Bevvy G

As many of you know, Bev spends a lot of her extra time babysitting (yes, this is slightly terrifying. Deal with it.) It’s a great little side gig that can be picked up and left off as wanted, is paid under the table, and can sometimes lead to some pretty cool connections/networks. I’ve been babysitting since sixth grade and, as you can imagine, have had some pretty great and some pretty horrible experiences. (that might have to be a section in the book I’ll never write)

One such experience came when I was in college and was hooked up with a Friday night babysitting gig through a friend from my classes. Now, I was in college a lot longer ago than I’d like to admit, so the details of this story are definitely a bit shady, but I’ll do my best to outline it for you here.

(I always want to start my stories like Sophia Petrillo…”Picture it. My college town, 2003.”)

Anyway, my college town, 2003(ish). I arrive at a pretty nice house kind of in the country outside of town. I don’t even remember how many kids or how old or anything like that, but I do remember us playing in the driveway with some sidewalk chalk and shit. And then I remember night/darkness creeping in, and bringing the kids inside. The kids and the animals, that is¹. Except I hadn’t paid attention to whether or not the people who lived in the house had dogs or cats or how many, and the kids I was babysitting were visiting the owners from out of town (and were really young) and they didn’t know how many cats or dogs were supposed to be in the house either, and I think I let a stray/strange cat in the house for a few hours before the people got home.

So, that’s cool.

-Bev

¹Babysitting for people with pets is kind of unavoidable. I generally just clap them them/lock them in other rooms, etc., and it’s generally not a big deal.

2Other “Bev Babysits” stories can be found here and here. Oh, and also here. But if there’s ever a book, there will be more. Oh yes, there will be more.

So, I don’t actually remember this story, but I hear it all the time. It happened when I was a young adult (probably in my late 20s) and I wasn’t hammered, so I should remember it, but I truly have no recollection. I am confident that if I were to ever seek counseling for my crippling anxiety OCD neuroses irrational fears *ahem* issues, I would be told that I am repressing this memory out of sheer terror.

Anyway.

The story is that the Page clan is hanging out in Uncle Bart and Aunt Sue’s family room (well, now it’s Timmy and Keith’s family room) on Christmas night. It generally becomes about 983 degrees in that room once you add in a crowd of slightly buzzed people, and we often end up cracking windows even in the dead of Midwestern winter. Apparently, I was sitting in the corner of an L-shaped couch, just under the open window. And, apparently, a cat jumped up onto the screen which caused the screen to buckle into the family room and onto me.

Now that I sit here typing this, I have a lot of followup questions. Did I say the F-word? Probably. Did MamaG yell at me for saying the F-word? Probably. Did MamaG probably then ALSO say the F-word? Probably not since it was Christmas, but I bet she lost her shit. Where did the cat go? (I don’t have a pretend answer for this one because I literally want to know) Did Aunt Sue snort laugh? Definitely. 

I do know that my cousins remember this well because they bring it up often. Keith, Gert, and Bessie- give us the juice please!

-Bev

That boat ride looks relaxing and great and all, but where’s the beer?

Today’s mood filter really makes this one.

Aunt Sue turns Duck, Duck, Goose into a drinking game in Vietnam.

I think she lost too many rounds of Duck, Duck, Goose.

Back in the saddle!

Wait, what the hell did these two survive? Many rounds of Duck, Duck, Goose?

Well, I’d say that calls for a beer. Duck, Duck, Goose or not.

-Bev

Well, I’m back again, reliving terrifying childhood memories¹ of my awful experiences with cats.

This one involves another “common” (or at the least, not uncommon) occurrence in/around Mayberry- a cat hitching a ride underneath a warm car unbeknownst to the owner of said car. You can read about some of this in the original Frightening Feline Friday: Mowgli Edition. I really don’t understand how this works, or how these damn cats don’t get chopped up in some kind of fan belt or something, but it definitely happens. (Note: I don’t know what a fan belt is)

Anyway, the story is basically this: It’s around the holidays, so Gertrude is hanging out at her parents’ house, and jumps in Uncle Bart and Aunt Sue’s beater van (if the walls of that thing could talk) and drives the mile (probably less) to Smoke and MamaG’s to hang out with me. (probably making plans for whose house we’d be drinking at later that evening, but that’s neither here nor there)

At some point during the conversation, MamaG notices a black and white cat hanging out in our yard. We quickly realize this cat is Oreo, one of Aunt Sue’s favorites, and that he’d hitched a ride under the warm van. Now, like I’ve mentioned before, if there’s one person on this planet who hates cats more than I do, it’s MamaG. Her potential solutions to this problem are that a) Gertrude and I transport the cat back to UB and Aunt Sue’s house via a box, or b) we shoot it.

Well, it was Christmas, so Gertrude wasn’t really in on the killing-her-mom’s-favorite-pet plan, so MamaG went to the garage and got a box approximately the size of a file cabinet drawer- you know, so Gert could easily fit the box on her lap/in her arms. And if that box had been empty or filled with… towels, DVDs, glassware, etc. Gertrude would’ve been totally fine holding the box on her lap while I drove us the short distance back to Uncle Bart and Aunt Sue’s place.

But the box wasn’t filled with towels, DVDs, or glassware. It was filled with a goddamn live cat and I swear to you, that one mile drive took thirteen minutes to complete and eight years off my life. Picture Gertrude and Bev screaming (Gertrude screaming at Bev to drive faster while Bev is just flat-out screaming and, I’m pretty sure, closing her eyes) while Gertrude (kind of) controlled the box.

Oh, God, I wish I had a Go Pro installed in my hairline for so many moments of my life.

-Bev

¹I use the term “childhood memories” in a very vague way. Because this one took place when I was like 28 years old.

If I ever win the lottery, I’m going to dedicate an entire gallery wall to pictures of Aunt Sue in front of beautiful/famous landmarks around the world. They’ll all be in black and white, but some important features will be full color (you know, like the red coat in Schindler’s List). In this particular photo, the blue tourist headphones and the umbrella will get the color treatment.

An Uncle Bart appearance! And the best open-mouth grin by Aunt Sue. Someone must’ve just told her it’s happy hour.

Happy hour? She immediately leaves the tour (notice she stole the mic/headphones) and hires this lady (?) to drive (?) her to the nearest bar.

HAPPY HOUR!

Wait, did UB go on a brewery tour without Sue?

Hahahahahaha, no.

-Bev

I’m pretty sure that this story/incident might actually be from where my fear/hatred of cats might stem. I remember it very vividly, yet not vividly at all because I was very young. Maude was present for the shituation, (yes, I meant to say that) so she might be able to shed some more light on it. 

So, picture (roughly) 7-year-old Bev, and 10-year-old Maude. We were at our Page grandparents’ house, so we were likely living the life every grandkid dreams of- you know, pretty much eating, drinking, playing, doing whatever we wanted because… grandparents.

Well, then our grandparents’ good friends, Ferd and Bethel, who lived about three miles from the Page house, called to see if Grandpa and Grandma wanted to come pick up a cat. I can’t remember the specific reason, but this isn’t an uncommon occurrence in rural America… a cat wanders onto a farm where the owners don’t have cats/don’t want to feed it, a cat has kittens and the owners want to get rid of some, etc. (What you haven’t ever called your neighbor/good friend and asked them to come over and pick up a cat?)

In any case, our sweet Grandma Page told Ferd they’d take the cat, so she loaded Maude and me into the green and white Chevy pickup (the one I can picture perfectly that I’m pretty sure she and Grandpa had for most of my childhood), and drove the short distance to Ferd and Bethel’s house.

Again, I don’t remember all the details, but I remember this:

*the cat was, like, yellow. There is probably a name for this, but I don’t know and I sure don’t care to find out.

*the cat did not want to ride in the cab of the truck. This is probably obvious?

*the cat escaped the grasp of the adults trying to corral it into the truck at least 396 times.

*Maude and I just sat in the truck, where the cat basically sprinted from driver’s side to the passenger side over and over, jumping out doors, windows, etc. I’m not sure of the logistics, or what the adults were doing, but my memory seems to think that it felt as though the cat was on some kind of invisible treadmill belt- in the driver’s side window, sprinted across our laps out the passenger side, back in (probably with Grandma?) the driver’s side, back out passenger. Like, five. hundred. times.

I’m pretty sure I blacked out at this point because I have zero recollection of how this ended, other than we did not end up bringing the cat in our truck, and Ferd drove it over to Grandma and Grandpa’s house later.

But I do distinctly remember that the cat pissed in Ferd’s vehicle on the way over.

What a dick.

-Bev

Just for fun, here’s the closest thing I could find for a visual of the ’80s truck. It was green and white, not blue and white, but it was very similar to this rig. In my opinion, seeing the visual makes this story better. And the Page cousins will appreciate the throwback…

J Lo is really out here wearing an engagement ring estimated to be worth $4.5 million.

In the past two weeks, I have consumed two protein shakes that expired ten months ago.

On purpose. (I don’t like to waste food)

I’m just going to call myself a humanitarian and keep this train on the tracks.

-Bev

You’re in for a real treat today, guys. There are a few Spot Sue pics that I’ve been dying to share, and it just so happens that they came up in the queue of my Spot Sue folders for today. (extra special that I am going to see Uncle Bart and cousins Timmy and Bessie this afternoon, as they are on vacation near MyCity)

I didn’t even edit some of the photos so you’ll get more of a glimpse of the actual Aunt Sue than normal.

I gotta tell ya, I’m not 100% sure that I know what a “Cyclo Ride” is, but I’m picturing Aunt Sue with a crippling hangover in some type of wheelchair-like cart, being wheeled through the streets of Phnom Penh by some old Thai man, who may be one of the 3% of fully grown adults on this planet who weigh less than Sue.

What do you guys think she’s listening to?

And there they are. My two favorite SSS photos of the Southeast Asia trip of 2019. Maybe top two ever?

I mean, tell me she doesn’t look like a celebrity dodging the paps in that final photo. The graininess adds to that effect… like some lucky photographer spotted the hottest female pop star from afar and had to zoom in as much as possible to get the shot that he’ll sell to Star magazine. (Aunt Sue, you’re doing amazing, sweetie)

I’m dying.

-Bev

Have you ever been waiting to board a plane while listening to the absolute screaming sounds of a cat contained in one of those… cat carriers? Have you ever then shared annoyed/concerned looks with the other passengers around you? Have you ever then noticed a slight commotion ahead of you before you heard another passenger exclaim, “It’s loose!” Have. you. ever. then watched an elderly woman snatch the feline escapee with one hand and return it to its owner, who is a (no lie) three or four-year-old girl?

Because I have. I have done all of those things.

And then do you want to know what I did?

I called the first flight attendant I saw over to my seat once I was settled and asked her if the cat situation was under control. She had no idea what I was talking about so I told her there was a toddler toting a hysterical cat about ten rows up and she went to check on the situation. (she did not seem to care, if you care. I, obviously, very much did care.)

She didn’t come back until a while later, while we were in the air. She assured me that the situation was fine (what does that even mean, lady?), and I assumed she would get me good and liquored up so that a) I wouldn’t care if the cat got loose on the aircraft, and b) I would leave her alone.

She did not.

So then what did I do?

I panicked for the duration of my (thankfully short) flight. I wish I could have saved the messages to my friends and fam while I was flying back and forth about this creature, but most of them were on Snapchat, and, now that I think about it, all of them are (highly) inappropriate.

For what it’s worth, “I panicked” translates to, “I ordered drinks even though I was trying to stay sober in case my awesome airport transporters wanted me to take the shift driving home (They assured me that they wanted me to drink. They know me well.) and I spent the whole flight with my sweatshirt wrapped around my feet and legs in case that mongrel came pussyfootin’¹ back my way under the seats.” (I literally shuddered typing that)

-Bev

¹OH GOD, DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE?

So, as you learned recently, I don’t really know who Adam Levine is.

I will say, I feel like I actually have a decent amount of knowledge about pop culture, so I should know who Adam Levine is, but I just can’t get that sordid web of country stars and reality singing show people sorted out in my mind.

You know who else I once mixed up at a real inopportune time? Al Franken and Al Sharpton. Ask Fawn about it sometime. Lord, have mercy.

-Bev