Three nights, three beds, 1600 miles, one family wedding.
Highlights include:
-A Michael Jackson impersonator at a country bar. Watching a mix of two-stepping and moonwalking is a unique experience I wish for all of you at some point in your life.
-Finding a new way to get rid of guys who are hitting on you. If some creep grabs your arms on your way off of the dance floor at a country bar, and he’s stronger than you are, and is holding your wrists in a dance-like position, you can just yell, “Don’t spill my beer, dude. DON’T spill my beer,” and he’ll run away like a small child.
-My 4 year old niece whispering “Dwink it… Dwink it! Dwink it ALL,” to me while waiting to ‘cheers’ and drink during the toasts at the wedding. Man, we’re gonna have fun in 12 17 years. Sorry, Maude.
-Having this actual conversation with Mama G in our hotel room Sunday morning.
“Get your shit together, Bev.”
“My shit is together.”
“OK.”
-And then having this actual conversation with her on the elevator on the way to family brunch Sunday morning.
“Yeah, but they don’t have {bottomless} mimosas, so you’re shit outta luck.”
Ya know, what? You created this monster, Mom.
-Spending a very short time in my hometown of Mayberry, hearing the latest gossip, mostly involving a grown-ass man named Chippy.
-Talking to cousin Bessie about her dental school classmates, some of whom apparently come from checkered pasts. Direct quote from Bessie, “I’m worried about a B, and you were in a porn.” I really hope this guy wears gloves when he performs dental work…
-Getting a paper cut on my lip while licking an envelope. Of course.
-Beginning and ending the trip with Ghetto Superstar playing on the radio. Thank you, disc jockeys.
And I wouldn’t be Beverly Goldenstein if I told you I didn’t eat half of a large taco pizza from a gas station in the backseat of my own car on Interstate 80 on the ride home. (I also wouldn’t be Beverly Goldenstein if I didn’t excessively use prepositional phrases)
-Bev
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