my husband and I used to watch Inside the Actors Studio, talk show hosted by writer and actor, James Lipton. Lipton interviewed A-list actors, directors, and other high-profile theatre and film types. The show had a segment in which Lipton asked the guest a list of 10 questions. One of the questions Lipton always asked: “What is your favorite word?” 

Illustration by Teece Aronin

For some reason, every time Lipton asked the question, the word that leapt to my mind was “cup.” Yup, “cup.”

Lipton’s glitterati usually said things like “freedom,” “heroism,” “gratitude,” and “grace.” I always said, “Cup.”

            

When I confided this naively to my husband, the cupboard door slammed loudly on any chance I’d ever have to keep that information on the downlow. Even now, long after our divorce, he often brings it up and laughs as though there’s something weird about it.

But “cup” sounds good, and it feels good just to say it. “Cup.”

There is something immensely gratifying in the sound of the “hard C” used to say “cup.” Sometimes the hard C comes out sounding somewhat soft, but sometimes (and this I love) it is as crisp a sound as a knife tapping on pewter. I don’t know why that is; it just is.

            

Cups are little girls’ tea parties, a queen's high teas, and coffee-scented mornings in a cabin. There is the Stanley Cup, there are peanut butter cups, and there are loving cups, and what sweeter notion is there than cups that love?

            

Cups are round, little vessels filled with something warm. They are colorful, fragile, yet paradoxically durable. They are a ride at Disneyland. They are my abandoned childhood and the old age I secretly, sort of, almost look forward to. There are cupcakes, buttercups, and teacup poodles. Cups have their fingers in so many things, but mugs don't; they just can’t pull it off.

            

There are other even more left-of-center words that might appeal to someone whose favorite word is "cup," "cumquat," for instance, but even though it starts with a hard C sound, the word "cumquat" does nothing for me. There’s something mysterious and dangerous about the word “barista,” yet even though baristas work with cups every day, that word could never be my favorite. Canoodling is a hard C word I kind of like, but it can’t hold a candle to "cup."

            

So, that’s it. My favorite word is “cup.” Like my ex-husband, you probably think it’s weird. But I won't let that get me down, because there's also "in my cups," which is where I'm headed now. 

Hope's Corner - Hope Dishes the Dirt

             

This is a rather blurry picture (because it was an action shot) of my dog, Hope dishing the dirt about her stay at a doggie resort (a.k.a. a kennel). 

She made "backbiting" comments about some of the WITCHES (not her word) that she met that weekend. 

You know, for a dog, Hope can be pretty catty.

Short Comedians

My ex-husband is a stand-up comic who for years milked our kids for all the free material he could get. Actually, being a writer, I did, too so I’m not pointing any fingers. Now the kids are teeenagers and suddenly they aren’t that funny anymore. Any parent of adolescents knows what I mean. But the ages of three to ten were the golden age of kiddie comedy in my household, and it was great while it lasted.

            When my son, Jon was three, he was sick and I left him in the car with my mother while I ran into the store for his prescription.

            “Grandma,” he announced from his little car seat in the back, “I’m gonna throw up.”

            “Just a minute, Jon; I’m coming,” my mother said, fumbling to unfasten her seat belt and find something for him to vomit into. Due to my fortuitous failure to clean the car, she was able to get her hands on a fast-food paper bag. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

            Scrambling out of the car, despite her bad knee and reliance on a cane, she threw open Jon's door and thrust herself in just in time to hear him say, "But not today."

            Jon was the kind of kid who would chatter happily to anyone who would listen - and often to those who hadn't planned to. One day, when he was about four-years-old, a friend of my husband's stopped by. And even though Jon had never seen him before, he linked his arm through Larry’s, guided him to the love seat and cuddled up against him. Within seconds, Larry couldn’t get a word in edgewise as Jon explained the intricate plotline of a Teletubbies video he was watching.

            “. . . and the yellow one is La-La. La-La almost always has an orange ball with her. The purple one is Tinky-Winky and Tinky-Winky has a big purse. The red one is Po, and Po . . .”

            After at least five minutes of this, Larry glanced at me and made a brief comment, prompting this gentle reprimand from Jon, “Excuse me, Larry, but if you’re going to keep talking like that, you’re not going to be able to hear this.”

            By the time our daughter, Sydney was three, she had perfected a dry, low-key delivery that takes some comics years to develop. And when she was three-and-a-half, her father and I were sitting at the desk of a carpet salesman who was writing up our purchase. Sydney started fiddling with the man’s calculator. When I told her to put it back, she put me in my place by quietly but arrogantly dismissing me: “Talk to the man, Mommy.”

            Flash forward to Jon age five and Sydney age seven. I was driving somewhere with the two of them in the backseat. Not surprisingly, Jon started complaining about his sister.

            “Mom, I’m never going to believe Sydney again. She always tells me these really great things she’s going to do for me and then she never does them. She just lies to me, so I’m never going to believe her ever again.”

            Sydney executed a masterfully elongated silence before saying in a very sly tone, “Hey Jon, I’ve been workin’ on that rocket ship for ya.”

            “Oh really?” Jon called out in a delighted little yelp, all excited and ready to jump on board.

            When I recounted this anecdote to the kids the other day, Jon said, “I hate you for lying to me about that rocket, Sydney.”

And Sydney said, “It’s still in the attic.” She was even lying to him about the attic since we don’t have one.

Anyway, even though they rarely cough up charming and quotable nuggets these days, the kids are still the cheapest source of material my ex and I have – at least until they get wise to us, unionize and demand compensation. If that happens, I’ll hire a couple of four-year-olds. Like elephants, they work for peanuts - except for the ones who are allergic, and they work for cookies.