Silly me.

So I can be kind of a crab. And when I say kind of a crab, I mean, probably leave me alone for a good eight or ten minutes both before AND after a crab attack.

I get pouty. I whine. When I don't get what I want exactly when I want it, I pout some more. Or kick and scream until I have what I want in my grubby little paws. OK, so this is all mildly exaggerated, but you get the idea.

Anyhow, I had to work this weekend. Friday and Saturday nights. Until 10 p.m. Say it with me: boo, hiss. Doesn't The Job understand I have things to do and people to see? Mostly The Boyfriend, who, hello, lives an hour-and-a-half away and every moment is precious, kind of thing. But this weekend he wouldn't be arriving until Saturday night. Ahem, boo, hiss. That's a whole night wasted because I have to work. Sigh. Hissy fit. Scoff.

So anyway, I sat at work, pouting, as usual. The Boyfriend calls me during the evening. He's golfing. Shocking. While I'm slaving away at work (and by "slaving," I mean "pouting"), he's golfing. Then probably going out with men. Where they drink lots of beer. And talk about boobs. Etcetera. All while I sit at work, ho hum, poor me. Sigh.

So I leave work at 10 p.m. and call him. He. Doesn't. Answer. BOO. HISS. Then he calls me back, he's on his way to get some food. At Wendy's. Hmpf. I think to myself, "Uh-huh, great. Then he's probably going out. With men. To talk about boobs. Poor me." So he has to go. He'll call me back, he says, when he's done eating.

Suddenly it's midnight. An Hour-And-A-Half Later. Obviously I'm fuming, because WHERE IS MY BOYFRIEND AND WHY IS HE NOT CALLING ME BACK? Scoff. Then the phone rings.

"Hi," he says, all sweet-like and innocent.

I scoff. Then say hi. I'm angry, darnit, and he will know it.

"What are you doooing?" he asks.

I'm about to GO TO BED after waiting AT LEAST 400 hours for YOU to call me back, I think to myself. "I'm watching TV," I say, grumpily-ish. I mean, I have to make sure he knows I'm not pleased. "What are you doing?" I ask, waiting for him to tell me he's with men. Talking about boobs.

"I'm outside your apartment waiting for you to let me in."

At that I squeal, drop the phone, run out the door (nearly pants-less. Hey, I was ready for bed) and jump on him at the back door. Everything is kisses and hugs and love.

The world is right again.

Sometimes I need to just shut the Hell up and wait for the surprises.