It's not all rage and drunkeness and woe around the Reilly household. Oh no. I feel fine this morning. I was trashed late last night and the hazard of keeping a laptop handy in case I get struck by a momentary inspiration also means that even my mom knows just how drunk I got last night.
I was sober enough to be fun though, so Jacob gets as much out of those kind of nights as I do. I feel like a million bucks today, six ways from Sunday. Rather than crack like an egg, I used my other method of blowing off steam. The methods that help me forget painful stuff.
Those are easy to discuss. Hey, I find it easier to share those stories some days than the ones that involve Bridget waking up on Christmas morning, flying out of bed in an effort to reach the bathroom before my bladder explodes and then falling spectacularly into the toilet bowl because...
...because men who live alone for as long as Jacob did often develop some serious laughter-inducing new-swear-word-creating habits like leaving the seat up.
Or I could point out in my quest to try and squeeze some pennies for all the cash outlay recently thanks to things like Christmas, new trucks and second homes (okay, tiny cottages, just let me have my fantasy) I bought generic Oreos, which apparently heralded the beginnings of the rapture in this household.
Jacob ate one, made a face, and asked me if I would kindly eat the rest of the Poor-reos because they're awful. Hmmph. Mr. flashy truck is becoming a brand snob.
But really, you know you want to hear about last night, after drink number four, because three is the absolute cutoff, and I did not reach for the Christmas tree to keep myself upright and not miss.
Causing said tree to fall over. All nine feet dry needled goodness. Yup. Which didn't bring down the bookshelves and dump all four hundred CDs and change into a pile on the floor. Nope.
Oh noes.
Oh this is bigger than oh-noes, princess. You're not going to be able to 'cute' yourself out of this one.
Aw, come on, Jakey.
Jakey, nothing. Sober up and help me clean up this mess.
Or we could leave it for the morning because I think it's bedtime.
You could use some sleep.
Oh, I don't want sleep, handsome.
Oh Lord. Bridget, you're like a runaway train tonight.
No, but you could be, if you want to make a girl happy.
Okay let me prop up the tree using my muscles that subsist on your generic food-like substitutions.
At least you didn't spend Christmas morning with festive wet-butt.
Oh let it go already, please.
Done. Now come up stairs and get out of these jeans before I pass out.
Well, now, that might be fun too. Maybe I'll wait.
Jacob!
Okay, okay, a guy has to have some fun.
Oh, you'll have fun, no worries.
Who said I was worried?
Well-meaning neighbors who gift Bridget with cases of alcohol should be shot.
