Sorry, Maude

Some of you may be wondering just how much of a shitshow Bevvy here actually is. You’re thinking to yourself, there have to be days where this woman is a successful adult, with a real job, clean underwear, a full gas tank, and some common sense, right?

And, yes, dear readers- you’re right! There are days that go by with absolutely no Bev-like catastrophes, and those days are great and fun and awesome and nice.

Yesterday… well, that wasn’t one of those days. You see, Bev needs some essentials from Target. Like we all do, right? Due to a really busy week and not feeling the best, ol’ crafty Bev here hops online and orders the items from THE INTERWEBS with my Target RedCard- quick-fast-and-in-a-hurry. Free shipping, and the items should be sitting on my doorstep in mere days! 

You’re a genius, Bev. Gosh, you are saving so much time (albeit, not saving much in the way of packing materials, but hey- win some, lose some, right?) And anytime you can save yourself a trip to Target, you’re more than likely also saving yourself some money, considering the complete and utter wallet-suck that Target is for literally all of us. 

*high-fives self*

I was really riding this high all the way through my lunch (which I can’t taste OR smell, btw), and it wasn’t until I checked my email later that day that I realized I was no genius. I’m just the same ol’ cotton-headed ninny muggins I’ve always been, because I sent my essentials to Maude. Who lives three states away.

Oh, Beverly.

So, Maude is now on the lookout for a Target box, addressed to me, containing face wash, body wash, and twelve boxes of Kleenex.

Oh, and Maude, being the actual nice person that she is, sent me a Valentine’s Day card today, telling me how awesome I am. Normally, I would send a thank you card for something like this.

This time, I’m sending a twelve-pack of facial tissue.

You’re welcome, Maude!

-Bev

P.S. Before you go thinking I’m a complete idiot, the last package I sent from Target was meant to go to Maude’s house for Margaret’s birthday. I would love to blame Margaret, but she’s ten. And way smarter and more responsible than I, as evidenced by her, “Oh my,” when I talked to her on the phone later last evening.

I know.