I know I haven't posted very much recently, but I finally have a Jacob-worthy story. (My brother Jacob is sending wonderful blog entries from France, the latest about his stolen bicycle.)

So, I ducked into the mall this afternoon, as I do almost every day. It was a surgical strike -- I just needed to pick up a book on the third floor. But, wouldn't you know it, there was a 70% off sale on Thai designers on the second floor, so I was forced to stop and have a look.

Mid-browse, my cell phone rang. Bangkok Post, calling to confirm my subscription. (Now that they are publishing me, I figure I should read them.) I hung up the phone and continued shopping.

A few minutes later, I went up to the book store, bought my book, descended to the basement, made a pit stop to the bathroom, and settled in at an Internet cafe to get a few hours of work done.

Out of habit, I reached for my phone to see if I'd missed any calls, and ... no phone.

Now, I have been in Bangkok, what, a year, and so far I have gone through four cell phones. One I left on the grass in the park while I ran, and amazingly enough, it wasn't there when I got back, so I can't say I exactly lost that one -- more like donated it.

Then I forgot the second one in a hotel room in Malaysia. Then my friend loaned me one, and I'd had it a day and it broke. Then another friend loaned me hers, but it was already broken when she gave it to me (as my mother would say, "The couch was on fire when I laid down on it.") and spontaneously turned off mid-phone call, which I kind of liked, but proved to be unpopular with others. So I bought this phone, this current phone, now missing.

I should add, it's not like in the US when you lose your phone and you call your service provider and have the number suspended and simply replace the hardware (I assume. I've never lost a phone in the US. I swear.). In Thailand, you have to buy a separate SIM card, with a particular number that you lodge into your phone like its own little brain. No phone, no brain.

Every time I've replaced my phone, I have to go to the mall (of course), wait in line for an hour, convince the agent that I am the owner of the no-longer-in-evidence SIM, pay a fine, and retrieve my number (but not any of the numbers stored on it).

Then of course there is the utter hassle of going to the electronic black market mall, which I swear is my own personal version of hell, and haggle for a new phone, which is crappy but not cheap, then either the shame of asking friends for their numbers AGAIN, or, my usual strategy, wait around til someone text messages me, send a friendly but vague reply, offer to meet them soon, and show up to see who the hell they are so I can surreptitiously code their name back into my phone. This is to say nothing of all the people whom I will never hear from again.

Anyway, all of this is going through my mind as I dig through my purse, my gym bag, my pockets, the plastic bag from the book store, the folds of the newspaper I'm carrying around... No phone, no phone. I retrace my steps, up the escalator, around the sale, down the hall, through the aisles. No phone, no phone.

I approach the Thai cashiers. They get a look of panic in their eyes -- I am fairly charging them at this point, an enormous white woman with a mad look in her eye. We play a speed-round of charades. They direct me to the fourth floor, where the mobile phones are sold.

Finally I trudge to the Help Desk, knowing that is always the admission of a lost cause, and they kindly inform me there have been no phones turned in at the lost and found.

Of course not. It's not really that I think someone has stolen my phone. It is just that I have no idea where it could possibly be. It has to be somewhere -- it couldn't have just disappeared. And yet I can't imagine how it could have vanished from my bag, which prompts a whole meditation about how I can't seem to hold on to things, how I am utterly stumped by anything that has a physical property at all, how surely this must extend to my current isolation in the world, far from family and friends, so butterfingered with things I hold dear I can't even keep hold of the virtual data of loved ones nor communicate with anyone around me just what it is I've lost.

Then I remember. When I was in the toilet, in the middle of the flurry of unburdening myself of bags before I could do the same for my bladder, I heard a funny thwack sound and noticed the empty trash can was kind of spinning. I assumed that I'd whacked the trash with my gym bag as I swung it off my shoulder, and hadn't even looked inside. Could it be...

Back to the bathroom, where I loitered like a stalker until my stall came free. I opened the door, looked at the trash can, and saw... Well, here's the thing. Thailand is mainly Westernized, but not quite, a fact that is never more obvious than in the plumbing. There are lovely flush toilets here, but they don't take very kindly to toilet paper. As a result, all your basic bathroom refuse goes in the little bin.

Mine had been just emptied when I had used it, but in my forty-five minutes of searching and self-recrimination the bin had been pretty well filled. I stared down at it. I thought briefly of dumping the trash out in the toilet, but that would back up the pipes for sure, and I didn't really want to be responsible for flooding the mall. (Can you imagine? I'm sure it would be considered an act of terrorism.) I thought about just turning around and walking away, but then I imagined the look on the telephone agent's face when I came in for another SIM card, and I figured they'd throw me out of the country just for general idiocy. One way or another, I was getting deported.

I picked up the trash can and gave it a shake. Thud thud thud. There was something heavy in the bottom of that can. Inspired, I took the book out of the plastic bag, slid my hand into it like a glove, plunged into the wadded tissues and maxi pads, and retrieved my phone from its filthy and would-be anonymous grave.

Hoorah! A rinse for both of us in some soapy water, and we are back in business. Of course, there is some irony that I was too mortified to tell people I lost my phone again, but I am shamelessly going to post this story... Is it that things like this don't happen to other people, or is my family just willing to talk about it?