You finish the revisions (or so you hope) for PROMISES. It’s the book that pushed you toward an edge you didn’t even know you had. It’s also your editor’s favorite book. Go figure. And you’re feeling virtuous and competent. So, you make a date with your daughter to head over to the old house to do some more packing. Because something HAS to be done about the old house. In the meantime, you start going through your emails. There are a lot of them in your inbox. Shouldn’t you have heard your cellphone ping? ‘That’s odd,’ you say to yourself. You get up and look for your mobile phone.
You can’t find it. Your BlackBerry’s not on your desk. It’s not in your purse. Huh. You use the land line to give your cell a ‘where-you-at-?’ ring.
Your call goes straight to voice mail.
You feel a faint twinge of alarm but you figure your new home is after all a nearly empty condo, not a 40 room mansion. There are only so many places a cellphone could hide. (But OMG. What if I’ve lost it?) You think back–did you leave it on the subway? (Nooo, not there!) But then you remember your son had tried to call you and couldn’t because (a) you were out and (b) you’d forgotten your phone AT THE CONDO. Relieved, you begin to search in earnest now. You start with the most obvious–the living room couch. It’s not there, tucked between two seat cushions (but you do find the Apple remote) or in that narrow trench between arm rest and seat (though you do find two loonies). Nor is under the sofas (2 cat toys, a sock and an uncapped pen). Or in the kitchen (the cap to the pen, another cat toy). Or in the laundry room (stuff that needs to be put into the dryer). Or in the hallway (dustballs). Or by your bed (that paper you needed).
That thin thread of worry has fattened into a hairy rope of wool. How will you recover those numbers?Another search is instigated and this time you will leave no stone uncovered. You head back to your office, intent on an epic search and rescue mission. That’s where you find the evidence of WANTON UNPROVOKED DESTRUCTION. If you hadn’t been distracted, you wouldn’t have left those Sneaky Siberians alone with your brand new rug. Tufts of 100% wool are strewn about like the intestines of a wilder-beast. You want to rage at them except they’re adept at deceit, these rat-bastard cats. They’re lolling about in their respective beds, looking all ‘who me?”
Heartsick (the rug! the rug!) and worried (the digits! the digits!), you resume your search. Maybe you left it down by the car in the parking garage? After all, you remember unlocking the Intrigue’s trunk and then stepping back so that son and daughter could retrieve a rug. Did you bring your BlackBerry in the garage? (OMFG…did you leave it there? Where someone could run over it? Or pick up and then have access to ALL THOSE NUMBERS??)
No time for that. Even as you contemplate using your teeth to open a bottle of wine, some identity thief could be thumbing through your contacts. You’ll have to go down there to guts of the building to check. (But I’m not dressed for people!) It’s true. You’re wearing your usual togs. Crappy loose-fitting capris. A stretched out t-shirt with a grease-stain. A bra that has no business calling itself a bra. And you haven’t got a smidgen of makeup on your face, unless one counts yesterday’s mascara. You swear, colorfully and fluently because that’s something you’re very good at. You don’t want to get changed into respectable clothing. Not for the God-damn lift. But in this building, you dress for the elevator. Distressed, you resolve to do that. But you won’t make it a wasted trip. You decide to bring down the foldable thingie that you use to cart your groceries from car to elevator .
The wheelie-cart thing is in the hall. Someone (that would be you) didn’t fold it up after the last grocery haul. Mind still twirling around the utter-hell-of-life-without-a-cell, you do the unthinkable. You put the cart (the one you drag through the tarry depths of your parking garage) on your brand spanking new ICE BLUE comforter. And because Karma hates you, the cart thingie has left two long streaks of black oil smack dab in the middle of the bed.
The Sneaky Siberian watches you carefully, trying to establish whether this melt down will interfere with the timely presentation of his next meal.
You use a stain remover on it. Most of it comes out. But there will always be this little stain in the centre of its icy blueness. And now, to be crass, its cherry has been popped. Then you pick up your purse–which should have your cellphone but doesn’t. And you notice that it’s surprisingly heavy–for a purse that doesn’t have a cell phone in it. That’s when you remember that it has this side pocket that you never, ever use.
And that’s where you find it. Your BlackBerry is there.
Life is good again. You sit in your office chair, feeling benevolent. Such a fuss over nothing. The phone was found. A comforter never stays pristine. And the rug? It will eventually heal.
(As long as the sneaky rat-bastard cats leave it alone.)
Smiling ruefully, you head for the phone’s charger. You plug it in, then place it on your bedside table. Your brand new bedside table. The one with that has suddenly and mysteriously developed a deep DING. (See scratch to the right of phone)
Where’d it get that ding?