I have to admit I have grown very attached to my fancy new cell phone. I really don’t have any killer applications for it and I only text about eight words a minute, but it slides up and down and I never get tired of saying “Kirk to Enterprise” every time it rings.

However, last week for about 20 minutes it may have caused me more frustration than herding drunken flies.

It all started with a phone call from my wife on our landline (the old-fashioned telephone) telling me she couldn’t reach me on my cell. I said I would call myself and try to find it. I quickly checked my pockets — nothing but lint in the front and a tapped out wallet in the rear.

Lo and behold, I immediately heard the snappy ring tone sounding like it was coming from the floor. I could hear it coming from below, but every time I got on my hands and knees the sound changed position. I assumed it was under my bed and reached up into the box springs because the sound was coming from about 2 feet above the floor. I was perplexed.

I thought maybe I had kicked the phone, and somehow it had launched itself up into the springs. So I began to cut out the lining from the box spring (the only logical thing I could do) with a sharp kitchen knife. As this was happening, my two puppies came in to join into this game of “tear-the-lining-from-the box-spring-and-chew-on-my-face-as-I-continue-to-dial-the-missing-phone-while-lying-on-my-back.”

I knew there was some type of voodoo or bad karma at work, but I continued to reach up into the box spring like I was birthing a calf. I couldn’t figure it out. If I went left, the sound went right. If I went right, it went left. Up was down and down went up. It was like Alice was my service provider and my cell network was in Wonderland. I felt like a cocker spaniel that got into a patch of psychedelic mushrooms — chasing a tail that didn’t exist.

After 20 minutes of wriggling around on the floor like a manatee on a sandbar, I decide to feel for my imaginary tail one last time. It was a little lumpier than I remember. Somehow my phone had worked its way INTO my wallet, giving my rear end the chance to finally taunt me instead of just other people taunting it.

So after about 25 minutes of searching, swearing and box spring surgery, I thought I might be the dumbest person in the world — something that would be painfully obvious five minutes later.

After my battles with the box springs, cell phones, dogs and imaginary tails, I felt I deserved some type of treat.

Earlier I had noticed what I thought was an unfinished bowl of pristine vanilla ice cream in the freezer, IN MY FAVORITE ICE CREAM BOWL. It looked like it had been eaten by my daughter, melted and then stuck back in to refreeze and be eaten again later. The fact that it was still there after two days made me positive luck was finally turning my way. But before pulling it out, I had the good sense to heat up a jar of hot fudge. The jar was hot, but I quickly poured the gooey topping over the soon-to-be tasty treat.

At that point instead of spreading itself across the top, it sort of melted straight down, leaving an oily film over the fudge that bored its way to the bottom of the bowl.

“What kind of cheap ice cream substitute was my wife trying to pass off on us?” was my first thought.

And then it was clear — clear as in the kind that goes best with eggs and toast — as it was really a big bowl of frozen bacon fat.

Not quite the tasty treat I was expecting.

If you see me in the next few weeks, I won’t be too hard to spot. Just look for a big guy purchasing a new box spring, enjoying a jalapeno and ham milkshake while chasing his imaginary tail.

nTodd Lancaster has three children, three dogs, but only one wife. He wishes his Red Sox were doing better and he may switch his allegience back to Purdue after rooting for the Irish recently.