How Does Your Garden Grow?

The words that best describe my 2016 are purge, purge, and motherfucking purge.

363 days have been spent weeding the garden and trying to rid my world of as much negativity and darkness as possible – including my own. Ok, I kept some of mine. How’s a girl supposed to be funny if she doesn’t have a little bit of a black heart?

I’ve removed people, places and things (that’s the definition of a noun!) that are stressful and bring no joy.

I circled the wagons, cried a little, drank a lot and forgave as much as possible. (That last one is really not fun.)

This is the year that I was lucky enough to get to turn 50. I say “lucky” because too many people I love never got the chance.

With age comes wisdom and less tolerance for bullshit and unkindness. I hope to be blessed with another 50 on this planet, but who knows? So why waste time on someone or something that doesn’t enhance your existence?

My friend Scotty used to say, “Pedigo, sometimes people gots to go.”

Very true.

Friendship is a privilege not a right and not everyone gets an all access pass to the inner sanctum.

It’s a peaceful moment when it dawns on you – Your life. Your rules.

So, if someone doesn’t bring you happiness and make you laugh or remind you how fabulous you are on the days when you forget, then they gots to go.

I’ll Have A Cup Of Hot Water With Lemon

I’m a nice person.

Very.

Sometimes people disagree.

Strongly.

Interestingly enough, those folks usually don’t know the definitions of the words “forthright” and “asshole.”

Luckily my friends do.

I’m pretty easy going, but not perfect. I have my crazy stuff. Anyone who has ever dined with me can tell you that.

I’m a stickler about a couple of things- Return my Tupperware (it ain’t cheap) and I don’t share food (I blame my brother for that one).

I’m generous.

Few people tip better.

I’ll gladly buy dinner if you’re broke.

Bring you a turkey sandwich when you’re down on your luck.

You order something and I’ll order something- we’ll share those meals.

But just don’t tell me you’re not hungry and then eat all my fries.

Ah Yes, Now I Remember

There is a way of being in the world that is elegant, kind, intelligent and fierce.

By watching my mother and grandmother I knew these qualities were not only attainable but sort of the whole point of this silly life. Regardless of whatever- you decide the person you will be. Only you. (I know, sorry.)

I try my best to live by example, but fall short at times. Okay, a lot actually.

When I forget and get caught up in the nonsense and noise, I pause and remind myself – I am the daughter of Connie. The granddaughter of Eleanor. And the greaaaaaaaat, greaaaaaaat granddaughter of the Queen of friggin Sheba.

I then exhale and proceed… until the next time.

A Common Sense Moment

I thought this was common knowledge but apparently there’s been some confusion…

Taking an online quiz and then posting the results on Facebook is strictly for entertainment purposes. Something one does to kill time between games of solitaire and reading posts about how other people’s lives are better than your own.

These tests aren’t based on science or anything else – they’re just for fun.

Pretty sure most people realize that you can’t really be diagnosed with OCD in 45 seconds or find out which Disney Princess you are, simply playing one of these games.

So, that said, there’s no need for anyone to leave an angry, superior paragraph/comment telling us that the tests aren’t real and they just feed our ego, etc. We already know it. But thanks for the input, Dr. Blowhard.

Also, if you’re still angry and feel the need to rant about Starbucks prices after all these years – you can always just buy a MR. Coffee and brew a pot at home.

“I’ve heard said that the Universe brings certain people into your life to mirror issues and behaviors that need to be worked on. If this theory is correct then I must truly be an asshole.”

Greetings Inhabitants Of Planet Earth

Hey all-

Just a quick note regarding a policy change taking effect immediately.

I will continue to say “Hello” or “Good morning” when we make eye contact, even if you don’t acknowledge me.

I’ll still hold doors, the elevator, say “Please” & “Thank You” & “Pardon me” and offer to help carry something when your hands are full, even if you don’t extend the same courtesy.

However from this moment forward: When walking towards each other on the street, in a hallway, in the mall or anywhere one would walk towards another human being, I will no longer be the only person who steps aside so that we don’t smash into each other. I’m 6 feet tall and weigh 150lbs — I’m willing to take the hit.

Everyone was issued regulation manners and kindness when we were assigned to this post. If you can’t find yours—check in your ass. That’s usually where mine are when I forget that I’m not the only person on the planet.

Best,

Your fellow earthling

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.

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.

She Ain’t Heavy, She’s My Brother

So, here’s the thing with Jill. She’s been my best friend for about twenty years. I love and want to kill her more than anyone on the planet. Not including myself, of course. Well, of course.

We met on the road doing stand-up in the early nineties…I think.

I wish I couldn’t remember because the road was so crazy with partying and stuff. But if I’m going to be honest, I’ll have to say I don’t remember how long ago we met because I’m not good at math.

The first time I saw Jill was when I opened for her at The Punchline in Houston, Texas. It was a comedy club in the lounge of some hotel in Houston, Texas. Did I already say Houston, Texas?

It was a club just like they all were back during the comedy boom. Fake brick wall. Three people in the “crowd.” It was awesome. I think I made fifty dollars for the week. Sorry if it seems like I’m bragging.

Anyway, I remember she went on stage after seeing my act for the first time and said, “If you liked Becky or you didn’t, get ready because you’re going to feel the same way for the next forty-five minutes.”

In other words (not that I really need other words), we’re basically the same person with the same sense of humor.

Wow. I know. She is so lucky.

We’ve been through it all. Jill is the first person I call when I fall in love or get arrested. She’s the friend that if I walked up to her in a bar and said, ” You need to come with me right now because we’re going to kick somebody’s ass.”  She wouldn’t ask why. She’d just politely excuse herself from the table and go help me kick somebody’s ass.

Oh my heavens, we wouldn’t actually do that because we were not raised that way, thank you very much. But you know what I mean. Jill is that friend.

One weekend she was staying at my house, and we were talking about my breakup from my boyfriend of fourteen years. She was there from the beginning. I think she was more heartbroken over it than I was. Our relationship had been the one that she held all others up to. Yeah, sorry ’bout that.

So we were having drinks, and I was trying to console her with the typical reassurances: ” You’ll be okay. These things happen. I’ll find someone else.”

“But you guys seemed so perfect together.”  She said between sighs and sips of a dirty martini.

Well, obviously no relationship is perfect, but telling her that seemed like a lame way of getting the point across. So instead, I thought I’d tell an awkward story about our sex life that would make me seem great and him seem like a judgmental jerk. Then she would feel better about the breakup and we could just make fun of him all night.

Now, either I’m a bad storyteller (really?) or she just wasn’t paying attention (more likely), and somehow our wires got crossed along the way. This is how our conversation went:

I said, “So one time we were in New York and I was ‘downtown.’ ”

Now first let me clarify that by “downtown” I meant his “nether regions.”

Also, let me clarify that I’m euphemistic and put things in quotation marks whenever I’m talking about anything sexual. It makes me feel less like a whore.

So I said, “We were in New York and I was ‘downtown.’ ”

And she asked, ” Why were you downtown? Were you working?”

I said, “Well, I was sure trying.”

(Pregnant pause.)

“What?” she asked.

Jill didn’t realize, like you and I do, that I meant his downtown. Because of course, she wasn’t listening.

I said, “I was ‘DOWNTOWN!'”

(Pregnant-er pause.)

“Huh? Ohhhh!”

She and I both started laughing.

And she added, ” Why didn’t you just say that? So what was New York a euphemism for?”

As I thought,  Come on Jill, please don’t use “euphemism” just because I used it earlier. I said, “Uhhhhh….it was a euphemism for New York.”

Then she added, “Well, why’d you have to mention New York?”

“Because we were in New York!” I screamed.

Which made us start laughing again until she was wheezing and I thought I would wet my pants.

” Too bad I wasted fourteen years with that guy. Think of all the ‘downtowns’ I could have visited on the road.” I said.

“I know, ” she agreed. ” Becky’s Urban Renewal Plan.”

I said. ” I really regret not visiting ‘downtown Buffalo.'”

The giggling and wheezing went on into the night. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when two nice Texas girls try and have an adult conversation about a blowjob.

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