Dear Social Media World,
The Powerball winners aren’t sharing with you.
If I gave a flying shit about the debates, I would turn on that big black box in my living room.
David Bowie died.
Can we move forward?
-Bev
All Posts By
Bevvy G
I met up with my good friend, Norbert Mulligan last night for a few margaritas. Norbert is a former coworker, and we made this happy hour plan on Tuesday night, after Bev inadvertently took five years off Mulligan’s life. (Mulligan is one of those people whose last name becomes his first name, FYI. I will rarely refer to him as Norbert)
You see, Mulligan and I have a history of pranking each other (see this post), and I drive by Mulligan’s current (and my former) workplace on my way to the gym. So… on Tuesday, I was a little early, and had time to rummage through my glove compartment, find a Chipotle napkin, scribble the words, “I’m watching you. Bitch.” on said napkin, and stick it under Mulligan’s windshield wiper. Harmless, right? Yeah, harmless until Mulligan is in the building alone around 6 p.m. and the fire alarm goes off. The fire alarm goes off, as in police and firefighters actually show up, case the whole building, and then inform Mulligan that they can’t find the source of any fire, or why the alarm goes off, and they advise him to leave for his own safety. A bit unsettling, right? Then, he gets to his car and my note is there. And guess what Mulligan’s staff had catered for lunch that day? Chipotle. So, he’s basically convinced that someone snuck in the building, was watching him, and is going to hunt him and chop him into pieces. Nope. Just Bev on the way to the gym. Sorry, Mulligan. Drinks on me for life.
In other news, is it just me, or does happy hour, like, actually mean happy hour in your thirties? I mean, happy hour when I was in my twenties was basically a pregame for a night of debauchery that may or may not end up with my bra in a toilet (it happened), and happy hour in my thirties is little more like… two margaritas, two tacos, and then I went to Walmart and bought a CrockPot. (see this post for the detes on that situation) And I didn’t even write that for MamaG’s benefit, now that she’s a reader. It really happened. Wut?
-Bev
P.S.- Back to Mulligan. Look at this picture and tell me you’re not laughing your ass off.
First week back to work got me like…
Is it time for Super Bowl parties yet? I miss cream cheese.
-Bev
Update: Well, shit. Yes, I AM into the rosè and posted this early. Whatever, man.
I’ve been thinking about rearranging and redecorating my bedroom lately… nothing major, just maybe new nightstands (I’ve had one from Walmart for eight years. Upgrade, Bev. Upgrade. New ones are coming from Target, because I’m a 32-year-old independent woman), new curtains, and possibly some kind of artwork over my bed. I already have the nightstands picked, curtains are easy, but the over-the-bed art is difficult, mostly due to me kind of hating cheesy signs that apparently people like to put in their bedrooms. Dreams, love, kissing goodnight… it’s all a little gag-inducing for me. Think I finally found the right piece, though.
I live alone.
-Beverly IDGAF Goldenstein
Well, I’ve been back in MyCity for about 24 hours, and the reality of reality is setting in. My three huge bags are unpacked, my vacation mail is sorted, and my fridge is stocked with lean protein and vegetables that are not a part of some type of ‘cream of _____’ soup. Oy.
Yesterday’s airport experience was a pretty sweet one, kicking off with Smoke muttering, ‘I hope nobody hijacks the sonofabitch,’ as he gets back in the driver’s seat of the car at the airport. (The man driving to the airport is another post. Good God)
Despite the epic hangover I had going on (thanks Fireball, Coors Light, and champagne), I posted up at the airport bar for a brewski before boarding my flight. As I was drinking choking down my beer, the girl next to me ordered a double shot of Fireball and I almost kicked her in the shins. Literally.
Then, two old dudes sitting next to me were using Siri, and the epic conversation went something like this:
Dude A: Is Mazatlan and Minneapolis in the same time zone? (his grammar, not mine)
Dude B: You talk to Siri?
Dude A: Who?
Dude B: That’s the chick that answers all your questions.
I loved them, and I hope they were going to Mazatlan together.
And then it ended with a patron/bartender conversation containing like the best pun of all time. Of all time, Kanye.
Patron: Can I get a shot of tequila, please? (He almost got a shin-kick too, but he was sitting a few seats away, and I didn’t have any tequila the night before. Thank God.)
Bartender: What kind?
Patron: Whaddya got? (also, yes, I’m calling him a patron because Patrón. You would too)
Bartender: Patrón, Jose, *brings over a bottle of ‘something new’ and tells the patron it’s pretty good*
Patron: Sure, I’ll give it a shot.
Basically, man ordering shot… “Sure, I’ll give it a shot.” I laughed until I… didn’t cry into my beer because my body wasn’t hydrated enough to make tears.
-Bev
Oh, and if you’re like me, you’re gonna need to hear this after reading the title of this post.
Can we all agree that 2016 is the year that people stop doing things like letting injured squirrels live in their Christmas trees?
Can we?
Can we?
-Bev
It’s time for all the ‘New year, new me’ bullshit. While millions of people around the world are making promises to lose weight, I find this an opportune time to pitch an idea I’ve had for quite a while now. Obviously, we’ve all heard of the popular ways to lose weight/get fit, etc. But I’ve got a diet plan that I think could actually be revolutionary. In fact, I’m a bit scared to post it here for fear of someone stealing it and obtaining a patent before I can (but legally I can provide this post as evidence it was my idea, correct?). Enough legal jargon, Bev, get to the point. The point? Hoarders. Yep. I would like to do a very scientifically based study where one person follows Whole 30 to the letter, another person perfectly sticks with a Weight Watchers plan, and a third participant watches an episode of Hoarders before eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner (technically I’d like them to watch an episode before eating anything at all, but that may not be feasible) and see which participant loses the most weight.
I’m more than willing to take on the Beverly Goldenstein Hoarders Health Plan- comment here or message me if you’re interested in taking on either of the other two for comparison (or if you’re interested in participating in the BGHHP along with me).
Bev isn’t much for resolutions, so this is basically going to be me for now…
I was going to write that I am obviously the cat, but I can’t tell if that other (naked) thing is a cat or a dog, so I’m the cat with fur…
-Bev
You know all those little funny comics on Facebook and Pinterest about the women, wandering Target alone with Starbucks cups in hand? And how they’re all moms escaping their children? Children could also be replaced with parents.
If you need me, I’ll be smoking a J and drinking a spiked latte in housewares.
-Bev
And for the record, they both asked if they could come with me.
My nieces are here in Mayberry, visiting for a few days, and my parents and I were spinning the jump rope for my older niece, Margaret, to ‘jump in’ when ol’ Smoke busted out the classic elementary school jump rope rhyme:
“I see bitches underneath a tree,
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
Nice, Grampy.
In other news, I’ve been cooped up with an eight-year-old, a five-year-old, and two nearly sixty-year-olds who are quitting smoking, and I made up my own little jump rope rhyme:
“Grampy and Grandma just play, play, play,
Bev sneaks to the g’rage and opens the rosè.”
‘Inside Out’ is on deck. At least then Margaret won’t be paying attention to how much ‘nasty stuff’ (beer/wine) I drink.
-Bev
I feel like you, my dear readers, need a followup post on the The Virgin Beverly… Mostly because ol’ Bev here was so close to a goat1 that I could hear it chewing. Have you ever been so close to a goat that you can hear it chewing? Because it’s an absolutely terrifying experience.
Also, ya know how it’s rude to ask a woman if she’s pregnant? Apparently it’s also rude to ask a goat owner (or the goat owner’s nephew, who is wrangling said goat) if a goat is pregnant. #TheMoreYouKnow
My Joseph was 12. I’m 32. So that’s Christmas Eve appropriate.
-Bev
P.S. This was in the running for funniest thing that’s happened in Mayberry this winter break… until Smoke wore a shirt from Justice to a party last night. I am absolutely forbidden from putting the picture online, but here’s a link to the Justice store website for reference: www.shopjustice.com (please know that this is part of a gag gift and was a joke. As ludicrous as the man is, he definitely does not wear clothing from a store dubbed, “Tween Clothing & Fashion For Girls”)
1Yes, I had to ask MamaG if it was a goat or a sheep.