Or I shall rise up from my bed of sorrows and smite you with a white-hot revenge, man.
1:19 am Monday night the phone rings.
Now, I live with my elderly parents who specifically DON’T have phones in their bedrooms. Why? Because someone with a lively personal life is apparently one digit away from their telephone number. Me, I’m still in the mindset of “Oh my Gosh. What if one of my kids got arrested and needs to get bailed out in the middle of the night?” or “What if my future-ex-husband was just nailed by a drunk driver and the hospital is calling to tell me I’m now a widow.” In other words, I ALWAYS answer the phone.
1:19 am I’m pulled from REM sleep by my phone. I bolt to answer, still remembering the downy kisses of–oh, never mind. “Hello?” “‘S Rog there?” “Huh? Who?” “Rog?” “Wrong number”, and I hang up.
But my mind does not hang up. I stare at the ceiling. I do Yoga. I eat crackers. I read my book. Two hours later, at 3:19 AM I’ve had enough. I pick up my phone and scroll down to my mystery caller’s ID, and hit dial.
When his cell phone prompts for a message (of course, and Rog’s friend is sleeping the good sleep of the non-introspective mind), I blurt, “How does it feel to get a call in the middle of the night because someone can’t dial the right number (beat) MORON!!” and I hang up.
If nothing else I got the last word. Ha. So there.