Bevvy G

I just walked over to the hipster coffee shop near my house where I often come to do work… when holding my laptop on my couch just doesn’t sound comfortable at all. Like most Americans, I’m limping through this work week to make it to the end of the week and begin continue celebrating the holidays, so I skipped the coffee and ordered a prosecco.

As I ordered, I noticed a couple with a huge dog near the back of the store and inquired about whether or not the coffee shop allowed all dogs/animals. The barista/bartender appears to be high out of her mind and has to ask me to repeat literally everything I say about five times. She finally answers me that they allow “most dogs, ya know, as long as they’re, like, well-behaved.” I replied with a curt, “Oh,” and she quickly responded with, “Why, do you have a dog?” To which I replied with a(nother) curt(er), “No, I hate dogs and I think it’s ridiculous.” Then she responded by screaming, “You hate dogs?” across the bar and I told her I didn’t believe they should be allowed in place where food is served. Her retort? “Yeah, well, we only have, like, pastries,” while she poured me the world’s smallest glass of prosecco, which I’m now finishing in record time and walking across the street to an establishment that does not allow dogs.

Oh, and literally, as I’m typing this, the “well-behaved” dog just walked up to the next customer and started sniffing his balls. I. Hate. Everyone.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned this here yet, but I’m considering starting a petition to get an anti-anxiety animal anxiety vest for myself. Like, I want to go to my doctor and describe the anxiety I feel when I am around animals and see if I can get some kind of governmentally-approved note stating that I cannot sit within a certain row range of an animal on a flight.

a) Now taking vest design submissions.

b) Would you sign the petition? (I truly think my anxiety while sitting next to a support animal on a flight is triple the anxiety that some of these people feel in the regular settings where they require their support animals. Disclaimer: I support fully trained service dogs as they are necessary… meaning I don’t like them, but I understand that they are, at time, truly needed. But, I’m sorry, Jennifer, buying your Pomeranian a vest on Amazon because you “can’t bear to leave her for Christmas” doesn’t qualify you to need a support animal. And it sure as shit shouldn’t require me to have to sit next to one.)

c) Did I just find my 2019 resolution?

-Bev

P.S. I’m getting really fired up (I can feel my chest getting hot) so I’m taking my dog-hating ass elsewhere and thinking only happy thoughts for the next hour.

So you read here about the time I got detained in a secret hallway in Vegas.

And I don’t think you’ll be surprised to “learn” that I don’t totally remember all of the details. Like how I got in there or how I got out.

But I can tell you what I do remember. Vividly.

A hallway. Like, a huge hallway. I have absolutely no idea where it is or how one would access it, but there’s a hallway large enough to fit a vehicle in the Wynn hotel. (and I’m sure all the rest of them as well)

An ambulance. Oh, how I wish we had video footage of my face when the ambulance pulled into the secret hallway. I thought it was the beginning of the end. (it was for some other dude)

A folding chair. I came to on a folding chair in said hallway. This is where I sat for all the happenings in the detention center.

A little office. From this little office, there were some workers trying to communicate with me by asking me questions about where I was, etc. Now, I’ll tell you one thing: Beverly here likes to get a solid buzz going every now and then and really cut loose. But I generally know where I am. I responded to her question very precisely, “I’m at Tryst Nightclub at the Wynn hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada. I live in MyCity, MyState. My address is XYZ. I’m here with my friend, KB’s bachelorette party. Her phone number is XXX-480-…” And then I blanked. One thing you don’t know about Bevvy G is that I have an uncanny knack for memorizing phone numbers. I used to be better at it than I am now, but, unlike most 30-somethings in the US, I’d say I know 10-15 of my close friends’ and family members’ cell phone numbers. KB happens to be one of them. I can tell you right now: it’s XXX-480-1471. And I only looked in my phone to confirm that, not to look it up. However, I could not come up with the last four digits that night in Vegas, and my friends had my purse/phone, so we couldn’t call anyone. After blanking on KB’s phone number, things get a little fuzzy (OK, fuzzier) but the next thing I knew, I was walking up to a wall with a secret door and back into Tryst, much to my friends’ delight.

And that’s the time I got detained in a secret hallway in Vegas. And, most likely, the closest to an arrest that I’ve ever been.

-Bev

Night Nine: Vegas, again. Oh, God.

Backstory: In Vegas with a group of ladies for a bachelorette party.

Hey guys, I have another Vegas story for you, and, well, I don’t remember this one either, so my friend, Melva, had to write it for me. As I mentioned yesterday, I have had a few more than eight crazy nights in my life, and this one almost got away from us, but Melva really came through in the clutch- thanks, Mel! Again, I’ll be adding some side comments in pink, and I may need to do a follow-up post on this one…

The day most likely started at the pool around 3:00 pm where (and when) all good days in Vegas start. And even though I can’t really remember, I can guarantee we were hungover AF and relying heavily on ‘hair of the dog’. After sweating out our hangovers, it was time to get ready. Nothing kicks off a wild night quite like severe dehydration.

Getting ready was an event. Put on a little makeup, chug champagne, put on a little more makeup, chug champagne, play with our hair for a minute, chug champagne, put mascara on, chug champagne, put more mascara on, chug champagne, try on dress option number one, chug champagne, pull out all of the shoes we packed, chug champagne, turn on our hair straighteners and curling irons, mix a drink, apply aloe vera, chug a beer, put more makeup on, take a swig, try on dress option number two, SHOTS! I specifically remember getting ready for this evening. It was like a Ke$ha concert. And so on and so on.

Needless to say, by the time we were ready to go to dinner, we were buzzed. We had reservations at Lavo and all I really remember from dinner is that it took 17 hours, or at least seemed that way? And that there was what also seemed like a bottomless flow of wine, champagne and vodka. We got a free bottle of champagne for the bachelorette! I remember someone spilling a drink. I remember a lot of loud laughter. I remember feeling too drunk for my fancy environment. I remember none of that.

Then we went to the club. Tryst nightclub, in my memory, was a sea of bodies in a golden light dancing wildly by a waterfall. Whether we had a table reserved or we just somehow ended up with one, I don’t know but we ended up in a round booth. And what I remember from this round booth lit by a beautiful blue light, next to a waterway (because #thisisvegas) was Bev, or the shell of Bev. We had strategically placed her inside the round booth so she couldn’t fall out. #IHaveGoodFriends Because while Bev was there physically, in every other sense of the word Bev was not there. This is how you know Bev is  drunk. She goes mute and just grins. Sometimes she’ll throw in a nod, sometimes she’ll nap (on the table or other creative places… see yesterday’s post about Caesars). God, I love Bev.

Anyway, there were hundreds of people packed inside of this club which made it difficult to get drinks, to get to anywhere, and to find anyone. The not being able to get drinks as easily as we would have liked ended up working out for us in the long run because sometime around what I’m guessing was 2:45 am we realized Bev had disappeared. Like, legitimately gone missing.

She had gone to the bathroom with one of us and never seemed to make her way out. Or so it seemed by the time we realized she was missing. Initially, the disappearance of Bev was humorous and I would say maybe two of us were genuinely worried, the two who had to catch a flight at 7:00am.

We casually checked the stalls in the bathroom and mosied around the club trying to pay extra attention to the faces around us. As time passed, the club started to clear out a little bit and it became easier to distinguish one face from the next. But as it became more clear that Bev might actually be missing, Holly Madison showed up with her friends (one of the very reasons we went to Tryst) and half of us started strategizing how to get pictures with her while the other half strategized what we were going to do about Bev’s disappearance.

Team Holly got their picture. Team Find Bev… did not find Bev.

The bar slowly emptied out as we began feverishly discussing, once again, where we had each last seen her. We went back into the bathroom. Still nothing. At this point, the bar was pretty bare. Holly Madison and her friends were partying like it was midnight on New Years Eve while we walked around aimlessly, scouring through the booths and repeatedly calling Bev’s phone. No answer. No Bev. The announcements for the bar closing became more frequent until we were all huddled near the plush tunnel leading to the exit. We had no idea what to do, so we stalled until we got kicked out.

As we got figuratively pushed through the hallway covered in thick velvet drapes amongst a small crowd of people, we were all discussing what our plan would be. Someone mentioned calling the Vegas jail and I think there was a brief discussion about whether any of us would even be able to go bail her out. Two of our friends had to leave to get to the airport on time to catch their flight and the rest of us were drunk.

As we moved toward the exit like a crowd of zombies, the velvet drape suddenly flew into my face. I was hit in the shoulder with an arm, then a body. And like a Christmas miracle, Bev had practically fallen out from behind the drapes. The blood had been drained from her face and her eyes were wide with terror. She saw us and yelled something to the effect of “Let’s get the f*** out of here!” She had one shoe in her hand and the other was missing. Before I realized what was even happening, I was watching Bev barrel through the crowd and out of the exit and straight into a van that was randomly parked outside of the door (I think) while our bachelorette yelled after her asking where her shoe was.

We asked where she had been and rejoiced. But no one rejoiced more than Bev because she had apparently been in some secret basement of the bar next to some girl on an IV drip. But I’ll let Bev tell that story.

And tell that story, I will. Soon. I’m really not sure the written word can do it justice, but I’m going to do my best, guys. For now, I’ll just reiterate what Melva said: I was in a secret basement next to medical happenings. There was an ambulance and a folding chair and I really thought it was going to be the moment… you know, the one where I got arrested. But it wasn’t!

Stay tuned!

-Bev

Night Eight: Bev Goes to Vegas and Takes a Nap in the Lobby of Caesars Palace But Has No Recollection of it

Backstory: I’m in Vegas with my whole family. I road-tripped there with Uncle Bart and Aunt Sue (amazing) and am 99% sure I had a broken rib from falling into a potted plant the weekend before when my college friends were in town. Classic.

Note: This post is written by cousin Gertrude, because Bev doesn’t remember it. I will add in some personal thoughts in pink throughout.

About nine years ago some of our family, along with 25 or so additional guests, ventured to Vegas to celebrate a few 50th birthdays.  Now, I (Gert, not Bev) had been to Vegas before. However, I was about 13 at the time of my original trip, so I was pretty excited to be heading to Sin City as a 21-year-old college student.   

I arrived in Vegas around 7 pm and headed to the Flamingo to check in and meet up with Bev and the rest of the family.  A few of us, including Beverly, decided to head out on the town, and we ended up at the Pure Nightclub at Caesars Palace.   We had a group of about 8, and as we approached the bouncer, we quickly realized any male in the group would be paying about $25 to get into the place. Due to that fact, the guys in the group decided to go gamble and said night in Vegas turned into a ladies-only night.  

We had a great time, dancing, and drinking an abundance of free vodka if I remember correctly (better your memory than mine, G). Mind you I am a 21-year-old who is used to the “clubs” in my midwestern college town, so in my mind I am living the dream at this point.  At about 2 am we decided to head out to the lobby bar and try to meet up with the rest of our group. We found a table with some comfortable chairs and cousin Kathy found a companion at the bar. That left Bev and me by ourselves enjoying a couple of beverages and people watching. Now, this was very entertaining for about half an hour until I realized I was talking to myself and Bev was snoozing in her large armchair, and the rest of our group was nowhere in sight.  The best part about this was that Kathy spent about an hour and a half with her new friend before joining me and Sleeping Beauty (I might only refer to myself as Sleeping Bevty from now on) across the bar.  

At about 4:30 am Bev awoke and was quite hungry. I am always down to eat after I have been drinking so I took on the mission to find us some food.  We ended up across the street at O’Sheas where I discovered they had both a Subway and Burger King.  We split up to get our food as I prefer BK and Bev wanted a sub. We rejoined at a table, and I vividly remember asking Bev what she got to eat.  She looked up, oblivious to the fact that she even had a sandwich in front of her at this point, and just stared at me for a good 15 seconds.  I repeated my question, pointing to her sandwich, which she then had to open to answer my question.  I will seriously never forget her looking back up at me with her eyes half opened saying, “Looks like tuna.” She then proceeded to eat her sandwich, along with my onion rings and half of my double cheeseburger before we headed back to the hotel to go to bed.  

Other highlights from this night/next morning not included:
Bev picking up some guys wallet or roll of bills from the floor at Pure and debating taking off with it. I had been talking to this dude and he gave me a huge stack of bills to go buy us drinks because girls get served faster than guys. I’ve never had this kind of cash in my hand before… I won’t even venture to guess how much, but it was a fat stack and it wasn’t 1s, 5s, 10s, or even 20s. I have never seen someone move as fast as that man did when I dropped the wad, and I briefly debated trying to throw a few bills down my bra, but I was (and still am) 100% certain that this dude would’ve slit my throat in the club if I had. I got his number that night and saved it as VayGoss Monday (I like to pronounce Vegas like Degas sometimes). I only recently deleted the number.

Hanging out the next morning while Bev is naked in her bed and I mentioned being up for 27 hours straight. Bev agreed that she was up for that long as well and I had to remind her of the snooze she took in Caesars the night before. I’m not even sure if “remind” is the right word here… “Inform” might be more accurate.

I vividly remember a brunch at The Golden Nugget the next day and this was one of the earlier times I’d still been drunk from the night before and then gotten drunk again off of mimosas. This day was definitely a catalyst for my love of brunch.

Gertrude also totally forgot about how I was completely ridiculing her the morning after for getting Burger King… until she told me I ate more of it than she did. Sober Bev HATES Burger King.

I do have another story about Drunk Bev and Burger King though. I really think I could just do a 2019 series called 2019 Crazy Nights…

-Beverly “Looks Like Tuna (implied question mark)” Goldenstein

P.S.- Have you ever dry heaved in an airplane lavatory with a broken rib? I, too, could have answered “no” to that question before I lost my Vegas virginity.

Night Seven: There’s a what in the toilet?

Backstory: I was drunk.

Back in my younger days, I lived with one of my besties, Alice. Alice and I went out together most of the time but we did have our fair share of outings with others as well.

On this particular evening, I have been out with my friend Karen May, and Alice have been out with her boyfriend. We all came home pretty equally inebriated but at different times… Me ending up in bed before they even walked in the door.

And when they did walk in the door, Alice and her boyfriend both had to use the bathroom. Alice ran to her own and her boyfriend to mine… which he nearly instantly regretted.

Because my bra was in the toilet.

-Bev

Night Five: MamaG is going to murder me

Backstory: The Bev is a freshman in college.

I mean, I want you all to take a second to imagine Beverly here as a college freshman. While you’re doing that, I’d like you to know that the bars in my college town allowed 18-year-olds in the door. You “couldn’t drink” inside (ask me about that sometime) but you could go to the hot bars the second you stepped onto campus, and what a time it was to be alive. Dear God, I could probably write an entire book about my freshman year of college, but we’ll focus on one specific night for now.

Now, I don’t actually remember the night, but not in the way that you think! The actual night was a pretty typical one for my freshman year… meaning I kept the schedule of an infant throughout the day (classing and napping) and probably woke up around 8 pm to get in the shower and get ready. Then I most likely took shots of vodka before I headed out with a shampoo bottle flask in my purse (another good story) to whichever bar was having the best specials that night.

The party didn’t stop until I walked into my dorm room at 7:30 am (no idea where I was after the bars closed). And the reason this story is relevant? Smoke and MamaG were arriving at my dorm room at 9 am (which, in MamaG’s terms is more like 8:40) to take Maude and me around campus to take pictures for our Christmas card. You see, Maude was a senior when I was a freshman at the same university, and MamaG (understandably) wanted to capture the special time for posterity.

And, oh, capture memories, we did. Let’s just say, we’ve had better Christmas card photos.

-Bev

P.S.- My blog site did some kind of update and everything looks different and I can’t figure out how to underline and this is going to be a shitshow for the next three months until I get the hang of the new format. Edith: tech support needs just grew exponentially. Melva: also on standby (after your strep passes). So, anyway, I know the first line of this should be underlined but I just can’t right now. Literally.

Night Five: The Bev is Back in Town

Backstory: The Bev is back in (her college) town.

I love my college town. Like, LOVE it. And I was lucky enough that my younger cousins, Timmy and Bessie, also attended my alma mater for grad school, and that Uncle Bart bought a roomy house in said college town for his kids to live in while they were in school. Luckier still, this said college town house is mere blocks from the football stadium, making it Tailgate Command Central for many years. (The house has since been sold and none of us will ever be the same)

And, well, the story of this “crazy night” is a familiar one. Bev is in her college town. For a football game. She starts drinking at sun-up. She keeps drinking all day. She attends the football game. Then she goes downtown. Where one of her best friends, Kalahari, still works at a bar. And feeds Bev free tequila shots. And Bev steps outside to puke in a tree. And she can still get back into the bar because Kalahari is the bouncer. And she keeps drinking. And then cousin Timmy takes her home, where she passes out on the couch. 

Fast forward to later in the night, and Bev wakes up with ye ol’ tequila rumbles. You know the ones. Now, Bev is normally a pretty responsible drunk (for real, I am), and I’ve never puked anywhere too inconvenient. I mean, that tree earlier in the night was one of my “worst” puke places in life, and I consider that a huge victory (don’t you?).

Anyway, I’d never puked anywhere too inconvenient… until this day. When my tequila rumbles woke me in the middle of the night to hit Timmy’s bathroom. ONLY TO FIND IT LOCKED. So, I geyser-puked in the hallway until I could get to a trash can. Walls. Carpet. Uggs. Sweatshirts. Absolute carnage.

And, while I take full responsibility for drinking too much that evening, I do (still) beg the question: Who locks the only bathroom door in a house full of people who have been drinking for twelve hours?

WHO?

(probably other people who have been drinking for twelve hours, I guess.)

-Bev

*Note: the bathroom had one door that led into the hallway and one that led into Timmy and Keith’s bedroom. The only one locked was the one that led into the hallway. So, no one was in the bathroom, and we weren’t all locked out of it forever. Only for a really (really) inopportune time.

Night Four: Viva Guadalajara

Backstory: I honestly have no idea.

One night, Fawn, Anastasia, and I were out and things got pretty rowdy. I truly don’t remember the evening (shock), but I do know that at one point in our ride home, someone mentioned (as we were heading south) that we should just keep driving south to Guadalajara. (*Note: I have absolutely NO idea where in Mexico Guadalajara is, and if it’s even remotely straight south of MyCity, but it made sense at the time.)

All three of us were totally on board, other than yours truly… solely due to the fact that I had my contacts in and would have to stop at home first to get my contact solution, case, and glasses before we made this move.

And that’s the night my contact case kept me from moving to Guadalajara.

-Bev

P.S.- I realize that these nights haven’t been that funny because a) I don’t remember anything, b) I do edit some stuff out for the over 55+ crowd, and c) I haven’t gotten arrested. But, we’re halfway through and I’m going to push through this, dammit.

Night Three: Bev, meet Blago. Blago, meet Bev.

Backstory: I was visiting Magda, my best friend from college, in Germany. 

A few years back, I took my first trip off the continent of North America and ventured to the countries of Iceland, Germany, France, Switzerland, and Croatia. It was an absolutely epic trip and I’m dying to get back to Europe in the coming years. I was able to take the trip because my best friend from college was living in Germany at the time and I cut a lot of lodging costs (shoutout to Magda and her hubby for putting up with me).

You’d be surprised, but I didn’t really do too much “partying” while in Europe. Magda had a toddler at the time, I wanted to remember my trip, we often were getting up early to sightsee the next day, etc.

But I do have one defining moment of the trip, and, really, of my life from this excursion. On one of my last nights there, Magda and I walked down to the Belgian bar near her house and hung out just the two of us over Belgian beers. The bartender that night was a Bulgarian named Blago, and the bar happened to have a punch card where if you drank ten beers, you got the eleventh free. Well, Magda and I went through that punch card that night, and Blago was pretty impressed with us (Belgian beers ain’t no punk). And when I say, “Magda and I went through that punch card that night,” I really mean I did. I’m pretty sure Magda had one beer and I had the remaining nine. 

Bev made a lasting impression on Blago, who waited until I went to the bathroom, then uttered these sweet words to Magda: “Your friend… she can drink.”

And that’s the night I was complimented on my tolerance by a Bulgarian bartender in a Belgian bar.

-Bev