For the longest time, I had a label on my cell phone displaying the mobile number so if I lost the device the person who found it could call me. I realized how incredibly dumb that was when I left it at Ace Hardware one day and when I finally went back and found it, I had 24 messages from people who wanted me to know that it was “right here” in Lawn and Garden by the azaleas.
The other day, I went out to do a few errands and realized I had forgotten my phone, but when I returned home, I couldn’t find it. I called it, of course, but that required dialing the number from my landline and then racing from room to room to hear the ring. I’m most proud of my sprint (no pun intended, there) from my bedroom to my office in the basement in less than 4.6 seconds. But I heard nothing. Where was my cell phone?
First I called Kroger and talked to the manager at the service desk. “Where might you have left it, sir?”
“I started out really health conscious so it could be between the asparagus and the broccoli, but then I got the munchies so I could have left it in the potato chip aisle. It’s not in the meat department. I’m trying to cut down on beef and pork because…”
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“Sir, this is Brad, the Kroger manager, not Dr. Oz. I’ll call you on your home phone if I find it.”
Then I remembered that I had stopped at the vet to pick up some prescription cat food. “Yes, good morning, I was at your clinic earlier and wondered if you found my Nokia?”
“I don’t think we have any Nokias, but I know there is a Shih Tzu in the back that really needs a home.“
When I purchased my phone, I signed up for an extra feature, a way to track the device’s location using a kind of GPS system. I logged into the website.
A map popped up and suddenly this little green dot started floating around a five-mile area where I had indicated I had spent the previous few hours. The dot continued to circle, searching for my lost phone. It passed over a street whose name I recognized, then moved to another location that also sounded familiar. Suddenly, it landed on the street where I live. Oh my, it was like that horror movie with Jodie Foster. IT’S IN MY HOUSE, IT’S IN MY HOUSE!
My eyes widened. The adrenaline was pumping. How did it get back in my home? Where was it hiding? Calling it was of no use because I had apparently turned off the ringer the night before. I looked everywhere that I had ever lost my cell phone in the past: the bottom of the cat food container, the freezer, my briefcase, my wife’s pink nightgown. Please don’t ask me to explain that; it’s not what you think.
I called the 800 customer service number and was told that the phone, even if it was turned off, could play a tune that would help me locate it. “Do you have a favorite song, sir?” I told him that I did. Suddenly, “Dancing on the Ceiling” was coming from my bathroom medicine cabinet.
The next day I lost my phone again. Let me tell you, Lionel Richie didn’t sound nearly as good singing from between the couch cushions.
