If you read this column regularly, you already know that the title is true. And I’ve done it again. But this time it wasn’t my fault. This time, Richard was to blame.

For about the third time over the past half dozen years, I lost my cell phone over the weekend. I don’t mean leaving it on the car seat and taking ten minutes to remember that. I mean the kind of losing like – it’s not anywhere I usually stash it and the ensuing hunt lasts two frantic, sweaty, hysterical days – that kind of loss. Richard claims that I’ve merely misplaced it. Listen, when it’s gone, I’m totally lost.

Dear Richard left Sunday afternoon with a friend for a fun “guys’ weekend.” I was looking forward to spending a few days of getting some small projects done, reading a bit and watching a few British mysteries that aren’t his cup of tea.

Sunday afternoon I went to my office at the theatre for a few errands, delivered a lost article left in the theatre to its needy owner, and returned home.

With Richard gone I wandered out to the garden to mosey. Moseying in my garden usually leads to deadheading, trimming and weeding. When my hands get full and I begin building little piles along the garden edge, it’s time for some tools and containers. I made a fair amount of progress . . . I actually puttered my way across the entire garden. I rewarded myself with some iced tea on the deck and a few chapters of my new book.

I returned to the garden before dark, gathered my tools and headed in for the evening. Just before bedtime – and after two of those British mysteries – I went to my purse for my cell phone to plug it in for the night. Not there. I went through the purse three times before I dumped it. Nothing. Now, admittedly, there are people who go to Iceland for a long weekend with less than I carry in my handbag. But knowing how I am, I had intentionally purchased a bright red phone case. But not a trace of candy apple red appeared in the upended pile of rubble.

Aha! Wait a minute, dummy – call the phone. I was so pleased with myself for thinking of this logical step. All is not lost. This nonsense will be over in 30 seconds.

Ohhhhhhh No! In mid-dial I remembered that I’d turned it off earlier to save power. Aarrgghh. Back to the hunt.

Out to the car. In the dark, with marginal light, I searched. Nada. Two more kitchen tours including inside the fridge – nope. Nothing in the laundry room, dining room or living room. I went through every pile of magazines in the den, checked our bathroom and finally defeated, I went to bed. I’ll be fresher in the morning and I won’t be frantic, I’ll be logical. I lay there thinking about all the addresses, accounts, phone numbers and appointments inside that little red box. My life, my schedule, my sanity is in that phone.

I couldn’t remember whether it was St. Jude or St. Anthony that is the finder of lost articles so I prayed to both as I drifted off.

I got up early Monday and retraced all the steps I could remember from Sunday. I’d intended to go to the office early but there was no point in leaving without my brains which are in the little red phone.

I headed out to the garden to follow my moseying trail. A little bird was telling me that I might have had it with me. After a garden fall years ago, Richard made me promise not to garden alone without the phone. He worries. I don’t usually remember, but on Sunday afternoon he hadn’t just run to Walmart, he had left town.

I checked the weed buckets, all the garden edges, even deep into the hosta bed. On the deck I checked under the railings and tables. Nothing. A thorough daytime search of the car. Nope.

Disgusted, knowing it was somewhere on this property, I finally went to work – brainless.

Driving to the office, I swung by the house where I’d delivered the lost article Sunday afternoon. I checked the gutter, the sidewalk and front lawn. Nada.

That evening, after a frustrating day at the office, I went at it again. I started thinking the unthinkable – buying a new phone and rebuilding all the info in it. Or I could just jump off the Hickory Street Bridge. Both ideas had the same appeal.

Just before dark, as the solar lights were popping on, I walked around the garden again. When I got to the red garden bench, I bent over to pick up a fallen twig – and there was the phone!! It was leaning up against the front leg of the bench, the red bench, and I hadn’t seen it.

And then I remembered. I had carried it with me, probably setting it on the slatted bench during my Sunday night mosey as I began weeding. What it was doing on the ground could probably only be answered by a cat, a raccoon or a mourning dove. Oh – and think of it – it hadn’t rained. Big WHEW. I had my working and functioning life back. And my sanity

I thought a lot about that during the search . . . how very dependent we are on these devices. I am, however, not ready to go back to my Hallmark date book and life without instant contact – or safety. I’ve often wondered how much time and worry could have been saved if I’d had a cell phone while I was rearing children.

I’ve decided two things: not to shut the little red monster off even if its power is at 7 %. And, the next time I head into the garden alone, I’ll wear pants with a pocket.

Men have pockets. Men don’t lose their cell phones. Like I said, this was all Richard’s fault.