Last night, my ten-year old son, fruit of my loins, wait...do women have loins? Anyway, he lost his phone. It isn't that unusual. Jack loses all of his electronic devices. The Nintendo only visits occaisionally and never shows up at the same time as the charger. The cell phone is always dead or set to silence, level 11. And Jimmy Hoffa has a better chance of being located than the Game Boy.
Where do these things go? In most cases, it is swallowed whole by the evil sectional of doom. I really hate that couch. We had the carpets and furniture cleaned once and they took it apart. No one has EVER been able to put that thing back together.
Anyway, logic dictates (at least to me, in my head, with a voice that sounds like Patrick Warburton for some reason) that whatever is missing will be found there. And here is how most conversations about that go:
Jack: Mom, I can't find my cell phone/Game Boy/Nintendo/Dead hooker.
Me: Look in the sectional.
Jack: I DID! I stuck my hand in the cracks and everything!
Me: Get a flashlight and look again - it's always there.
Jack: BUT I DID AND IT'S NOT THERE!
Me: (yelling) Margaret! Come help your brother find his cell phone/Game Boy/Nintendo/Dead hooker!
In the end, here is what happens. I...that is ME...I get the flashlight and pull apart the sectional while lying on my stomach, chin deep in Pug hair. Last night I found a pair of Jack's dirty underwear, one of Jack's dirty socks, (what does that boy DO in the family room?), a gallon baggie full of Lucky Charms and a full but opened on one end Pixie Stix (which Jack held up to look in and poured sugar in his eye - BTW - not as painful as salt, apparently).
We found the phone forty-three minutes and two seconds later. It was right where I said it was. It was right where he'd looked. I'm having it surgically implanted in his hip.
Please tell me this stuff happens to you.