Chapter Twenty Two; Searching and Swearing (Where the bleep is my phone?)

There is a fourth dimension. I know because that is the only possible explanation for the absence of my cell phone.

This morning when I left my house my cell phone was in my hand. I know it. I know it like I know my name, the sound of my children’s voices, how to find the best deals at Macy’s (Junior section, northeast corner, last rack on the right.)

It is a fact. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Johnny Depp is the hottest man alive. That cell phone was on my person. These are the facts. None of which are up for debate.

Little did I know as I reached for my phone to make a call on my way into work this morning that my life was about to come to a digital halt. What the? Now where did I . . . put . . .

One empty purse later the great “mystery/nightmare/I am going nuts it can’t be true where the hell is my cell phone” adventure begins.

Because of course, I may be blonde, but I am not insane (Fine line, I realize).

Not in the console. Not in my purse. Not on the floor of the car. Not between the seats. Not on the floor in the back seat. I start to question my sanity. Did I or didn’t I have it in my hand 27 seconds ago? Am I imagining things? Is this a memory from yesterday I transposed onto today? After all, routine is my middle name.

I go back in the house.

Not on the counter. Not upstairs. Not downstairs. Not on the floor. Not in a coat pocket. Not in the coat closet. Not in the kitchen. Not in the dining room. Not in my bedroom, not in the bathroom.

I am running out of rooms. And patience.

I grab my home phone. I dial my cell number hoping to hear my melodic ring tone beckoning me, “Here I am! I am here! Come to me my beloved!” Instead I only hear my cheerful voice on my voicemail. And there is nothing worse than listening to your happy self when you are in full crabby self mode. I wanted to strangle myself. I am lost, what do I have to be so giddy about? I practically left myself a message telling myself off.

After revisiting all of the aforementioned areas 62 more times, dialing my cell phone 152 times, and saying a certain word that rhymes with duck, truck, and pluck almost every other breath, I suspend the search party and head into work.

Upon arrival I send out a mass email to my friends informing them that I am as unplugged as a Christmas tree in July and that my cell phone decided that this life with Audra is not what it was cracked up to be. It fled town this morning and left no forwarding address.

Everyone finds this funny. Yeah, laugh away. You’d all be freaking out too you Verizon/Sprint/Altell addicts! Try living without your circle for a whole work day.

And of course, my cell is primarily my work number so I pray to the business gods that no one leaves a voicemail of the “I have a $100,000 contract for your company if you call me in the next two hours” variety.

Somehow I get through the silent day only to arrive home later once again playing the frantic fool stomping all over my house, retracing my predictable mundane morning routine in this endless perplexing pursuit for resolution. I even sift through the litter box. I leave no terd unturned.

And of course, since it is apparent I have lost my mind after all, I am now talking to myself. “Where is this thing? What did I do with it? I have looked everywhere? What could I have done? Thrown it away?”

And then, waves of light, pure understanding, the synchronization of the universe and sheer euphoric comprehension crash upon me as I literally watch the mystery unravel in my mind.

I see my cell phone in my hand in the morning sun. And then, I see it. The missing link. I see myself grabbing the garbage on my way out the door.

Sweet Amen Alleluia! I sprint to the garage, throw open the trash can cover as a choir of angels swirls and sings around me.

The fourth dimension is not a sweet smelling place.

Where’s my Lysol? I need to make a call.