Drunk Dialing

January 26, 2008

I've been out of college for almost six years, so I haven't thought about drunk dialing in quite some time. In case you're not familiar with the concept of the drunk dial (i.e. you're old, a BYU graduate, boring, a non-phone-user, etc.), then I'll take a moment to explain.

Drunk dialing occurs when a person has consumed too much alcohol and has the strong and sudden urge to call every person on his or her cell phone contact list--excluding parents, of course. The calls almost always serve one of three distinct purposes:

1) To express feelings of strong, undying love to a friend or ex-love.
2) To express feelings of strong, undying dislike to a friend or ex-love.
3) To be honest with a friend by letting them know that they looked awful today and should lose seven pounds immediately.

I've rarely witnessed a drunk dial phone call that's conveyed an idea that isn't listed above--and yesterday, my friends, was no exception.

Allow me to explain...

Yesterday afternoon, my eighteen-year-old brother-in-law had oral surgery, and Jared and I were lucky enough to be in town for the whole extravaganza. Why did he have surgery you ask? Well, a few years ago Bryan knocked out one of his front teeth in a ski jumping accident, and for the last little while he's been forced to think about the consequences of that event every time he wears his retainer with the fabulous fake tooth attachment.

Poor kid.

Bryan was voted "Best Dressed" in his senior class by an overwhelming margin, so he obviously takes some concern in how he looks. Whenever he gets ready for a date with his girlfriend he'll stand in front of the full length mirror and be like, "I've got my trendy hat, my awesome jeans, my sexy new sweater from American Eagle, and my faux tooth is firmly in place. I think I'm ready to pick her up." Yesterday, much to his relief, Bryan was able to undergo the first step of having a permanent fake tooth--a bone graft in his mouth.

Apparently, a bone graft is no small deal--because as far as I could tell, it required approximately sixty-seven gallons of heavy duty anesthesia to put this child under. After the procedure...well, I should rephrase that...right after Bryan proceeded to call every member of the medical staff a bastard, my mother-in-law dropped him off at home and headed to the pharmacy to pick up the pain medication.

As soon as she pulled out of the driveway, Bryan decided to watch some television. I observed with great interest as he tried again and again to change the channel with the butt end of the remote control. When I suggested that he should turn the clicker around, Bryan looked at me with a set of crazed, piercing eyes and snapped, "Shut up, Monica. I can do it myself. I can do it MYSELF." Then he tossed the remote across the room, rolled over dramatically, and began snoring like my '89 Blazer.

Fifteen minutes later, when he came to, I noticed that Bryan was fiddling around with his cell phone. I was like, "Dude, what are you doing?"

"I'm calling people," he moaned. "I'm calling my girl."

At that moment, I was overcome with a great deal of joy and anticipation. I COULDN'T FREAKING WAIT to hear what he had to say. When his girlfriend finally picked up, Bryan was all, "Ha Emmmmmmmmma. I. I. I. I. I. I just luff you. I just luff you. And my skis. Yer so pretty and very much hot. Later." And he hung up on her.

Then he called her again, and said something like, "My mouth hurts like a....I don't know...never mind." And he hung up on her again.

He dialed her up one more time and rambled for a few minutes about NASCAR, basketball, and some other senseless shiz. At that point, for the sake of Emma, I decided to confiscate his phone. Consequently, I was quickly added his expanding list of bastards.

"Just for that," I replied, "I'm gonna take your picture." But before I could steal a photo, my mother-in-law pulled into the driveway with a bag full of narcotics.

Damn.

So I threw the camera under the coach, and the moment I heard the front door open, I knelt by Bryan's side, began to stroke his hair and said something sweet like, "Oh friend, I'd like to ease your pain. What can I get for you?"

Meredith was all, "Oh, thanks for being so great, Amy. Thanks for taking care of my boy. I'm going to get his medication ready."

"Great," I replied. "He really needs it."

After he took the meds, I patiently waited for the codeine to kick in, positioned the phone back into his limp, lifeless fist and said, "Ummm...Emma called, she wants you to call her back."

Let me tell you--It was awesome.