Nowadays, there are two ways that I remember times in my life: before bulldogs and after bulldogs.
Before I had bulldogs, I could go out with friends and get rip roaring drunk, come home, fall into to bed and go to sleep without any issue. I could sleep in as long as I wanted the following the morning and be completely worthless the rest of the day without it impacting anyone else. Granted, before I had bulldogs, I was also a single woman so I also didn’t have a husband to feed and nurse morning after because his hangover was worse than mine.
Now that I have a husband, and two very clingy bulldogs, going out and drinking to excess has consequences I could have never imagined six years ago. The following post chronicles the costs of getting drunk and being hungover “After Bulldogs”:
Saturday night, Da Hubs and I attended a friend’s 30th birthday party in downtown Minneapolis at a piano bar. We consciously made the decision that we were both going to get blitzed and take a cab home because you know what? Let’s pretend we’re turning 30 all over again, too. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Six hours and $200 later, we stumbled into our driveway and tipped the cab driver. Laughing to ourselves in our stupid, drunken pride because we were totally “those drunk people” tonight, we opened the front door to be greeted by a very nervous Peterbilt.
The unfamiliar cab that had pulled up in our driveway had scared the crap out of him. Once he realized it was us, his nub was crazily wagging with an “I’m so glad it’s just you guys” expression on his face. His excitable movements and forced sniffing of our feet and legs (I call this Sniff Rape) made it all the more difficult to take off our shoes and coats without stumbling. It seemed he was telling us about every scary moment of our absence. Peter still can’t say his R’s:
“Oh, you guys it was so scawee while you were gones! At first der was dis noise, wight? And I was all like woofwoofwoof and I did dats at every window! Den der was dis squirrel..”
“OKOKOK!”, I said to Peterbilt. “Take it down a notch and why don’t go outside?”
We let Peterbilt out and checked on Mackie who was sleeping downstairs on his favorite couch. We shut the light off and closed the door.
We let Peterbilt in and we prepared to get ready for bed. I moved Peterbilt and his dog bed into the den and shut the doors. It was about that time that Max started shrieking downstairs.
“Great! Fatass is up”, I said to my husband, who when I turned around wasn’t there. He was already in bed fast asleep. Fucker.
Guess my drunkass will just DO EVERYTHING FROM NOW UNTIL THE END OF TIME!!!!!!
So I let Mack outside, me standing at the back door face palming while he took his sweetass time. I marched Mr. Mack downstairs to put him in the bed, but he just wasn’t having it.
Side note about Mack: you can physically put him in the dog bed, but in the end, Mack is going to tell YOU when HE goes to sleep. If you leave him downstairs before he decided he’s tired enough to go to sleep, the shrieking ensues. Mack tells you he’s tired by jumping up on his couch and by giving you one long and exaggerated yawn.
So Mack taking this opportunity to take out every single toy out of his box and chew on each of them, just to piss me off because I was gone for so long. “Go the fuck to sleep, dog”, I said to Mack.
After about 10 minutes of him stalling and me cradling my dizzy head in my hands, he heaved his hefty body up on his old, ratty couch, gave his trademark yawn and decided it was time.
I walked back upstairs, changed into my pajamas and was sinking into a nice bed-spinny slumber when Peterbilt started whining. And whining. And crying. After 10 minutes I finally said screw it and let him on our bed to go to sleep. Desperate times, desperate measures.
Again, I’m falling asleep and all of a sudden I feel a big thump on the bed and hear the sound of a bulldog chewing on a bone. “Oh HELL no!” I said and took the bone away and set it on my night stand. That was the last thing I remembered before going to sleep.
I woke up Sunday morning with my head pounding and a huge weight on my stomach. I groggily opened my eyes to find Peterbilt staring right back at me, his nub wagging so hard the bed is shaking. His head is on my stomach and his feet are on my husband, to create a sort of fucked up looking letter H. Which probably stands for Hell or Hangover or Holy Shit I Drank Too Much.
I sat up, head pounding more so and looked around which was just enough confirmation for Peterbilt the breakfast was near. He lept off the bed and tore ass across the house to his food bowl. I looked at our bed and somehow during the night, another bone and Peter’s stuffed rabbit had made it onto our bed.
I hadn’t even made it out of bed yet when my husband asked me, “Do you have any coffee made yet?”
“……..You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
And then Mack started shrieking.
Peterbilt is singing for his breakfast in the kitchen.
Husband is groaning and asking for Advil.
Did I mention that MY FUCKING HEAD IS POUNDING?!????
15 minutes later, everyone was taken care of. I sat down at the kitchen table and tried to settle my stomach with coffee. This is about the time that Peterbilt took it upon himself to voice his displeasure at our stagnation. Mack added to the effect by finding Peterbilt ‘s stuffed rabbit squeaky toy and proceeding to chew on it. Every squeak like a hammer in our heads.
I looked over at Hubs and asked, “Anything you want to add while we ‘re at it ?” He farted.
Indeed, times have changed. I guess from now on I should watch my alcohol consumption on Saturday because I’m going to have to go right back to being a bulldog mom and wife on Sunday morning. Funny how not too long ago, I wasn’t even a part of this bulldog family. Now, it would literally fall apart without me. But at least I would’ve been well rested.