I hate cell phones.  In an earlier post I wrote about not wanting to be connected twenty four seven.  Today it’s more about the size of the darned things. 

     Now I’ve lost my billfold and many smaller items in the depths of my purse, but today Dear Hubby lost his cell phone in his pants.  Yep, that’s what I said—in his pants.

     The disembodied voice came from upstairs.  “Honey, I can’t find my cell phone.  Will you look around down there and see if you can find it?”

     “Sure.”  I also checked outside because he had mowed the grass.  “I don’t see it anywhere.  Did you try calling the number?”  Yes, we’ve been through this before.  It’s easier to call the cell phone number than it is to tear up the house looking for the damned thing.

     My disconsolate DH walked downstairs, picked up the cordless phone, and called his cell phone number.

     From somewhere upstairs we could hear it ring.

     “At least you didn’t lose it out in the yard.”

     He glared at me and went upstairs.  A few minutes later I hear, “I can’t find it.”

     I climbed the steps.  He’s sitting on the bed looking puzzled.

     “Dial it again.”

     He does.  I hear the phone’s distinctive ring coming from the foot of the bed where his recently discarded jeans were in a heap. 

     I picked them up.  Yep, they were ringing.  “Found it!”

     “But I looked there.”

     He had but he hadn’t checked the end of the belt that hung inside the pants.