Where oh where has my little car gone?

For shoppers, snagging a close parking spot in a five-acre lot is almost as thrilling as finding a 75-percent-off sale. Although there's always a place to park, sometimes it's difficult to find one's vehicle when faced with a never-ending sea of silver and beige hoods.

I always make a note of the aisle and section where I park because those huge lots can be overwhelming. I used to write down the location on a piece of paper, but I usually lost the paper. Once I wrote my location on the parking ticket, but I left the ticket in my car.

When I headed into Houston for the Gem and Jewelry Show at Reliant Arena last weekend, looking for some bargains, the last thing I worried about was parking.

There's hundreds of parking spots in the complex, but I park in the North Kirby Lot for two reasons: I know how to get there, and I know how to get back on the freeway from there.

Unfortunately, a gun show and a cheerleader events were going on at the same time, so the parking lots were pretty full. But the lure of a bargain motivated me to fight the crowds.

Slowly but surely, I maneuvered my way to the North Kirby Lot and found a space.

I looked around and noted I was parked on Row 4.

I wrote the number 4 on the back of my hand with a pen.

As I was walking away, I looked back over my shoulder, making sure I was parked on Row 4.

A few hours later, I left the jewelry show, confident I'd walk right up to my car. As I neared Row 4, I did what anyone with a key bob does -- I pressed the lock button to hear the horn honk so I could locate my car.

Silence. I looked at the light pole again. Yes, I was near Row 4. But then I looked beyond that pole and saw another pole in the distance. It also had a sign with the number 4. I looked in the other direction -- 4 on that pole as well.

As far as the eye could see, there were 4's on all the light poles. Then it hit me. I was in Parking Lot 4, not row 4.

There were at least 50 cars in every row and at least 20 rows in front of and behind me. Then I remembered something my son said when I was complaining about finding my car in those mammoth parking lots.

"You know, Mom, there's an app for your cell phone that can mark your parking spot, and it'll lead you right to your car, like a GPS device," he'd said.

I brushed off his suggestion, telling him I had a pen and my hand, and those two items were much more reliable than an app.

Wandering around the parking lot, I found myself wishing I'd taken his advice. As I tried retracing my steps, I noticed I was surrounded by dozens of confused people who were also meandering up and down the rows with their key bob over their head, pressing the lock button with their thumb, listening for a familiar honk or beep.

And then, 30 long minutes later, a familiar toot answered my call. I pressed the bob again and my long-lost vehicle answered.

I quickly walked in that direction and, sure enough, there was my Altima, right next to the Number 4 pole, right where I'd left it.

Later that evening, I called my son and asked him how to download the "Take Me To My Car" app.

"Be glad to send you the site," he said. "It comes with the 'I Told You So' app as well."

It's not too often sons have the right to gloat. So I'll say it this once -- Stephen, you were right.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.