Merry Christmas, Bev readers. I will be spending lots of time eating outrageous amounts of food and drinking astronomical amounts of wine, but I wanted to make sure I gave you, my dear readers, a present. This here is a copy of the one and only Christmas card Beverly has ever sent. It appears that it’s from three years ago, and is coped verbatim from the original (thanks, dear friend, Nina Applebottom, for holding onto your hard copy. Mine was saved on that computer that fried my internal organs). *Some minor details have been altered/left out to protect the innocent.
Here she blows:
Before you start reading this letter, you better get a drink in your hand. Seriously. Take a sip every time you a) laugh, b) shake your head in disgust, c) wonder how in the hell I am still alive, d) participated in (or witnessed) one of these stories, or e) just chug the whole thing and throw this shit in the trash. I’ll never know. Also, I write the way I speak, so bear with me and every single one of my run-on sentences, which are usually followed by fragments.
January: The year kicked off with a friend’s 30th birthday here in MyCity. A night of appetizers, a shitload of bitches, a limo, what can I say? Here’s what I can say. The night started off with me drinking 4Lokos, and obviously I have no idea how it ended. I do, however, remember that my parents were in town (they actually dropped me off at the party- 30th, not 13th, mind you). If you’ve ever met my father, you know he likes all things farm. If you’ve ever been to MyCity, you know it hosts one of the largest stock shows in North America every year. You do the math. You may or may not have seen the Facebook status that referred to this day. If you didn’t, let’s just say that dry heaving in a cattle barn is not really encouraged. By me, the cattle owners, or my mom. Thank God for mini-doughnuts.
February: In February, some family came to visit. They stayed not far from MyCity, so I took a day off, and drove up to stay with them for a night. I’d like to say I had a lovely weekend of great skiing, but you all know that’d be complete bullshit. Let’s just say that Sunday started with Gertrude, Bessie, and me drinking eight bottles of champagne in the hot tub before 2pm, then moving onto beer. It ended with me passed out under my aunt and uncle’s hotel bed during the Oscars. Quote of the weekend came from Bessie’s boyfriend, upon hearing of the whole 8 bottles of champagne thing: (to Bessie) “So, basically, you drank 2, Gertrude drank 1, and Bev drank 5.” Probably a conservative estimate.
March: In like a lion, out like a lamb? More in like a lion, out like a… lion. A trip to San Antonio with a few old colleges buddies to celebrate my best friend’s wedding in early March? Um, yes, please. To be honest, this trip could have been way more disastrous than it was. What I mean by that is… I did not fall into the river from the Riverwalk. Don’t worry, I did drop 3+ Hurricanes on the floor at Pat O’Briens and lose a sweater (and a large portion of dignity). The bride’s 21-year-old bro and I challenged each other to dance contests with a guy/girl we chose for each other in the bar. I don’t recall the girl I chose for him, but I do remember the guy he chose for me. Flaming. Dancing like a maniac. No interest in me, and pawned me off on his table. Which was behind red velvet ropes with bottle service. Grey Goose bottle service. Thanks, Kurtis. Of course, March ended with my ‘golden’ 29th birthday party on the 29th. My parents flew me home for a party of the beginning of the week (spring break birthdays are the best if any of you are looking to plan your future child’s birthday). Highlight of the night: I got Iced. Lowlight of the night: waking up at my cousin’s house with ‘I <3 Dick’ tattooed on my upper arm in blue Sharpie, and being terrified to go home to see what my mom had to say to me. The party continued in MyCity later in the week with a champagne party at my house. This was also way less disastrous than it could have been, and the homeless guys in my alley got some serious profit off the 14 bottles of champagne we went through.
April: The highlight of April was a visit from another cousin (yes, I have a billion and I actually like them) and his girlfriend. There were tears (not mine), there was vomiting (not mine), and there was waking up pantsless on an air mattress in my living room with the blinds open (all mine). This may not be that funny unless a) you know the layout of my apartment, and/or b) you know how often I wear underwear. Disclaimer cousin and girlfriend weren’t here to witness me pantsless. They were in a hotel downtown. While I love my cousins, I tend to not get naked in front of them.
May: Cinco de Mayo. I feel like I don’t even need to elaborate here, but I will. 11am. Mexican restaurant. Ice luge. Patron. Dancing. One meal. Across the street from our favorite dive bar. Quote of the day from dive bar bartender: “There is no way in hell I am serving you a drop of alcohol.” This is what they tell me anyways. (Update as of Dec. 15: Said bartender knows my name. I’ve never introduced myself to him.)
June: My mom’s side of the family does a tri-yearly trip (cousins again). This year it was to the Lake of the Ozarks. By far my largest bender of the year, I could write an entire book about the shit that went down on this trip. If I remembered it. Basically, I fell in the lake a few times one day, prompting my mom to think I was drowning at one point. Literally. Got walked in on by my uncle while puking. Legitimately slept in a different bed every night of the trip. Upon departing the lake house, Bessie and I had to carry puke sacks into the McDonald’s bathroom, where we tried to barf. Picture it: one stall, two cousins, complete misery, and no vom. Rode 10 hours home with said puke sack around my wrist. I encourage you all to actively try not to vomit for 10 hours. It’s waaaaay more difficult than you’d think. Then I seriously almost passed out in a mall. Thought I had alcohol poisoning for two days, and felt like I was still on a boat for at least a week after this. I don’t remember the exact count, but I think it was something like 17 cases of beer in four days. Only counting the house and the boat. Don’t even start me on Shady Gators.
July: I don’t remember anything too crazy happening in July. Truth be told, I don’t really remember anything crazy happening the other eleven months either, but my friends didn’t tell me about anything crazy I did in July.
August: Another month, another cousin visit. This one involved three 21-year-olds, and me with my game face on, thinking these college girls may outdo me. Within 26 hours, they all puked. ‘Nuff said.
September: Well, September kicked off the shittiest MyTeam football season in the last few years, and one in which I incurred more injuries than our running back corps. MyTeam fans, you understand how significant this is. Started in Chicago, and just… didn’t end, really. As another well-documented Facebook event, you probably already got most of the Chi-town updates. 6/11 of my party puked the day of the game. I was not one of them. My confidence got the best of me the next day after a Cubs rooftop. Ripped approximately 15% of the skin off one of my toes at a bar, pissed in an alley, and puked in a sink. ($70 for all the beer I want? Why do people even offer these types of events to me?) Two weeks later, I re-opened the toe wound, pissed in another alley, and woke up with bruises all over the palms of my hands after the ** game.
October: Needless to say, the MyTeam losses and Bev injuries were in full force in October, include one tumble that left evidence on my knees AND knuckles. This incident apparently took place between the curb (where my friend and her fiancé dropped me off) and my door. That shit takes talent people. The highlight of October, though, was a trip to Phoenix over my fall break. Obvious debauchery followed with cousin Tin Cup and girlfriend (see April for reference), including GF and me putting down two bottles of champagne at brunch, followed by two bottles of wine at lunch, and resulted in me getting lost trying to find a bathroom in a restaurant at dinner Hamster. In. A. Cage. Left the restaurant (not before falling out of the car onto the concrete) to get some much needed ZZZZZs before heading to watch MyTeam’s game the next morning. 9am kickoff, and we’re posted up at the MyTeam bar at 8:45. This bar offers $2 Jager Bombs after MyTeam touchdowns, and as luck would have it, we actually scored a couple that game… So add together the mix of bloodies, followed by by beers, mixed with Jager shots (save that Red Bull shit for your grandma), followed by yet another day of bottomless mimosas, and you get the final result: the picture on this card, taken at approximately 3pm. The best part is that TinCup snapped the pic while I was sleeping, and set it as the background of my phone, so when I regained consciousness around 6pm, it was one of the first things I saw. Classic. Don’t worry, I rallied that night. As if you thought I wouldn’t. (**Bev fans, I’m sorry, but I just can’t include the picture here on the blog, in order to protect my identity. Just know that it was epic)
November: Road trip! My friend and I drove home for Thanksgiving, and I made sure to make the trip well worth it. And by well worth it, I mean:
- tailgating at Timmy and Keith’s with Casey’s breakfast pizza (win)
- 2- scoring a free ticket to the game (where I planned on just staying halfway through first quarter, but stayed through the 3rd , and started the first “Let’s Go MyTeam” to drown out the OtherTeam’sAssholesCheering on the concourse at halftime- win)
2a- MyTeam loses (lose)
- going downtown CollegeTown (win)
- puking in the ped mall, 2003-style (win)
- 5-walking back into the bar demanding another shot and a piece of gum (win)
- And 6- being taken home where I proceeded to continue puking on things, including my brand new sweatshirt (less win). In my defense, WHO locks a bathroom door when you have a puker in the house? Seriously.
The next day included hanging out with the beloved nieces, and hiding my puke-covered clothing (OK, and Uggs) from my mom.
December: Only half over, and I’m terrified to think of what could happen in the next two weeks.
Well, that was it. I hope your drink is gone. In fact, I hope you had to get a few extras. Even if it was because you were bored out of your mind. Now, I leave you with these thoughts:
-Seriously, if MamaG hears about this, I WILL find you and kill you.
-If my non-existent rich husband ever runs for political office, this never happened. We’re probably safe here.
-If I get fired due to living this way, posting about it on Facebook, or writing letters to friends about it, I expect at least a week’s worth of courch surfing at each one of your houses while I write the book which would probably fail miserably.
-And, seriously, if you’re receiving this, I love you, probably miss you, and can’t wait to see you again.
Happy holidays from the biggest shitshow you know (and hopefully love).
******
And there you have it.
Merry Christmas, y’all.
-Bev
