As a general rule, I don't lose things. I misplace things in this house all the time, but that's because the piles shift around while I'm not looking and cover my things up. I'm pretty good at knowing where I left them so...I haven't permanently lost anything important in twenty years. (Okay, there's that wedding ring thing but there's a LOT of dirt in a vacuum bag and you wouldn't have gone through it, either.)
So we hit the street the first night we're in New Orleans, after dinner, and I realize...my cell phone is gone. MY. Cell. Phone. Gone. I absolutely, positively fuckin' freaked out. We retraced our steps and I remembered going to the bathroom at Felix's, (which just gives me chills...that public bathroom thing and all.) And I had it in the bathroom and then we left and I didn't. Have it. The kids checked the bathroom twice. We caused an uproar, looking under the tables and napkins and chairs and such. Couldn't find my phone.
And THEN...The Big Boy didn't have his phone with him. Never mind that we're in the City of Sin and Degradation with our children...he didn't have his cell phone. So he couldn't call MY phone and...that's another thing. My favorite song is an obscure one-hit wonder no one but me has ever heard. Ninety-six Tears. QuestionMark and the Mysterions. And as a surprise last year The Nice Kid made that song my ringtone. No question about anyone else accidentally picking up THAT phone! Who else would admit they ever even heard it?
But MY PHONE WAS GONE. I was horrified, just absolutely horrified. My phone. I keep phones until the technology is phased out and there I was...my dumb ass lost my phone. Mortified. So The Big Boy gets tired of listening to me freak out and goes to the hotel and gets his phone. And right there, in the middle of the French Quarter, amidst ten million drunk tourists...
...my left boob started playing Ninety-Six Tears. Because that's where I put the phone when I went to the bathroom and if you have enough Red Stripes...who cares? The kids and I fell over laughing and I'm fishing around in my shirt and you realize...someone standing next to us went home and told this story and I would love to hear the interpretation. Because it was pretty damn foolish from our viewpoint.
You know, the big boob and the left boob. Hopefully, the same people who saw this weren't the same people who walked by when The Big Boy handed me his cigar and drink, while he took both kids into a shop. There I stood, leaning against the wall, a drink in each hand and the cigar in the corner of my mouth so I could keep it lit.
Next time, I'll wear my PTO badge.