Next Monday at Midnight . . .

My phone buzzed near midnight last night.  I'm surprised I even heard it, really, since I was pretty much exhausted and dead asleep after hosting my family for the weekend, but in my sleep fog I thought maybe they'd had an accident on the way home (despite the fact that we'd talked on the phone a few hours earlier and they were home safe and sound), so I bumbled around on the nightstand until I found and picked up my vibrating phone.

"Hello?" I croaked into my phone, then, "mmbbggtthtththththrrrrrr . . . rrr . . . I think . . . rrrr . . . wrong number . . . " when a woman asked for Angie.  "Yeah, I suppose it is," she sassily shot back.

Okay.  An "I'm sorry to have woken you," would have been more polite.

I dropped it back on the nightstand and rolled over.  It started buzzing again almost immediately but I ignored it.  My voicemail message starts out with, "Hey, this is Tiffany," so I figured rather than tell her she had the wrong number again, she'd figure it out on her own.

Nope.  I woke up to find I had a voicemail.  A long, rambling voicemail.  It started out like this:

"Hey Angie, I know we haven't talked in a couple of years . . . "

My first thought was, duh, did you not hear the voicemail message that said my name is Tiffany?  My second thought was, man, didn't your mother teach you not to call people after nine?  Some people sleep, you know.

The message went along in the "haven't talked in a couple of years" vein for a while, and then a switch flipped or something, and mystery caller started on a rant, directing Angie to, "close your mouth . . . shut your mouth . . ." in about five different ways, ending with a dramatic pause and then . . . "underground."

Huh.  Was that a overdramatized death wish, mystery caller?

I was thinking about it today, and I'm not sure which is more sad, a) that she's still mad at someone she hasn't talked to in two years or b) that she was clearly drunk at midnight on a Monday.  Seriously?  A Monday?  Get a life, hon.

I thought about who I could call at midnight next Monday, 'cause if that's the hip new thing to do, I totally want to do it, you know?  I started my list of people who'd wronged me so I'd know whose numbers I needed to Google in preparation.

1.  Kevin.  Yes, Kevin.  My beloved.  My Delecta Daddy himself.  Why?  Because on Valentine's Day -- Did you catch that?  VALENTINE'S DAY! -- he called me Courtney.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, it wasn't this Valentine's Day, when he gave me that fabulous sparkler and asked me to be his wife.  And fine, yes, he'd just left work and had been working with his intern Courtney, so the name was on his brain.  And yeah, we'd only been dating a couple of months.  But still.  On Valentine's Day?  Unfortunately the midnight phone call probably wasn't going to be as effective with him lying right there in bed beside me.  And also, I didn't want to wish him dead.  I kinda like him.

I resolved to give him a sharp elbow to the kidneys next Monday at midnight and claim it was an accidental/justrollingover move.  I crossed him off my call list.

I needed to think of women who'd done me wrong.  Stolen a boyfriend or something.  I racked my brain.

Couldn't think of anyone.

Went back to high school . . . scene of all drama, right?

Couldn't think of anyone.

I went further back.  Kindergarten.  I got one!!

At recess one day, I was doing a headstand.  I'd taken off my headband, because the hard plastic would have thrown off my balance and hurt my head.  One of my classmates thought it would be funny to knock me down mid-handstand.  I'm pretty sure it was because she was jealous of my awesomeness.  Down I went . . . and the plastic headband I was holding in my hand BROKE. IN. HALF.

Injustice!

The teacher didn't seem to think it was a big deal, but I was livid.  I'm gonna call her next Monday at midnight and let her have it.

But I don't really want to wish her dead.  I mean, the headband probably cost, like, a quarter, and I certainly had other fully intact headbands at home.  And she was my best friend in seventh grade, so obviously I'd forgiven her by then.  So . . . yeah, I'm probably not gonna call her.

Darn it.  I gave up the list.  I suck at catfighting.

And I think we can all read between the lines here: I'm never going to be a reality TV star.  :(