I got this text from my best friend from college today (we’ll refer to her as Mom here on bg.com- long story; I’ll tell you another time).
Back to the text. It might take you a second to “get” it, but good goddamn if this isn’t one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time.
As opposed to Jesus… Cuervo?
Proofreading, people. It saves lives. (I’m going to go ahead and bet my life savings [which is around $9] that I have a proofreading error somewhere in this post where I’m making fun of people who can’t proofread)
-Beverly
P.S. This is a private/Catholic preschool before anybody gets their undies in a wad about church and state. Let’s just not even go there…
I have returned to MyCity after a fantastic holiday break, and I just wanted to throw out a quick post/recap. What better than a top ten list? Except this isn’t really a top 10 list, it’s just a… 10 list, but whatever, guys.
10 (plus): pounds gained… this is a conservative estimate. And staying as an estimate… there’s no way in hell I’m stepping on a scale anytime soon.
9: days off. Werd.
8: approximate potato:person ratio at Goldenstein Thanksgiving. (8 potatoes per person, not 8 people per potato. We like our potatoes, y’all)
7(x6): victory by my team. Boom.
6: 100 ft. strands of lights on Mama G’s Christmas tree. Their house might be mistaken as an airport some time in the next month.
5: beds I slept in throughout the week.
4: dollar amount of each of the three cold-pressed juices I have in my fridge as part of this week’s detox. Yes, that’s $12 worth of juice, but it made me feel better after the Arby’s I had for dinner, OK?
3 (x10) + 9: years of marriage that my girl, Jean, celebrated with her husband over the break. Jean is a neighbor and friend of Smoke and MamaG. I’ve known my whole life that she loves (like loves) purses, but I recently learned that she also loves Fireball. Which is why she and MamaG traded on and off buying four (or more?) rounds of it while celebrating Friday night. Happy Annipursary, Jean, Jean, The Fireball Queen!
2: family members who fell down at the bowling alley. (Smoke didn’t see a step and Sue stepped a hair bit too far into the actual lane)
1: peacock refugee. (I miss my brother)
So there you have it… a short recap of another epic trip. Now, I have to pat myself on the back here and say that I have tons of fruits and vegetables already prepped and in the fridge, ready for tomorrow, my suitcase is nearly half unpacked, and I’m doing a load of laundry while finishing up some work before I go back tomorrow. AKA: I’ve been more productive in the last two hours than I have been in the previous nine days.
I just wanted to check in to wish you all a happy (belated) Thanksgiving. Like all of you, I’ve been busy with family events the past few days. Ya know, shootin’ cats and falling down in bowling alleys.
Guys, I have been in Mayberry (well, the Mayberry area) for like three days and all kinds of shit has hit the proverbial fan.
I survived a day of Extreme Hangover: Christmas Shopping with Mama G Edition. There was even an added twist of me losing her debit card and I somehow came out of it all alive. (I think)
Mama G, Maude, and I also survived a stay in the world’s most disgusting hellscape of a hotel. You know, the one where the housekeeping staff has covered up the smoke smell with coconut air freshener, where there’s a gaping hole in one of the pieces of furniture, confetti in the corner of one of the bedrooms where I’m convinced a stripper jumped out of a cake, damp sheets, and gum wrappers in the bathroom. We’re honestly not sure why we didn’t just cancel the room immediately for a different place entirely, but what doesn’t kill you makes you smell like a smoky coconut, guys! #Smokonut
The peacock got caught. Guys. Smoke told Mama G that the peacock had wandered into our shed during the day on Monday and he’d called the original owners to come try to get it Tuesday morning. Smoke and I went out to the shed Monday night so I could meet my brother before he got deported. We found him roosting up in the rafters of our shed- which is fairly terrifying. (look at his eyes and shadows in these pics)
So the next morning, I was up in dinking around on Instagram, when I received a text from Mama G (downstairs): “Peacock rodeo is underway!” So, you can bet your ass that I ran out to the shed to document this for you all. Turns out, the peacock already had a name- Bird, as his original owner (captor) can be heard yelling at him in the videos. Guys, I am super duper sorry to report to you that I can not figure out how to get these videos to upload here- they are too big and I have tried emailing them, and Mail Dropping them (I have no idea what that even means), and I’m sick of wasting my only free day on vacation trying to get them here. If you want to see them, you can contact me directly, or if someone has any idea how to get a few fifteen second videos loaded onto a blog, I’ll buy you a beer of your choice. Which will be a Coors Light, just so you know.
My extremely limited technical skills and I were able to get some of the pictures up- note the cage and then the net… I can’t believe we sent my brother home to these thugs!
Tuesday was filled with family photos in 25 degrees + 35 mph winds, a “grand friends” program at my nieces’ school (which turned into front row naptime for Smoke), and sushi and cocktails with cousins Bessie and Alfred, Gertrude and Clark, and Timmy and Keith.
Now, I’m hanging out at Smoke and Mama G’s with some down time. Today, this translates into repeatedly spelling the word ‘batteries’ for Smoke, listening to Mama G calling everyone she knows in order to try to get rid of the newest stray pet that has shown up at our house- a cat, having Smoke realize that Charles Manson died, and Mama G is making “a” turkey, but not “the” turkey.
It’s the beginning what could be the best night of my life, that’s what. I mean, baked potato and bacon soup, a pumpkin whoopie pie, a bit o’bubbly, and lancets of my very own? All to be topped off with a shot or two of ZzzQuil? Put a fork in me, ‘cuz I. am. done.
(I promise to lance before I pop the bottle1)
-Bev
1That is a lie and we all know it. But I do promise to lance before my second glass.
On Saturday, I was hanging out at home before watching football and getting ready to head to a wedding. I had my phone plugged in in my kitchen with Spotify playing because I like to listen to music while I cook and clean, etc. I decided to turn on the TV and watch some other games instead. I was really pissed that I’d already sat down on the couch, because the music was too loud for me to hear the TV, and I really didn’t want to get up and walk the seven steps to my kitchen and back to turn the music off. I happened to be on my computer, responding to some very important BevvyG biz when I had the light bulb moment of turning my Spotify to play on my computer instead of my phone, thus being able to pause the music without moving and watch my football in peace.
I think it’s the single smartest and laziest thing I have ever done.
This is a friendly reminder that your Goldenstein pet peacock name submissions are due tomorrow evening1. I am going to throw it out there that I am quite possibly one of the most indecisive people on this planet (a classic Goldenstein trait) and there may be a tie, a 3-name poll, etc. I’m already torn between three names, and we’ve got over twenty-four hours of voting left guys.
Oh, and when I say tomorrow evening, I remain vague for several reasons:
I don’t want to call out a certain time zone and make you think I live there. This might give away my real identity and get me fired from my day job. It might also make my truly anonymous Instagram stalking/following impossible. Ain’t nobody got time fa ‘dat.
God knows what my Sunday will entail and what time I’ll actually get to it. Stay tuned for a Monday evening champragne delay (holy shit, see what I did there?).
I don’t really ever know what time it is. I accidentally changed my car clock an hour ahead instead of an hour back, so it’s off by two hours, I haven’t changed my oven or microwave clocks yet, so they’re one hour ahead, I can’t remember if my computer changes automatically or not, and my watch battery hasn’t worked since June. I mean, I do always have my phone handy, but I have no clue what time it is ever right now.
Happy voting, everybody!!
-BevvyG
1This is contingent upon one of my besties being able to come up with a name before then. She knows very easily how to sway the judge’s heart, and voting will not be closed until she has made a submission.
Well, guys, I got a facial tonight. If you know Bev well, you know that I appreciate hair and makeup as much as the next lady, but beauty procedures are not so much my jam. I’m too damn impatient to sit and let my nails dry, I don’t like to be touched, and I don’t like to spend that kind of money. However, I’ve had a “thing” on my face since mid-September that just won’t go away. It started out as what I thought was a zit and… just… kind of… never went away. I’ve asked my eyebrow lady a few times, and tried a few different at-home remedies (think Clearasil and hot cloths, not hippie stuff like chicken feet or essential oils or anything). After my own attempts failed, and after looking at this unicorn horn in the mirror for two months, I decided it was time for either an aesthetician or a dermatologist. My gym teacher and I were chatting the other day and we got onto the topic of weird skin shit (fun times), I pointed it out, and she recommended a beauty school where the technicians have completed all of their schooling, but are working toward finishing clinical hours. I got the info from her and booked a $28 facial for tonight. Worth a shot, right? Note: the Goldensteins are getting family pictures taken over Thanksgiving and I’d rather not have to ask/pay extra for the photographer to photo shop my unicorn horn. (And yes, I would)
I rolled in pretty hot, busting in like, “Hey, I’m Bev, I have a 6:00 appointment for a facial.” The receptionist was super friendly, but was talking in this really freaky whisper voice that I didn’t like. Then I realized that the reception area was pretty much the massage area, and to my right was a room full of women standing in low lighting, rubbing other women covered in towels on the tables. Typical Bev bull-in-a-china-shop move. No big deal. I noted the “calm” feeling of the room (#eerie), sat down, and filled out the paperwork the creepy whisper lady gave me and waited for my girl, Felicia. (it’s worth noting that the paperwork was four pages long and asked me some weird-ass questions like if I’ve had plastic surgery or how many ounces of alcohol I drink per day. Shoutout to them for asking per day though, not per week like the real doctor’s office. Because I can’t count that high, especially on a Friday night.)
Not long after I finished giving my DNA sample and signing away my first-born, the Face Whisperer came back with a black and white cloth item in each hand. I had no idea what it was (low-lit massage room, remember?) but for a second assumed that this is where they brainwashed me into their cult of whispering and darkness. But then Face Whisperer started talking about where I could find the bathroom to go change and to put my clothes in the black bag, wrap in the white “robe” (it was a tube top towel with velcro), then come back into my private room. Now let me tell y’all something- I knew I was in over my head here when I was asked to take my shirt off to get a facial. But whatever, I’m elbow deep in Whisperland now, so I did it, and walked into my room where I found another client and aesthetician on the right and my high-top table with loads of blankets on the left. Now, you all know I’m sweating somethin’ fierce (out of my element) at this point, and notice that the client next to me has put her blanket all the way up to her chin, but I basically pull it up to my pits and leave my arms hanging out like the total sweaty dipshit that I am.
Of course, the first thing Felicia does when she walks in the room is ask me if I’m “comfortable” (aka, wondering why the hell I have my arms out). Look, Felicia, I’m not going to be comfortable for the next hour, so just get in here and lance my unicorn horn, will ya? A short conversation followed, which basically consisted of me downplaying the whole “facial” part of the session and using the word “lance” at least three times.
Now, before you read the rest of this post, I’m going to have to ask you to watch this video. I’m sure Felicia is used to people who actually enjoy lying on what is essentially a high-top bar table with a pillow top, covered in 864 blankets, but Cookie Monster at the :22 mark is me, waiting for Felicia to skip the exfoliating and excessive whispering, and just lance the goddamn thing on my face.
YouTube credit: David Creighton
OK, moving on. Felicia is actually very nice, and we make some fairly pleasant conversation, and while I was most definitely sort of whispering, it turns out that I feel like I’m not that good at whispering. (this surprises no one) Felicia is going on and on about the lemon zest cleanser (how ’bout now?) and the exfoliating scrub (how ’bout now) and then finally mentions how she’ll do the lancing after the steam. At one point, I do move to put one arm under the blanket and she asks if I’m cold. Felicia, I’m sweating like a whore in church. Or, I’m sweating like Bev in a building full of whispering hippies and instrumental yoga music with no shirt on, OK?
All of the facially things are happening, and it’s great and all, but I am just not that into some of these things. I am pretty sure I am the first person to ask Felicia, “Do I have to keep those things on my eyes?” because she stumbled quite a bit before answering that no, I didn’t have to wear them; they’re just there for when the light is on. Now, for the record, that light is brighter than the goddamn sun even with your eyes closed, but I swear I was gonna get up and walk out if I had to sit still, essentially blindfolded, for another 30 seconds. (how ’bout now?) I was also terrified to ask her about applying my beloved Banana Boat spray tan later this evening, as I thought maybe that would be like putting ketchup on a filet or something, but (thank God) Felicia seemed to fully support the spray tan and even added that it should go on more smoothly and maybe even look better than normal. Well, except for the horn between my eyes. Her words, not mine. (I kid.)
Felicia keeps putting all sorts of goop on my face and then she applies some sort of “mask” and I knew it was going to be at least five more minutes before there was any lance action. (how ’bout now?) I mean, it was fine because the mask felt kinda nice, but then Felicia started giving me a massage while we waited for the mask to “work” (?). Now, I don’t think there’s a distinct line between chest and boob, but I am pretty sure Felicia crossed it.
YouTube credit: drjohnleathers
Anyhoo, the time (finally) came for Felicia to wash off the mask, and I was pretty the steamer portion of the show is coming up soon (only because I opened my eyes to check the clock every two minutes and twelve seconds to see how long I still had to sit there). I’m getting pretty excited (how ’bout now) but then Felicia says her steamer isn’t working. “It’s been working all day, but nothing is happening now.” Which is cool because I’m not already about to lose my shit and walk out in my flimsy white velcro “robe” but now I’m gonna have to wait longer until she figures out the steamer (which I’ve convinced myself is malfunctioning and will probably end up spewing boiling water onto my face and then I’d be wishing I had a goddamn unicorn horn for family pictures, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I?) Felicia is fiddling with all kinds of shit on my right and I just happen to open my eyes juuuuust as she gets the steamer on and pumpin’… not great timing.
Anyhoo, Felicia finally steams my face and it’s time. It’s time! I think Felicia was a little freaked out by my lance elation and I definitely told her I wanted to get my phone out and video tape it (she politely ignored that comment). And, well, guys, I’m sorry for all the buildup here, but she lanced and I could immediately hear the disappointment in her voice. Nothing but blood was coming out tonight but she thinks that maybe the lancing will draw something out in the next day or two (hopefully during the wedding I’m attending solo tomorrow night- #PusOnMyFace). She did put some “zapper on it and two other “live zones” on my face (a.k.a. the two massive zits I’m currently rockin’) and then put on about six different moisturizers. You know, the antioxidant moisturizer, the balancing moisturizer, and the moisturizer made from the piss of unicorns who live underwater with the mermaids at Atlantis. If this horn doesn’t go away by family picture day, I’m going to go live with those bastards.
Oh, and speaking of moisturizer, don’t worry- Felicia didn’t let me out of my blanket death trap once my face was shining brighter than that goddamn light next to my table. Ohhhhh no. She then proceeded to grease up my entire upper body with some kind of turbo Vaseline and I legitimately thought I might slide off the table at one point. My hyperhidrosis went into overdrive and my hands were basically dripping sweat onto the goddamn floor and I had to ask Felicia for another “warm compress” to wipe them off so they didn’t fly off the steering wheel and send me careening into a tree on my way home. Me explaining my hyperhidrosis to strangers is always a classy, graceful, and chic experience.
And then it was basically over. My turbo Vaselined arms rolled my fat ass and my unicorn horn off that table where I went back to the bathroom to put on my clothing, which was about as fun as putting on a wet bathing suit. Then I went back up the Face Whisperer to pay and run the hell out of there.
Don’t worry, guys. I bought a vial of the zapper and it’s currently working its magic on the horn and my two “hot spots” and will be soon rinsed off to be covered in aforementioned spray tan.
P.S.- Oh. I actually said, “Bye, Felicia,” and I’ve never been more proud. I’m literally not even sure where the phrase came from, but goddamn, I felt like such a cool millennial for a second. Except for the… well, except for everything else that happened in this post.
P.P.S.- My skin feels pretty great and I’m not against getting another facial. If only I could find one where I could sit upright (fully clothed), keep my eyes open, listen to Beyoncé, and drink champagne. I’ll probably just buy a Biore mask next time I’m at Target. Unless any of you have any face treatments you absolutely love. (Bonus if they’re specially formulated to treat unicorn horns)
P.P.S.- Goldenstein family words of the week: 1) plume. 2) lance.
Guys, I’m just truly not even goddamn sure how to throw you this curveball, so I’mma just go on ‘head and wind up.
Smoke and Mama G have a pet peacock.
I know that you think you read that wrong. You didn’t. Let me back up…
Last Friday, I had the day off of work and was out enjoying some mimosas with coworkers when the following picture (notice no words or explanation) came in from MamaG. Also, please disregard the fact that I didn’t know what it was… because, I mean, I knew what it was, but you must understand how surprising it would be to see a peacock on Smoke and MamaG’s farm somewhere in Middle America.
I mean, I just did some Googling for this post. Peacocks are native to India, Sri Lanka, and Myanmar. Smoke Goldenstein does not live in India, Sri Lanka, or Myanmar. I don’t think the man has been to Detroit, Michigan, guys. Let’s keep exploring the most random text conversation I’ve ever had in my life.
OK, so I’m not sure what’s going on with the “chatxxxxxx” number thing here (freaking Apple updates lately- so gross) but Maude and Mama G are both chiming in here. You can kind of deduce which texts came from which person… (hint: this is easily the first time in my life I have ever seen or heard my mother use the word “plume” and I can’t confidently say that I ever have either…) Let’s cut to the next day…
Now, as much as I wish Mama G was saying that she asked the peacock to dinner the next day, but that’s Maude commenting on another, simultaneous conversation going on in our thread. Notice I legitimately don’t care whether or not my cousin could make it to dinner because I really, truly cannot get over this peacock situation.
So, the conversation kind of stopped there. A weekend full of champagne, big football victories, engagements, and FaceTimes, and I kind of forgot about this saga until today, when I received THIS from Mama G:
“Just inherited the peacock.” -things I never thought my mom would text me. Now, I know you can barely see it, and I really planned to post one more screenshot of this conversation, but I can’t upload the next photo and I’m going to set my hair on fire. In a nutshell, Mama G tells me that I should shoot the peacock at Thanksgiving, and that my nieces would never forget it. Because we’re classy like that.
So, guys, there you have it. My parents have a pet peacock.
And I have a request. It’s been over 20 years since my family had a pet. (Please go search “Mario” on this site after you finish reading this post because there I’ve posted some real gems of pictures of that stupid-ass dog who once got his head stuck in a cat food can…) To celebrate this momentous occasion, I’d like to propose a competition. A “Name The Goldensteins’ New Peacock Competition”- you know, typical Thursday night.
I’ll be taking votes through Sunday night and will announce the winner then. I would say that I’d OK the top name choice with Smoke, Mama G, and Maude, but Maude got to name our last pet, and Smoke and Mama G just kind of leave me to my own devices, so long as I don’t hit them up for money (kidding). This one’s up to you, dear readers! Hit me with your best shot!
-Bev
P.S.- I’ve gotten a few submissions from my cousins so far today (they are all dying to meet the peacock) and some are wondering if a) this thing is a boy or a girl, and b) if the name has to start with a P.
First of all, I think that only dude peacocks have the “huge plumes” right? No? I mean, I don’t know much about animals, but I’m pretty sure this is a peacock, not a peahen. (I didn’t even have to Google that) Secondly, no, the name doesn’t have to start with a P, but it does have to be baller. I mean, when did you ever think you’d get to name your friend’s parents’ peacock? You didn’t. You sure effing didn’t.
