Moving Day

Getting our baby bird ready to leave the nest turned out to be a tad more complicated than just simply filling a few boxes of her belongings and notifying the United States Post Office of an impending change-of-address. Let us first wrestle a queen-sized mattress and box spring six feet in the air and strap them precariously to the top of the van before bustling off, Beverly Hillbillies-style, into the sunset (ignore the fact that it was actually early afternoon...poetic license, you know).

We arrived at our intended destination with our mattresses intact and our dignity in tatters. After nearly being crushed to death by an avalanche of Posturepedics which would later require a trip to the chiropractor, we faced our next challenge. "What's the entry code," Brad said, huffing as he lugged one mattress up the first ten steps of the building. Savannah and I looked at each other. Uh-oh. No worries...it only took us an hour to convince various residents of the apartment building of our upstanding moral character and recently expunged prison records before someone took pity on us and punched in the magical four-digit access code.

Twenty steep steps and a narrow right angle turn later, we encountered the next difficulty. As Savannah's apartment key was, at that moment, stored safely in her car that was conveniently parked in Rochester, we had stopped by a nearby friend's house to unearth the emergency spare key, buried, Jack-Sparrow-style, in the flower bed. Retrieved, we noticed that the key was shaped rather oddly but optimism runs deep in my family...until the lock won't budge. The following is the desperate text-messaged conversation to the Rochester friend:

Us: This is notice of a quick drive-by...we're stranded like hobos outside Savannah's apartment...with only a mailbox key! Be there shortly...not even coming in for a visit.

(Astute readers quickly recognize the between-the-lines meaning of this text to reflect Mr. Mosiman's profound unhappiness with the idiocy of this so-called "move.")

Rochester friend:  Lol...stranded with a mailbox key sounds like a country song.

Over an hour later, with the correct-key-in-hand, we unlocked the door to Savannah's new world, delivered her furniture and stood baffled in front of a freezer full of wine bottles and cabbage rolls. It was time to go. "Are you going to re-bury your mailbox key," Brad asked his daughter, driving away before she could respond. After a quick Google search, I texted Savannah an inspirational message.

Me:  Fun fact, in 1961, Buck Owens and his Buckeroos released a single called "The Key's in the Mailbox."  What do you think...potential ringtone?

I'm still waiting for a response.