"I didn't want to call your dad."

When I woke up on Saturday morning I discovered, much to my horror, that my cell phone was missing. After the whole panicked purse dump and futilely having Jane call it just in case it was in the loft, I came to the reality that it must have either been stolen or it fell out of my bag the night previous.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

On Friday, I had spent the afternoon and evening with Holly. We had started off watching the movie Saving Face (when did movies get to $10.75 a pop?!) and happy hour bar hopping around the East Village. So on Saturday as I dumbly searched my purse for the third time, I mentally retraced my steps -- Telephone Bar to Thirsty Scholar to McSorley's to Mitali East to the Boiler Room to KGB to Lychee Bar. Where the hell was my phone? I was pretty sure that it wasn't stolen and I remembered that I had checked my messages on the way to Mitali East around 8pm, so that was the last time I could definitely remember my phone last.

I tried to figure out what my plan would be. I even called KGB Bar, the likely of culprits since I remember my bag falling over, to see if anyone had turned a phone in. No luck.

Pissed off at myself for being careless, I came to the realization that the phone was gone and I had to go to the Verizon store to get a new one. For those who have cell phones, pay heed to my cautionary tale: unless you have optional insurance, you have to pay full retail price for a replacement phone. Even the chintzy phones are at least $150. To replace my phone with the same model, I would have to cough up $230.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

And cough up I did. The only consolation I had was that if I managed to find my old phone, I had 15 days to return the new one. Leaving the Verizon store, I took my new phone and sat in Union Square sulking. Jess met me later and we went up to her roof to enjoy the afternoon sun. It put me in a slightly better mood.

The epilogue to this tale is that I went out with Holly on Sunday. We walked to Chinatown all the way from Union Square, explored all the little shops, had vegetarian dim sum, and walked over to the Lower East Side to drink a few beers at Local 138, getting sucked into a few episodes of the "Surreal Life." Since we seemed to be slowly meandering northwards towards the East Village, I suggested (for the sake of my own sanity) that we stop by KGB and Lychee Bar just in case my phone had been turned in.

I figured it was a lost cause, but I told Holly I'd be quick as we approached KGB. Up the steep flight of narrow stairs and to the second floor bar I went. I think the bartender thought I wanted a drink, but I asked him if anyone had turned in a cell phone. He immediately went for a cabinet behind the bar and returned with my phone. I couldn't believe it. I never get that lucky. Utterly gobsmacked, I thanked him profusely though my words were closer to a stutter.