Ring a ding-a-ling

I checked the car seat. I looked in the cubby between the seats where receipts, pennies and lint go to to die. Under the seats, in the back seat. I stretched my legs straight, pushing my torso closer to the car ceiling, tapped my left and right pockets. Nada.

Where is my cell phone?

I reluctantly went back inside, where my phone must be. Checked the counters, the tables, even the bathroom. Dirty pants pockets, empty, too.

After about 10 minutes, it was time to resort to the Marco Polo approach.

I picked up my land line and called my cell.

Inside you, the time moves and she don't fade.
The ghost in you, she don't fade...

As the Psychedelic Furs ring tone bellowed, I turned behind me and started to walk toward the coats on the wall hook. It seemed to be coming from that direction, until I got closer, anyway. The chorus started again and the sound... was it coming from the right? Following the sound, I walked right, then forward, then right again. Still, no phone in sight.

I called again to restart my favorite group's singing. I turned quickly as the sound again came from behind.

"I've done a complete 360," I thought.

Then I remembered.

Walking through the grocery store parking lot, my mittened hands couldn't hold the pile of id/credit/debit cards, coupons, keys and my phone. I put the keys and the coupons in the left front pocket, the debit and other cards in the right. And for the first time in history, I put my cell phone in my back pocket.

That's right. The call was coming from inside the pants.