Recent true events:

• I misplaced the turquoise ring my mother gave me. I always thought it was a romantic ring – maybe one my father had given her. I asked her what it meant to her (without telling her I’d lost it), and she said she’d had it made after The Divorce. Since that conversation, I’ve since thought of it as The Divorce Ring and – in some ju-ju bad karma way, I’m sure, I had been wearing The Divorce Ring on my left hand, where you’re supposed to wear your wedding ring. Yeech. Maybe it’s good I lost it?

• My red Beetle, specifically its perky antenna, does not fit into my Silverlake garage. So, every time I back out, I put the car in “R,” roll a few feet, then “P,” and move the antenna. The other day, instead of “R”, I put the car in “D.” And GOT OUT of the car. VRRRRREAHKRRASH! The car crashed into my shelves. I wrecked my car in my own garage.

• My house key. I put it in my pocket. My pants were too damn tight. The key fell out somewhere between: work, Indian food, home. House key. Gone.

I was relaying these facts to my friend Darren, who proceeded to tell me he’s lost:

• A 40-yr-old tree in his backyard to some sort of fungus.

• His hipper-than-thou glasses he got in Hong Kong – he was getting out of his car and as he shut the door, he heard a loud CHRNIOK! And realized he’d slammed his car door on his own glasses. So much for wearing sunglasses in a parking garage.

• His Tivo remote. Guy lives for Tivo.

When I asked him if he’d lost anything else, he said suddenly: his wife.

I said: Oooof.

Ever since he and his wife split earlier this year, he’s been lost in every aisle of every supermarket, every bookstore, every drugstore, overwhelmed by the choices spread out in front of him as a new divorcé: what to wear, what to eat, who to be.

And I suddenly didn’t know if it was Full Moon Fever that was causing our lives to go haywire or if it was something else – some giant earthy clearing out of our homes – similar to, but not as dramatic as – an earthquake (which, I think we are vastly over due for one. Buy your cartons of water now, kids), but both of our homes have been rocked to the core. I’m distracted and have lost my touchstones. He’s lost his foundation.

We shake off the rubble and emerge into the daylight of new realities, looking around. He’s eating prepared meals that arrive on his doorstep every night in a tan bag. I’m still looking for the key to my house.

I did, whilst typing this very post, find my ring. I had hid it in case of thieves – silly, I know, but I seem to be wired to squirrel – I had hid it behind some cards on my dad’s Olivetti Lettera 23 typewriter that he received for his high school graduation. My dad thought this deco masterpiece was junk and his wife had tossed it in a bin headed for the Salvation Army until she remembered I liked to write and pulled it out for me. I’m so glad she did – I love this machine, the 48 beautiful black keys and one shiny red button: the correction tape. The ability to cover mistakes and move on, imprinting ink into a fresh white page.

My mother has taught typing for 40 years. Can you imagine? From the manual to electric to Apple II-e’s to the sleek white Mac she now teaches from. And here is this fantastic Olivetti antique: A Mother/Father Machine.

I have two cards, a book, and a map on the Olivetti roller, as if they’d been freshly typed. The book: “Adios to Ghosts.” The map: Vintage NYC. The cards: one is a girl, hands on either side of her wide smile, saying, “I’m elated.” The other is a guy checking his watch, saying: “It’s time for love.”

My ring was behind “Time for love.”

I slipped it onto my right hand and twirled it around. Elated.