Read 'Til You Drop

So, I was in Chicago on business this week, and I lost my cell phone.  I've had a phone now for a decade or more, and I've never lost one before.  I tried to tell myself that this loss was not my subconscious, suiting me up for an IPhone replacement, now that I've joined the Apple Cult.

I tried to find my phone.  I called it a half dozen times.  I left myself a voice mail, telling whoever listened to phone me at home.  I retraced my steps, going to the restaurant where I'd met a sales rep for breakfast.  (Lou Mitchell's - site of an amazing feta omelet, a welcome-greeting donut hole, and a mini box of Milk Duds! - who could ask for a better breakfast?)  I checked my office.  I called the hotel, on the offhand chance that I'd left the phone in a cab, and a driver had found it soon enough to connect it up with picking me up from the hotel.

 No phone.

I flew home last night, and when I walked in the door, I had a message on the house line.  My not-really-a-cousin-but-I-call-her-one-because-we-have-the-same-last-name, Sister Ann Marie, had phoned.  She's a nun in the Felician Order, and she lives in Chicago.  We had dinner together on Monday night.  She had called my cell to wish me a safe trip home, but instead of reaching me, she got Bill.

Bill, the guy who runs the pizza joint in the Sears Tower, where I grabbed a forgotten slice between meetings on Tuesday afternoon.

Bill, who had found my phone, but had not answered any other calls to it, because he was afraid he'd be invading my privacy. 

Bill, who answered a nun's call out of the blue, and told her that he had the phone waiting for me in the Sears Tower.

Sister Ann Marie was going to drive over and get it then and there, but then she realized that one of my coworkers could just take the elevator down from the 80th floor to retrieve it.  My phone is winging its way back to me, even as I type.

It's enough to make me turn to St. Anthony , the next time something goes missing!

Mindy, pleased that her silly little cell is heading home.