Bevvy G

Bev is not a huge fan of posting on social media for Mother’s or Father’s Day. I don’t feel the need to find a bunch of funny/embarrassing pictures of my parents from the 80’s or to write a post about how my parents are the best in the world and then post it all to my Instagram story in 2-3 word phrases. You know the ones (similar to the birthday posts I talked about here). Happy (pic of Dad holding baby in hospital room). Father’s (picture of Dad teaching 3-year-old how to ride a bike). Day (picture of Dad and kid at high school graduation). To the best (picture of Dad and kid at college football game). Dad in the world (picture of dad and child at child’s wedding).

My dislike for social media posts has nothing to do with how I actually feel about my parents (I think they’re pretty kickass), but more about how I feel about the weird peacocking that people do on social media on certain holidays. I guess I just prefer to celebrate Mother’s and Father’s Day by… ya know… calling my parents to wish them a happy day and finding a present that I think s/he will actually like or use. For MamaG, this usually means some sort of new kitchen gadget that Maude picks up and wraps for both of us. This year, I stepped up my game and gave MamaG a tincture of CBD oil in hopes that it will help with her restless sleep habits. She asked me about forty times if it was marijuana and I can’t really answer her because I secretly don’t really know what the hell is in it (I think it’s legal in all 50 states, right? Like, you can order it online… I don’t know) but I do think it’s helping her sleep a little bit better, so I’m calling it a win. Even though she yelled at me when she found out how much it costs. For Smoke, Father’s Day gifts usually consist of Maude and me throwing some money at MamaG who buys some type of tool or gadget that I know nothing about. This year I think it was something to do with oil or grease or something? I truly have no idea, but he seemed to like it. In addition, I usually bring Smoke a six-pack of craft beers brewed in and around MyCity. He loves trying different and new beers and then not remembering which ones he likes and doesn’t like. 

Anyhoo, yesterday (on Father’s Day), I had to call my cable company with an issue I was having. As I chatted with the sweet DirecTV service woman from Alabama (let’s call her Debbie), there were a few breaks in our conversation where we had to wait for my cable box to reboot or whatever. And in true Smoke Goldenstein’s daughter fashion, I asked her a few questions about herself, and my service call quickly turned to a therapy session about Debbie’s ungrateful 13-year-old stepdaughter. The girl’s mom lets her get away with everything but Debbie and her fiancé put their collective foot down with the little wench and, in true teenager style, she retaliates. Debbie and her fiancé have gone as far as packing up the girl’s clothes in trash bags and hiding them in order to wake the teen up to the fact that she needs to clean her room or they’ll get rid of her stuff. Guys, there was actually a moment when my cable box was done and I was ready for the next step, but I waited like three minutes for the Debster to finish her story about the demanding stepdaughter before telling her we could continue the process for the cable issue. This is an absolute Smoke Goldenstein move. The man could talk to a brick wall (as noted here for Uber drivers and here for people he’s chatting with on the phone) and I realized that I am slowly becoming him.

And then, today happened. To make a long story short, I encountered several severe corner-cutters in a row (the first guy was literally basically driving head on at me in my lane as he was making a left turn and the second one was not much better). I absolutely LAID on my horn at these assholes, who seemed to have absolutely no clue that they were driving like dickbags. Or, corner-cuttin’ sons of bitches as a certain someone would call them.

All of this to say, I basically realized that my latent Father’s Day gift to Smoke is that I am literally morphing into him. One corner-cuttin’ sonofabitch at a time.

Anybody know where I can find some ladies’ gray socks?

-Bev

Aunt Sue never flies without a cold one and a plastic-looking ham sammy.

Aunt Sue mixes it up in Hanoi!

Aunt Sue showcasing Southeast Asian beer.

Aunt Sue housing Southeast Asian beer.

Aunt Sue orders another and makes friends at happy hour.

Remember Janice Biffins from Indiana? Janice takes pictures of her new 105-pound friend POUNDING Southeast Asian beers.

Aunt Sue vomits Southeast Asian beer? (Nah, we don’t play like that) Though there is a funny story involving vomit and Uncle Bart, Aunt Sue, MamaG and Smoke inhabiting a hotel room. Remind me to tell you that one sometime.

Aunt Sue regrets drinking so many Southeast Asian beers last night.

And, sadly, I regret telling you that this post rounds up the Spot Sue Saturday (or Sunday or whenever-Bev-gets-around-to-it) posts for now…

Keep in mind that Uncle Bart sometimes still sends random Snapchats of Aunt Sue drinking beer right in here in the U. S. of A., so I will be able to check in with a random Spot Sue here and there, but we’ll have to wait for their early 2020 world tour trip for the next big inundation of pics… any suggestions for U.B. and Aunt Sue’s next international trip? (a.k.a.- what type of beer should Aunt Sue try next? Make a suggestion in the comments below!)

And, as usual, many thanks for Aunt Sue for being a good sport while her loser niece pokes fun at her on the internet weekly.

-Bev

I just want to know what kind of ever-loving witchcraft it takes for people to wash their face at the bathroom sink and be able to just… brush their teeth and go to bed after.

I just end up flooding my bathroom, soaking my hand towel, and having to change my pajamas because I’m sopping wet from wrists to elbows and chin to nipples.

Fresh PJs to all and to all a good night.

-Bev

Remember my post about having problems discerning hashtags and usernames? Yeah, I thought these said “Tom braider” for weeks. Like, actually thought that was some kind of southeast Asian slang or something. Jesus, Bev.

Just my 59-year-old uncle taking pictures of his wife drinking beer and adding Cupid emojis. Ain’t no thang.

-Bev

OK, this one’s not really a scary cat story. This one’s more like a F.A.F.

My friend’s husband has a cat. It is a large cat and it makes me chuckle. Said friend’s husband is defensive of his cat’s weight (he claims the size is mostly hair) and it makes me laugh my ass off.

I haven’t interacted much with this cat, so I don’t have many (or any) actual stories about him, so I’m just gonna go ahead and show you my favorite picture of him….

His name is Cheddar.

That’s all.

-Bev

Have you ever felt personally victimized by your own taste in footwear?

Because I love these shoes… (in both colors)

But, I hate to break it to ya, guys- my hyperhidrosis would have those things so fogged up, I’d need to try to install some kind of defrost button. In the shoes.

The whole clear shoe thing is just something that will not work for me. Ever. Which, in most cases, isn’t a big deal, but it’s a bit of a dagger to the heart in this case of very cute, cheap resortwear sandals. Which I stumbled upon just before a trip to Mexico.

Not as big of a dagger to the heart as a similar situation in 2001 was, though. You see, MamaG and her best friend took me prom dress shopping in the “big city” nearby. I found a baller-ass dress fairly early in the day, so we set out for the perfect shoes as well. I tried on some shoes that had some clear plastic near the toes, which I promptly fogged up. Like, within seconds, the plastic was cloudy except for the cracks between my toes. I wish I had a photo. (You don’t)

And then I was laughed out of the store by my own mother, her best friend, (the original Mean Girls?) and the shoe salesman, who probably still tells this story as well.

Hyperhidrosis life, y’all.

-Bev

Do you guys ever try to read a hashtag or a username and absolutely butcher it? 

Like, I have a friend of a friend on Insta whose handle is dantahoe. I read it as Dante Hoe every time, even though I’d be willing to bet a kidney it’s Dan Tahoe.

Same with this food blogger chick that I like. Her handle is firstandfull… her husband is a former NFL player, and I’m 99% sure it’s First and Full. But to me? Fir Stand Full… probably her Native American name, at least.

lostrange CBD? Los Trange. Bev, there is no such thing as a trange. English or español.

I know there are at least fifty other accounts or hashtags I’ve done this with, so as I come across/remember them, I’ll be sure to share. There’s a good example coming up in this week’s SSS too- makes me look like a real imbecile.

Please share your username/hashtag problems in the comments. Please.

-Bev

This photo absolutely slays me.

Casual ox cart hump day.

Hydrating up after the ox cart. And before…

Jumping in on a Cambodian wedding?!?!?!

Showing. Them. How. It’s. Done.

-Bev

I used to babysit very regularly for a family who had a HUGE white cat named Homer. I didn’t mind Homer too much because the two hooligans in my care were pretty wild little bastards, so Homer hid in the basement most of the time. Sometimes, I even got smart, and blocked his little cat door he wouldn’t couldn’t come out even after the boys went to bed.

I arrived at the House of Homer one late afternoon, and soon after the parents had pulled out of the garage, the kids and I heard animalian screaming from the garage. I assumed Homeslice had gotten trapped in the garage when the parents left and I was just about to open the door to let him in when one of the boys realized Homer was in the house with us.

So, like any babysitter worth her salt, I went into full-on panic mode and assumed we had somehow accidentally trapped a coyote, bear, mountain lion, or goddamn worse in the garage. I will say that I kept my cool in front of the kids, but I did text the parents with a query of WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HELL COULD BE STUCK IN THE GARAGE, CLAWING AT THE DOOR TO GET IN. (and yes, I did convince myself that it would be able to claw through the entire door before the parents got home)

The parents were not nearly as panicked as I was, as they casually explained that their neighbor’s cat had probably gotten into the garage as they were backing out and then not gotten out fast enough. And, of course, the keypad on the outside of the garage door wasn’t working, so the only way to get the neighbor’s hellspawn out of the garage would’ve been to let it run through the house and I think you already know Babysitter Bev’s decision on that.

So, instead, I got to sit and listen to a demon cat screech and claw at a door for about six hours. It never did dig itself all the way through the door, but I am convinced it would’ve, if given a few more hours.

Cat:

Me:

I can literally hear that cat pawing at the door for its life as I type this.

And, wouldn’t you know it… I’m currently babysitting.

Halp.

-Bev

I’ve been in my bed since 7:45 p.m. but it was one of those nights where I couldn’t turn off my overly active and highly intelligent mind¹ and now it’s almost 1 a.m. and I’m lying here, wide awake, and there’s someone circling my block on a loud motor cycle, which is annoying the piss out of me and has me convinced that this guy is going to be hiding behind my shower curtain tomorrow morning.

-Bev

¹“Couldn’t turn off my mind” is, in this case, a literal translation of “couldn’t stop curating the perfect playlist for the bike bar cruise that I’ll be embarking on in a few short weeks when Henrietta, Agatha, and Ardith visit MyCity.”

Obviously, I typed this post last night/this morning, but I had some editing that needed to be done on my computer instead of phone, and I was too scared to get out of bed to get the computer because, well, that guy… so I’m posting it now.