You Better Be Bleeding (Or, Do Not Call Me at 3 am)
I have this rule for my friends. I don’t have many. I am not a PITA (pain-in-the-ass). This rule, though, has existed since I was in college. It is: don’t call me late at night. (I have blogged about many times before, including on a different blogging site.) There are some exceptions to this rule (a guideline, if you will.) The exceptions are roughly:
- If you need a ride, because your car broke down, OR because you’re drunk
- If you are bleeding somewhere and need assistance
- Your husband/wife has just left you in a flurry of broken glass and angry words
- A relative died
- You have just accidentally set your kitchen on fire, and you’d rather not be alone
- The cat you’re sitting for has just begun to have kittens, and you need someone who is good with animals
(Some of those things actually happened.) My point is that it’s basically an [insert tragedy here] kind of privilege. That is the reason I keep my phone on all the time. In Case of Emergency, Call Ali. I’m good in a crisis. I like to help, even if it is just listening to you. That’s no big.
But when this courtesy gets violated, I get angry. I turn kind of Hulkish. I want to smash things. Once I get woken up like that, I have a difficult time getting back to sleep. I will attempt to repair this breach of rest with mass quantities of Java, but the mighty bean has its limits.
To me, it’s a matter of respect. I get up at the ass crack of dawn. I don’t run around calling my friends or ringing their doorbells. Why? Because I wasn’t raised by common sense lacking WOLVES. (Rest assured, then, that my name is not Mowgli. I am also, in case there was any doubt, not the Six Fingered Man or The Dread Pirate Roberts. The real Dread Pirate Roberts…)
Two nights ago, at three in the morning, my phone rang. I fumbled for it, looked at the number and didn’t bloody recognize the blasted thing. It was a local call. I waited, and a voicemail was left. It was a guy that I haven’t spoken to in about EIGHT years. EIGHT YEARS. Why does he still have my cell number in his phone? And, better yet, why the frak is he using it at THREE IN THE MORNING? (I feel like now is an appropriate time to reference Go the Fuck to Sleep).
I listened to the message, because hey — I was awake! I expected to hear a frantic warning that aliens had taken over the earth. That monkeys had finally learned to build lasers and were coming after our species. I expect a plague of locusts, flaming hail, and some kind of evil supervillian ready to take over the world through media! (Gah, as much as I love Jonathan Pryce, that was the WORST Bond villain EVER. Not to be confused with the worst Bond Girl ever, which we can all agree right now was Denise Richards as Christmas Jones.)
So, what did my long lost friend want? Oh, JUST TO CHAT. The entire message consisted of, “Hey, it’s [name redacted to protect the annoying]. I was just calling to say hi and catch up. So, give me a call back, ok?”
That’s it. Nothing life-threatening or illuminating. I should also point out that he did not leave a last name, and it only happens that I only know one local person with his (very COMMON) first name. I was completely dumbfounded. I was still dumbfounded when I listened to the message later on in the morning. And still, later on in the afternoon when I played the damn thing again. I kept hoping to make some kind of excusable sense out of it. I did not.
You don’t call a person at three in the morning just to say hello. If you really want to say hello, wait until at LEAST the daylight hours, preferably AFTER I’ve had my coffee. Otherwise, I cannot guarantee coherence. Unless you’ve turned into Lestat, Edward (please don’t sparkle near me, dude), or one of the Salvatore brothers — there’s no need to call me JUST to say HI in the middle of the night.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to practice my Buffy moves for a bit, just in case this guy turns out to be the Master — with a serious case of Fruit Punch mouth.