Category: Comedy

Fluff and Fold

An unspoken code of conduct is crucial when living in an apartment complex. Most folks abide by it, but a few seem entirely unaware of its existence or that they’re living in a shared space, which tends to throw off the rhythm of life for all others. For example, the washer and dryer in the laundry room of the building are for everyone’s use. Sadly, you don’t own those appliances. They weren’t a housewarming gift from the landlord and will need to be shared with the rest of the payers of rent.

To be fair, this can be confusing and perhaps should be clarified in the lease so that everyone understands it upfront, and then, no one is tempted to pour a bottle of bleach into your load of colors or drop a red sock in with your whites. That said, putting clothes in either one of these machines and then leaving the property for an extended period isn’t part of the code.

My next-door neighbor, Jane, does this weekly. We share the same day off, and I have learned to get up as early as a night owl writer possibly can so that I can do my two loads before she can take her twenty- four loads down and then leave on vacation for the day. But, sometimes, I’m not fast enough and then have to spend my afternoon watching and waiting for her to come home, like I’m a woman from the 18th century on a widow’s walk, wringing my hands while anxiously awaiting my husband’s return from the sea.

She always says the same thing when she finally gets back and sees me, “Oh, sorry. I ran to the store and thought it would only take 40 minutes.” We live in Los Angeles, California, where nothing takes only 40 minutes. Ever. Even when carrying the trash out to the dumpster, you need to plan for delays in case of traffic on the 405. If you haven’t figured this out by now, perhaps consider moving to a town with one blinking stoplight so that the rest of us can get our underpants laundered in a timely manner.

Jane is a lovely person and a good mother. She once bought her six-year-old daughter, whose bedroom is next to mine, a karaoke machine for Christmas. Her daughter loves to scream, and screaming into a microphone amplifying screaming fills her heart with joy. Jane may have also gotten her 4-year-old son a drum set that year, or maybe he was kicking the wall to keep the beat with his sisters screaming. I’m not sure, but he, too, seemed quite joyful. And a happy holiday was had by almost everyone.

On the other hand, my neighbor Cathy absolutely understands how apartment life works. She’s lived here for 35 years, which I know because she leads with that every time we speak. She’s clean and quiet, has a lovely garden, and has the ability to know everything that goes on in the building while appearing to mind her own business.

I once watched the LA county coroner remove an elderly neighbor from his apartment in a body bag. They rolled him all the way around the top level and then carried him down the stairs next to where Cathy just happened to be sitting on her stoop, repotting daisies, and she never looked up. Not even a side-eye. And I watched her the entire time. I don’t know how long it took, but I guarantee it wasn’t only 40 minutes.

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We Heard You the First Time

I find the side effects of social media becoming increasingly more disturbing. The bad has by far surpassed the good. We all now magically know everything about everything. We are doctors that didn’t go to medical school. Political analysts because we read an article on the internet written by someone who stormed The Capital. Professional comedians because we post other people’s jokes and quotes and pass them off as our own by adding a cartoon meme of what we might look like if we were ten years younger, twenty pounds lighter, and had Jaundice.

We all star in our own weekly shows because we can jump on Facebook Live every Friday at 5 PM, and, while simultaneously operating a 4000-pound motor vehicle, looking at our phone instead of the road, we update planet earth about our every fucking move and how we’re living our best fucking lives. Yay, us.

Each thought and opinion that pops into our heads must be broadcast immediately.

Trying too hard-

to be funny

to be heard

to be somebody

Look at me! Look at me!

Maybe it’s time we take a breath and recalibrate. Not try so hard. Not talk so much. Let us instead –

be real

be a good human

just be

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It Stands to Reason

Much of my day is spent at the kitchen table periodically staring out the window. My apartment, in this tiny 16-unit complex, is on the second level and sits at the end of the 15 steps it takes to reach the top floor. I’m aware of how many stairs there are because I count them whenever going up or down. It’s not OCD, just seems like information I should have in case there’s an emergency or someone were to ask.

My view is of the courtyard, which reminds me of the one from the 1990’s soap, Melrose Place. Only without the pool, wealthy neighborhood, and good looking tenants. But we do have wild jasmine that grows in the spring and summer, so that’s cool.

From my perch, it’s possible to see and hear all the comings and goings without being spotted. Which I would find disconcerting if it was someone other than myself lurking in the shadows.

Fortunately, I’m harmless just curious.

And, if I’m being honest (which I am, cause why wouldn’t I be?) I’m not really looking to see, just looking to look. Killing time and daydreaming.

My computer is on the dining table which is why I’m also there. It’s where I like to write, or pretend to, depending on which way the wind is blowing.

I never sit at my desk. I’ve tried but it reminds me too much of school or a job. Nothing will ever get accomplished if I feel like it has to.

A kitchen feels good and familiar. Plus, that’s where I keep the food.

Once I watched as an older neighbor was taken away in a body bag. He’d only lived here for about a week and we never met, but it was still sad.

What I’m waiting to see is someone tumble down the stairs. Not because I want them to get hurt but because it just seems logical.

For 17 years, I’ve seen people carelessly bound up and down with hands in pockets, wearing flip flops, arms full of laundry and talking on the phone that’s tucked between their shoulder and crook of their neck, and yet not one face plant or even anything close.

It makes sense that at some point this lucky streak will come to an end.

Since I have nothing but time these days I’d like to see it when my theory is proven correct.

I’ll keep you posted.

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I’ll Make this Quick…

Below is a challenge that’s been making the rounds on social media for a while. I’ve been tagged a few times and have always removed it as frantically as if I’d been hacked and hardcore porn was posted on my page and, to make things even better, the day before I’d finally accepted my mom’s friend request.

ChallengeAccepted #24hrs If I tagged you, don’t disappoint me. If I didn’t tag you, please, no offense. I tried to choose people I thought would make this challenge fun!! Too often, women find it easier to criticize each other instead of building each other up. With all the negativity out there, let’s do something positive! 🌟

Upload 1 Picture of yourself… just you!!!! Then tag so many beautiful women to do the same. We will build ourselves, instead of tearing us apart. 💋💙🥰
copy and paste…

Here’s why this is awful.

Now, although I do appreciate the irony of saying let’s build each other up, while simultaneously tearing each other down in the same breath, these negative “women hate women” stereotypes are stale and detrimental. Especially to girls and young women and is definitely not my experience.

My life has been full of fierce, brilliant women who are supportive and loving and badass.

Yes, let’s celebrate and empower each other! But that ain’t what’s happening here, folks.

I know, I know… it’s just a silly FB challenge so who cares, right?

Everyone should, that’s who.

If you’re a woman, have a daughter, a mother, a sister, wife, girlfriend, friend or have ever met or loved a woman, things like this should matter to you.

It’s full of heterosuggestions and propaganda (finally, I get to use the word propaganda. Goddamnit that’s sweet).

It’s ye olde divide and conquer, if you will.

I’m not saying a stupid social media challenge was written by some dude in a black helicopter trying to pit women against each other so men can take over the world. But I’m also not not saying it.

How will we (if you’re a human, I’m talking to you) ever build a world of equality and love if we continue to perpetuate these tired clichés?

We won’t.

That’s the point.

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I’ve Heard Said That the Sun will Come Out Tomorrow

I was in the third grade when my parents split up and we moved from a small town in Texas to a Texas town not quite as small.

Our departure was swift and unexpected for everyone, except my mother who executed her escape plan one afternoon while my father was at work, and got us out of there as smoothly and safely as if she were a member of the S.W.A.T team rescuing me and my brother from a hostage situation.

The three of us moved into a two-bedroom duplex that my grandparent’s owned and where my great-grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Robert See, lived in the adjoining house.

The See’s (sadly not the ones of the See’s Candy fortune) were Quaker tenant farmers from Illinois who had come to live with my grandma and grandpa when they got too old to work the farm.

Robert, my great-grandfather, was in his 90’s. Tall, gangly, always wore a cardigan, work boots, and pants slightly too big which were held up by a belt and suspenders. Every afternoon he’d get his cane, don a fedora, and slowly take a walk around the block.

My great-grandmother was eleven years his junior although you could not tell. I really loved her even though she wasn’t very nice or warm or at all grandma-y. She also was not a big fan of my brother but did have a soft spot for me. So at least she was smart.

To be fair, there were always windmill shaped ginger snaps in her cookie jar, which was bright yellow and looked like a beehive. I realize cookies are a grandma thing, but they were ginger snaps so I do believe the latter may cancel out the former.

She always prepared three meals a day. Breakfast, lunch and then usually breakfast again for supper.

Thornton was my great-grandma’s maiden name. Her great uncle (not really sure how many greats before uncle) was Matthew Thornton, the dude who signed the Declaration of Independence. Which, I guess in a way that makes up for the lack of a candy empire that I should be running at this very moment. Because it’s my birthright. Even though it isn’t.

Matthew was the last of 56 people to sign this document. Better late than never. Which happens to be a motto I have also adopted in my life and is a trait that obviously runs in our family.

She went by Lula but her full name was Lula Lavina, which she hated, so I enjoyed trying to make her say it.

“Grandma, what’s your name again?”

“You know my name.” she’d say sternly with a half-smile.

My mother was an emergency room nurse and since those were simpler times when it was perfectly acceptable for a father to not help feed or clothe his children, she also had several side hustles to support us including working the medevac air ambulance, despite being deathly afraid of flying (something else that runs in our family). Since she was usually working I spent a lot of time on my great-grandparent’s side of the duplex.

They didn’t talk much but would sit beside each other on the love seat holding hands, doing crosswords, and resting their eyes. I would sit in a chair across the room with my nose buried in a Harlequin romance novel and dreaming of escape.

The days were quiet and seemed endless.

After my grandpa See passed our routine didn’t change at all. Except now it was just me and my grandma and the quietness.

I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately and that time in my life as I sit here and the days seem endless. Maybe it’s silly but that’s okay. It’s what you’re supposed to do when the universe gives you time to reflect and get your shit together.

Do what you have to do and feel what you need to feel until things return to some semblance of your normal.

Until then I’ll read, rest my eyes, miss my grandparents, and occasionally, I will have breakfast for supper.

4

May I Borrow a Penny for Your Thoughts?

I have long been fascinated with the mindset of the mooch. Not talking about someone who’s cheap, because there’s a difference. A cheapie doesn’t mind spending money, it just ain’t gonna be on you.

A few phrases you’ll never hear a skinflint utter; “My treat.” “Keep the change.” “This rounds on me.” and, “Put your card away, you’re killing me.”

If you’ve ever pulled out a calculator after dinner and said, “Your extra side of Ranch was seventy-five cents.” You’re cheap. But don’t feel bad, now you’ll know which box to check if you ever take a ‘How much fun are you to hang out with?’ quiz.

Besides, you don’t owe me anything and I’m sure that times are hard.  And, I most certainly have 2 quarters, a dime, and 3 nickels to buy Ranch Dressing for which to dunk my fries.

A mooch, on the other hand, is a totally different beast. I find them both horrifying and fascinating.

Who are these people? These entitled scroungers who pay for nothing and feel no shame?

The drinker of free cocktails.

A borrower who doesn’t pay back.

“Can I catch a ride?” guy.

And, let us not forget, the ne’er-do-well who’s never hungry, and “just came along for the company.” they say while scarfing down half a plate of your nachos and majority of the artichoke dip.

I once gave a co-worker, who lost his driver’s license because of a DUI, a ride home every night for a year. Every night. He never once offered gas money.

One year.

Not one dollar.

Apparently, he thought it was no big deal because he only lived fifteen minutes that way. But, since I lived thirty minutes the other way, it kind of was.

At least “fake” crack open your wallet, dude.

I probably wouldn’t have accepted anyway (because it was only fifteen minutes that way.) but in the words of my grandmother, “It’s the thought that counts, motherfucker.”

I bartended at a place where the cook’s wife would sit at my bar while waiting for him to get off work and drink wine. When the other bartender and I realized that she had no intention of ever paying or leaving a tip, we invented a game called ‘How long can we avoid eye contact before her head explodes?’ 

It was about fifteen minutes.

Then she’d chirp (in her proper British accent, which, for some reason, made it so much more fun), “May I please get some wine, assholes?” (Actually, she didn’t call us assholes, her tone did.)

As her drink would start getting dangerously low the panic would set in, and when I was anywhere in close proximity she’d frantically stick her wine glass in my face like it was Oliver Twist’s empty porridge bowl.

Sometimes I call people on their stuff, sometimes I don’t. In these two cases, I did not. Their insolence fascinated me. How long could they keep going? Would tonight be the night when even they could no longer stand their own freeloading selves?

Turns out, both were perfectly fine with it.

Now, unless they were parented by grifters or a pack of Hyenas, they knew better, it was just their preference not to do so.

I realize how lovely life would be if everyone else would foot the bill and we could just eat and drink and do whatever we wanted and never spend a dime. But, sadly, that’s not how it works.

So, I guess the moral of this story is…pay for half of the nachos, leave a tip, offer gas money. Because, not only is it the right thing to do, it’s the thought that counts, motherfucker.

2

So This Boring Guy Walks Into A Bar…

Yesterday I got a text from a friend who’d just heard a comic talk shit about her on a podcast. Apparently they were naming “angry” woman comics. I agree, pretty innovative stuff.

Ironically this didn’t make her “angry” at all; instead, we just found it terribly silly and amusing. Wonder if the host actually wrote that down on his list of topics for the show? Maybe “angry women comics” was #3 after “How things change once you get married.” Good work. Way to push the envelope, dude.

However, I was thinking perhaps it might be more interesting and creative to try and name a comic who isn’t angry. (FYI— most people don’t get into stand-up because “Sunshine” is their middle name. ) Yeah, not a lot of ex- captain’s of the football team or chicks who had great skin in high school signing up for open mics.

I’ve been accused of being angry and it doesn’t bother me. Because sometimes I am and there’s nothing wrong it. Obviously I don’t feel that way all of the time. I’m not walking around saying, “And as for you, adorable chubby baby, stop your chortling and lighting up the room, you selfish little prick.”

Anger wears a lot of different hats—-

Sometimes it’s just feeling passionate about something, speaking your truth, or standing up for yourself or for someone who can’t. And sometimes it’s just a joke that certain people don’t like because they think its mean. Girls aren’t supposed to be mean, you know.

Doesn’t matter what race, religion or country you’re from, women are raised to be nice. Be nice! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD ALWAYS BE NICE!

On behalf of every woman on this planet may I just say, “ Fuck nice.”

And as for the boring “women aren’t funny” stereotype, I will just say this, it’s true, some woman are not funny. Some men aren’t funny. Some white folks can’t dance and some Asian people may not be the best drivers. I’m also sure that there are Jewish people who are quite frugal and perhaps some African American men have larger gentlemen parts than men of other ethnic backgrounds. So it doesn’t bother me at all if someone thinks, “women aren’t funny.” Because those people usually aren’t funny or very bright.

Dear Jerry Lewis,

Why not take the focus off of us and instead focus on writing a joke that’s relevant to this century or even the last 43 years, and then let’s meet for coffee and have this discussion.

Love, Becky

There’s nothing wrong with anger. Embrace it. Let it be a catalyst for positive change or a good joke, and not a just a tired topic on a tired podcast.

2

The British Zombies Are Coming! The British Zombies Are Coming!

Happy does not equal funny.

Funny does not equal happy.

Although you can feel happy when you’re being funny, I think it’s hard to be funny if you’re happy.

Not the kind that counts anyway. I’m not talking about “Why is it that you can put two socks in the dryer but only one sock comes out? Where’s the other sock, everybody?” I don’t mean that crap.

I mean real comedy. The kind that comes from the deep, dark pain that eats away at your esophagus.

It won’t let you sleep at night. It makes you break down in tears for no reason and spend seven nights a week in the bottom of a bottle of vodka. That’s the funny I’m talking about.

Some of the best comics I know are the most miserable people on the planet. Because they aren’t happy, and they aren’t afraid to admit it. They’re also the smartest.

Smart people are rarely happy. You know why? Because they’re surrounded by people who aren’t very smart.

I know this first hand. Does that sound arrogant? I don’t care. I can say that because I’m going to sat this: I’m not educated. I’m not well-read. I didn’t go to an Ivy League college. I didn’t even graduate from college. As a matter of fact, I actually spelled “college” with an a  in the first draft of writing this. Yea spell-check!

But I’m still smarter than most people. You know why? Because I have common sense.

Plus I have street smarts. I’m not really even sure what that means, but I played on the streets a lot when I was a kid, so I felt like I should throw that in there.

And I said all that just to say this: if zombies invaded a comedy club, the comics would probably be killed first.

Depending on the line up.

If you don’t get that, listen here: Zombies eat brains… So congratulations, you’re safe.

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No, I love you more

My neighbors in the building across the street are fighting and screaming the “F” word at each other while their children cry in the background.

The good news is, when their son ends up in jail and the daughter is a pregnant stripper at seventeen years old, we’ll be able to pinpoint exactly where things went wrong.

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The Honeycomb Hideout

I once spent thirteen and a half months hiding out in a gay bar. Now, despite my six-foot frame and the fact that I bought myself “The Perfect Push-Up” for my birthday, I am straight. Sorry ladies, but it took me forty years to figure out how my vagina works, I don’t have time to be messing with yours.

Okay, why would a hetero woman spend over a year of her life in a bar for homosexuals? Well, if you think it’s because that community is accepting and there’s no judgment there, then apparently you’ve never hung out with gay men. There’s nothing but. That’s why it’s so fun. A gay man doesn’t need to know at whom or why you’re mad. They just need to know you are, and then, let the good times roll.

I’m not exactly sure what I was hiding from really, but there I’d sit night after night, a dirty martini in one hand, invisible cigarette in the other, taking to the transvestite next to me. “I’ll tell you the problem with comedy,” I’d say, followed by, “The people who book The Tonight Show can kiss my ass.” Then I’d blow fake cigarette smoke in her overly made-up, pre-op face.

“Fuck ’em, honey,” she’d say politely before grabbing her pony of Budweiser and heading for the men’s room.

Exactly. Fuck them.

I felt like a woman scorned. As if I’d put stand-up through medical school and it had left me  for some open-mic chick.

I’ve spent my life busting my hump on the road. I’ve given up everything for comedy. I’ve never owned a refrigerator or had a kid. And who knows how many times I could have been married.

I don’t know, perhaps the bald young lady with the skull and crossbones tattooed on her forehead was right. Maybe I just need up lighten up a little.

Looking back, I realize that my time spent in that bar wasn’t a total waste. Because with each passing day, the transvestite I was talking about, began to look and dress more and more like me until she was my doppelganger. The lesson I learned is this…when a man who is becoming a woman chooses to emulate you, it makes you remember that you are truly fabulous.

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