The very first time I slept at The Boy I Currently Like's place, my family went batshit crazy because I didn't answer my phone for a few hours. There hasn't been a repeat of that situation since, because, well, people just don't call me that much.
Or so I thought. For some silly reason, I brought my phone into the bedroom when I showed up at his place Friday. Not the best idea I've ever had. First of all, I'm not a terribly sound sleeper. And The Boy has no white noise like the fan(s) I have running in my bedroom that keep me from hearing little noises that might wake me up. So, I heard my phone vibrating in my purse at 8:34. I think I might have slept through the 9:29 call, but I heard the 10:00 one. Okay, okay, I'll check it. Call log says: Mom, Mom, Dad and three voicemails.
Something must be wrong. Right? Wrong. Mom is garage saling and wants to know if I need a new coffee maker or an expresso [sic] machine. That takes two messages. Dad has 10 minutes before he has to put his phone away and wants to know what meat I want from the freshly-butchered hog.
Of course, I think "this shit can wait," and I crawl back into the warm bed and try to go back to sleep. I probably could have called back. You could drive a Mack truck through The Boy's bedroom while he's sleeping and he would not wake up. But what if he did wake up? I'd feel bad. Also, I don't want to fully wake up. There's no way I could get off the phone in less than 10 minutes even if I tried.
Despite returning to the warm bed and cuddling up next to a warm body, I heard the next two calls, of course. We finally got up and I called my mom back right away. An entire five hours had passed and SHE WAS GETTING WORRIED. Oh my fucking Christ. That call lasted more than 10 minutes and there were apparently three false endings, according to The Boy. Which is exactly why I didn't call her back earlier.
How funny it should be that during lunch at home the following day, Mom should say that she doesn't use her cell phone that much because she doesn't want it attached to her hip; she doesn't want people to be able to get ahold of her 24-7. Oh really, Mom? Yet, you want your children to be constantly available. GOD DAMMIT.
I'm trying to get them to wait at least eight hours before they send out the fucking cops to find me. I don't want The Boy to get arrested or anything.