Keriosity

To call my husband a gadget-freak is like calling Bill Gates “well-off”.

If it has buttons, makes noise, contains a hard-drive, plays music, does something you don’t need like fax while recording your favorite TV show while creating an online grocery list based on your credit card receipts, or its name starts with a small “i“, he has it. He buys so many gizmos that we have started a hand-me-down system with our friends - a few of whom have developed some sort of sixth sense and are putting dibs on items as soon as UPS drops them at our door. (I’m guessing the UPS lady is in on the action too.)

I used to really fret about this addiction of his until he fell off the deep end and I determined that there was no saving him: I should just let him be. I came to this conclusion when someone asked me if Emil had bought the new iPod nano that had just come out the previous week and I had already acquired a nano hand-me-down. It was 7 days old. (He decided he didn’t like it in black.)

I am fully appreciative of these hand-me-downs. I have only had to ask for a new device twice: when we converted from PC to Mac and the time my worn out second-hand iPod broke. But - when the Pink Razr came out this week…I really really really really really wanted it. Badly.

Thank you, eBay! (and Emil!)

I received my Pink Razr before anyone who isn’t friends with Paris Hilton could even get their hands on it. It’s like Shocking Pink. You can see it glowing through the zipper of my purse. I’m a little suspicious that it might be a terrorist attempt to give girly girls radiation poisoning - but in the off chance that it’s not, I look totally cute talking on it!

So I went to the nail salon today for my bi-weekly acrylic fill. Because that’s what women in Orange County do. Acrylic nails that permanently look like French manicures (”forever French”) are to Orange County women what dark clothes and overcaffeination are to New York women. It’s part of the Branding.

There I was, getting my nails grinded down with the dremel, which is another sign that we let men off too easy in the grooming department. Forget waxing and tweezing and micro-dermabrasion - women let strangers (who don’ speak English well enough to understand “that hurts”) take power-tools to our fingertips. We actually do this. Men don’t brush their hair.

Ok - back to my story. I was getting power-sanded when my little pink phone started playing its jazzy little ringtone. I could tell that my nail girl, Kim, who never remembers my name, was making an annoyed face from behind her surgical mask. (They all wear masks. It makes me uneasy about the substance they are putting on my nails. But again - in the off chance that it’s non-carcinogenic, my nails look FAB!) I apologized, and retrieved my phone from my purse, but had missed the call.

Suddenly - all activity in the salon came to a stop. All rotary tools had ceased. All chitchat had been silenced. There were only the sounds of bubbling footbaths and awed gasps. I felt like C3PO in Star Wars Episode VI when the Ewoks first saw him - oh my god did I just say that for real? (We had a Star Wars marathon last week. Don’t ask.)

Finally, Kim pulled down her mask and said “Pinka Lay-za!” and the whole salon was on its feet. Everyone wanted to see it, hold it, and take pictures of it with their drab phones. People were calling other people to tell them that they were holding an actual Pink Razr in person.

My phone was like a god.

And I was like a ghetto Paris Hilton.

Kim asked, “Keli, you get it? Where?” Oh - I see! I’m “Keli” now! Not just a set of fingers that carries a wallet, huh? Well, well.

“eBay” I replied. “AAAH - EBAY! eBay! Chijidjogichimoogi eBay!” All the nail technicians started talking in Vietnamese and they all knew eBay. Of course. (and I love how spellchecker corrects the word “eBay”)

The O.C. Ladies of Leisure weren’t as outwardly enthusiastic. (They never show that much emotion. It’s the botox and boredom.) But they still wanted to see it. Some made jabs at my expense. “Oh is THIS what my TEENAGE daughter has been asking for?” If I were in New York, I SO would have flashed her and said “Uh huh and THIS is what your husband has been asking for!”- but this is Southern California and her 45-year old pair was perkier than mine. So I let it go with a “You should BOTH get one - I’m sure you look as young as her!” or are trying to in that outfit.

I left the salon feeling like the most popular girl in school. All the nail technicians know my name. The O.C. Ladies want to be me. I have the most fabulous phone ever. And yet I still feel empty, as all popular girls do, because deep down I know that they are totally using me for my phone.

Like I care. I have a Pink Raaaaazr! I have Pinka Laaaaaay-za!

Emil and I have moved a total of 9 times in the 12 years we have been living together (12 years - jeez! You’d think we’d have figured out how not to annoy the crap out of each other by now!) We are moving experts. I can break down a cardboard box in less than 8 seconds. A big one too. 12 seconds for a wardrobe box.

Moving is what we do - and STILL, I have found there are parts of moving that can never be mastered. Never be made more efficient. These things will still be trial and error. Citysearch has helped in this battle. But only slightly. I give you:

Moving inconveniences you will never find in any moving tips guidebook/pamphlet/website etc.:

• Finding a new place to go for waxing. This may seem simple. There are a zillion places to get waxed. Any place that does nails offers waxing services. But ladies - you and I both know - these nail places can barely do nails. This is desperation waxing. This is waxing if you are already on antibiotics for something. I needed a desperation bikini wax in NY when J Sisters was booked and I was going to Miami and I went to a nail place. It looked like a blind person did my waxing. This is bad waxing. Anyway. GOOD waxing in a clean facility is hard to find. This is the second most unpleasant trial-and-error experience a person can undertake, (the first is finding who can stab you the gentlest, waxing is a close second.) But it must be done when you are new to an area. It’s not as easy a conversation to start up with a stranger as say, “I love your highlights - who does them?” or “Your nails look fabulous! Where do you get your manicures?” How do you walk up to some chick at the pool and say “Gee, your underarms and bikini zone look so smooth! You must tell me who waxes you!”?
• Finding a hair stylist you like. This is a little easier because you can actually ask for a recommendation from complete stranger with fabulous hair. But unlike waxing, bad results can be so much more traumatic emotionally. You can only do so much to hide a bad hairdo. I usually go a good 6 months before getting my hair cut when I move. I’m too chicken. (As I write this, Emil comes over and says “I need to find a place to get my hair cut.” Hey, he’s as good a guinea pig as me. Go for it, man!)
• Finding where to get all your favorite obscure brands of food. I still can’t find my yogurt and I’m a little bitter about it. It’s Emmi yogurt from Switzerland with the little cross and the mountain scene on the container. It’s yummy.
• Finding your new dry cleaner. I just went to the closest dry cleaner, thinking - it’s gotta be cheaper than NYC prices! - and I didn’t think to ask what they charge. Oh my god. I guess I should have known that the environmentally safe dry cleaner wouldn’t be inexpensive. When the lady told me the bill, I must have asked 4 times “Are you sure?!” I mean, I’m all for the environment, which is why I like to conserve paper. Like the kind my money is printed on.

Other inconveniences include - finding a new doctor, getting to know your new bartender, tricking your new neighbors into liking you so they don’t complain as much, finding your new “friends” with a pool/truck/beach-house to borrow, and obtaining one of those little badges/cards for your wallet that means you know someone in local law enforcement (wink-wink).

There are so many many more, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise in case any of YOU move in the future, since moving is such a wonderful journey. No - adventure. No - Grueling series of exhausting tasks while trying to put on a happy face to those who ask “are you excited? you must be so excited! are you packed? have you started packing? you must have a lot to pack! are you excited! have you started unpacking yet? are you excited to unpack your stuff? it must be so exciting!” YES I AM VERY EXCITED TO HAVE LOTS TO PACK. PACK PACK PACK. I HAVE BEEN DOING NOTHING BUT PACKING AND UNPACKING! ISN’T THAT EXCITING! CARDBOARD EVERYWHERE! I’M JUST ECSTATIC!” (Sorry - I’ve just been politely smiling at these questions for over two months now, ready to burst. There is nothing exciting about packing or unpacking. I’m almost done. Now I can be excited to move.)

You know - I should write a little moving tips book about this sort of thing. “The things you won’t expect to expect about moving.” I’ll put that on my “great ideas I will probably never do” list. (I’m a realist.)