Monthly Archives: January 2015

Really??? REALLY????

I woke up on Sunday morning fully expecting the day to be uneventful and secretly hoping to get a nap in at some point.

It certainely seemed to start off normal: I woke up around 8 AM to Mack sneezing in my face, his head eagerly perched on the edge of my bed with his nub wagging, hoping to get his breakfast. I got up, let Peterbilt and Mack outside to do their business. They both took their wizzes as fast as they could and raced back to the back door. I quickly opened the sliding glass door as they clamored over each other to be the first one in, both running to the refrigerator where we keep the dog food. That scene in Christmas Story played in my head where that gang of multiple, neighborhood mutts stampede into Ralphie’s kitchen and devour their Christmas turkey.  And Ralphy’s old man though he had problems…the next few minutes would prove his ornery ass WRONG.

Preparing the dog food, I spilled some of the kibble on the floor. This started WW3 between the hungry bulldogs as they growled and fought for their share. I started to yell at both dogs, mostly Peterbilt since he’s the bigger asshole of the two, and my husband ran into the kitchen and dove into the pile. Peter started to run off, with my husband chasing him down. Peter did a quick turn and my husband rolled his ankle. All we heard was a SNAP and him collapsing to the floor in pain, howling.

I ran over to assess the situation. Both bulldogs, over their food rage and clearly feeling guilty, shifted and paced nervously by my husband, who was holding his left foot and rolling around on the floor. Peterbilt even doused my husbands face in a few, sloppy, submissive kisses.

I helped Hubs back to our room, elevated his foot and grabbed an ice pack. The bulldogs hovered over him like nervous, untrained nurses, sniffing and resniffing my husband. Eventually within 5 minutes, things calmed down and they both forgot my husband was injured, going back to their default task of hovering around the pregnant lady. Sorry Hubs. It’s time to play second fiddle again.

After an hour, we decided to take my Hubs into urgent care where we waited 2 hours, surrounded by people with the flu, to be told what we already knew: a broken ankle bone.

Hubs is to wear a brace, use crutches and not put any weight on his left foot for 6-8 weeks.

Baby’s due date is in 2 weeks.

My doctor told me 1 week ago that she doesn’t want me on my feet as much because of the swelling in my legs and ankles.

Hubs started graduate school 2 weeks ago.

Great job everyone and a big thank you, Peterbilt, you fucking assclown. This couldn’t be timed anymore perfectly.

Do you know that bulldogs don’t care if you’re tired or injured? Even when said injury is a direct result of their misbehavior? Nope, much like small children, they want what they want and they want it NOW!

Why am I suddenly not getting walks?!?!?!

Why am I suddenly not getting walks?!?!?!

So now instead of spending my Sunday napping and assembling last minute baby gear, I’m on my feet, letting a belligerent, senile old bulldog outside before he revenge pees the kitchen rug, keeping the bone-snapping-ankle-crushing-maniac-bulldog from humping my maternity body pillow AGAIN and refilling Hub’s glass of juice for the third time.

A couple of very unlucky, Century link sales reps came knocking at our front door not to long after that and let’s just say…..they have probably black listed our address from all future sales calls. I’m the Bitch from Hell in the Tan house. Don’t go there.

So now I’ve got a needy husband, two shrieking bulldogs and baby girl is finding new and painful nooks and crannies to stick her legs into. And then there’s me, looking at the calendar and counting down the days until I can drink white wine again.

Grumpy and tired, I went to bed around 10 PM. As I’m drifting off, Hubs started to laugh. Laughing so hard he’s shaking the bed. “What.”, I said.

Hubs said to me, “I just love so you much.”

“Why?”, I asked.

He laughed ever harder and managed to compose himself after a while to say, “Because your fucking awesome! Here you are: full-term pregnant, taking care of my ass while I snap at you because I’m in pain, Mack’s shrieking for his Kong

Now, woman!

Now, woman!

and Peterbilt’s…..well…being Peterbilt…… and your still keeping this family glued together!”

Well now thanks a lot, Hubs. Because now I’m crying. Again.

February is going to be interesting.

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Categories: Babies, Bulldogs, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Dogs, Pets, Pregnancy | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

5 Things Me n’ Mack now have in common

You know things are starting to go downhill when I have several things in common with an overweight, food-obsessed, geriatric bulldog.

I had an easy pregnancy. I should feel grateful that things were a breeze up until the last 2-3 weeks or so, but I’m tired and cranky so suck it.

I am just entering my 9th and final month of pregnancy and I’m finding things are a lot different than just a few weeks ago. All of these changes have given Mack and I a lot more in common that just our expanding waistlines. And yes, this post is chock full of fat jokes directed at Mack. I just can’t help myself. Mack’s all about that bass, no treble.

1.) Thirsty Thursday

I’ve never been so thirsty in my entire life. I drink at LEAST 80 ounces of water or juice or whatever a day, and still thirst for more. I slam a glass of water first thing in the morning and it’s the last thing I do before drifting off at night. Water, water, water. Pretty sure my Brita pitcher thinks I am a slavedriver.

I drink so much water that it’s a neck-and-neck race with Mack as who drinks more. Mack has always been a thirsty bulldog. He easily downs one 2-liter bottle of water a day and them some. I blame it on the constant loss of moisture through his mouth. Always drooling, most likely because he’s always thinking about food, wondering if that little spot on the floor over there is food, wondering if whatever I have in my hand is food, wondering how much longer it will be until he gets his next meal.

Like that Korn song ADIDAS, but more like ADMDAF

Like that Korn song ADIDAS, but more like ADMDAF

We’re both just as sloppy as the other when we drink, too. Mack slobbers all over the kitchen floor and I slobber all over my shirt and bra.

2.) Pissing contest

#1 leads into #2. Whatever goes in, must come out. It’s a double-edged sword. Every time I waddle to the bathroom you can guarantee Mack is waddling to the back door for the same reason. Except I’m more discreet about my bathroom visits. Mack loudly bangs on the glass door with his paw and barks loud enough for the whole house (plus our neighbors) to hear. He’s almost deaf, so you could imagine. He gets pretty belligerent.

3.) We both have Asses of Destruction

I’m carrying a soccer ball under my shirt so I can’t manuever as easily as I once could. Carrying a laundry basket downstairs is the most risky thing I do all day, especially when Peterbilt races past me to beat me downstairs.

It's that blurry bulldog you got to worry about.

It’s that blurry bulldog you’ve got to worry about.

I must overcompensate when allowing clearance for my stomach because now my ass is knocking over everything in sight. The list is not limited to: other laundry baskets, that tall vase sitting in our entry way, file folders sitting on a desk and baby gates propped up against doorways.

Mack’s ass is no stranger to breakage. He’s especially dangerous when trying to go in reverse. He’s never mastered the art of backing up. Every time he walks down the narrow passage way between my side of the bed and the wall, he has to walk in reverse to get out because he’s too thick of a bulldog to do a U-turn in that tight of a space. Each time it’s the same: his ass takes out any plugs in the power outlet and almost knocks over the floor lamp. Then he sits there with a look like, “What? I’m me, baby.”

Mack, bracing himself to walk the path of no return.

Mack, bracing himself to walk the path of no return.

4.) We both snore

One morning 3 weeks ago, my husband crankily notified me about that he didn’t get a wink of sleep because I snored all night long. I’ve never been a snorer so this came as surprise to me. Especially because I had no idea that I’d been doing and it especially because in order to snore, it must have meant that I was asleep,  a state that I feel I never get to nowadays. “I was sleeping??? What time was that?”. I wouldn’t have believed my husband but I noticed I snort when I laugh now as well. The pregnancy weight gain and fluid retention have turned me into a pig.

Mack knows all about weight gain. He knows all about snoring, too. Mack isn’t allowed to sleep in our room because he snores so loud. I can only imagine what torture Mack and I would bring to Hubs if we all slept in the same room. A symphony of nasally snores, accented with Mack’s paint-peeling farts every so often. Who needs water boarding???

5.) We both can’t roll over

Hubs and I have always gotten a good laugh when Mack can’t roll over to get up off the floor. Poor Fatty Mack rolls around on the area rug to give himself a good back scratch. Everything’s tits until he realizes he’s not 4 years old anymore and has to get up somehow. Mack implements a rocking motion to propel his overweight and arthritic body upright, usually loudly farting in the process. It’s hilarious. Well, it was hilarious anyways until it happened to me.

Don't look at me.

Don’t look at me.

That giant, heavy soccer ball I’ve been telling you about makes it difficult to turn and get out of bed and I’ve to steal Mack’s patented moves. I look quite ridiculous, much to my Husband’s immense amusement. Two peas in a pod we are: Hubs laughing at me so hard, trying not to piss himself while I’m rolling around like Mack, trying not to piss myself.

Meanwhile, Mack is at the back door, again, wondering what those two asshole humans are laughing about. Maybe it’s food. ******drool********

Here we go again....Mack sits and waits....

Here we go again….Mack sits and waits….

 

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