Not Drunk Enough For Most Things Apparently

When Gige got married I was not nearly drunk enough. Not drunk enough to give a speech, I mean. I was more than drunk enough to (accidentally) flash the bike riders in Santa Barbara while we were bored waiting for pictures to be over, as I tried to show the others that my dress was about a foot and a half too short for me by lifting it up over my head, to demonstrate the fact that my dress was so short it didn't even cover my chin. I'm sure I could have gotten the point across with less - look-I'm-not-only-wearing-a-dress-that's-awkwardly-short-I'm-also-wearing-my-Mom's-underwear, and more - look-my-knees-are-showing, but alas, that's the only time I was drunk.

I wasn't drunk because too sick to keep drinking, but after an entire box of Sudafed and some Tylenol PM (bad move right before a wedding p.s.) I was just sick enough, and just hopped up enough on over that counter drugs that I got dizzy standing up, so that sort of replicated being drunk.

Sort of.

But I had to give a toast, so I got up and gave a speech that I think was short? That talked about love and stuff? I'm not really sure, but I do know that I cried during most of it, and that I warned Gige's husband about what he had just gotten into. And then I naturally quoted a play about AIDS.

Because that's what everyone wants at their wedding - a maid of honor who brings up AIDS.

They're so lucky!

The AIDS was just a bonus, the real key of the speech was the warning to her husband, Mr. Gige. I made some statement about how when he married her he got me too and that means everything. Everyone sort of laughed, like - oh, ha ha she's gonna be around a lot, isn't that funny, ha ha she's crying again, that's weird, she said something about him having two wives. . . did she just make a joke about a threesome at a wedding. . . who the hell invited her?? But the jokes on them because I wasn't joking. (I mean, I was about the threesome, but not the rest of it) (Maybe)

Luckily, Mr. Gige knew that marrying her included lots of things like me calling in the middle of their date night to ask Gige something like, "Who's that guy in that movie with my husband where he's shirtless?"

"Gary Oldman?"

"No, my other husband."

"Kevin Spacey?"

"Yeah."

"Oh it's. . . hold on . . . American Beauty. That guy is Chris Cooper."

"Yes! Thanks!" *click*

But it also includes fun things like, me taking over his bathroom and office every time I come to visit; me allegedly saying things like "dirty vagina sweat" (at dinner with his parents), or "Auntie Gabi will teach you about oral" (to their new baby), or "Motherfucking Cold Stone" (different dinner, this time with both their parents) (because apparently I CANNOT keep my mouth shut and recognize when there's adults in the room, and then end up so mortified I'm fairly certain Mr. Gige's parents secretly refer to me as That Tall Girl With Turrets Whose Face Is So Red She's Either Constantly Blushing Or She's Sunburned). Or, like right after they got married it somehow became my job to call and leave fake dirty messages for him on their answering machine, where I would talk about what sort of lingerie I would be wearing for him, where we would meet, what I wanted to do that night. . . you know, normal stuff you say to your best friend's husband. (Don't you want me for your best friend??)

The best part about it is that at that time they had a roommate and said roommate did not know me, or of my existence really (not sure why they'd want to hide me, but whatever). And the Gige's still had one of those old-fashioned answering machines where you can hear the message someone is leaving as they're leaving it, blasting out into the living room like some sort of pornographic intercom system. So this roommate was hearing me leave messages asking Mr. Gige whether he wanted me to wear the leather or the nothing at all under my trench coat, and she was all, "Uh. . . I don't know what's going on here, but I feel like I should say something."

Way to have a brother's back Roommate! Narc.

And then along with the dirty messages (which I have stopped now that they have a kid) (I have some standards people) I also like to send Mr. Gige pictures of ailments I have and ask him to diagnose me and stop my freaking out. And, because he loves his wife, he always answers me. Like the time I had a rash On My Eye and was fairly certain I was going to die. And more recently, the time I sent him this picture of my knuckle and started crying while I was typing - because again, I was fairly certain my knuckle problem was going to cause death.




Let it be known that Mr. Gige has an actual job that does not include dealing with my mild-hypochondria, but does include dealing with holding people's lives in his hands all day long, and making sure they live through surgeries - so the fact that he takes time to text me back during a procedure is comforting. To me. To the patient it probably wouldn't be as comforting.

He joked that he thought it was probably something sex related (because he's mean and doesn't understand when I'm freaked out enough to send him a photo of my most-likely cancerous knuckle it's no time for joking! Joking is for weddings and children, not for illness!), and then asked me to try washing it off.

Washing it off? Are you kidding, this is a weird knuckle disorder! You can't wash it off Doctor.

So then I sent it to Gige and asked her the same thing (sleeping with someone medical makes you medical - that's a fact). She responded with: I can't see the picture it's too small/blurry. Did you burn yourself?

Did I burn myself? Are you kidding, this is a weird knuckle disorder that will lead to death of my lungs! You can't just chalk it up to a burn Doctor's Wife! I mean of all the. . .

Wait a minute.

Hold up.

**totally about to be embarrassed**

As a matter of fact I may have burnt myself. But more importantly. . . why does my knuckle disease smell like peanut butter. WAIT. Why does my knuckle death TASTE like peanut butter.

I tasted it again to try and figure it out, literally licking my wounds, and sure enough it tasted like peanut butter. Mostly because it was peanut butter. Not an infectious rare form of hand syphilis, but just part of my breakfast. And I guess I wasn't 'literally' licking my wounds, I was just licking peanut butter off my knuckle, but it felt as if I had just cured myself with magic kisses. Kisses I'll try to sell from here on out - because my saliva heals! Or just eats foodstuffs! WHATEVER!

I guess you'll just have to judge for yourself.