March 2015

This post serves as  public service announcement to let you all know that I did, in fact, survive a New Orleans birthday. Somehow. Highlights include:

-After a decently crazy night out Saturday night, (much of which I’ll refrain from posting online), we got up super early, hung out in the room, and made our way to brunch at 11:30. My two friends and I were wearing matching ‘Less Thinking, More Drinking’ shirts, which we thought were really funny (because they were) until we walked into our brunch spot, Antoine’s, and found most of the crowd to be in their post-church Sunday best. Let’s just say I don’t think everyone was as impressed with us as we were with ourselves…. To add fuel to that fire, my friends asked the jazz trio to sing me happy birthday, and most of the crowd looked on in horror as we sat there, laughing, drinking mimosas, and taking videos. (Insert McKayla Maroney ‘not impressed’ face on all other patrons)

-After stopping at a few more bars, the trio made our way to Bourbon Street, and posted up on barstools at a window overlooking Bourbon for obviously epic people-watching. We sat there talking about people, taking turns buying rounds, and making slow-motion videos of ourselves taking shots. You can probably see the writing on the wall for the rest of the day here… While sitting in the window, many characters stopped and talked to us, and I got some sloppy birthday kisses from some of the shadiest characters in North America. I loved every second. (sidenote: kisses were on the cheek. I don’t let my lips touch anything but drink glasses in New Orleans. It’s a good rule of thumb.)

-After sitting in the window for literally 4+ hours, we decided we better head over to the Krazy Korner to do some dancing. A) they were playing good music, B) we were celebrating, and C) we didn’t want bed sores to set in while sitting on our barstools. Immediately upon walking into the bar, the singer bought me a shot, as she could tell it was my birthday, because I had money pinned to my shirt (apparently a NOLA tradition, and people walking by can add money to your collection. I made about $8). Things start to get hazy from here, but my bestie has the ability to not black out when drunk (how? HOW?), and filled me in on the fact that within 5 minutes of being in the bar, our other friend and I were on stage dancing. People continued to buy me shots until said bestie had to tie a sign around my neck that said, ‘Don’t Feed the Bear’ (not really), but she did have to politely tell people that I probably shouldn’t have any more tequila. At one point, I was apparently having a rough time standing, and someone from the band instructed the crowd to get me a chair. In the rest of America, if you can’t stand in a bar, you’re ushered out and possibly arrested. In New Orleans, the employees offer accommodations. And people wonder why I love that damn city so much. After a while of me trying not to fall off a barstool, and one 3-woman wolfpack member playing the spoons on a washboard, we decided it was probably time to head home. Once out in the street, I started performing pole dances. Don’t worry, not the sexy ones, the I’mGonnaBreakMyFaceIfIDon’tHoldThisPoleForDearLife ones. I think it probably was pretty sexy too, though. After a quick stop for pizza and breadsticks, we headed for the hotel. Thank goodness for no emergencies that evening, because it would’ve taken a bulldozer and a crane to get me out of my bed. (Or, someone probably could’ve just held a Hand Grenade under my nose…)

-You can probably guess how we were feeling Monday, so we headed out for breakfast, where I got some Brie mac-n-cheese that quite possibly saved my life. Monday was spent trying not to vomit lazily walking around the city, and was capped off with a ghost tour. The only ghost I saw was the 32-year-old staring back at me in the mirrors. And let me tell ya, she was pretty damn terrifying.

-Last day was spent not waking up hungover (glorious) and some more leisurely walking, plus a trolley ride through the garden district. Highlights of this portion include a nice couple who entertained us all with a drunken screaming match for the last 20 minutes of the ride. This includes the wife feeling up a 15-year-old boy and telling him all about how he should start playing the drums, screaming expletives at the husband for cheating on her and daring him to do it again, harassing a man who wouldn’t give her 50 cents, grabbing her hubby’s genitalia (through pants), and at one point stating something about Chocolate Chips Ahoy. It was one of those epic situations that can’t really be described, and will certainly never be duplicated, but it. was. epic. Both members of the couple were drinking whiskey straight out of the bottle and hitting up anyone who would listen for money. I bet they were going to spend that money on something nice, though. Like… more whiskey

-And now, I’m just chillin’ on the plane home with expired Dramamine, Coors Light, white wine, and the first non-fried food I’ve had in 4 days.

Cheers,

-Bev

All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go…

Bring me étouffée and gumbo!

T-14 hours until Beverly Goldenstein boards a plane for the Crescent City.

It’s worth noting that Bev’s birthday is Sunday, and will be celebrated in the city that she considers her spirit animal.

Preliminary calculations indicate:

*Best case scenario: Wheelchair

*Worst case scenario: Above ground grave.

It is also worth noting that the worst case scenario here is not at all the worst case scenario. Bev truly wants to be buried in an above-ground grave in New Orleans. Many of you know this, but I’m adding it here, so that if/when I do die, you can convince Mama Goldenstein that I’m serious, and make this pipe dream a reality. (My sister played a cruel joke on me tonight by telling me that she told Mama G about this blog. If that would’ve been true, I’d already be 6 feet under in Mayberry.)

In addition to having my gravesite picked out, I have also written my own epitaph. I wish for my inscription to read:

“Here lies Bev. She loved bevs.”

WHO DAT?

-Bev

My third trip to New Orleans may actually be my most favorite trip for many reasons. Here are the many reasons why:

-It was damn near free. I had a free flight voucher from a previous Mexican fiasco (another post), and my friend, Edith, had a free hotel from her work for earning some kind of next level insurance certification. Or something… (?) She brought her sister, Myrtle, along as her ‘official’ guest, and well, Bev was like the black sheep/parasite amongst a bunch of insurance people. I vowed to learn more about insurance when I was there, but mostly I just got drunk. And got yelled at by the insurance people for not having renters insurance. (No, Kate, I still don’t have it.)

-Speaking of getting drunk, I did so 6 times in 3 days. And people think Disneyland is the most magical place on Earth…

-The first time I got drunk was alone before Edith and Myrtle arrived. I checked into the hotel room and headed to the Quarter to do what Bev does. After a few Hand Grenades (and my favorite tuna sammy- YES, AGAIN), I headed to a liquor store near our hotel to buy some Coors Light and champagne. Because, well, when you’re mooching a free hotel room off of someone, the least you can do is provide some cocktails. And, because Coors Light and champagne is basically the story of my life (and title of my future book). While walking back to the hotel with a caser and a bottle, I saw a black Bentley running in an alley. Like, engine on. Now, my buzz had worn down slightly after a nice walk, and thank God it had, because there’s nothing Bev would like to do more than steal a damn Bentley, cruise around the French Quarter, and sip champagne with  a Coors Light chaser. Maybe next time…

-One of my favorite parts of this trip was the fact that the entire first night we were there was pretty much free, because some guy kept handing Edith, Myrtle, and me mini bottles of Miller High Life. THE CHAMPAGNE OF BEERS. This man was like a magical Mary Poppins with these bottles- they just didn’t stop. And, well, neither did we. Dude wasn’t even creepy. He was there with his girlfriend, who also gave us a few bottles. Shoutout Mini MGD Bottle Guy and Girlfriend- we love you!

-Apparently, I walked straight into a street barricade, knocked it over, and just kept walking. I have absolutely no recollection of this, but I believe my new insurance friends.

-We tailgated for the Saints game (drunk 5/6), and I fell in love with the song below. Like, I sometimes listen to this song when I’m getting ready to go out. Because I am very cool.

-Edith and Myrtle actually had to do some work while they were there, and like… go to meetings about insurance or something. So, I hit the hotel bar while I waited for them to wrap up. There, I met a very small man with a very large foot fetish. Even though I could’ve cracked this little man in half with my bare hands, he still haunts my (and Edith and Myrtle’s) dreams.

-That very same night (after Foot Fetish Man), I managed to lose, and subsequently find, my phone in Harrah’s Casino. Somehow, Myrtle and I were able to use Find My iPhone on her phone and locate it. I feel like I deserve some kind of Nobel Prize for being able to log into Find My iPhone, and use it to actually… find my iPhone at 2am in a New Orleans casino. 

-And, just like you might imagine, the trip ended with me trying not to vomit in my cab to the airport, and then eating a piece of quiche.

With my hands.

On the airport floor.

-Bev

My second trip to New Orleans was certainly the most tame of my 3 visits, as I was visiting with a few of my cousins, and my mom and aunt. My uncle and a few more cousins surprised us there, so it turned out to basically be a family reunion. Mind you, with most people, that would totally suck. With the Goldensteins, not so much… but I still held back a little more than I normally would. Highlights of the second trip include:

-riding the plane from Dallas to NOLA with Vanilla Ice. I saw this creepy-looking white dude, and jokingly poked my cuzzo, Gertrude, in the ribs, like…. “Check out Vanilla Ice.” Neither of us thought much of it until we boarded the plane, and as we sat down, Gertrude basically tackled me and confirmed that this man was, indeed, Vanilla Ice. (She knew from his hand tattoos because she watched his TV show. Because the Goldensteins are classy like that.) Now, as you may have guessed by now, Bev lives her life with few regrets, but one of the few that I do harbor is the fact that I did not get the entire plane singing ‘Ice, Ice Baby’ as we landed/deplaned. I know. I’m sorry too. (PS- Vanilla Ice flies Southwest. I feel like we should start him a GoFundMe page.)

-being surprised at the airport by my uncle + cousin + cousin’s wife. My favorite part of the surprise was that they knew to watch for passengers from our flight because Vanilla walked by a few minutes before we did. (Obviously, we had previously texted everyone we knew that we were flying with Vanilla.)

-on the way to our hotel with our 3 surprise visitors, (who very conveniently, had a free car that acted as airport shuttle) we stopped at a liquor store. Let’s just say, packing $300 worth of booze + 6 Goldensteins in a Honda Civic is something you’ll never forget.

-falling in love with a New Orleans Mounted PD officer. He was the replacement for the lack of football players in the area (see previous post). If you’re reading this, Ace’s driver, I love you. Do you call someone who rides a horse the horse’s driver? I have no idea what I’m doing here…

-seeing a cockroach fly off a ceiling fan straight down my uncle’s shirt. New Orleans’ cockroaches ain’t no punk, y’all. 

-eating my favorite tuna sandwich again. I’m not kidding, people.

-having the memories very well-documented by my sister, Maude. Maude doesn’t enjoy cocktails as much as the rest of the family, so she basically sips on 1-2 Fuzzy Navels throughout the night, while documenting the insane shit the rest of us do, so that she has dirt on us forever. Some of my favorite quotes that came out of the trip are:

“You go to the bar and shake your ass, and I’ll go to the bar and watch you shake your ass.” -Aunt Sue

“A jackass and a female horse make a mule.” -Carriage Driver, addressing some Goldenstein family questions

“I stepped in gum.” -cousin Kathy… “Better’n horseshit.” -Mama Goldenstein

“If you see a mushroom cloud to the southeast, you’ll know what it is.” -Uncle Bart, headed back to the hotel with some digestive issues…

And that, my friends, is how the Goldenstein clan does New Orleans. It is worth noting that this trip was the catalyst to the now tri-yearly cousin trip. Again, most people would cringe at the thought of this, but when your cousins roll like mine… you don’t.

New Orleans Trip #4 Countdown: 65 hoursish.

-Bev

*Due to an upcoming New Orleans trip for Bev, this is the first in a three-part series documenting my previous trips to Heaven on Earth. Stay tuned.

The first time I went to New Orleans, it was probably 2007, and I drove there with a friend from Kansas City, where we lived at the time. I fell in love with the city on this first trip, and have been back twice since, and will be embarking on my 4th trip this weekend. A basic rundown of my maiden New Orleans voyage:

-buying a Coors Light mini-keg at a shady-ass liquor store in Shreveport, and keeping it on ice in the hotel room sink for the entire 3 night stay in New Orleans.

I loved this little keg. OK, I still love this little keg.

-crushing on the 96-year-old bellhop at the hotel where we stayed. He weighed less than his age, but insisted on carrying all of our ridiculous luggage into our room for us (mini-keg included). Shoutout to Ronald, my forever homie. It seriously makes me sad that he’s probably dead now.

What, you’ve never taken pictures of the elderly hotel workers from your balcony?

-I actually went to the front desk to complain about a cockroach in my room. In NEW ORLEANS. They laughed. I may or may not have cried. They gave us roach spray and sent us back upstairs, where we proceeded to essentially shellac that son of a bitch to the counter.

-Within 6 hours of arriving, my friend and I were in the backseat of a truck with a bunch of dudes. This could’ve ended horribly, but we legit just went to their backyard, smoked, and hung out. One of them drove us home at sunrise.

(I’d like to say this is the only story that should’ve ended with a hatchet in my skull, and my body at the bottom of a pond. It’s not. Knock on wood, everyone.)

-I shredded a brand new pair of Steve Madden heels. No regrets.

-I turned down tickets to the Arena Football Super Bowl. (I did NOT turn down the opportunity to ogle all the players in town, as it was also the Arena Football draft. There were dreads everywhere, and dreads are Bev’s JAM.)

-I went to a strip club for the first, OK, second, time (shoutout Amateur Night at Daizy Dooks in college- my friend got 2nd. Another post). While in this strip club, I was 100% mesmerized by a stripper who had more dexterity in her ass cheeks than I have in my pointer finger, and I set the record for Longest Amount of Time Beverly Goldenstein Has Held a Full Beer Without Taking a Sip… I may or may not have tried to compliment said stripper on said ass-cheek dexterity, and may or may not have been kindly asked to leave. (Don’t worry; I finished the beer first.)

-Somehow, I ordered two drinks that cost $36. I still have no idea.

-I was dragged against my hungover will went to the Audobon Aquarium, where I mostly sat down, and also ate Burger King. It takes a certain level of hangover for Bev to eat Burger King.

-I then was dragged against my hungover will went to the Audobon Zoo, where I promptly started drinking again. (Shoutout Burger King!)

-I became part of a parade. This has now happened to me on 67% of my New Orleans visits. I hate parades, except in New Orleans.

-Before heading out of town, my friend and I stopped at a random place for lunch, where I had one of the best meals I’ve ever had. It’s a tuna salad sandwich with white cheddar and bacon, and if the fact that that’s one of my favorite meals ever offends you, you can go suck an egg. I have been to this little place every other time I’ve visited, and while I have absolutely no clue what the place or the sandwich is called, I could walk you to it right now.

Stay tuned for recaps on trips 2 and 3…

-Bev

The Pope picked up a pizza in the PopeMobile yesterday, and it was the best thing I’ve seen online since… well, the llamas.

Video Credit: YouTube, SkyNews

The donut is safely back tucked in my trunk, where it belongs. Hopefully for the rest of eternity. I did learn some things in the last 24 hours, though….

Driving around with a donut tire is a lot like walking around with a huge zit on your face. All you wanna do is yell, ‘I know. I KNOW. I can’t help it!’ to everyone around you.

And what is this witchcraft about not being able to go over 45 with a donut tire? Because all that does is prolong your misery, driving around in a donut tire car. 

I’m seriously considering painting my spare tire pink, and adding ‘sprinkles’ to it for the next time this happens. That shit would be funny.

-Beverly Goldenstein

I’m testing out a new theory today. It’s called the “If I Bring My Coworkers Doughnuts, They’ll Forget About My Donut Tire, Right?” theory.

I’ll let you know.

Also, regarding the spelling of ‘doughnut’…. I’ve decided that ‘donut’ = weird little tire, and ‘doughnut’ = cake-like pastry that makes people lose their ever-loving minds.

In any case, I’ll take powdered sugar, maple-glazed, or anything with bacon on it.

-Beverly Goldenstein

Donut Tire Extraordinaire 

Established March 2015

There are 2 types of people in this world.

Those who deal with stress head-on. They make lists, they lose sleep, they cram things in their schedules to get shit done.

And then there are those who come home, eat leftover hibachi + a frozen breakfast burrito for dinner, take some Melatonin washed down with vodka, and go to bed.

I think you can probably surmise which type of person Bev is.

Is it spring break yet?

-Bev

I am an educated 31-year-old woman who grew up on a farm. Yet, I know absolutely nothing about animals. Like, there’s a host of animals that I seriously can’t tell apart. Literally…. tell me I’m not alone here:

Beavers vs. Otters?

Sheep vs. Goats?

Llamas vs. Alpacas?

Donkeys, mules, and horses? I know that one of these three is a mix of the other two or something, but I feel like I need a Ph.D. to figure out the Punnett Square of this triad.

And what the hell is going on with cheetahs, leopards, and panthers? Are they all the same? Are they even all real? WHAT THE FRESH HELL?

Literally, when babysitting a 20-month-old this week, I heard ‘baa’ come from the iPad. Trying to be all top-notch babysitter, and shit, I’m like, “Oh, what’s that? A goat?” “Sheep,” says the diaper-clad toddler in front of me. Oh. Yeah.

Well, shit. I wish I could tell you I didn’t have to google which one of those animals says ‘baa’ so that I didn’t eff up typing this scenario in this post. I can’t.

Also, are platypuses even real? And where do they live?

I do know a lot about hippos, though. Because in my next life, I want to be a hippo. Mean sonsabitches.

Off to brunch; I know you’re awaiting another one of those posts… No you aren’t.

-Bev