Awaking my Wonder Woman.

Inside each of us is a Wonder Woman; have you found yours?
(For those less secure fellas, substitute Super Man for Wonder Woman; however, I'm pretty sure that makes you a little less Super.)
Although I've been up less than an hour, I'm pretty sure there's a crank in my pants.
The pounding in my head is not deserved. This is no hangover; it's simply how I woke up. [The Mister is having a rough morning, as well. Colds maybe?]
I just looked down, and indeed it is true: I am wearing cranky pants disguised as my underoos. Yes, dear reader, this blog is being typed while I'm in my underoos.
You see, it's not often I sleep in. Although I've nowhere to go, 7:30 is my wake-up time. During my slumber last night, somebody broke into our apartment and rolled over me with a truck; therefore, I was going to try to sleep in. The Mister kissed me goodbye and was off to work. Rubbing my temples and rolling over, I dozed off for a measly three minutes.
Then the phone rang. In a half stupor, I found my glasses, located the phone and answered thinking The Mister had seen my Little Guys and wanted to brighten my day [see 'Such Stuff As Dreams' blog].
Some lady on crack was calling about the Mastercard and asked for The Mister as the only credit card we have is in his name. Crack lady was trying to tell me our bill was late and we owed eight-hundred odd dollars right this very moment, "And I'm gonna help you pay it. Are you The Mister's wife?"
"You didn't see my Little Guys? Take me off your list."
She explained she was from the credit card company, and we had put ourselves on the list, "Now I know you're just waking up, but I can walk you through this. I just need your checking number."
"No you don't. This isn't right..." groggily my sleepy guts told me to run away.
Crack lady then quoted a card number over the phone then added the last four digits of a social security number.
"Ma'am, you've got the wrong The Mister. If there is a late balance on anything, I won't be giving any information over the phone; I'll handle it online."
"Are you still in Washington, DC on 16th Street."
"No. We've never been there. You are wrong. Don't call us again."
"Is this The F. Mister?"
"No."
Please note, she gave me a very wrong name, The Mister goes by his middle name. Also, I knew she had the wrong balance and it was not late; the card was just paid off.
Regardless, everything felt wrong about that phone call. Somewhere out there, a Mister on 16th Street is getting scammed or having his identity stolen.
Be smart people; don't ever give out information over the phone. Even if you are dead asleep in your underoos.


**This has been a Super Powers Public Service Announcement. You are welcome. I'm going back to bed; my work here is done.**