Temporarily Out Of Touch: The Blonde Moment

Let’s just say it was a blonde moment that went on all evening long.

We pulled into valet parking at The New Yorker at 5:00pm as I silently debated over whether or not to bring my purse inside. We were headed into one of those Business After Hours Chamber of Commerce networking events (Translation: Use your free drink tickets, hand out a business card or two, and go home) where your time is spent standing unless you’re fortunate enough to get a table while one is still available. Carrying a purse or a coat is cumbersome as within a half hour or so of the event’s start it’s standing room only and elbow-to-elbow until it’s over. It should be noted that I don’t enjoy these types of events and avoid them where possible. It’s just that this year, my boss decided our goals (goals are important as when you have your annual review, you’d like to have at least one or two things to point to as real accomplishments after so many years of doing the same thing) were to include attendance at one seminar related to work and a minimum of one social networking event outside of regular work hours. That’s how I’d found myself at a Zig Ziglar seminar with Diane for an entire afternoon in November, and mingling my way through an “It’s A Wonderful Life”-themed networking event in December. Technically I could have said my goals were achieved, but when Owen invited me to this one if for no other reason than to see the restaurant and try the food, I thought one more couldn’t hurt.

“Do I get points for this?” I asked Liz after printing Owen’s email with details about the event, “because if it counts, I’d like to go.”

She looked at it for only a moment. “It’s networking, it’s a chamber event….sure. That counts.” And that’s how I found myself standing outside The New Yorker debating with myself over a purse.

“Just leave it,” Owen advised, holding open the back door of his car. “I’ll throw my coat over it.”

I hesitated, then decided against it. “They’re not responsible for anything left in the car,” I said, not sure if that was true or not and not wanting to say anything to offend the valet, who looked perfectly trustworthy and was patiently waiting for the keys. “I’ll take it in,” I said. “It’ will give me somewhere to put my phone.”
It was still in my hand and had been since I left my office. I dropped it into my purse, we headed inside, and the blonde moment began.

As far as those events go, it was enjoyable. Claire and Meg were already there and we wound up getting a table by the windows in front. We were each handed our two complimentary drink tickets. “Good for beer or wine,” the perky brunette at the registration desk announced. “If you need hard liquor, you’ll have to pay for it.”

“If you need it?” Owen observed drily, and I poked him with my elbow.

“That’s OK,” I assured the brunette. “It hasn’t been that tough of a day.”

Once Owen slipped the waiter a couple bucks (“Nobody’s tipping,” he said. “No wonder they’re slow with the service”) we had his complete attention and nodding and smiling at people I vaguely remembered from one program, event or meeting over the past nearly eight years became a lot easier. I even found myself enthusiastically agreeing with a gentlemen who was recounting that ‘great meeting we had in your office just three months ago, about that October program’ when in actuality I was convinced we’d never met in my life. Somehow, when you’re surrounded by a thousand conversations, what feels like a thousand people, and a table full of shrimp and tiny meatballs, little details like sincerity somehow fall by the way side.

Claire and Meg left early, leaving Owen and I alone at the table but only very briefly. We were soon joined by a saleswoman from a local hotel, one of Owen’s golf buddies, and two sales reps from a temporary employment service who’d done business with Owen for years, staffing his winter and summer retailer shows. The saleswoman and I connected immediately. However it came about, conversation turned to where we lived, and I said I’d bought my place during my divorce. I suppose the ‘D’ word was what made the connection. She was divorced as well, had no interest in getting married again, really enjoyed her life, and after about twenty minutes along these lines we exchanged cards and decided we should get together socially very soon. By the time she left the golf buddy had departed (but not without quietly patting Owen on the back, thereby affixing his stick on name tag to the back of his jacket. “There’s a sign on your back,” I told him when the golf buddy was out of hearing range. “I know,” he said. “So long as it doesn’t say ‘kick me’ I’m fine with it.”) and we were left with the ladies from the temporary agency. A half hour or so later and another half glass of Chardonnay and we left them with our unused drink tickets, Owen begging off with an evening meeting with his son’s softball coach.

“Well that was fun,” I said as we pulled into the lot. I opened my purse then and rummaged for some lipstick, “and my goals are completed. Even better.”

After dropping me at my car, Owen left for his meeting and I drove home. I dropped my purse on the desk, gave Basil a hug, quickly changed clothes and took her out for her walk. It was only when I returned that I realized I should take my phone out of my purse and put it on the charger. The only problem with that it wasn’t in my purse. I actually took everything out of my purse and laid it on the counter and the phone wasn’t there.

There are a few things in life that completely unsettle me and for whatever reason, one of those things is losing my phone. I’ve had terrible luck with phones over the past few years, having inadvertently dropped one in a toilet, one in a swimming pool, and having had a Blackberry go out on me completely, relegated to doing nothing but making buzzing noises while the track ball moved around the screen randomly on its own. This last had happened only a month or so earlier and now it seemed it’s replacement had been lost. Which meant I’d have to go to work the next day and throw myself on Holly’s mercy, explaining what I couldn’t explain myself – that my phone had vaporized at some point during the night while it was inside my purse.

I’d opened my purse exactly twice. Once to get business cards, and once in Owen’s car. It had to have fallen out during one of those times.

The new neighbor across the hall let me use her phone to call Owen. He checked his car, and it wasn’t there. My neighbor suggested I call my phone with her phone, and I did. “Do you hear yours ringing?” she asked, and I didn’t. Of course, the fact that I was standing in the foyer between our apartments, calling my phone against the background noise of her television and my stereo probably made this one of the bigger blonde moments of my life. “No,” I said, and thanked her for use of her phone, resigning myself to the fact that mine was lost for good.

It was only by telling myself it could be so much worse (it could have been my car keys, my debit card, my entire wallet) that I was able to pretty much put it out of my mind, and get some sleep. I found not having emails to check throughout the evening wasn’t all that bad, and neither was missing a few phone calls. Waking up to my regular alarm instead of the cell phone alarm wasn’t terrible either, and I’d almost convinced myself I could probably do without a phone altogether, but only until I got to the office and realized it was time to go see Holly and let her know I’d had another round of bad phone karma and needed yet another replacement.

She wasn’t at her desk, so I returned to my office, thinking about my phone. Wondering who had it, wondering if it would have a good life with this new person, wondering if I had any embarrassing text messages saved on it and hoping not. I missed my phone and I entertained the ridiculous notion that maybe if I called it one more time, whoever had it would actually answer. So I dialed, and on the second ring, I heard it.

Faintly, yes – but insistently, softly ringing from somewhere close by….somewhere under my desk…somewhere…inside my purse. Feeling like a complete idiot, I hung up on myself, retrieved my purse, and stared at it. I’d emptied it the night before. Completely emptied it. And yet, my purse had just been ringing.

I called myself again, unzipped the purse, and located the phone, finally. Wedged way down in the bottom, still in its black leather case, wedged firmly against the black leather compartment built into the purse to ‘keep items organized’. That’s when I realized two things simultaneously: 1) Sometimes I can be a real idiot, and 2) I don’t think my vision is all that it could be up close anymore. That bothered me only briefly, and was soon displaced by my happiness to have my phone once more back in hand.

Of course, calling Owen to let him know I’d found it was more than a little embarrassing. “It was in your purse?” he asked, “the whole time?” Yes, the whole evening, actually. Even the part where, after talking with me, he’d called the restaurant back and sent a waitress not only over to our table but to the valet parking area, thinking I may have dropped it there, then sent me an email, then given way too much thought to hoping I wouldn’t be in a mess at work for losing another phone. In short, he lost more sleep over the whole thing than I did.

Which I feel bad about, I really do. But at least now I can call him, and tell him I’m sorry to have caused the worry.